Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next (Part 1).
EDIT: We have finally got a title! YAY!
Here it is friends. My first piece of Ryland Grace fanfiction.
It's late, I'm sick and this hasn't been proofread. My apologies if there's any mistakes or if it this doesn't make any sense at all (I'll blame it on the cold meds), I will make any needed edits once I feel a bit better <3
Pairing: Ryland Grace x Fem!Reader. Read Part 2 here.
Warnings: None unless I've missed anything. Reader is sick and Ryland takes care of her. Just fluff. Idiots in love, mutual pining, all that jazz. God they're both so stupid (affectionate).
You let out a heavy, tired sigh as you lifted your head from the pillow and looked around your living room, confused. There was another knock on your door, and this time you were sure you hadn’t imagined it. You slowly made your way to the door, eyelids heavy, a fluffy throw wrapped around your shoulders.
“Ry?” You ask, brows furrowed as he stands before you, a worried look on his face. “What are you doing here?” You ask, stepping to the side, silently inviting him to come in.
“Hey.” He says softly. “You’re okay?” He adds, and you notice that his tone matches his worried expression. “You weren’t answering your phone, so I thought I’d check on you.”
“I’ll live. Nothing some Nyquil won’t fix.”
He followed you inside once you closed the door, standing by the coffee table as you sat on the sofa.
“It’s eleven in the morning.” He points out, a small amused smile pulling at his lips as you close your eyes and just lay back down on again, a headache pounding behind your eyes.
“I mean, I’ll be sleeping? Does the time really matter?”
Yeah, you sounded miserable. He bit down on his lower lip as he held back a chuckle, fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose briefly before turning to place a takeaway bag you hadn’t even noticed he was carrying on your kitchen island.
“Have you eaten anything today, at all?” His voice is closer now, and when you open your eyes he’s crouching beside the sofa, a hand gently running up and down your upper arm, blue eyes searching for yours. “You’re burning up, sweetheart.” He adds, as his knuckles come in contact with your forehead.
“I had like… a handful or cornflakes. That counts right?”
You honestly hadn’t had much energy for anything after waking up, let alone an appetite for any food. So you had, quite literally, a handful of cornflakes so you wouldn’t be taking any meds on a completely empty stomach.
You had known Ryland for years now, met him at uni through a common friend and you two kicked it off instantly. Sure, your study fields had nothing in common, you were studying art history and he was doing molecular biology. But you still showed up for each other all the time, and became very close very fast. Only God knows how many sleepless nights you had spent studying together or just keeping each other from going insane at the hands of your respective degrees.
“Good thing I brought some chicken soup.” He says moving to pull the take out container from the bag and taking a bowl from your cupboard. “Now, we’re gonna get some food in you, and try and get that fever down a bit. We can settle in and just take it easy for the day. Sound good?” You hum and nod as he helps you sit up. Gentle eyes meeting yours as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ll be good as new in no time.” You feel your stomach flutter when he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
He picked up a few bits and pieces around the place as you ate, and you hated to admit it, but he was right, you really needed it. You took a couple Advil after you were done and took a quick shower to freshen up, making yourself feel instantly better.
“Ah there she is. Feeling better?” Ryland says, smiling brightly when you walk back into the living room in a fresh set of pajamas, and you can’t help but smile back as you nod.
If anyone asked you about Ryland, you’d just say he’s your person. If anything ever went wrong, he’s the first person you’d call. And whenever someone would ask if the two of you were a couple, which now that you think about it seemed to happen quite often, you’d just look at each other and chuckle, before explaining that you were just friends.
It’s not that the thought had never crossed your mind. Ryland was a very attractive guy, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t fancy him in the slightest. The way his hair would always be all floofed up and ruffled due to him running his hands through it, that shine in his eyes whenever he talked about something he was passionate about, glasses hanging sideways off of one of his ears. And the fact that you probably caught yourself staring at his biceps far more many times than you’d like to admit. He was hot. There, said it.
And on top of that, he was a very smart guy. God, you could spend hours listening to him talk about his work, even if it didn’t make much sense to you. He did have a knack for explaining everything so well and making stuff sound so easy sometimes, that every once in a while he’d manage to make you question if you could have pulled off a science degree.
But, you were fairly convinced that he didn’t like or see you that way, and that was it. You preferred not to give it much thought. Why torture yourself, right?
He had closed the blinds, the lamp in the corner cast a soft light over the room, and he had Ferris Bueller’s Day Off ready to go on the tv. You joined him on the sofa and under the fluffy pink throw as you propped your legs up on the footstool.
You were slowly starting to doze off, your hand doing little to hold you head up. A soft chuckle made you look over at Ryland, who was looking at you with an amused expression.
“You were falling asleep.” He states, trying not to smile.
“I wasn’t.” You say, sitting a bit straighter and he just shakes his head with a smile.
“Come here.” He pulls you gently towards him, an arm coming around your shoulders, your head coming to rest on his chest, your arm instinctively finding its place around his middle as if you had done this a thousand times before. “Your arm’s gonna go numb from holding your head up over there.” He speaks into your hair, his voice low and comforting.
As you carry on watching the movie, you become increasingly aware of his presence. The warmth of his body against you, the way his fingers mindlessly trace random patterns on your arm or the way his whole body shakes with laughter at a funny scene. And you also become aware of how all of it just makes you relax and feel safe, an effect he always seemed to have on you, without fail.
You tried to fight it, but the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and steady beat of his heart eventually lulled you to sleep. He noticed, but didn’t say anything; instead gently maneuvering the two of you so you’d be both properly laying on the sofa.
A gentle smile pulling at his lips as he feels your arm tighten around him, your hand holding onto his t-shirt almost as if whatever you were dreaming of made you think he could disappear in an instant.
He couldn’t tell how long you stayed like that, but he did everything in his power not to wake you up. His eyes studying your face, gently smoothing your furrowed brows with his thumb, your skin soft against his fingers. Wishing he could fix whatever it was that made you worry even in your dreams. You let out a heavy sigh and snuggled closer to him. Making his heart skip a beat at the action and his cheeks warm up.
“I think I love you.” He whispers into your hair as he holds you that bit much tighter, and allows himself to enjoy having you this close, knowing that it’d be over the moment you’d wake up. “I think I’ve loved you for a very long time.” He kisses the top of your head, his shoulders feeling a hundred tons lighter now that he had said it out loud. Well, kind of.
He would properly say it to you one day, and he just hoped you’d feel the same way about him.
Sure. Anything can be for science. This is … different. Using the term “it’s for science” is a bit difficult when you’re actively trying to squash down the ever-growing, overwhelming realization that you are in love with your best friend.
“For science,” you repeated, staring at him from across the lab bench.
You wait.
Ryland, completely oblivious, is twirling a pencil between his pointer and middle fingers as he looks down at his computer screen.
“Correct.”
You feel your brows furrow in thought, trying to wheel logic around what he just proposed.
“Just making sure I am understanding,” you start, laying your hands flat on the cool marble table. “You want to map out certain points of each other's bodies for science?”
“It’s information!”
“For?”
He looks at you then, glasses resting on the middle of his nose as he sighs.
“The science community.”
“That’s not a good answer.”
“How is it not?”
“You’re not giving me a persuasive argument to believe.”
He huffs again, fingers stopping mid-twirl as he thinks.
“At least give me something, so I don’t feel as bad telling you no.”
He has a hint of a smile on his lips as he speaks again.
“Hypothetically speaking-”
You nod, encouraging him to go on, despite already knowing where this was going. You’ve known him long enough to catch his tells. He’s already getting defensive, so you know something’s up.
“I need a body to map for my physiology course, or I’m failing this semester.”
“Ryland!” you scold, leaning back and folding your arms across your chest.
“Deadline’s Friday night.”
“That’s in two days!” you exclaim. “There’s no way you can map the whole body in that amount of time.”
“Wanna put that to the test?” he grins.
Smug bastard.
Which is how you find yourself lying on the floor of his apartment on a Wednesday night. You have a final draft for your Sociology class that needs another once-over before you submit, but it’s long forgotten. Ryland’s apartment is what you call messy. He prefers to call it lived in. His notes are scattered across his worn coffee table, textbook open and balancing on his knee as he shuffles through the pages to find the right section. There’s a cup of coffee that was half drunk before set, halfway on a coaster and the table itself. The rings on the surface tell you he forgoes one more often than not.
It’s surprisingly comfortable here on his floor. Late November has it dark before six, and the radiator is lazily humming as it warms the living room. He’d told you to dress comfortably, so you did. Deciding a threadbare sweater, campus sweats, and wool socks would suffice. There’s a moment of silence; the only noises are the radiator, pages turning, and the two of you breathing. He’d showered before you showed up, hair still a little damp and curling over his forehead when he’d opened the door.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” you mimic.
“Shouldn’t be too hard, right? It’s a body. We use them every day.”
You fight the urge to roll your eyes.
“Better make sure you took good notes.”
Ryland leans up on one knee, placing the textbook down and spreading his fingers across the page. A shift in the air has you taking another deep breath, fluttering your eyes closed.
“Where to start?” he murmurs aloud, glancing over the page again.
“If you start at my feet, I’ll kick you,” you warn.
“Oh yeah. I forgot you’re extremely ticklish,” he laughs warmly. “There was that time when-“
You cut him off, telling yourself the racing of your heart was something else entirely.
“Ryland. Focus.”
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.
A warm press of fingers to your clothed shoulder has you opening your eyes. Ryland’s not quite over you, but in your peripheral. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as he looks between your body and the book.
“Biceps brachii. Agonist.”
“What does that mean?”
“You have prime movers and synergists. Your prime movers are specific, while the synergist is assistive.”
“Okay,” you breathe, not even processing what he just said.
He slides his fingers down your arm, squeezing just above your elbow.
“Biceps help this guy flex.”
You nod again, trying hard not to focus too hard on the warmth from his fingers.
“Brachialis. Beneath biceps. Primary flexor.”
He bites his lip in concentration, making sure what he’s naming off is correct. The pads of his fingers are warm against your thin sweater.
“Flexor carpi radialis. Radially twists your wrist.”
Ryland slides his fingers down, lightly resting his thumb and pointer finger on the thin skin. Your sweater has raised a bit, allowing the press of his skin against your own. He demonstrates, gently rotating your wrist back and forth.
“Neat, huh?”
“Very,” you breathe out.
“I can feel your pulse,” he murmurs, going silent for a moment.
The air is thick, neither of you breathing for a moment. It’s over before you realize, and Ryland’s moving again, flipping the page of his book and releasing your wrist gently. He leans back on his knees, a sigh falling from his lips.
“I didn’t think this through.”
“What do you mean?”
You sit up on your elbows, waiting for an answer. There’s a small flush to his cheeks, and he won’t meet your eyes.
“Do I need to take my sweater off?” you ask, throat clicking with how dry it’s suddenly gotten.
“I wouldn’t. I mean. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“You’re going to fail your class.”
“Yes. I mean. I could take it again.”
“Ryland.”
He looks at you then, glasses askew, hair finally drying in the warm heat, stuck up messily on his head. He looks pretty.
“You’re not failing the class,” you say, sitting up to pull your shirt over your head before he can object.
A quick glance at the clock shows you that only twenty minutes have passed, and you already have your shirt off. Personal record on your end. The bra you have is simple. Black with a small bow in the middle. Something you got on sale too long ago. Worn, but comfortable. You ball your sweater up into a ball and rest your head back, looking everywhere in the apartment except for the man next to you.
“You’re shirtless on my floor,” he blurts out.
“I am shirtless on your floor,” you state, cheeks heating.
“I’ll go quickly.”
“Okay.”
His hand rests just below your collarbone, palm flat against your skin. Warmth radiates between the two of you.
“Deltoid. Three parts. Anterior, Lateral, Posterior.”
He looks at the textbook again.
“Anterior - up and forwards, Lateral - sides, Posterior - backwards.”
He slowly moves your arm in the mentioned positions, watching the muscles dip and flex under your skin. In a moment's time, it comes to rest by your side, pulse in your ears as you wait for him to move again. The crack in the ceiling next to his doorframe suddenly becomes very interesting.
“Rectus abdominis”, Ryland murmurs, fingers splayed across your ribcage, feeling the slight quiver of muscle underneath. “Stabilizes your core.”
His hands slide to your sides and down to your hips, thumbs brushing over the jut of bone. You desperately try to keep them still, not wanting to arch into his touch. This is strictly educational.
“Obliques,” he breathes, and you notice the slight rasp in his voice. “Another stabilizer.”
There’s a slight pressure as he squeezes your sides before releasing again. His gaze bounces around your face for a moment before he inhales and rests back on his heels again.
“Good?” he questions, hands resting on the flat of his thighs.
You nod, unable to trust yourself to form a coherent sentence. A chill runs down your spine, the loss of heat erupting goosebumps across your skin.
“S’cold,” you mumble, teeth threatening to chatter.
Ryland leans over you again, arms bracketing on either side of your head.
“We can stop.”
“You're already behind; I’m okay.”
“It's my fault really.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Wow, no sympathy at all?” he cringes slightly, eyes crinkling as he smiles.
“No. You do this every semester. Procrastinator.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
You feel your lips pull into a smile.
“Will you now?”
He leans closer; you can smell the lingering soap he used from the shower. It mixes with the underlying scent of him - undeniably Ryland. The proximity makes your stomach flip, your gaze flitting to his partially open mouth and then back up to his own. His eyes are dark, the ring of blue barely visible in the low light.
No overhead lighting in his apartment, all warm secondary lighting. He spent enough time under fluorescents in the lab. You suppose it is rather homey, warm, and filled with the scent of him. His muscles flex as he shifts his weight over you, wrists no doubt cramping from holding the position for a set amount of time.
“Where’d you go?” he asks, ever-observant.
Too observant. Especially when it came to you.
“I'm right here.”
“No, you went somewhere. You do that sometimes.”
You hum, somewhat agreeing.
“I was thinking about your apartment.”
“What about it?”
“It’s cozy.”
He laughs then, a melodic sound. You smile. The lighting casts a warm glow around his body, framing him like a Botticelli painting. Oh, he's beautiful. God, you're so fucked.
“Yeah, I suppose it is. Especially when you're here.”
“Me?” you ask, brows furrowing.
“Well. Yeah.”
“Ryland.”
“Yeah?”
You take a moment, on the precipice of pushing things past the point of no return. A sudden rush of courage has the words spilling from your lips in a hushed whisper.
“Does this change things?”
“What do you mean?” he questions, brows furrowing slightly.
“This moment. We’re friends, right?”
“Well, I sure hope so. I wouldn't want anyone else shirtless on my floor on a Wednesday night helping me with an assignment I procrastinated on.”
You see the moment he says it, that he starts to backpedal. Mouth pinching in distress before he starts scrambling over his chosen words.
“Wait. I didn’t mean. Wait a second.”
His hands fly out, trying to console the perceived notion of what he said.
“Ryland.”
“It’s not a bad thing. I mean. I just didn’t think-.”
“Ryland.”
You place a hand on his wrist, fingers encircling while you tug to get his attention.
“You know I willingly came over, right? Even though you put yourself in these situations.”
You laugh a bit, trying to diffuse the situation. He laughs too, albeit at the slight misunderstanding of words. The tension in the air fizzles a bit, replaced by a comfortable silence. The radiator is humming again, another wave of warmth filling the small room.
He breaks the silence first. Unable to endure a moment of quiet.
“Y’know. I couldn’t make it without you.”
By the expression on his face, you know he’s serious. It’s a matter of fact. It makes your stomach pull in a way that lets you know that yes, you are having this conversation now.
There have been times when you’ve wanted to bring it up. But the second-guessing and the inner turmoil of possibly ruining a good thing for both of you took priority. Yes, you’ve grown close as the years have passed. From Freshman Seminar to now, whatever this is. Half naked in his living room, hands on your body and scared to label it as anything other than educational.
There was never a label for Ryland. He was just - your Ryland. Someone who sat with you on the front steps of your dorms until your roommate was able to drop a spare key by. Someone who stayed up late studying for your Research Methods class and helped you solve the Statistics part of the exam because you were terrible at math. Someone who didn't mention when you cried at something in the movies you watched, only made room for you to move closer, shuffling the blanket to accommodate you both. Someone who remembered something from one mention. The comfort food you had as a child. Your sixth birthday party theme. The things that mattered. Someone who made room for you. Always. No question of the time. No matter the day. He was a constant that you had grown to look forward to.
He was someone you could see yourself spending the rest of your life with.
“Can I do something?”
You look back at him now, returning to the present. Too long in your own thoughts. You breathe deeply, the warmth of the apartment returning to your body. His eyes are wide, honest. You nod. You’d let him do anything to you right now. He lowers himself down, close enough that you can feel his breath fan across your cheek.
“Want to test something,” he whispers, before pressing his lips to your own.
A sound of surprise leaves your mouth, body freezing for a moment before arching up into him. You wrap your fingers around his bicep, squeezing at the muscle (biceps brachii, ha, you are learning). His lips are soft against your own, slowly parting as you find a rhythm. He tastes like black tea and mint toothpaste.
“Ryland,” you murmur against his mouth.
“I love you,” he confesses, shaky and pushed out in one breath.
His hands find your jaw, fingers sliding through your hair and angling your face to meet his more comfortably. There's desperation there; you can feel the way his fingers shake. His mouth is parted, and his breath is warm, and he whines. He whines when your lips part for air. A soft thing, unprecedented as it crawls up his throat.
Ryland pulls away, just barely. Foreheads touching as you catch your breath.
“I am in love with you,” he repeats, voice certain.
“How long?” you whisper.
“Day one.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t either.”
“I didn't want to lose you,” you whisper back, eyes searching his face.
His eyes are wet, tears clinging to his lashes, clumping them together.
“You have me. You've always had me.”
You choke out a laugh, pressing your lips to his again. They're soft, stationary for only a moment before he kisses you back. His tongue slides over your lip, and you open, tilting your head back and letting him explore. He hums appreciatively, fingers pressing gently into the back of your skull.
Your legs part on either side of his hips, making room for him to rest right in between. There’s a slight twinge in your hips because of the stretch, but you don't mind. You feel the hard press of him against your hip, mind short-circuiting at the revelation. He wants you. Just like you want him. As if the confession wasn't enough.
He pulls away again, tilting your head to the side to press kisses into your skin and trails them down the side of your neck. His nose bumps your jaw, glasses pressing into your skin as his thumb presses into your sweet spot. Ryland shifts, length pressing into your folds momentarily, causing a moan to slip through your teeth.
“Sorry! Just trying to get comfortable,” he breathes into your skin.
Your hips shift up to meet his again, making the action deliberate.
“Oh,” he realizes.
Ryland grinds his hips down at the same time he licks a hot stripe up the column of your neck, causing goosebumps to erupt across your skin. You gasp, fingers curling around his arms for purchase.
“Yes, Ryland,” you whine, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling.
You feel your panties clinging to your folds, arousal soaking through the thin cotton. Ryland’s hands slide down your sides, thumbs rubbing at the soft skin at your ribs. Feels your breath rise and fall, fingers still at your sides. His mouth latches on your collarbone, teeth scraping deliciously in the divot there.
Fire licks down your spine, body shuddering at his touch. There's a surge of confidence in his body language, the tips of his fingers dipping underneath the band of your bra and pushing up. Your breasts spill out of the material, resting gently against your chest.
You feel his fingers splay widely against your skin, mouth quickly enveloping one of your nipples, tongue swirling to create a soft peak. Your hands slide down to rest around his forearms, squeezing gently. Your throat forms around a soft sound, involuntary as Ryland switches to your other nipple, giving it the same attention as the other. His thumb brushes over the bud, and your nerves sing, pleasure building in your core.
“Been thinking about this,” he murmurs into your skin. “Always thinking of you.”
His mouth is warm and wet, leaving shining trails of moisture along your chest as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your skin. His fingers are still shaking as he slides them up and down your sides, gaining courage as he lowers his path. He’s at your stomach now, kisses pressed to the soft concave between your ribs. You feel the pace of your breathing picking up, no longer in even, regulated patterns.
You’re damn near hyperventilating. He’s everywhere you’ve always wanted him, and still not enough. You can still feel where his touch has been even after he’s moved on, skin still warm from the heat transfer. The pads of his fingers are smooth, soothing as he pets your sides. His thumb has found the notch of your hip again, pressing against the bone and watching the skin give and bounce back gently.
Ryland’s chin comes to rest on the soft plane of your pubic bone. His eyes are dark, irises twinkling in the low light as he looks at you. He’s utterly smitten; it’s written across his face. There’s a small tic of his mouth, something you notice often - especially when he’s content. He’s doing it now, a lazy grin spreading across his face - utterly gorgeous.
“You. You are-,” he breathes. “Riveting.”
He's drunk off the taste of you, despite the minuscule amount he’s been able to explore. Mind slowing and only able to form a few words, because of you. Ryland’s always got something to say. Will make an argument out of anything. You once fought over the way you had your coasters arranged on your coffee table. This - this was something you wanted to see more of. Him at a complete loss of words. Because of you.
Your hand slides down and up the side of his neck, making its way slowly to the back of his head, fingers running through his already messy hair. His eyelids flutter, closing for a moment before lazily resting at half-mast.
“Feels. Good.”
His voice is a low rumble, almost a purr in his chest as he leans into your touch. You watch his throat bob as he swallows, his fingers squeezing your hips once as he relaxes. Your fingers slide through the short strands, nails scratching his scalp slowly. A soft whine catches in his throat, and you notice the tips of his ears go pink.
You decide to test something. In that moment, you feel the overwhelming desire to pull, so you do. You gather what hair you can in your fingers, and you pull. Not rough, just enough to have the strands of his hair curl around your fingers and stretch away from his scalp. It’s effective. Immediately effective. You feel his hips buck involuntarily against the floor, a low growl forming in his throat.
It makes your stomach flip, so you do it again. Curious to file the results. Gotta have evidence to back up a hypothesis, right? His ears burn, and he pushes his face into your stomach, trying hard to hide just how turned on he really is.
“You like that?” you murmur, voice sultrier than you intended for it to be.
He nods, the tips of his fingers turning white with how hard he’s gripping your hips right now. There’s most likely going to be bruising, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You want to watch their life cycle. Deep purples, fading to greens and yellows, and eventually back to the resting place beneath your skin. Your pussy clenches around nothing, reveling in the thought of proof that he was here, on the most delicate parts of your body, hidden away for only you to see.
Ryland’s breath spirals out from where he’s pressed into your skin, warm and wanting. He inhales deeply a few times, and you watch the rise and fall of his chest. You watch the muscles twitch and shift in his back, feel his fingers tic against your hips. He groans softly, obviously fighting with himself as he tends to do often.
He finally looks up, glasses crooked on his nose again as he makes eye contact with you. There’s nothing but pure, blown lust in his eyes, irises swallowed up by the dark space of his pupil.
“I want to taste you.”
You inhale sharply, fingers tightening in his hair.
“Please. Please let me.”
You feel yourself nod, gaze following the roll of his eyes into the back of his head.
“Okay. Okay, let’s-“ he cuts himself off, pushing himself back up on his knees.
He needs the leverage, hands finding your hips and letting his fingers curl around the waistband of your sweats. They’re warm against your skin, but you shiver anyway.
“Up,” he murmurs, and you lift your hips up.
He could tell you to put your palm down on a hot stove right now, and you would do it. There’s something in the way that his voice has slipped. Something soft, reserved only for moments like this. The careful lilt around the vowels and consonants that make up his next words has you nearly choking.
He’s quiet for a moment, your sweats pulled down and off of your legs, folded carefully and placed on his coffee table. You watch his eyes lazily focus on your spread legs. Specifically what’s resting between.
“You’re soaked,” he states, voice low.
You can hear the hitch in his breath, see the tremble in his shoulders. He’s barely holding it together. It makes your eyelids flutter. Pleasure pulsing between your legs in slow, languid bursts. You go to squeeze your thighs together to relieve the ache, and he stops you.
“Tsk.”
A sharp click of his tongue, large hands pressing into the soft side of your knees and positioning them back into the wide vee they were originally in. You don’t expect him reprimanding you to affect you as much as it does. The wetness grows, soaking your panties even further. He catches it. Of course he does.
“You-“
“Don’t.”
“How-“ he huffs incredulously, brows nearly raising up to his hairline.
“You liked it. Me reprimanding you.”
He’s filing it. You watch him do it. Watch the smug smile grow on his face as he pieces more information together to utterly humiliate you.
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That. That look.”
“What look?” he questions, knowing exactly what you were asking.
You huff in frustration, hip twitching in irritation.
“You’re putting that somewhere.”
“Mhm.”
“For later.”
“Maybe,” he grins.
His fingers ghost over the edge of your panties, thumb pressing the cotton into your already soaked folds. Makes a soft sound when they grow even darker.
“Christ.”
“Ryland,” you whine.
You don’t even care. The warm press of his thumb has your hips twitching. He keeps it there for a moment, chest rising and falling as he commits this moment to memory. You take a moment too. The press of the floor against your spine, the warmth of the radiator, the smell of his soap, the rise and fall of your synched breathing.
He moves. He finally moves and pulls your panties to the side, revealing your glistening folds. You hear another soft noise from him, like it’s punched right from his lungs. Ryland moves before his mind catches up, tucks his head down, and flattens his tongue against you.
Your brain short-circuits, honing in on just the feel of him. Tongue flat and wide, just pressing. Not moving yet. Filing your taste away for later. His eyes flutter shut, and he moves again. Pulling his tongue back only to do it again, pressing right into you, mapping you out. He’s sloooooow. Tongue parting and tracing your folds, not leaving any part of you undiscovered.
There’s no rhythm yet, him getting a feel for you. Your fingers fly to his hair, spreading wide against his scalp, needing something to hold on to. He hums in encouragement, vibrations rumbling against your core. Your hips twitch up, and he does it again. Filing away something else your body does for him. He’s a quick learner. Listen to the hitch in your breathing to let him know if he’s doing something good.
Tilts his head and lets his nose bump against your clit, the hard line of it delicious as he moves. Your legs are trembling, pleasure building in your spine as he devours you whole. He’s developing a rhythm now, firm slides of his tongue through your folds with the occasional caress of his nose. His fingers are on either side of you, holding you open, forearms pressing your thighs up and back.
Ryland’s fucking exceptional because of course he is. He’s attentive. He listens and adjusts and tests to see what works and what doesn’t. You’re falling apart, and he’s putting you right back together again. The noises you are making are completely involuntary, high whines and gasps slipping out before you even have a chance to stop them.
“God, you-,” he moans against your core.
“You’re better than I imagined. I don’t know how that’s possible.”
Your eyes flutter open, and you take a moment to look at him. Hair wild, glasses crooked, hips-
His hips are rutting against the floor as he eats you out, and it’s honestly the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen. You choke out a sound, lungs stuttering as you come. It’s so fast - so sudden that it’s nearly painful. Pleasure blinding hot as it burns and fizzles into something syrupy in your bloodstream.
“Oh, you’re- you’re coming, aren’t you?”
“F-Fuck,” you gasp, hips rutting against his eager mouth.
The aftershocks have you trembling, fingers gripping hard against his forearms as he guides you through it. He’s relentless, sloppy licks and sucks to your clit as you writhe. He doesn’t stop until you manage to push against his shoulder. Begging for relief.
When you finally regain feeling in your body, you turn your head to look at him. He’s devastatingly beautiful. Eyes bright and chin absolutely soaked with your arousal. He’s grinning, teeth white and mouth wide in excitement.
“That was-“ he starts.
“Some test,” you breathe.
He laughs, a bright, beautiful sound. You feel giddiness rise up into your chest, a laugh spilling from your lips before you can stop it. He presses a kiss to your thigh, inhaling the scent of you before begrudgingly moving up into a semi-tolerant position. Ryland rolls his neck, resting on an elbow before lying flat on his back. You two breathe, a moment of silence before he’s speaking again.
“Was that alright?”
“Ryland.”
“I mean, I think it was I just.”
“You’re exceptional.”
He huffs a laugh, reaching out to brush a thumb over your ankle.
“It’s not fair really.”
“How so?”
“You’re exceptional at everything.”
“I don’t know about-“
“Shut up and take the compliment.”
“Okay.”
You sit up on your elbows after a moment, taking note of your bare body compared to his clothed one. His shirt is rumpled, one leg of his pyjamas is up higher than the other, sock slouched against his ankle. You smile, a warmth fluttering in your chest at the sight of him. So so human. So Ryland. His gaze is resting on the ceiling above, eyes on the same splinter you were looking at earlier.
They shift to you when you lean over him.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Can I kiss you?”
He nods, and so you do. You lean down and press your lips to his, feeling the warmth and tasting yourself lingering there. You moan softly, tongue darting out to taste more. He shifts up onto his elbow, tilting his head and opening his mouth wider to accommodate you. Your tongues explore each other's mouths. The soft divot on your lower lip, the hard press of your teeth.
He groans against your lips, hand coming up to rest on the divot of your throat. Fingers splayed wide along the column. He presses gently, fingertips warm against your skin.
“Ryland,” you moan into his mouth.
“Yeah,” he breathes.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
He hums, and you feel him smile against you.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He deepens the kiss, tongue licking into your mouth. You shift as he does, moving with him as he backs himself up against the couch. Barely pulling away, not wanting to miss any part of him. You do take a moment to shimmy out of your soaked panties, dropping them to the side. Your bra is next, one swift pinch of your fingers and it’s finally off, on the floor in an accumulating pile. One leg swings over his hips, resting just above his lap. You don’t sit down yet, hovering as you press your hands to each side of his face. Your thumbs brush against his stubble.
“This okay?” you murmur.
“More than okay.”
You press a kiss to the corner of his lips.
“Sit,” he tells you.
You sit. You feel the hard press of his cock against your core. He’s hot, hips twitching as you settle your weight against him. A sound leaves him then, swallowed up by your open mouth against his own. His hand find your hips, fingers splaying against the fat there. He squeezes once, holding you firm as he rolls his upwards. Once. A test.
You both shudder, gasping into shared space.
“Again,” you plead.
He does it again. You press your forehead to his, moaning softly.
“Yeah,” he breathes, rolling his hips slowly against you.
Your hips dip down to meet his, the friction between your legs divine.
“There you go,” he coos, voice going into that soft lilt again.
You think you might die.
He’s pressing kisses into your skin, wet, open-mouthed kisses as he grinds upwards. The front of his pyjamas is soaked, cool when the air rushes between you. His hand reaches in between the two of you, pushing his pants down around his thighs. His boxers are next, and his cock rests against his stomach, flushed and weeping from how hard he is.
“Need to feel you,” he confesses.
Ryland’s fingers wrap around the base of his cock, guiding the spongy head to slide through your slick folds. Your fingers grip his shoulder, body arching into his beneath you.
“Oh god,” you whine.
Honest to god whine. It’s pitiful. Something that you didn’t even think you could make. But here you are, in your friend’s living room, desperate for his touch. He’s not much better. Body trembling as he guides himself up up up until he bumps your clit. He repeats the motion, reveling in the way your body responds to his own.
The tip of his head catches against your hole, and you both freeze.
“Ryland-“
He says your name. Warm and lax in his throat, breathy. You like the way it sounds when it hits the air. You pull back a bit to look at him. He looks completely fucked out. Eyes blown wide and mouth slack. Lips shiny from your spit.
“Can I?” he asks, unashamedly, pure want fogging the rational part of his brain.
“Yes, God. Ryland, yes, please,” you moan, burying your face against his throat.
You feel him swallow, throat clicking before he shifts and then-
He’s pressing inside. Slow. Slow. Slow. Slow. It’s agonizing. Both of your torsos are trembling, a slight sheen of sweat on the two of you. You see a droplet rest just above the divot of his collarbone. Your tongue darts out to collect it before it falls. He groans against your sweaty hair, hips twitching.
Ryland’s big. He’s overwhelming. Stretching your walls and your hips wide. You feel yourself flutter around him, body inching open to let him sit flush against you. You’re both panting, chests rising and falling in tandem as you take a moment. His grip on your hips is like iron, the hard press of his fingers grounding in a moment like this.
“You’re…big,” you breathe.
He’s quiet. A moment. Two.
You lean up, the shift of your weight pushing him deeper. A gasp leaves your lips as you look at him. He’s trembling, eyes wide as he meets your own.
Ryland’s at a loss for words.
His lips are red, indentations of his teeth an indicator he’s been biting them.
“Ry?”
The nickname slips out with your concern; you feel your eyebrows furrow up.
“Give me a minute,” he grinds out, teeth clenched tightly.
You give him a minute. Rest a hand against his chest, fingers brushing over the text on his shirt. You just notice it now, one of the many science puns he wears. It reads: THE ROTATION OF THE EARTH REALLY MAKES MY DAY and has a graphic of the Earth spinning.
A smile forms on your lips, and you shake your head slightly. His breath matches your own, you come to realize. Your eyes lazily slide up to look at him again, and he’s smiling. Completely, blissed out, watching you with dark eyes. Drunk.
“You good?”
He nods.
“Ryland?”
“Yes?”
“Move.”
He moves. Just like he did earlier. He’s slow. Slow, slow, slow as he tilts his hips back, before pushing back up into you. You hum, knees shifting to rest on the floor on either side of his hips. You tilt yours back to meet his, hands resting on his broad shoulders. One of his hands comes up to grab your chin, pulling you down for a sloppy kiss.
Ryland pants into your mouth, thumb and forefinger holding you in place as his hips move. You breathe him in, thighs shuddering as pleasure curls in your gut. He licks into your mouth again, soft hums of pleasure leaving him.
You clench around his length, laughing softly as his hips stutter.
“Not fair,” he whines.
You do it again just to hear him again. He makes the noise again, the disapproving one he filed for later.
“Tsk.”
Your cheeks grow hot, a flush running down to your chest.
“Be good and sit still,” he huffs, nipping at your bottom lip.
Good lord.
He picks up the pace, the motion of his thrusts making your hips ache. His cock feels like velvet, splitting you open in such a soft way that it makes your chest ache. You can hear how wet you are, feel it dripping down your thighs as he thrusts up into you. His hands are everywhere, touching any point of you that he can - your hips, your ribs, your breasts, your thighs. Ryland squeezes them once, left hand sliding up to rest on your throat.
Not squeezing, resting.
Your pulse flutters against his hand, wild and untamed as he fucks you. He's picked up the pace again, spearing you open on his cock over and over again. Pulling you up and down, guiding your hips to meet his. The meeting and separation of skin is loud in his apartment. That and your breathing, both of you panting and moaning wantonly.
“God- you're so tight,” he praises, patting the side of your face.
He’s babbling, pressing kisses to your skin. His hair is plastered to his forehead, sweat slick on his skin. You’re not much better, body hot and nerves on fire. Ryland’s thrusts are getting sloppy, hips stuttering, a sign that he’s getting close.
“Not gonna last-“ he sighs, eyes screwing shut for a moment.
“That’s okay,” you coo, voice worn from all the noises it’s been making.
“No, wanna-“ he groans, rolling his hips languidly. “Wanna stay here forever.”
You huff a laugh, a wide smile on your features as you kiss him again.
“You can stay forever, Ryland.”
His breath hitches, head lolling back against the couch cushion.
“Can’t say stuff like that.”
“Like what?” you tease, payback from earlier.
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
He tilts your hips, angling just right so his thrusts have you seeing stars.
“Oh f-fuck-,” you gasp, pleasure having your body tremble against him.
He huffs a laugh, smirking for a moment before his face falls into one of concentration.
“Don’t. Stop,” you beg.
He doesn’t. He keeps the angle, hitting your spongy spot over and over until you’re nearly sobbing. Your thighs clench, blinding white-hot pleasure contracting your muscles, causing your breath to stutter to a halt.
Ryland’s hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you up as he fucks you through it. Aftershocks having your walls trembling around him.
“That’s my girl,” he coos.
You think a whine leaves your throat, spit clicking in the back as you gasp for air. Your core throbs, pleasure burning hot down your spine.
“Fuck, Ryland.”
His thrusts pick up, a rapid succession of the tip of his cock pressing just right as he chases his own release.
“Yeah. Yeah. There, right there,” he rambles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, before biting down as he comes.
It’s warm, the sensation oddly pleasant as he fills you full. You hear the way his lungs stutter, a low growl forming in his throat as he ruts into you. Your body trembles, slumping against his chest as he comes down. You wait for him.
You listen to his breathing. Matching your own with his. He takes a moment. Two. Ryland inhales deeply, his brain coming back online as he shifts slightly. The motion pushes his come further into you, and you whine, feeling so so full.
He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering for a moment.
“Okay?” he murmurs against your skin.
“I love you,” you breathe.
At last, your chest heaves, you sob, tears hot as you finally - finally let him know how you feel. His arms wrap around your midsection, pulling you tight against his body. Grounding.
“I am so in love with you,” he repeats. “You have no idea.”
A watery laugh escapes you. You press a kiss to his lips again, soft and pliant against your own. The radiator hums, kicking to life again. Ryland shifts, slowly pulling out of you. You whine softly, shifting and sitting back on the tops of his thighs.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“That was-“
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he laughs.
He traces the shape of your lips with his thumb, dipping into your cupid's bow.
“Can you say it again?”
“I love you.”
The smile on his face makes your chest ache.
“Ryland.”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve still got a lot to map.”
He groans, letting his head fall back against the cushion for a moment.
“Please don’t let me procrastinate two days before an assignment is due again.”
“You’re behind, c’mon,” you groan, grabbing his hand and tugging.
“Two minutes. Give me two minutes.”
Got lost in the sauce with this one. Please enjoy.
Summary: your apartment has been one of Court's safehouses for a while now, easy. Your 'no strings' situationship, however? Less easy to navigate. When lines begin to blur, will he finally let you in?
Contents: MDNI, explicit sexual content, references to canon-typical violence, implied age gap (Court is canon age, Reader can be any age you like but is implied to be over the age of 30), smut with plot, realisation of feelings, yearning, no specific warnings.
A/N: I've never written for Court before but he kind of lives rent free so... I hope I've done him justice. I do have ideas for further expansion on these two, so please let me know if that's something you'd read! xo
W/C: 5.4k
You don't know his name, and you've long since stopped asking. You know him as Six, and only because you'd argued that you needed to call him something.
In pretty much anyone else, it would have been a red flag. Enough for you to refuse to entertain the idea of anything with him, no matter how casual. But you'd believed him when he'd so gently placed one big hand on your face, brushed his callused thumb over your cheek.
"I don't want anyone coming after you. And they would."
Maybe that should have been a key indicator that you should have walked away. But every time he's come to your door, usually in the middle of the night, you always let him in.
It's been a long time since anyone's called him anything but Six, and a small part of him wishes that you could. But his birth name, or even the shorter version of it that he used to prefer, is too unusual.
And as much as you say you won't tell a soul - and as much as he believes you - it would be too easy for someone to make you talk. All it takes is a singular slip of the tongue, and then you'd be at risk of torture, capture, being held hostage to lure him out.
And as much as he thinks he doesn't care enough for that to work, he knows different.
Because he doesn't get nearly anything remotely resembling peace in his life, but the closest to it is the few hours he spends with you.
There's no pattern to when he might show up. No forewarning. He does that on purpose. Watches your place to make sure it's safe, for both of you.
You open your door to see him standing there, dressed in an unassuming pair of black jeans, an acid washed grey tee, sleeves long enough to hide the scarring that trails along his left shoulder, down his bicep.
There's a healing bruise on his cheek, fresh scars on his knuckles, but he seems relatively unhurt. You've seen him in worse states, far worse. Had nights where you think maybe he's come to you because he doesn't think he'll ever see you again.
His dirty blond hair is disheveled, as usual, but he looks... Okay. Tired, but no visible injuries.
You may not know much about him - anything, really, beyond a rough estimate on his age - but you're not an idiot. Whatever he's into, you know that it's something dangerous.
Black Ops. Paramilitary, maybe. Something that's not on the record, and would make him a lot of enemies.
He steps inside, closes the door and triple checks the locks behind him before he's turning to you, barely gets a chance to look you up and down once before you're reaching for him.
"Are you hurt?" You ask, fully prepared for him to make some stupid joke about his ego, like he had that one time he'd shown up with a dislocated shoulder.
You keep a first aid kit that wouldn't be out of place in a small medical clinic under your bed for a reason now. A six feet tall, broad wall of muscle reason.
"Not this time." His voice is a little hoarse, like he hasn't spoken for a while, but aside from that, you take him at his word. It's not unusual for him not to speak much; he told you once that he sometimes goes days without needing to speak to anyone else.
"Okay. Okay, good," you say, trying to sound casual and failing. You've not quite gotten the art of acting as though you don't worry about him perfected.
Six knows you worry about him; can see it in your expression before you try to mask it. He's trained to read body language far more subtle than yours.
Hopefully one day, you won't have to worry about him anymore. Maybe if he puts enough bad guys into the ground, they'll let him disappear into civilian life. It's probably wishful thinking, but it's something to hold onto.
Fortunately, he can think of about a dozen ways to stop either of you from thinking about anything too depressing or upsetting right now.
Starting with leaning down and stealing a kiss. It's not really stolen if it's willingly given, considering the moment his mouth touches yours, you're leaning up, practically melting into him.
"I missed you," the words fall from his lips between kisses that become increasingly needy; Six might be tall and broad and dangerous, but he's also exceptionally touch starved.
Feeling is a liability, and he knows that, but he can't help it. Lifting you effortlessly into his arms, you barely get out an ‘I missed you, too’, before he's kissing you again.
Your apartment is small, thankfully, so it's not far from the hallway to the bedroom. He carries you the entire way, sets you down and only pulls away from you so he can remove a handgun from somewhere on his person.
He's careful about it, slides the ammo clip out and sets them down on the nightstand an inch or so apart before you're pulling him in closer, tugging at his shirt.
His gaze sweeps the room, taking stock of the entry and exit; your window is locked, the new lock he'd put on it for you last time still in place.
Then you're pulling his shirt up, and he helps you tug it off, toss it aside. It sure doesn't escape his notice, the way you look him up and down, your eyes traveling slowly over the plains of muscle that make up his chest and arms.
Six still sometimes expects you to flinch away when you see the scars that litter his body, particularly the worst of them across his left shoulder and down his bicep.
You never have, and you don't start now. Instead, your fingers are careful as you touch him, trace around the old scarring.
Thankfully, the new additions to his scars and bruises seem relatively minimal this time, not that you're really able to tell.
"Gonna just keep staring?" He asks, while his big, scarred hands find your waist, gently pull you in closer so he can kiss you again.
You think he's trying to distract you, trying to ease up some of your concern for him. You don't know half of it.
Six knows that this line of work will kill him eventually; he's not expecting some cushy retirement. Guys like him don't get that sort of thing. Sooner or later, there'll be a bad guy he can't kill first, and he'll end up in the ground.
He hadn't intended to keep coming back to you, but your apartment has become an unintended safehouse. One of many, but the only one that's occupied.
It's unfair to you, and he knows it; one day, he'll die, and you won't even know who to mourn. He knows it would be easier if neither of you got attached, but he's not stupid enough to think that's still an option.
That doesn't mean he wants to watch you be afraid for him in real time, because seeing that just makes it harder and harder for him to leave you behind.
Sooner or later, something's going to give, and he isn't sure he can feasibly say he wouldn't choose you if that happened.
Especially when your soft, warm hands are running all over him, your touch so gentle as he tugs your jeans down, caresses your ass and makes you laugh softly.
Between greedy kisses that border on desperate, the pair of you get the rest of your respective clothes off. He likes the way you touch the tattoos inked into his skin, the way you look at him like maybe he's worth saving.
From the way he's built and his general demeanor, it wouldn't be a stretch to assume that Six is strictly dominant.
The assumption would be only half true; he can be a little dominant, when he wants to be, but barely. He's actually quite gentle with you, particularly when he lifts you up and lays you down in the middle of the bed, hovers over you, caging you in between his arms.
You slide your hands up his chest again, link them at the nape of his neck as you wrap one leg around his waist, encouraging him closer.
Six can feel the heat radiating from your core, groans softly when you kiss his neck gently, trail wet, open mouthed kisses along his jawline.
"I missed you so much..." You breathe as he nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the faint scent of your perfume and soap.
You know that you say it a lot, probably more often than needed, but you can’t help it. There’s a small part of you that hopes that if you say it often enough, he might realise how much you genuinely care about him. That you might give him a reason to stay.
He knows that you mean it, too, beyond something purely physical. That you missed him, his presence, his voice.
That, too, is part of why he keeps coming back. Because he misses those things about you just as much. Misses the warmth of your body against his, the softness in your voice when you whisper his call sign.
His call sign.
God, you deserve so much more than just that.
The thought strikes him mid kiss, makes him freeze for just a fraction of a second before he forces the idea out of his head. Thinking too much about that will only make him sad, which is the last thing he wants right now.
So, instead, he focuses on your hands, warm and soft as you run them up his biceps, across his shoulders, as if you’re trying to commit the feeling of him to memory. For all he knows, you might be.
Six doesn’t know how long he has with you this time; he probably needs to leave before the sun rises, you know the drill by now. Sometimes, when he thinks he has longer, he takes his time with you.
It helps him decompress, in a way, to shut his brain off and focus entirely on you. To kiss you all over until you’re sobbing and begging. If he wasn’t still running on adrenaline, hadn’t been away from you for so long, he might have done the same tonight.
“Can I make you feel good?” you ask softly, your hand ghosting across his chest, down between you.
You’ve missed this; missed him, the scent of his cologne, the faint lingering smell of gunpowder and sweat and something that’s entirely him. You can’t place that last one.
There’s no telling how long it’ll be before you see him again - if you see him again - so you want to make this last. As much as you tell yourself that it means nothing, that he’s just a good lay who uses your place as a safehouse… you can’t lie to yourself.
The truth is, you barely know anything about him, and yet you want to. You want him. Feel things that make no sense to feel for an almost-stranger.
So, you lose yourself in the fantasy, in the daydream of knowing him better.
At least when he’s in your bed, you can pretend, just for a little while, that he’s yours.
So, you run your fingertips along his hipbone, unperturbed by the scars that you can feel beneath your touch. You continue the little touches, further inwards, wrap your warm hand gently around his cock.
He’s achingly hard, groans softly when you slowly stroke him. It’s not like he’s incapable of getting himself off, and he does, but it’s always so different to when you’re touching him. The feeling of your soft, warm hand wrapped around the thick length of his shaft, your eyes hazy with lust as you look up at him.
Six isn’t a stranger to people looking at him like that; he knows he’s handsome, knows that he keeps his body in peak physical condition. But there’s a difference between strangers eye fucking him and the way you look at him.
You kiss his throat, just above his pulse point, where you know he’s sensitive. Sure enough, he makes a little purring noise in response, rolls his hips gently into your hand. There’s a little jolt of satisfaction that runs through you at this, at the feeling of inspiring such a reaction in him.
So maybe you don’t know exactly what he does, but you know for sure he’s dangerous. Strong. And yet he practically melts into your touch like he’s starved for it. That isn’t exactly far from the truth.
“You gonna let me suck your cock?” you ask, kiss down his throat, along his collarbone, nip at his skin before working your way back. You want to. Badly. It’s one of your favorite things to do when you’re together, when he lets you.
But sometimes, like tonight, he doesn’t want to draw it out. Needs to be and feel connected with you in every way possible. So while he would very much like to feel your soft lips wrapped around his cock, look down and see that pretty sight, he’d rather be inside you.
“Not tonight,” he answers, gently removes your hand from his cock, brings it up to rest on his chest again. “Need you.”
You’re used to short sentences from him, soft words and silence, actions over words, so it doesn’t surprise you this time, either. Thankfully, you’re just as needy, too, have been aching and wet since he caged you in beneath him.
“Need you, too,” you whisper back, use the hand resting at the nape of his neck to gently tug him down into another kiss.
This one's deeper, more passionate; you pour all of your inexplicable feelings into it as he adjusts his body between your thighs.
Keeping himself braced on one hand, he reaches between you, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes it slowly once or twice.
It doesn't feel as good as when you did it. He drags the thick, velvet-soft tip through your soaked folds, nudges against your clit. You make a little whimpering sound into the kiss when he does, which sends another jolt of need through him, has his cock throbbing in his hand.
Still, he's so, so careful as he lets his tip catch at your entrance. No matter how pent up he is, how badly you need one another, he never just pushes inside you in one go.
Slowly, inch by inch, he presses deeper inside, nuzzles into the side of your neck and inhales the scent of your perfume.
The warm, wet feeling of your cunt around him is addictive, has his head spinning just a little. He's one of the most dangerous men in the world, and yet you make him forget it. Perhaps that's another reason he comes back.
As if it's not you. You, you, you. Everything about you. Six wants to love you in the daylight, he realises. Be with you. Explore what you could be together, if he wasn't who he is.
His hips meet yours, the full length of him buried inside you. You slip your hands under his arms, rest them on his back. It feels intimate, like you're holding him, and he loves it, gently rolls his hips and makes you whimper.
You're so responsive to him; he loves that about you. Loves the way you cling to him as he slowly starts to move.
The urge to pound you into the bed is there; it's not like he hasn't before, after all. But the desire to take his time wins out, so instead he gives you slow, deep thrusts that have your nails digging little crescent shapes into his back.
“Yeah? That feel good?”
In spite of himself, Six has to ask. Half because he wants to hear you say it, half because he knows that you love when he talks you through it.
You adjust your legs around his waist, cling to him with your soft hands as he builds up a steady pace, spurred on by the pretty sounds you make for him.
“Ohh, god-” you gasp as he grinds against you, his cock so deep inside that his tip kisses your cervix. “Oh my god-”
He responds with a soft, filthy groan, feeling the way your cunt constricts around him with sheer desire and arousal.
“Nnhh; oh, you like that, don't you? Yeah? I can feel how much you love it, sweetheart-”
He can't get enough of your hands all over him, your breathy moans and the way your back arches up, pressing your pretty tits against his chest.
You're both so close to one another, you leaning to chase his mouth, kissing every inch of him you can reach.
“Mmhmm, right there; please, Six-” you beg him, using his call sign, the only name he's ever given you.
Once again it strikes him, the deep buried desire to have this every night. To sleep beside you, take care of you. To wake you in the morning with his face between your thighs, making out with your sweet pussy until the sheets are soaked.
He'll never be allowed out of his contract, not that he can ever foresee, anyway.
Life in service to the CIA, or life in prison. He can't see a way where he could ever give you the life you deserve.
A ring on your finger. Children, if you wanted them. A pipe dream, something that'll always be out of his reach.
What, then, is left for him to give you, beyond physical intimacy?
“Court,” he whispers finally, slowing again to that sensual pace, gives you the only other piece of himself that he can.
Your eyes widen as you look up at him.
“W-what?” You can barely register what he's just told you, having long since accepted that you would likely just be calling him Six for the rest of time.
“My name,” his lips brush your ear, press a little kiss just below, “I want to hear you say it.”
“Court.” You breathe his name softly, like it's something precious and fragile, as though even saying it too loud could shatter the moment.
It's not the name you expected, but then, you aren't sure what you thought it might be.
Immediately though, you think it suits him. The transition from him being Six to Court in your internal dialogue is seamless, instant.
Especially when he starts to move again, deep, heavy thrusts full of an unspoken longing.
You moan so beautifully for him. Pretty sounds as he holds you close, still managing to hit all those perfect spots inside you.
Court usually tries to keep a certain degree of separation between himself and his lovers, but he’s always struggled to do that with you. Even when he’s had you on all fours, he’s had his chest pressed against your back, one arm wrapped around you to keep you close.
This is different though, almost an embrace as he steadily builds up a slightly rougher, faster pace.
You wrap your arms around his neck, chase his mouth for kiss after kiss, pleased when he lets you. He’s always sweet to you, but something’s different this time. Of course it is, otherwise he would never have finally given you his name.
Something is building between you, has been for months, feels right out of your reach at almost all times. Even as distracted as you are, you understand that a line has been crossed, one you can’t come back from. That him giving you his name, even what you suspect is a shortened version, is something momentous.
Your lips part in a breathy moan as he buries his face in your shoulder, letting you hear every soft grunt and groan that escapes him each time his hips make impact against yours.
He’s so big, getting deep inside you with each steady thrust, stretching you open deliciously; all you can do is cling to him, rake your nails gently across his broad shoulders and mewl as he somehow manages to massage your g-spot on every thrust.
“Yeah? Right there? That where you need me?” His already soft voice is a silky purr into your ear, every second word punctuated by little grunts that have you tightening around him.
“Mmhmm-” you whimper, wrap your legs around his waist, your feet resting neatly at the small of his back.
Court makes a soft little tsk sound, plants an open mouthed kiss on your throat.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
The soft chastising, the kisses he leaves all over your body, the feeling of him inside you, it’s too much. The orgasm that’s been building steadily inside you for a while now ripples through your body like a tidal wave.
“Oh my fucking god, Court-” you moan as he keeps fucking you through it, erratic snaps of his hips as your cunt flutters around him, your entire body trembling in his arms.
He doesn’t expect hearing his name in your voice, moaned so sweetly at the height of the pleasure he’s giving you, to have such an effect on him.
Court has remarkable self control; had it literally beaten into him during his training. But he doesn't remember the last time anyone used his name, let alone said it with such desire and affection.
It gets to him, gets under his skin, reminds him that he's more than just a killer in plain sight. Reminds him that there's still, at least, one person in the world who cares about him.
Another filthy groan rumbles in his chest as your still fluttering walls massage his cock, threaten to send him over the edge with you.
You're through the peak now, look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, your lips parted in a soft pout as he keeps steadily fucking into you, knows that he can drag a second orgasm out of you in quick succession.
“Oh fuck, nnhh, please, cum for me, please, Court, cum with me…”
Your impassioned plea rushes straight to his cock, though your back arching up and your walls tightening almost painfully around him as you reach that second peak certainly helps.
His pace falters, becomes more erratic as he gets right to the edge, fucks you through your release, waits until that very last moment before he pulls out of you, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes the heavy shaft.
With an obscene groan, he spills his load onto the softness of your stomach, hot, thick ropes of his spend painting your skin.
Breathless, you look up at him, commit the sight of his face when he cums to memory; he looks gorgeous in the soft glow of the lamp on your nightstand.
Court catches his breath; his recovery time is still impeccable. Leaning over you as you unfold your legs from around his waist, he brushes a soft kiss across your forehead.
You stretch your legs out with a little hum, sigh contentedly; you're just considering getting up to find a washcloth to clean yourself up with, when Court’s already on his feet.
“Let me.”
Shamelessly, your gaze tracks his naked form as he heads into your small en suite bathroom, returns with a warm washcloth and gently cleans you up.
Court is fully aware of the irony of this; his hands have more blood on them than he can count, but he's so careful with you, likes the way your gaze softens with affection as he does.
Tossing the washcloth into the laundry hamper on his way, Court gets back into bed with you, letting you pull the blankets up around you both and curl into his side, rest your head on his chest.
Your fingers trace little patterns into his chest, featherlight touches across the tattoos inked into his skin.
“Will you stay the night?” You ask, voice quiet; it feels like asking too much from him, when he's already crossed one major line.
Court doesn't take it as such. It's nice to feel wanted, cared for.
“Yeah. That’d be nice.”
The few times he's stayed the night, you've woken early before he leaves, made sure he eats.
It's a somewhat domestic routine, but there's always been that degree of separation, where you were you, but he was just Six.
But now… now you know his preferred name. Now he knows what said name sounds like in your voice, whispered and moaned in the height of pleasure.
It’s far more intimacy than he should be involved in. Puts you at risk. And yet.
Court is quite possibly the most dangerous man in the world. Quite certainly the world’s deadliest covert operator.
He isn’t arrogant enough to believe that nobody would try to harm you, given the chance. But he wants to believe that he’s good enough at what he does to keep you safe. He has to believe that, because the alternative is to panic, or worse, keep you at arm’s length.
Those are his options. Trust his own abilities, do his best to keep you safe in spite of the risk… or break your heart, and arguably, his own. Court doesn’t care much for his own emotions, knows how to shut himself off when he needs to.
But you… Court isn’t willing to gamble with hurting your feelings. Of course, he’d rather not gamble with your life, either, but, well. He’s killed more scumbags than he can count, and that was just a job. Anyone who came after you? That would be personal, and Court can think of a dozen ways he’d make them pay for it.
He’s pulled out of his ruminating by you pressing a little kiss to his jaw.
“Hey,” you whisper, “you okay?”
Instinctively, he knows you aren’t prying for details about his state prior to arriving here. You know better than that. He supposes he’s probably been too quiet for too long, making you worry, even though you’re used to his silences.
But then again, you’ve never been silent together after he's given you his name before.
“Yeah, sweetheart, I'm okay.”
Court isn't lying. As far as mood goes, and physical health, he's fine. Better than fine. But he sounds tired, exhausted even, and you can hear it in his voice.
He doesn't want you worrying about him anymore than he knows you do already.
You might not be trained the way he is, but you're not an idiot. Court thinks he's difficult to read, but you're observant. Spend more time with him than pretty much anyone else that isn't Fitz.
So, he isn't surprised when you make a little humming sound, like you know he's omitting things.
But you don't seem upset. Instead, you plant more kisses all over him; chest, neck, face, finally his mouth.
Court finds your touch comforting, he realises. That's part of why he keeps coming back to you.
It's not just about having somewhere safe to crash, or about getting laid. It's about the fact that for a few short hours, he can feel like an ordinary man.
Turning his head slightly, he returns your kiss, wraps his arms around you so you can nestle yourself against his chest.
There's no rush to the kiss, and it's not the heated sort that leads to sex, either. Instead, these kisses are slow, languid. Kisses for the sake of kissing.
That's new, too, but neither of you mention that fact when you break apart, one hand resting on his cheek, your thumb brushing back and forth.
One of his tattooed hands covers yours for just a moment, before his crystal blue eyes meet your gaze.
You can see the fatigue wearing on him, flip your palm so you can gently squeeze his hand.
“Get some sleep. I'll watch over you.”
That brings a smile to Court's face; the idea of you, so fragile in comparison, watching over him while he sleeps.
“Just an hour. Then you wake me.”
You're so pleased that he agrees to sleep that you nod, even though you'd rather he gets a full night's rest.
“An hour.” You agree, extracting yourself from his arms so he can get comfortable. You end up trading places, Court resting his head on your shoulder.
“‘night, sweetheart.”
You press a kiss to the top of his head, and it's the last thing he's aware of before sleep takes over.
Court wakes slowly; you must have fallen asleep at some point, too, but he can feel you breathing, so he's not too concerned.
His mind and body still feel a little foggy, which makes him think he slept for longer than an hour.
He can also hear the sounds of light traffic, which makes him think dawn is close. That isn't enough to make him move, though. Court doesn't remember the last time he was so comfortable.
You have one arm wrapped loosely around him, your free hand gently carding through his hair. The touch is intimate, loving.
It makes him wonder about the expression on your face right now. What he might see if he opens his eyes.
So he does, slowly, crystal blue still a little hazy with sleep. It catches you off guard, so he's privy to the unmasked affection in your eyes before you startle.
“That was longer than an hour,” he murmurs, blinking sleep away as you give him an apologetic look.
“I'm sorry. You needed the rest…”
He knows you're right, of course. He also knows he can't protect you twenty four seven. Besides which, he really does feel better.
“I did.” He agrees, sitting up so he can pull you into his arms. Immediately, you curl into him.
Of course, you don't know what - or who - he is, but you clearly feel safe with him. Court doesn't know whether he's earned that privilege, but he swears he'll never give you reason not to.
“Court?”
Hearing his name still startles him; he needs to get used to it after so long, but he likes the way it sounds in your voice. The way you say it so softly, your affection for him clear in your voice.
“Yeah?”
“Can you stay a little longer? I know you’ve probably stayed too long as it is, but…”
But you’ll miss him terribly when he’s gone, not knowing when you’ll see him again - if you’ll see him again. It makes you feel selfish, makes you want to be greedy and take as much of his time as he allows.
Luckily, he feels the same. He hasn’t been briefed on a new target yet, so it’s best for him to go to ground anyway.
Besides which, he likes the idea of spending time with you. Playing house for a bit, if you’ll let him. It’s more than he ever expected, even if it’s temporary. But he’s got a moral code, isn’t a bad person.
So he feels it necessary to warn you.
“I’ll break your heart one day, I need you to understand that, then decide whether you still want me to stay.”
Even as he says it, one hand gently stroking your cheek, it hurts him; he doesn’t want to walk away from you, but he needs to give you that choice. One last chance to back away, because people like him don’t get peace. That was the deal he made.
He wouldn’t blame you if you changed your mind.
Thinking that, it surprises him when you gently cup his face in your much smaller hands, brush your thumbs across his cheeks, nuzzle your nose against his before you press a gentle kiss to his mouth.
“Stay with me,” you breathe, pulling back only so you can meet his gaze, so he can see for himself the certainty, the affection, burning in your eyes.
Slowly, he nods. Court doesn’t know how long he has - before he’s called out again, before he dies, but what he does know, is that he wants to spend whatever peaceful time he gets here, with you.
“Okay,” he says softly, immediately knows it was the right decision when your eyes light up.
He makes a soft little oof sound as you slide into his lap, straddling him, planting kisses all over his face.
Court doesn’t know how much time he has with you, but as he wraps his arms around you, returns your kisses, he knows one thing for certain: it won’t ever be enough time.
Summary: your apartment has been one of Court's safehouses for a while now, easy. Your 'no strings' situationship, however? Less easy to navigate. When lines begin to blur, will he finally let you in?
Contents: MDNI, explicit sexual content, references to canon-typical violence, implied age gap (Court is canon age, Reader can be any age you like but is implied to be over the age of 30), smut with plot, realisation of feelings, yearning, no specific warnings.
A/N: I've never written for Court before but he kind of lives rent free so... I hope I've done him justice. I do have ideas for further expansion on these two, so please let me know if that's something you'd read! xo
W/C: 5.4k
You don't know his name, and you've long since stopped asking. You know him as Six, and only because you'd argued that you needed to call him something.
In pretty much anyone else, it would have been a red flag. Enough for you to refuse to entertain the idea of anything with him, no matter how casual. But you'd believed him when he'd so gently placed one big hand on your face, brushed his callused thumb over your cheek.
"I don't want anyone coming after you. And they would."
Maybe that should have been a key indicator that you should have walked away. But every time he's come to your door, usually in the middle of the night, you always let him in.
It's been a long time since anyone's called him anything but Six, and a small part of him wishes that you could. But his birth name, or even the shorter version of it that he used to prefer, is too unusual.
And as much as you say you won't tell a soul - and as much as he believes you - it would be too easy for someone to make you talk. All it takes is a singular slip of the tongue, and then you'd be at risk of torture, capture, being held hostage to lure him out.
And as much as he thinks he doesn't care enough for that to work, he knows different.
Because he doesn't get nearly anything remotely resembling peace in his life, but the closest to it is the few hours he spends with you.
There's no pattern to when he might show up. No forewarning. He does that on purpose. Watches your place to make sure it's safe, for both of you.
You open your door to see him standing there, dressed in an unassuming pair of black jeans, an acid washed grey tee, sleeves long enough to hide the scarring that trails along his left shoulder, down his bicep.
There's a healing bruise on his cheek, fresh scars on his knuckles, but he seems relatively unhurt. You've seen him in worse states, far worse. Had nights where you think maybe he's come to you because he doesn't think he'll ever see you again.
His dirty blond hair is disheveled, as usual, but he looks... Okay. Tired, but no visible injuries.
You may not know much about him - anything, really, beyond a rough estimate on his age - but you're not an idiot. Whatever he's into, you know that it's something dangerous.
Black Ops. Paramilitary, maybe. Something that's not on the record, and would make him a lot of enemies.
He steps inside, closes the door and triple checks the locks behind him before he's turning to you, barely gets a chance to look you up and down once before you're reaching for him.
"Are you hurt?" You ask, fully prepared for him to make some stupid joke about his ego, like he had that one time he'd shown up with a dislocated shoulder.
You keep a first aid kit that wouldn't be out of place in a small medical clinic under your bed for a reason now. A six feet tall, broad wall of muscle reason.
"Not this time." His voice is a little hoarse, like he hasn't spoken for a while, but aside from that, you take him at his word. It's not unusual for him not to speak much; he told you once that he sometimes goes days without needing to speak to anyone else.
"Okay. Okay, good," you say, trying to sound casual and failing. You've not quite gotten the art of acting as though you don't worry about him perfected.
Six knows you worry about him; can see it in your expression before you try to mask it. He's trained to read body language far more subtle than yours.
Hopefully one day, you won't have to worry about him anymore. Maybe if he puts enough bad guys into the ground, they'll let him disappear into civilian life. It's probably wishful thinking, but it's something to hold onto.
Fortunately, he can think of about a dozen ways to stop either of you from thinking about anything too depressing or upsetting right now.
Starting with leaning down and stealing a kiss. It's not really stolen if it's willingly given, considering the moment his mouth touches yours, you're leaning up, practically melting into him.
"I missed you," the words fall from his lips between kisses that become increasingly needy; Six might be tall and broad and dangerous, but he's also exceptionally touch starved.
Feeling is a liability, and he knows that, but he can't help it. Lifting you effortlessly into his arms, you barely get out an ‘I missed you, too’, before he's kissing you again.
Your apartment is small, thankfully, so it's not far from the hallway to the bedroom. He carries you the entire way, sets you down and only pulls away from you so he can remove a handgun from somewhere on his person.
He's careful about it, slides the ammo clip out and sets them down on the nightstand an inch or so apart before you're pulling him in closer, tugging at his shirt.
His gaze sweeps the room, taking stock of the entry and exit; your window is locked, the new lock he'd put on it for you last time still in place.
Then you're pulling his shirt up, and he helps you tug it off, toss it aside. It sure doesn't escape his notice, the way you look him up and down, your eyes traveling slowly over the plains of muscle that make up his chest and arms.
Six still sometimes expects you to flinch away when you see the scars that litter his body, particularly the worst of them across his left shoulder and down his bicep.
You never have, and you don't start now. Instead, your fingers are careful as you touch him, trace around the old scarring.
Thankfully, the new additions to his scars and bruises seem relatively minimal this time, not that you're really able to tell.
"Gonna just keep staring?" He asks, while his big, scarred hands find your waist, gently pull you in closer so he can kiss you again.
You think he's trying to distract you, trying to ease up some of your concern for him. You don't know half of it.
Six knows that this line of work will kill him eventually; he's not expecting some cushy retirement. Guys like him don't get that sort of thing. Sooner or later, there'll be a bad guy he can't kill first, and he'll end up in the ground.
He hadn't intended to keep coming back to you, but your apartment has become an unintended safehouse. One of many, but the only one that's occupied.
It's unfair to you, and he knows it; one day, he'll die, and you won't even know who to mourn. He knows it would be easier if neither of you got attached, but he's not stupid enough to think that's still an option.
That doesn't mean he wants to watch you be afraid for him in real time, because seeing that just makes it harder and harder for him to leave you behind.
Sooner or later, something's going to give, and he isn't sure he can feasibly say he wouldn't choose you if that happened.
Especially when your soft, warm hands are running all over him, your touch so gentle as he tugs your jeans down, caresses your ass and makes you laugh softly.
Between greedy kisses that border on desperate, the pair of you get the rest of your respective clothes off. He likes the way you touch the tattoos inked into his skin, the way you look at him like maybe he's worth saving.
From the way he's built and his general demeanor, it wouldn't be a stretch to assume that Six is strictly dominant.
The assumption would be only half true; he can be a little dominant, when he wants to be, but barely. He's actually quite gentle with you, particularly when he lifts you up and lays you down in the middle of the bed, hovers over you, caging you in between his arms.
You slide your hands up his chest again, link them at the nape of his neck as you wrap one leg around his waist, encouraging him closer.
Six can feel the heat radiating from your core, groans softly when you kiss his neck gently, trail wet, open mouthed kisses along his jawline.
"I missed you so much..." You breathe as he nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the faint scent of your perfume and soap.
You know that you say it a lot, probably more often than needed, but you can’t help it. There’s a small part of you that hopes that if you say it often enough, he might realise how much you genuinely care about him. That you might give him a reason to stay.
He knows that you mean it, too, beyond something purely physical. That you missed him, his presence, his voice.
That, too, is part of why he keeps coming back. Because he misses those things about you just as much. Misses the warmth of your body against his, the softness in your voice when you whisper his call sign.
His call sign.
God, you deserve so much more than just that.
The thought strikes him mid kiss, makes him freeze for just a fraction of a second before he forces the idea out of his head. Thinking too much about that will only make him sad, which is the last thing he wants right now.
So, instead, he focuses on your hands, warm and soft as you run them up his biceps, across his shoulders, as if you’re trying to commit the feeling of him to memory. For all he knows, you might be.
Six doesn’t know how long he has with you this time; he probably needs to leave before the sun rises, you know the drill by now. Sometimes, when he thinks he has longer, he takes his time with you.
It helps him decompress, in a way, to shut his brain off and focus entirely on you. To kiss you all over until you’re sobbing and begging. If he wasn’t still running on adrenaline, hadn’t been away from you for so long, he might have done the same tonight.
“Can I make you feel good?” you ask softly, your hand ghosting across his chest, down between you.
You’ve missed this; missed him, the scent of his cologne, the faint lingering smell of gunpowder and sweat and something that’s entirely him. You can’t place that last one.
There’s no telling how long it’ll be before you see him again - if you see him again - so you want to make this last. As much as you tell yourself that it means nothing, that he’s just a good lay who uses your place as a safehouse… you can’t lie to yourself.
The truth is, you barely know anything about him, and yet you want to. You want him. Feel things that make no sense to feel for an almost-stranger.
So, you lose yourself in the fantasy, in the daydream of knowing him better.
At least when he’s in your bed, you can pretend, just for a little while, that he’s yours.
So, you run your fingertips along his hipbone, unperturbed by the scars that you can feel beneath your touch. You continue the little touches, further inwards, wrap your warm hand gently around his cock.
He’s achingly hard, groans softly when you slowly stroke him. It’s not like he’s incapable of getting himself off, and he does, but it’s always so different to when you’re touching him. The feeling of your soft, warm hand wrapped around the thick length of his shaft, your eyes hazy with lust as you look up at him.
Six isn’t a stranger to people looking at him like that; he knows he’s handsome, knows that he keeps his body in peak physical condition. But there’s a difference between strangers eye fucking him and the way you look at him.
You kiss his throat, just above his pulse point, where you know he’s sensitive. Sure enough, he makes a little purring noise in response, rolls his hips gently into your hand. There’s a little jolt of satisfaction that runs through you at this, at the feeling of inspiring such a reaction in him.
So maybe you don’t know exactly what he does, but you know for sure he’s dangerous. Strong. And yet he practically melts into your touch like he’s starved for it. That isn’t exactly far from the truth.
“You gonna let me suck your cock?” you ask, kiss down his throat, along his collarbone, nip at his skin before working your way back. You want to. Badly. It’s one of your favorite things to do when you’re together, when he lets you.
But sometimes, like tonight, he doesn’t want to draw it out. Needs to be and feel connected with you in every way possible. So while he would very much like to feel your soft lips wrapped around his cock, look down and see that pretty sight, he’d rather be inside you.
“Not tonight,” he answers, gently removes your hand from his cock, brings it up to rest on his chest again. “Need you.”
You’re used to short sentences from him, soft words and silence, actions over words, so it doesn’t surprise you this time, either. Thankfully, you’re just as needy, too, have been aching and wet since he caged you in beneath him.
“Need you, too,” you whisper back, use the hand resting at the nape of his neck to gently tug him down into another kiss.
This one's deeper, more passionate; you pour all of your inexplicable feelings into it as he adjusts his body between your thighs.
Keeping himself braced on one hand, he reaches between you, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes it slowly once or twice.
It doesn't feel as good as when you did it. He drags the thick, velvet-soft tip through your soaked folds, nudges against your clit. You make a little whimpering sound into the kiss when he does, which sends another jolt of need through him, has his cock throbbing in his hand.
Still, he's so, so careful as he lets his tip catch at your entrance. No matter how pent up he is, how badly you need one another, he never just pushes inside you in one go.
Slowly, inch by inch, he presses deeper inside, nuzzles into the side of your neck and inhales the scent of your perfume.
The warm, wet feeling of your cunt around him is addictive, has his head spinning just a little. He's one of the most dangerous men in the world, and yet you make him forget it. Perhaps that's another reason he comes back.
As if it's not you. You, you, you. Everything about you. Six wants to love you in the daylight, he realises. Be with you. Explore what you could be together, if he wasn't who he is.
His hips meet yours, the full length of him buried inside you. You slip your hands under his arms, rest them on his back. It feels intimate, like you're holding him, and he loves it, gently rolls his hips and makes you whimper.
You're so responsive to him; he loves that about you. Loves the way you cling to him as he slowly starts to move.
The urge to pound you into the bed is there; it's not like he hasn't before, after all. But the desire to take his time wins out, so instead he gives you slow, deep thrusts that have your nails digging little crescent shapes into his back.
“Yeah? That feel good?”
In spite of himself, Six has to ask. Half because he wants to hear you say it, half because he knows that you love when he talks you through it.
You adjust your legs around his waist, cling to him with your soft hands as he builds up a steady pace, spurred on by the pretty sounds you make for him.
“Ohh, god-” you gasp as he grinds against you, his cock so deep inside that his tip kisses your cervix. “Oh my god-”
He responds with a soft, filthy groan, feeling the way your cunt constricts around him with sheer desire and arousal.
“Nnhh; oh, you like that, don't you? Yeah? I can feel how much you love it, sweetheart-”
He can't get enough of your hands all over him, your breathy moans and the way your back arches up, pressing your pretty tits against his chest.
You're both so close to one another, you leaning to chase his mouth, kissing every inch of him you can reach.
“Mmhmm, right there; please, Six-” you beg him, using his call sign, the only name he's ever given you.
Once again it strikes him, the deep buried desire to have this every night. To sleep beside you, take care of you. To wake you in the morning with his face between your thighs, making out with your sweet pussy until the sheets are soaked.
He'll never be allowed out of his contract, not that he can ever foresee, anyway.
Life in service to the CIA, or life in prison. He can't see a way where he could ever give you the life you deserve.
A ring on your finger. Children, if you wanted them. A pipe dream, something that'll always be out of his reach.
What, then, is left for him to give you, beyond physical intimacy?
“Court,” he whispers finally, slowing again to that sensual pace, gives you the only other piece of himself that he can.
Your eyes widen as you look up at him.
“W-what?” You can barely register what he's just told you, having long since accepted that you would likely just be calling him Six for the rest of time.
“My name,” his lips brush your ear, press a little kiss just below, “I want to hear you say it.”
“Court.” You breathe his name softly, like it's something precious and fragile, as though even saying it too loud could shatter the moment.
It's not the name you expected, but then, you aren't sure what you thought it might be.
Immediately though, you think it suits him. The transition from him being Six to Court in your internal dialogue is seamless, instant.
Especially when he starts to move again, deep, heavy thrusts full of an unspoken longing.
You moan so beautifully for him. Pretty sounds as he holds you close, still managing to hit all those perfect spots inside you.
Court usually tries to keep a certain degree of separation between himself and his lovers, but he’s always struggled to do that with you. Even when he’s had you on all fours, he’s had his chest pressed against your back, one arm wrapped around you to keep you close.
This is different though, almost an embrace as he steadily builds up a slightly rougher, faster pace.
You wrap your arms around his neck, chase his mouth for kiss after kiss, pleased when he lets you. He’s always sweet to you, but something’s different this time. Of course it is, otherwise he would never have finally given you his name.
Something is building between you, has been for months, feels right out of your reach at almost all times. Even as distracted as you are, you understand that a line has been crossed, one you can’t come back from. That him giving you his name, even what you suspect is a shortened version, is something momentous.
Your lips part in a breathy moan as he buries his face in your shoulder, letting you hear every soft grunt and groan that escapes him each time his hips make impact against yours.
He’s so big, getting deep inside you with each steady thrust, stretching you open deliciously; all you can do is cling to him, rake your nails gently across his broad shoulders and mewl as he somehow manages to massage your g-spot on every thrust.
“Yeah? Right there? That where you need me?” His already soft voice is a silky purr into your ear, every second word punctuated by little grunts that have you tightening around him.
“Mmhmm-” you whimper, wrap your legs around his waist, your feet resting neatly at the small of his back.
Court makes a soft little tsk sound, plants an open mouthed kiss on your throat.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
The soft chastising, the kisses he leaves all over your body, the feeling of him inside you, it’s too much. The orgasm that’s been building steadily inside you for a while now ripples through your body like a tidal wave.
“Oh my fucking god, Court-” you moan as he keeps fucking you through it, erratic snaps of his hips as your cunt flutters around him, your entire body trembling in his arms.
He doesn’t expect hearing his name in your voice, moaned so sweetly at the height of the pleasure he’s giving you, to have such an effect on him.
Court has remarkable self control; had it literally beaten into him during his training. But he doesn't remember the last time anyone used his name, let alone said it with such desire and affection.
It gets to him, gets under his skin, reminds him that he's more than just a killer in plain sight. Reminds him that there's still, at least, one person in the world who cares about him.
Another filthy groan rumbles in his chest as your still fluttering walls massage his cock, threaten to send him over the edge with you.
You're through the peak now, look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, your lips parted in a soft pout as he keeps steadily fucking into you, knows that he can drag a second orgasm out of you in quick succession.
“Oh fuck, nnhh, please, cum for me, please, Court, cum with me…”
Your impassioned plea rushes straight to his cock, though your back arching up and your walls tightening almost painfully around him as you reach that second peak certainly helps.
His pace falters, becomes more erratic as he gets right to the edge, fucks you through your release, waits until that very last moment before he pulls out of you, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes the heavy shaft.
With an obscene groan, he spills his load onto the softness of your stomach, hot, thick ropes of his spend painting your skin.
Breathless, you look up at him, commit the sight of his face when he cums to memory; he looks gorgeous in the soft glow of the lamp on your nightstand.
Court catches his breath; his recovery time is still impeccable. Leaning over you as you unfold your legs from around his waist, he brushes a soft kiss across your forehead.
You stretch your legs out with a little hum, sigh contentedly; you're just considering getting up to find a washcloth to clean yourself up with, when Court’s already on his feet.
“Let me.”
Shamelessly, your gaze tracks his naked form as he heads into your small en suite bathroom, returns with a warm washcloth and gently cleans you up.
Court is fully aware of the irony of this; his hands have more blood on them than he can count, but he's so careful with you, likes the way your gaze softens with affection as he does.
Tossing the washcloth into the laundry hamper on his way, Court gets back into bed with you, letting you pull the blankets up around you both and curl into his side, rest your head on his chest.
Your fingers trace little patterns into his chest, featherlight touches across the tattoos inked into his skin.
“Will you stay the night?” You ask, voice quiet; it feels like asking too much from him, when he's already crossed one major line.
Court doesn't take it as such. It's nice to feel wanted, cared for.
“Yeah. That’d be nice.”
The few times he's stayed the night, you've woken early before he leaves, made sure he eats.
It's a somewhat domestic routine, but there's always been that degree of separation, where you were you, but he was just Six.
But now… now you know his preferred name. Now he knows what said name sounds like in your voice, whispered and moaned in the height of pleasure.
It’s far more intimacy than he should be involved in. Puts you at risk. And yet.
Court is quite possibly the most dangerous man in the world. Quite certainly the world’s deadliest covert operator.
He isn’t arrogant enough to believe that nobody would try to harm you, given the chance. But he wants to believe that he’s good enough at what he does to keep you safe. He has to believe that, because the alternative is to panic, or worse, keep you at arm’s length.
Those are his options. Trust his own abilities, do his best to keep you safe in spite of the risk… or break your heart, and arguably, his own. Court doesn’t care much for his own emotions, knows how to shut himself off when he needs to.
But you… Court isn’t willing to gamble with hurting your feelings. Of course, he’d rather not gamble with your life, either, but, well. He’s killed more scumbags than he can count, and that was just a job. Anyone who came after you? That would be personal, and Court can think of a dozen ways he’d make them pay for it.
He’s pulled out of his ruminating by you pressing a little kiss to his jaw.
“Hey,” you whisper, “you okay?”
Instinctively, he knows you aren’t prying for details about his state prior to arriving here. You know better than that. He supposes he’s probably been too quiet for too long, making you worry, even though you’re used to his silences.
But then again, you’ve never been silent together after he's given you his name before.
“Yeah, sweetheart, I'm okay.”
Court isn't lying. As far as mood goes, and physical health, he's fine. Better than fine. But he sounds tired, exhausted even, and you can hear it in his voice.
He doesn't want you worrying about him anymore than he knows you do already.
You might not be trained the way he is, but you're not an idiot. Court thinks he's difficult to read, but you're observant. Spend more time with him than pretty much anyone else that isn't Fitz.
So, he isn't surprised when you make a little humming sound, like you know he's omitting things.
But you don't seem upset. Instead, you plant more kisses all over him; chest, neck, face, finally his mouth.
Court finds your touch comforting, he realises. That's part of why he keeps coming back to you.
It's not just about having somewhere safe to crash, or about getting laid. It's about the fact that for a few short hours, he can feel like an ordinary man.
Turning his head slightly, he returns your kiss, wraps his arms around you so you can nestle yourself against his chest.
There's no rush to the kiss, and it's not the heated sort that leads to sex, either. Instead, these kisses are slow, languid. Kisses for the sake of kissing.
That's new, too, but neither of you mention that fact when you break apart, one hand resting on his cheek, your thumb brushing back and forth.
One of his tattooed hands covers yours for just a moment, before his crystal blue eyes meet your gaze.
You can see the fatigue wearing on him, flip your palm so you can gently squeeze his hand.
“Get some sleep. I'll watch over you.”
That brings a smile to Court's face; the idea of you, so fragile in comparison, watching over him while he sleeps.
“Just an hour. Then you wake me.”
You're so pleased that he agrees to sleep that you nod, even though you'd rather he gets a full night's rest.
“An hour.” You agree, extracting yourself from his arms so he can get comfortable. You end up trading places, Court resting his head on your shoulder.
“‘night, sweetheart.”
You press a kiss to the top of his head, and it's the last thing he's aware of before sleep takes over.
Court wakes slowly; you must have fallen asleep at some point, too, but he can feel you breathing, so he's not too concerned.
His mind and body still feel a little foggy, which makes him think he slept for longer than an hour.
He can also hear the sounds of light traffic, which makes him think dawn is close. That isn't enough to make him move, though. Court doesn't remember the last time he was so comfortable.
You have one arm wrapped loosely around him, your free hand gently carding through his hair. The touch is intimate, loving.
It makes him wonder about the expression on your face right now. What he might see if he opens his eyes.
So he does, slowly, crystal blue still a little hazy with sleep. It catches you off guard, so he's privy to the unmasked affection in your eyes before you startle.
“That was longer than an hour,” he murmurs, blinking sleep away as you give him an apologetic look.
“I'm sorry. You needed the rest…”
He knows you're right, of course. He also knows he can't protect you twenty four seven. Besides which, he really does feel better.
“I did.” He agrees, sitting up so he can pull you into his arms. Immediately, you curl into him.
Of course, you don't know what - or who - he is, but you clearly feel safe with him. Court doesn't know whether he's earned that privilege, but he swears he'll never give you reason not to.
“Court?”
Hearing his name still startles him; he needs to get used to it after so long, but he likes the way it sounds in your voice. The way you say it so softly, your affection for him clear in your voice.
“Yeah?”
“Can you stay a little longer? I know you’ve probably stayed too long as it is, but…”
But you’ll miss him terribly when he’s gone, not knowing when you’ll see him again - if you’ll see him again. It makes you feel selfish, makes you want to be greedy and take as much of his time as he allows.
Luckily, he feels the same. He hasn’t been briefed on a new target yet, so it’s best for him to go to ground anyway.
Besides which, he likes the idea of spending time with you. Playing house for a bit, if you’ll let him. It’s more than he ever expected, even if it’s temporary. But he’s got a moral code, isn’t a bad person.
So he feels it necessary to warn you.
“I’ll break your heart one day, I need you to understand that, then decide whether you still want me to stay.”
Even as he says it, one hand gently stroking your cheek, it hurts him; he doesn’t want to walk away from you, but he needs to give you that choice. One last chance to back away, because people like him don’t get peace. That was the deal he made.
He wouldn’t blame you if you changed your mind.
Thinking that, it surprises him when you gently cup his face in your much smaller hands, brush your thumbs across his cheeks, nuzzle your nose against his before you press a gentle kiss to his mouth.
“Stay with me,” you breathe, pulling back only so you can meet his gaze, so he can see for himself the certainty, the affection, burning in your eyes.
Slowly, he nods. Court doesn’t know how long he has - before he’s called out again, before he dies, but what he does know, is that he wants to spend whatever peaceful time he gets here, with you.
“Okay,” he says softly, immediately knows it was the right decision when your eyes light up.
He makes a soft little oof sound as you slide into his lap, straddling him, planting kisses all over his face.
Court doesn’t know how much time he has with you, but as he wraps his arms around you, returns your kisses, he knows one thing for certain: it won’t ever be enough time.
imagine sitting in professor!Ryland's lap and you're naked from the waist down, your blouse bunched up and resting high on your chest, with your breasts exposed to the cold air. every now and then he'd trace his middle and ring finger up your torso and grope the mounds of flesh, pinching and playing with either of your nipples as his other occupied hand does the same to your oversensitive clit. slick, lascivious sounds fill the entirety of his office — laptop long forgotten, stuck on the screensaver that's a picture of you that he took on your first (secret) date.
and to think that he just called you here to "review" the item pool for the students' final exam...
Ryland is cruel when he wants to be. he tells you keep your arms on him, but they are to be nowhere near his wrists. if you so much as come close to that area, he spanks your cunt and has you clenching over nothing but air. You squirm too much for his liking? He spanks you for that too. "Hold still," he says. That command alone is enough to reel you back in. Shakily, you reinforce your legs draped over his own. You part your thighs wider for him and you feel him smile against your shoulder blade. "Good girl," he praises you and plants a kiss on the side of your neck.
Ryland uses both hands now. One is showering attention upon your clit and the other has two of his longest digits dipping and pulling out of your heat in quick successions. your brain is practically mush; no longer conscious that anyone might knock on his door and possibly see you, Dr. Grace's TA slash fiancée, sitting on his lap, getting fucked by his fingers, and teetering dangerously close to a second orgasm. you bite your lower lip to cage your noises and look south. you're awash with molten satisfaction as the fluorescent light overhead catches the smooth, thin band of gold on his ring finger — it matches the one on your left. you gave him one too, after he proposed. it's only fair that everyone knows that Ryland is yours just as much as you're his.
› summary: after realizing that your hookup, intended as a rebound after your long term relationship, is actually your coworker, you deal with it the best way you know how: avoidance. that is, until you're forced to talk to ryland grace.
› tags/warnings: no use of y/n, TW: trivia night mention, explicit mentions of smut but no actual smut (yet), drinking, mentions of reader's past toxic relationship, strong language
› wc: 5.5k
› part one | direct address series masterlist
ᯓ★
On Tuesday, you show up to the school earlier than everyone else, likely one of the only times you've been more than an hour early to anything in your life. The hall is still dim when you arrive, the custodians’ floor wax gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. You lock yourself in your classroom to decorate in peace.
You make a point of putting your earbuds in, tuning out the noise in the hallway as other staff begin to trickle in and stop by to chat to Grace. Everyone is charmed by him, this stupidly overqualified molecular biologist that somehow ended up teaching eighth grade science. But not you. No, not you. You know better.
You know a lot of things about Grace, like the low sound he made in the back of his throat when you tugged on his hair. The concentrated pinch between his brows when he was between your thighs, mouth latched onto your clit. The pleased little smile he got when he had you writhing and moaning underneath him, heaving from your second (and certainly not last) orgasm of the night.
It's fine. Really, it's fine. You're a professional. You can be professional.
Your phone buzzes in your back pocket. You take out your earbuds. Even without looking, you know that it's Hallie and Reagan. Ever since you told them about Grace last night they've been treating your life like a spectacularly interesting romcom.
Halls: And have you talked to your good karma yet?? ;)
You: Don't call him that! I don't need you manifesting shit for me
Halls: Ok sorry I'll rephrase
Halls: Have you talked to professor sexy yet?
Reg: That's objectively worse
Halls: It's objectively funnier but thanks
You: Omg stop it with the nicknames
You: It's Grace. Just Grace
You: And no I haven't talked to him
Reg: You probably should
Halls: I second this
You: You guys are the worst
A knock sounds at your classroom door. For one wild second, you think it's him. You curse and shove your phone back in your pocket in a panic. When you sneak a look at the door, relief washes over you so strongly that you feel a bit woozy. Marisol is peering into your room through the vision panel with an impatient expression. She spots you, decides you're not moving fast enough for her liking, and knocks again, harder this time.
You exhale and cross the room.
Marisol has been teaching sixth-grade English at Grover Cleveland for ten years. Eleven, maybe. You're never certain, because every time you ask, she says something unhelpful like longer than anyone should or wouldn't you like to know? The latter is especially frustrating because yes, you would like to know.
But she'd been there for you, when you were starting out. The kids, being able to smell fear, walked all over you that first semester. It was awful. You remember being thirteen, but you don't remember being so mean. Maybe it was a new generation kind of thing. Ugh, even thinking that makes you feel old.
Marisol had helped, giving you pointers and making you feel better about being more strict with your students. A lot of detentions were doled out after that, but the behavior in your classroom improved by miles.
When you open the door, you catch a glimpse of Grace across the hall, pinning some poster up to the wall behind his desk. He's dressed more casually today, a plain navy t-shirt stretching over the broad slope of his shoulders, short sleeves squeezing around his biceps as he reaches up to smooth tape against the wall.
Your brain unhelpfully supplies the image of those same arms braced on either side of your head, muscles flexing under his skin.
You're such an idiot. It's the same every time you see him—that awful feeling of your stomach swooping and body tensing. Humans have been evolving for hundreds of thousands of years and here you are, your survival instincts kicking in at the mere sight of Ryland fucking Grace.
"Are you going to let me in or are we just going to stand here?" Marisol snipes. She speaks loud enough to catch Grace's attention, and he glances over, his eyes landing on you, glinting behind his glasses. You flush, your whole body feeling as though you've been doused in molten lava. You pivot away and usher her in, closing the door behind you.
She gives you approximately five minutes of peace before questioning you.
This is generous by Marisol’s standards. Practically saintly. She busies herself unpacking a box of new copies of Lois Lowry's The Giver while you work on your bulletin board, smoothing a border of blue paper around the edges and trying not to listen for movement across the hall.
"What's the deal with you and Mr. Sunshine?" she says. You look behind you. Her back faces you as she sets books neatly in the cabinet at the back of the classroom.
"What do you mean?"
"Don't play dumb." She slides another stack of paperbacks into place. "You're not any good at it."
Your mouth clamps shut. You're not sure if you should be offended.
She continues before you can respond, "I've never seen you act the way you did yesterday morning. And then the second the meeting was over you ran away like a bat out of hell."
You look back to the bulletin board, stapling the blue construction paper border and wishing you could be anywhere else. "It's nothing."
"Mhm."
"Seriously."
She scoffs. "It didn't feel like nothing when you were trying to hide in my shirt. Did you date him?"
"No."
"Does Anthony know him?"
"No."
"Come on. You said you'd tell me later. Guess what? It's later."
Your shoulders droop. Your hands fall to your sides, giving up on the border for now. The construction paper peels, curling in on itself in a pitiful spiral that you can't help but relate to.
Marisol won't quit until you tell her what's going on. You may as well rip the band-aid off.
"We slept together," you mumble at your shoes. Jesus Christ. You don't think admitting that is going to get any easier.
Silence greets you on the other end of the room. You glance up to see Marisol has stopped stocking the books. She's gawking at you, openly, and you feel like a bug under a microscope, completely at the mercy of one very judgemental coworker.
"I'm sorry," she says, slowly as if she's still trying to process what you said. "When you say we…"
You close your eyes. "Grace and I."
"Ryland Grace."
"Yes."
"The new science teacher."
"Yes," you grit out, starting to get a bit irritated. How many times are you going to have to say it?
"Mr. Sunshine? Right across the hall?"
"Please stop saying Mr. Sunshine," you say. Your face is getting hot again now, palms clammy.
Marisol's expression is unreadable. To you, this is worse than laughter. Right now, you would even welcome laughter. At least then there'd be something concrete to be annoyed about. Instead you stare at each other, her eyes wide and disbelieving.
Finally, she seems to pull herself out of her state of shock. She nods once, then again.
"Tell me everything," she says, and so you do.
You perch on the edge of your desk and explain how Hallie and Reagan wanted to drag you out to a new club that just opened a few weeks ago. You tell her about making eyes at Grace from across the bar when he was talking to another girl, and before you know it you're rambling. It spills out of you with such force that you don't think you can stop if you tried.
ᯓ★
"I need another drink," Hallie grouses, waving the bartender over. Reagan had disappeared into the crowd, tugging along a man in his early-twenties wearing a confused and somewhat fearful expression, leaving the both of you behind.
You're decently buzzed, having already gone through two Long Islands and a shot of tequila. Hallie drinks like she's still in college, and you always find it hard to keep up, but you try.
You prefer wine nights, splurging on a nice charcuterie board and huddling together to watch shitty reality television, but you had been moping around the last few weeks and Hallie and Reagan insisted going out would make you feel better.
Mourning your relationship comes and goes in waves. Some days you wake up and thank any deity that might be listening that you're done. You're truly, finally done. No further contact, no pathetic texts begging to get back together, no actually getting back together.
Other mornings you find it hard to get out of bed, crushed by the fact that you're alone. It's not the end of the world. You know that. But sometimes it feels that way. You had plans with Anthony, you were talking about getting married, for fuck's sake, and now he's just… gone.
So you finally gave in, and now you find yourself surrounded by pulsing lights and sweaty bodies crushing together on the dance floor. This is a thing normal people do, isn't it? Who cares. If it will take your mind off of the breakup for at least a few hours, then you're willing to take your chances.
Hallie slides a glass towards you, something blue and fruity that tastes more like juice than alcohol. It's a dangerous gamble, drinking like this, but you find it hard to care. You're here, with your two closest friends, and you're not letting the night go to waste.
"Oh," Hallie murmurs, teasing her straw between her teeth. "Look at that guy, over there."
You follow her line of sight. There's a lot of people at the bar, a group of girls a little younger than you, a guy that definitely looks underage hassling the bartender, and a couple that's being far too touchy to be appropriate in a public space. At the very end, you see who she's talking about.
You've always had a thing for nerds. Well, you say thing, but really it's a weakness. And this dude fits your type to a T so much that it's almost painful. His glasses are teetering precariously on the edge of his nose. You're certain if he moves his head with too much force they'll slip right off. He's leaning against the edge of the bar, an amused smile on his face. You can only see his side profile, and… the woman in front of him.
He's taken. Of course he is, how could someone like that be single? What you don't understand is the flash of disappointment that zings through you. You don't even know the guy, why do you feel let down?
"I wonder if that's his girlfriend," you say, trying to come off as politely curious but ending up sounding more envious than anything.
Hallie makes a dismissive noise. "That is not his girlfriend."
"You don't know that." You turn away, taking a long swallow of whatever the hell Hallie had ordered for the both of you.
"I absolutely do know that," she says, indignant. She reaches forward, the tips of her fingers nudging at your jaw, forcing you to look back at the man. "See? That's not girlfriend body language."
"She's touching his arm."
"It's not a flirty touch. Just look. Please."
You sigh and devote a little more attention to the scene before you. The woman is saying something to him, her smile bright and wicked beneath the bar lights. He tips his head back slightly, laughing, one hand lifting as if in surrender. There's something wonderfully awkward about him, you think. Not clumsy, exactly. Just a little too sincere for the room. Like he wandered into the club by mistake and decided to be a good sport about it.
He ducks his head down in order to speak directly into her ear, and that should not be as attractive as it is, but what can you do about it? The heart wants what it wants. She laughs in response, and he rolls his eyes, but his half-cocked smile doesn't leave. Her mouth moves and you squint, trying but unable to read her lips. His expression shifts into theatrical offense, and she pats his arm once more before disappearing into the crowd. Gone, just like that.
Hallie jabs her elbow into your arm. "Well?"
"Well, what?" you ask. The man remains at the bar alone. His posture slumps, a little defeated, and he brings his beer up to his mouth, a large hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle.
"You know what. Go talk to him."
You whip your head towards her. "What? No!"
"Yes!" Hallie hisses. "Do it. You're hot, you'd have him wrapped around your finger before you even opened your mouth."
"You're just saying that," you say, shooting a glare at her.
She shakes her head, lips pressing into a thin line. "No, I'm not. I don't care. Either you go and talk to him or I'll buy him a drink and have the bartender say it's from you."
"Why do you hate me?"
"I don't and you know it. Quit being dramatic. Finish your drink and fucking go."
You stare at her.
Hallie stares back, unwavering.
You consider arguing. It would be nice, to dig your heels in and refuse to put yourself out there. That's what you would normally do. You've never seen the appeal of chatting people up at the club. You mostly go just to have a good time with your friends, to dance and drink and enjoy yourself.
But then… when was the last time you actually went out? Beyond trivia night with your coworkers and nights in with Hallie and Reagan or dates (however rare the occurrence) with Anthony. You can't remember.
You'd tried, a few times, but there'd always been Anthony, wheedling about how you should stay because he'd miss you and are you sure you should wear that out?
You inhale deeply, lifting your chin.
"Okay," you say, and you drain the last of your drink before you can lose your nerve.
Hallie's face lights up, victorious and encouraging all at once.
"Actually?" she chirps. At your unimpressed expression she manages to rein in some of her excitement. "Fuck, sorry. You got this. What's the worst that can happen? If he's a dick we'll just go dance and forget about it."
"Right." You nod to yourself, adjusting your halter top and thrusting a hand through your hair before sliding off of your stool. "Wish me luck."
"Luck!" Hallie calls after you as you start to walk away, reaching out to land a light slap to your ass. You flinch, barely biting down on a yelp, and glower at her over your shoulder. She grins, not looking apologetic in the slightest. You turn back around before she can make obscene hand gestures, aching to borrow some of the easy confidence her and Reagan always seem to possess.
Maybe you're in over your head.
No, not maybe. You're definitely in over your head.
The closer you get, the more handsome he becomes. At this point it's cruel, and you have no idea if you even know how to flirt anymore, that's how long it's been. What are you even meant to say? You come here often? Oh, barf.
But you're committed now. You'd look like an even bigger moron if you turned around mid-stride and retreated back to Hallie, who would never let you hear the end of it. She'd be bringing it up at your funeral.
The walk is agonizingly short. Before you know it you're sidling up to him. He doesn't notice you at first, but the brush of your arm against his has him blinking down at you in surprise. His pretty blue eyes widen behind his glasses, and for half a second he reminds you of a startled animal. Then his gaze moves over you before you can stop it.
He takes in your face first, then your hair, before dipping down to your neck, your top that complements your cleavage, and to your skirt that suddenly feels way too short. He seems to realize what he's doing and his eyes snap up to your face, the tips of his ears pinking.
Well. That certainly makes things easier.
"Tough crowd?" you ask, and have to make a physical effort not to wince. Sometimes you wish it was socially appropriate to punch yourself in the face. Only in times of great need, of course; you think this is one such situation.
"What?" he says. Your heart is beating so fast you think it might burst out of your chest and flop on the floor.
Fuck it, you think.
You let out a small huff of amusement and nod toward the direction the brunette had disappeared to. "That girl you were talking to. She your girlfriend?"
"Marissa? Oh, uh… no." He laughs, sounding a bit nervous. His free hand lifts to rub the back of his neck. "She's a friend."
You arch a disbelieving brow, and he smiles as if he knows what you're thinking.
"Really," he assures you. "She's very much not my girlfriend. Not that there's anything wrong with her. She's great."
"But?" you press.
"I'm here with her and her girlfriend," he says. His grin widens as your mouth forms a small 'o' of understanding, his cheeks dimpling.
"Third wheeling, huh?"
"Exactly. I've gotten pretty good at it."
"Can't say I relate." Hallie and Reagan are chronically single beyond the occasional fling.
"Are you here with someone, then?" He makes a sweeping motion with the hand holding his beer, gesturing to the swell of the crowd.
"Just some friends."
"Did they abandon you, too?"
You smile. "Yeah. One of them's already vanished with a guy who looked like he was about to cry."
"Good for him," he says. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "Or sorry."
"We'll know by morning."
He laughs, his head tilting back a bit, and a warm feeling seeps into your chest, so strong it steals your breath. This back-and-forth, this banter, comes so easy to you now that the ice is broken that it's almost natural. You think you could do it forever.
"Should I be worried?" he asks, taking a sip of his beer.
"About her? Probably." You look out over the dance floor, wondering if you could catch a glimpse of Reagan somewhere in the crowd, but you don't.
"And you?"
The question is playful, but there's something beneath it, a flicker of interest that makes the space between you feel suffocatingly close and vast all at once.
"Me?" you say. Your face is starting to hurt from all the smiling you're doing. "I'm harmless."
He watches you for a beat too long. "I doubt that."
Your stomach dips. It's ridiculous, how much one sentence can do, and heat spreads over your face. You know what's happening, or at least, you think you do, and the realization sends a reckless thrill through you.
He seems to notice it, too, because his eyes drop to your mouth, and he licks his lips subconsciously. "Can I buy you a drink?"
You have no other answer to give him besides yes.
Later you remember, a few drinks later and several inches of space subtracted between you, his hand a steady, guiding pressure on the small of your back as he escorts you out of the club to the Uber he ordered. He opens the door for you and leans down, breath warm against the shell of your ear, murmuring something stupidly witty that you're not even sure he does on purpose, and you laugh, slipping inside.
He pauses before closing the door, taking a moment to watch you. His glasses had started slipping down his nose again. There's a pleased look in his eyes as he looks at you over the rim, as if he knows you're going to be trouble, and you look back at him, drunk enough to want to prove him right.
ᯓ★
You become a master at evasive maneuvers.
It shouldn't be this easy to avoid Ryland Grace like he's the plague, but it is.
The week after you explain what happened with him to Marisol finds you busy enough that you end up relaxing into the routine. By the time school starts, Grace is going through the humiliation ritual that is teaching middle schoolers for the first time, so you hardly see him beyond glimpses into his classroom and catching each other on the way to the teacher's lounge. You made the mistake of going at your usual time on the first day, only to find him already there, laughing with Doug (6th grade history) over his lunch, so now you go at the very last minute.
By the time you're nearing the end of September, you think you can finally put the whole thing behind you.
The only interactions you've had with Grace are stiff and awkward, far from how you spoke at the club. A quick introduction, a little small talk about the morning weather one morning when you were running late and couldn't time your arrival in order to dodge him. He stopped by your room, once to ask if you could point him in the direction of the nurse's office, and again a few days later to borrow a stapler.
Every single time, he looked as if he wanted to say more, and eventually decided not to. It doesn't help that you were usually interrupted by a coworker or a student, but to you it was always a much appreciated respite.
The latest was about two weeks ago, when he found you at the printer in the library just after lunch.
Hey.
Hey— oh. Uhm, hi.
Are you… He motioned toward the machine. His lanyard reflected the fluorescent ceiling lights, glaring up at you harshly.
Sorry? You tittered nervously.
I was just wondering when you'd be done.
Oh! You glanced back at the printer, where copies of your Getting to Know You! assignment were lying, forgotten. I'm done now, sorry.
You scooped up your papers, clutching them to your chest and shuffling away to allow him to access whatever he needed. He stepped forward, close enough for you to catch the scent of coffee, deodorant, and the darker, more insistent smell of his cologne. Your stomach clenched involuntarily, and you took a step back.
He glanced up at the motion, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Actually, I've been meaning to talk to—
I have to get back, you blurted suddenly, before offering a fake, apologetic smile. Can't leave them unsupervised for too long, you know?
He had opened his mouth to respond, but you were already rushing away.
Arguably not your best moment.
After that day, though, he had gotten the message.
Grace stopped trying to catch you in the hallway. He stopped lingering by his doorway when the final bell rang. He stopped looking as though he might say your name every time you passed room 214 with your arms full and your eyes fixed firmly on anything that was not him.
Now, when your paths cross during passing period, he nods, professional and restrained, before turning back to whatever student has his attention. When you both reach the staff lounge at the same time, he steps aside to let you pass, offering a quiet greeting that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. No bitterness. No accusation. No smirk. No wounded male pride for you to despise.
It's… whatever. More than you could have hoped for. But if you're honest, you feel a bit left out. Everyone appears to have fallen in love with him. Janitors, secretaries, paras, your fellow teachers. It's annoying, but you wish you could see what all the fuss is about without being a total creep. Even Marisol is besotted, singing his praises to you when you're both alone in your classroom, insisting that you should give him a chance.
"I think you'd really like him," she says without preamble, setting a stack of papers down on your desk. No hi, hello, how are you? At this point, you don't expect much else from her.
"Everyone keeps telling me that," you grumble, before glancing up. "Shut the door, please."
She sighs but does as you ask. You rotate the papers to face you, reading the permission slips for October's Outdoor Education excursion. It's a three day camping trip for the eighth graders, one that you always dread chaperoning.
"Well, maybe everyone is right." Marisol grabs a chair from a student's desk and pulls it up to sit across from you, pulling out her phone. "It doesn't matter, anyway."
You hum, stowing the papers away in your desk drawer, and return your attention back to your laptop where you've been putting in grades for the latest quiz. "Really? Why's that?"
She puffs up her chest, smug. "Lee and I decided to invite him to trivia tomorrow."
"What?"
"Don't give me that look, you're not the supreme leader of trivia night. We can invite who we want."
"I never said you couldn't."
She waves her hand vaguely. "It's all over your face right now. Whatever. The way that I see it, you have three choices."
You scrub a hand over your face and turn your computer off. You're never going to get any grading done like this. "Okay."
"You can talk to him, figure your shit out, and have a nice night with us at the bar." She holds out three fingers, ticking them off as she speaks. "Or you can not talk to him, don't figure your shit out, and make it awkward for everyone."
"And my last choice?"
"You can just not come." She crosses her arms. "Make up some bullshit excuse and skip out."
You glance away with a semblance of shame. That was exactly what your knee-jerk reaction was, to cancel and say you weren't feeling well or that you already had plans.
"See?" She points at you. "Do I know you or do I know you?"
"This isn't fair," you whine.
"Shit's tough. Ryland is coming, and you're coming, too."
You can't help a small smile at her determination. Trivia is a sacred ritual, attended by yours and Marisol's group of work friends. It had been going on for a while before you joined, and held strong through the last few years. Grace being invited is a pretty big deal. At least, it is to Marisol, who has always been very passionate about the whole affair.
"Okay, okay," you acquiesce. "I'll go."
She stands, triumphant. "Perfect. I'll let Lee know."
"If it goes bad, then we're friends off," you call after her as she starts to leave.
"Oh, please. Who else would bring you your stupid permission slips from the office?" she says without turning back to look at you.
Marisol leaves your classroom door open. Of course she does.
Once she's gone, you try to resume grading. You catch yourself putting in the wrong scores for the wrong students, their names all jumbling up together on your screen. You lean back in your chair, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes.
You can't stop thinking of Grace.
Ryland Grace is coming to the bar with you, Marisol, and four of your other closest work friends. And it's going to be great. You're going to be completely normal about it. Because you're a grown woman and you can handle it.
But you know there will be no grading today, nor any guise of productivity. There's no guide for navigating such a weird situation. There's only room 214 across the hall, trivia on Friday, and the sinking realization that Marisol is right.
You have to talk to him.
You do an odd jerking motion, as though your body tried to get out of your chair before your mind had caught up and put a quick stop to the idea. You sit back for a second and squeeze your eyes shut. You feel a lot like you did right before you approached Grace that night—jittery and mortified and… sort of excited all at once.
Alright, bitch, you imagine Hallie's voice in your head and give your thigh a harsh pinch in an effort to ground yourself. Now or never.
The hallway is quiet when you step out. Most of the building has emptied now that it's nearing five in the afternoon. When you peak inside room 214, you find Grace hunched over some papers, a red pen in hand. His hair is that sort of tousled-messy that, in any other circumstance on any other guy, you admire. His brow furrows, mouthing the words he's reading on what you assume is a student's assignment, seemingly bewildered by what he finds.
You knock lightly on the doorframe. He glances up instantly, swiveling his chair to better face you.
"Hi," you say.
"Hey," he says in return.
You shuffle your feet, hovering in the doorway as though there's some invisible barrier between the two of you. "You got a minute?"
"Yeah." Grace straightens up as though he's bracing for impact, a slight grimace breaking through the neutral, friendly expression he wears. "Of course."
He's nervous, you realize. His fingers tap against his thigh and he pushes his glasses up farther up the bridge of his nose. They slip down again almost immediately. He needs to get them sized and fitted, you think, before you realize you're staring. You look away quickly, examining his classroom.
He's got the makings of a model solar system pinned to the ceiling, but he's still missing Uranus and Neptune. Cute, dorky science posters like Don't trust an atom, they make up everything and Think like a proton and stay positive! are plastered on the walls. It's exactly as lively as you'd imagined. From what little snippets you'd heard from your students, Grace was shaping up to be the cool new teacher, well-liked by the kids. Because of course he is.
What an asshole.
"It looks good," you comment.
"Thanks," he says, glancing around as if to view his own room from your perspective. "Still needs some work, but I'm getting there. They really don't give you a lot of time to set up, do they?"
You smile, tension seeping from your shoulders at his casual tone. "No, they don't. It's easier when you've been here for longer. You get away with leaving more and more stuff in your room during break every year."
"Yeah, that… that makes sense." Grace runs a hand through his hair.
You pause, unsure of what to say. It's a painful silence, and you blurt the first thing that comes to mind in order to fill it.
"I'm sorry," you say. "I just wanted to…"
You lose the end of your sentence as he meets your gaze. He waits for you to finish, and you swallow harshly.
"Marisol told me you're coming to trivia."
"Oh. Yeah, Lee mentioned it."
"This Friday."
"I remember."
"Right." You nod a few too many times, grasping for the right words. "Good."
Grace shifts his weight, the tapping against his thigh intensifying. "I didn't say yes."
You blink. "What?"
"I haven't said yes, yet," he amends. "I, well… I wanted to talk to you first."
"Why?" you ask, but you think you know, and you're so touched it's actually a little sickening.
"I don't want to intrude," he says. "It's your group of friends. Your monthly thing. I don't want to be there if it makes you uncomfortable."
"You don't have to do that." Guilt leaves a sour taste in the back of your mouth. You'd never wanted Grace to feel unwelcome, you'd just… wanted to be left alone. You can't imagine how you would've ended up if Marisol hadn't taken pity on you and swooped in to practically adopt you, and you certainly can't imagine putting Grace in a position where he couldn't have that same opportunity to connect.
He ducks his head, avoiding your gaze. "It's the right thing to do."
"No, I mean… you should come. It's fun. Marisol takes it way too seriously and Lee pretends he doesn't care but he does, and Abby always gets super drunk. Joe has tried to bribe our rival team a couple times. The drinks are good. Can't say the same for the food, though, so—" you cut yourself short. You're rambling. And his face is doing something unreadable and you're so certain you've made a mess out of the whole thing that you do a double-take when he responds.
"That does sound fun."
"It is," you insist. You're aware it sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself rather than Grace, but the words are already out of your mouth and who even cares, at this point? How much more of a fool can you make of yourself? Might as well own it.
He studies you. "You're sure?"
No, you think. You make me nervous and a whole night at the bar with you is going to drive me insane but Marisol will kill me if I don't go.
"I'm sure."
"Okay." He clears his throat, smiles, and you're certain you're getting yourself into something you'll for a second time. "Okay, then I'll be there."
ᯓ★
› A/N: hiii this took way longer than i expected haha writing is hard :( big big thanks to vi (@pixiebuggz) for being my beta reader and helping brainstorm the ending so i could finally get this out! next part is finally some smut and talking things out. if you want to be added to the series taglist just comment! (and also please yell at me if i forgot to add you!!!) i'm debating on making just like a general writing taglist for when i post for other rygos characters is that something y'all would be interested in? idk lmk. i'm pretty sure no one noticed but i changed the title of part two like three or four times i'm so indecisive when it comes to titles LOL. as always if i missed anything in the tags/warnings lmk
I’m sorry but people on TikTok are so weird when it comes to Ryland and his characterization… like at the end of the day he is a grown adult man and not some small little cinnamon role baby boy who shakes whenever someone looks his way.
Like canonically (!) in both book and film he is quite assertive as long as he feels comfortable enough. He is shy or can get embarrassed/awkward but he’s not like super insecure. That man went toe to toe with Stratt (and the other characters) whenever he felt like it. He could be downright rude and arrogant when someone questioned his intelligence/ideas. (Hint hint UNESCO conference. Doing that takes a level of arrogance only found in the depths of academia)
And the whole swearing thing? Don’t even get me started. He doesn’t not swear because he is too pure for the world but because he spends his days with kids. He says 'fuck' when he sees Rocky’s ship.
You don’t have to headcanon him as a dom or whatever but the way people pretend like he would start shaking and crying at the mere suggestion of sex is mostly just infantilizing.
(Just to be clear, it’s fine to think about him like that and write about it in fact write more it just becomes weird when they get all holier than thou about it and pretend like it’s canon instead of what they think he’d be like)
At the end of the day, it’s fiction and everyone can make up their mind especially over stuff like his sexual preferences (which we technically know nothing about), just don’t be weird and pretend like your headcanon is religion and everyone else’s is ridiculous 🫶
Court using toys on you when he’s exhausted from sleepless nights
You’re laying on top of him, his arms around your center as he fucks two fingers into you. His muscular torso flexes under your arched back “Mmph…fuck…Six…” you moan as he pulls his fingers out of you, spreading your juices around your clit.
He reaches over to your side drawer, pulling out your vibrator that he bought you for when he was away for work. He doesn’t turn it on yet, but he coats it in the juices soaking your clit. “Want you…” you whine out, slightly disappointed. “I know, baby, I know. Too tired tonight,” he whispers to your ear, breath sending a shiver down your spine.
You’re not complaining much longer before he turns it on, rubbing it around your clit. Your back instinctively arches with a moan before Six pushes you back into his chest. He wraps a gloved hand around your neck, pushing two fingers inside you mouth to keep you quiet from Fitz. “Shh…sweetheart. Can’t have Fitz hear you…” You moan against his fingers, reaching over your shoulder to grab a fist full of his messy hair.
You plead for him to increase the speed as you let out muffled moans. He kisses and softly bites on your neck, soothing over the marks with his tongue, whispering soft praises into your bare skin. “Doing so good for me, princess. Just a little more, I promise,” he says before finally turning up the speed.
You try to arch your back again, but Court’s grip around your waist prevents the action. His other leather gloved hand reaches your entrance, pushing two fingers inside. The added pleasure has your eyes rolling back, head resting against Court’s shoulder as the coil in your stomach threatens to burst.
With a few more praises, “C’mon baby, almost there,” he sends you over the edge. He turns up the speed again as you ride out your climax. He has to shove his fingers deeper down your throat to muffle the loud moan you let out.
After coming back down to Earth, Court puts the toy back in the drawer before massaging your sides. “Did so well for me, princess. So good for me,” he says as he plants kisses along your jaw.
After you’ve caught your breath, he helps get you dressed in some panties and one of his many black shirts. He holds out your panties for you, your legs still trembling as you step into them, holding onto his toned shoulders for support. He changes himself, wearing black boxers and a white shirt that does nothing to hide his toned body.
He carries you back to bed, laying you down before settling beside you and throwing the blanket over the both of you, kissing your temple as he finally gets to rest.
~~~~~~~~~~~
a/n: can you tell i have a thing for gloves?🤭 anyways, this turned out way longer than expected.
Ryland Grace x virgin!female!reader. 9407 words. Explicit.
AO3 link.
You let slip you've never had sex, or ever even been on a date. Ryland Grace is a very intelligent, very attractive biologist 15 years your senior. You don't expect him to offer to help.
I have no excuses and I seek no apologies. "I'll just knock out this 2k idea I have and then I'll get back to part 2 of pressurised." Well here we are two weeks and 9k later. whoops.
This one fought me quite a bit ngl it didn't flow out of me well. i haven't even edited the last 1000 words but I needed to get it out and up goddamnit the idea was there and I had to see it through (tell me if there are any typos).
Heavily leaning on my own experience of realising sex can feel really good, actually, here.
“...and the results have come out wrong again and the whole premise of this experiment is flawed and the entire earth is going to freeze to death and I am going to deserve my fate of dying a virgin for being an abject failure!”
All things considered up until this point you were doing well aboard Stratt’s Vat. You had risen to the challenge magnificently when plucked straight out of your university lab, working on your second post-grad thesis, and placed into the heart of the world’s best scientific minds trying to build something which would save the world. After all, this was why you pushed yourself to be the youngest doctorate in your university’s history. To make an impact, to do something that mattered.
But having a knack for navigating the rigour of academia did not necessarily mean you had the instinct to keep pushing until you got something correct. If your experiments failed like this before you would have written a fascinating paper about what you learned from the dying astrophage and resigned the rest to the next study, the next funding round, and have six months to consider how to redo it. That wasn’t an option here. You had to test how to keep the little buggers alive in the fuel tanks, and that was proving difficult. They simply did not like something about the way the tanks were being put together and it was driving you mad not being able to work out why for the last week. The current rate of dying off (by about ten percent) would doom the mission completely, and then no one would be saved.
So your little outburst was not that extreme, you would like to think. Not really.
And yet as soon as you finished speaking you buried your head in your hands. Doctor Ryland Grace was the world’s leading expert in astrophage biology and had spent the last day trying to help you understand why these results were failing. He had been buzzing about the various labs since you arrived, leading talks and meetings and helping organise all astrophage-based research for Stratt. The man was kind, dorky, fiercely intelligent, and actually kind of hot. It was unfair he got to be all those things at once, quite frankly.
Still, he certainly didn’t deserve your loud breakdown. When you prized your hands away from your face and dared to look at him, the man was staring at you with a puzzled look, hair sticking up where he had been running his hands through it staring at the computer screen.
“You’re a virgin?” he muttered, face confused, then his eyes widened and he immediately scrambled to cover himself. “Wait. I’m sorry, that’s entirely inappropriate. You do not need to answer that. I didn’t mean to cross any lines or make you uncomfortable at all I was just... surprised.”
His obvious stammering embarrassment helped quell your own. It was kind of cute?
You raised an eyebrow at him. “Surprised?”
He turned quite red and looked down at the microscope in front of him, adjusting the wheel with one hand when he said, “Well, you’re a very attractive woman. I’m just surprised no one has tried to, uh, make any advances.”
You laughed but there was a bitterness to it. “Most of the boys at university with me were scared shitless of a girl outperforming them with ease. And for the few who did try, I turned them down. You don’t get to being the youngest doctorate in Edinburgh's history by getting distracted by romance.”
He looked at you curiously, head tilting. “So you didn’t date at all at college, university?”
Now the cat was out of the bag, you did not feel too humbled to admit the rest. Ryland Grace was not being mean or judgemental or teasing you about anything, he seemed curious in a genuine way.
“I've never even been on a proper date.” You admitted. “And now my devotion to academia had earned me a ticket to a Chinese aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean where I’m about to doom humanity by not being able to keep these bloody microbes alive.”
Okay, so maybe that was laying it on a little thick. You gave him a shrug and a smile to make it clear you knew you were being melodramatic.
Ryland raised an eyebrow but you could see the amusement in his face. He stepped closer to you and put his hands on his hips. “Do you perhaps need a hug?”
You laughed. “Probably.”
To your surprise he stepped round the desk towards you, and when he held out his arms for a hug you only hesitated for a moment before stepping in. It was only brief, a single squeeze before being released, but that moment of warm grounding as his arms wrapped around you was like a life raft. Gods, you really had needed that.
The man even smelled good. How unfair.
“This mission gets to all of us.” He said as he stepped back. “The pressure is ridiculous. If you need help, Stratt can have 10 more people in here to help in under fifteen minutes. You just need to accept that you need the help and ask for it.”
You huffed. “That’s the hard part.”
He grinned. “I know. But this is bigger than pride. Believe me, I threw my toys out the pram when we found out the astrophage were water based. But we are doing important work here, don’t let it get you down.”
You took a deep breath and sighed as you started clearing up your last failed experiment. “It just makes me wonder what it was all for sometimes, you know? Like it kind of stings on a personal level to feel like you might die without ever really living.”
Doctor Grace nodded thoughtfully. “I get why it might feel that way. But the work we are doing here is objectively the most worthy thing you can dedicate your time to.”
He stepped up to help you clean away the experiment, and the two of your worked together in comfortable, companionable silence.
It was not until the next experiment was running that he lent back against the bench next to you, hand tapping on the edge of the table as he looked you up and down.
“I was wondering if...” he paused and swallowed before speaking again. “Do you wanna go on a date with me? It doesn’t have to really mean anything if you don’t want it to. And I can’t offer you anything beyond what the canteen is serving here so it will probably just be whatever bad mystery meat they are serving over rice, but, I don’t know, it might be nice?”
You froze when he started speaking, wondering if you had heard him correctly. Surely Doctor Ryland Grace was not interested in you? But as he pushed his glasses up gingerly and carried on babbling you realised he was genuinely nervous about your response.
Okay, so two options. Either he felt sorry for you and this was a pity date, or he was one of those male territorial weirdos who thinks it’s really hot to try and fuck someone no one else has. But the first of those was harmless, and the second only mattered if you took him to bed, which you weren’t planning on doing after one date. You could go on a singular date without sleeping with him and by the end of that it would be clear which option was correct.
And really, what else was there for you on an aircraft carrier full of dour military personnel and serious scientists? Why not live a little and let the hot man take you on a date?
“Sure.” You agreed. “That would be nice.”
He looked up at you from behind his dorky glasses and a smile spread across his face. Shy at first, but then a smirk, and then he was beaming. It was beautiful to watch. “Well then, what are you doing, uh, tomorrow night? It’ll be Saturday.”
The corner of your mouth quirked up. “You know damn well we'll both be working in this lab until dinner time.”
He nodded. “Work until six, go change, and then meet down at the canteen for seven?”
The smile spread wider across your face, matching his.
“It’s a date.”
He had been beaming the rest of that day in the lab. And very cheerful all of Saturday too, making cheesy jokes and looking for your reaction or catching eye contact with you and smiling. It was, quite frankly, adorable. And now that he had opened that door, you caught yourself staring at him more too. He really was very attractive, and it was sort of unbelievable that he was willing to go on a date with you.
Even though you still suspected it was out of pity, it was a nice gesture. You appreciated it massively.
Halfway through the Saturday the day got significantly better when you were able to isolate a problem with the waste disposal with the burnt up astrophage in the spin drives, which fixed your issue. It was not that the astrophage were dying off in the tank, it was that there was a problem with cross contamination in the incoming feed versus the outgoing. Live astrophage were escaping and their used-up counterparts were being thrown back into the fuel tanks. A poor engineering mistake not on your head, which could now be fixed by a different team.
When you realised you slumped back against the bench in the lab with relief. Ryland had pressed you for all the details and made you walk him through it. When you had shown your process and findings he smiled triumphantly and gave you a hug. He even wrote up the findings for you and passed them to Stratt, meaning you did not have to interact with the terrifying woman.
When six rolled around you said goodbye and sloped off down to your dorm. A quick shower, some of the handful of make-up you’d brought with you and the nicest blouse you owned, though most of the clothes you had brought skewed more professional work wear than date. You settled for showing one button’s more cleavage than you would in a professional setting.
When you arrived down at the canteen he was waiting by the doorway, stood on his phone. He had changed as well, and while still looking nerdy and dishevelled his shirt at least had a collar. It suited him, this kind of smart-casual wear.
“So.” You said as you sidled up to him. “How does this normally work?”
Ryland gave you a grin as he put his phone away. “Well, normally your date would drive you somewhere, but I don’t drive and we’re on a boat, so quite frankly how this normally works is out the window already.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You mean you don’t have a romantic jet-ski on hand to take me to a private island?”
He mockingly knocked the side of his own head with a palm. “I didn’t even think of that!”
“You’ll have to up your game if there’s to be a second date.”
He grinned. “Moments in and you’re already considering a second date? That’s better than my usual track record.”
You snorted a laugh. “Come on, I’m hungry.”
The two of you queued for food and spoke at length about the quality of the canteen food vs other places you had been. Ryland told you about the school canteen and you were fascinated to learn about his life as a teacher, asking questions and listening intently when he described the effort he put into his classroom and making it as fun as possible for the kids. God he looked attractive when he was describing his love of it. Then the conversation turned to how awful the food had been in your university halls and he eyed you thoughtfully.
“It’s very impressive, your academic record.” He said. “I don’t know if I’ve ever said it outright, but the thesis you wrote at nineteen was really groundbreaking.”
You felt the blush creep up your cheeks. “Well yes, I am glad that worked out. I guess I just had the correct idea for an original research question at the right time for the field, you know?”
He shook his head. “It’s not just that. It’s the determination, forethought and skill to navigate academia and see the project through. I had lots of clever ideas when I was in academia, but I was an arrogant ass who spoke out of turn and offended people with how correct I had to be all the time.”
That surprised you. It was nothing like the man you had spent the last few days with.
“I’m sure you weren’t that bad.” You said agreeably.
“Oh no, I was.” Ryland shook his head. “Got kicked out for it, in the end. But ten years of working with kids will humble you. I’ve had to lean to be patient with them, take my ego out of the equation if I actually want to teach them and have them understand.”
“Well, we all learn our lessons at different speeds. I was academically smart, but here I am in my mid-twenties with the life experience of a fifteen-year-old. You can’t be meaningfully building every skill at all times, you know?”
“Exactly.” Ryland smiled. “So you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. I do want to know how you got to the root of that chlorophyll issue though, how did the photosynthesis proposal come together?”
Explaining your work was surprisingly gratifying. Ryland was a good biologist. He listened. He understood. He asked interesting questions. And by the time you had finished eating you had let some of the tension you had carried into the room with you go.
“It’s getting a little busy in here.” You noted, watching the tables fill up. “Do you want to go up to the bar? I’d love to hear more about your doctoral thesis.”
And that was how you found yourself in the bar an hour and a half later, a drink and a half under your belt to give yourself some liquid courage, finally able to broach what you had been wondering all evening.
“So,” You said, putting you glass down on the table. “Grace.”
“Pretty sure you can call me Ryland at this point.” He looked over his glasses at you and you pretended it didn’t do weird things to your stomach with how hot it was.
“Ryland.” Your gaze darted nervously away before coming back to him. “I have had a very lovely evening. But I have to ask, why did you feel the need to give me the pity date?”
His eyes widened, and his face flashed through a series of emotions. “Oh no I didn’t- I mean, that’s not what this was at all. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Huh. You had ruled out sociopathy at this point, so it seemed the only other option. Unless…
“So you are actually into me?”
The man looked like he would rather take a physical dissection than the emotional one you were giving him. But he swallowed and, looking at the table, said “I mean, you are a very attractive woman so… yeah?”
A surprised laugh burst from you, one which you quickly tried to shut down. He looked up confused and seemingly unsure he should be offended, but you waved it off. “I’m just really surprised that you would be interested in me. You’re fifteen years older than me, the leading scientist in your field, you’re so talented, and funny, and hot it just doesn’t make sense why you’d be into someone like me.”
When you dared to take a look at him his jaw was hanging open slightly, and he looked deeply flushed with embarrassment.
“I think you overplay my talent by a significant margin.” He said dryly. “Besides, you’re all of those things too? You’ve proven fiercely competent in the last week and you’re great to talk to. I’ve had the best evening I’ve had in a long time, actually.”
It was real then. This man was actually into you, this was not just a pity thing. Wow.
There was a charged moment in the air where you weren’t sure what to say. The idea that the man was genuinely into you was still baffling, but if it was true then a whole world of possibilities had just opened up which you had no idea how to approach.
And why shouldn’t you? He had been kind and respectful all evening. It was time to be less respectful.
It was the boldest step of your life to say, “Well I don’t see why it should stop here. Do you want to come back to my cabin?”
You saw his eyes widen, and the blush creep up his cheeks, and then the blink and the correction of his own face. “I-, I mean. You know I don’t… expect anything from you, right? In return for the date? You are under no obligation to invite me anywhere or offer me anything.”
Your heart soared, affirming your choice. “I know. But I don’t want all the people in this bar watching when I ask if I can kiss you.”
It was a delight to see the slack-jawed shock on his face at your forwardness. You let yourself grin and he caught himself and mirrored it, slamming the end of his own drink and rising and offering to take your arm.
“Well then, My Lady, may I offer to escort you to your quarters.” He teased, in a mock-old-timey voice.
The giggle rose in your throat unbidden as you replied, “Why yes, Doctor Grace, that would be most delightful.”
Looping your arm through his you felt the warmth of his own skin through his shirt sleeve and leaned in a little, looking up to give him a grin. He met it with a welcoming, conspiratorial one of his own as he led you out of the bar and down to the cabins.
“Where are you, in terms of cabins?” he asked in a murmur.
“Deck four yellow quarter.”
“Aren’t those shared rooms?”
“Yeah.” You sighed. “My roommate is a Korean Sargent who speaks minimal English, but she’s on shift until midnight most nights so the room should be ours for a little while.”
Ryland glanced at his watch. “Gosh it’s late, that’s only an hour away now. I’ve got my own cabin so I’m happy if we go back to mine, so we don’t have to worry? Unless of course you want the excuse to kick me out.” He seemed to stumble over himself in his haste to backtrack. “I don’t want to presume staying any longer, obviously, and if you come back to mine you are under no obligation to stay a minute longer than you want-“
“Ryland.” You cut him off. “Your room would be lovely, thank you.”
He blushed and ran a hand through his hair. “In that case, uh, we’re headed down this way.”
He led you down to his floor and talked quietly the whole way, finding small talk about the shifts of the military personnel on board and the way things were organised. You played along, but anticipation and nerves were bubbling in your gut. What did you want from him? Definitely to kiss him. Beyond that? How far were you willing to go? You weren’t really sure.
Those nerves were reaching a fever pitch as you got to his room. Ryland opened the door and ushered you in with a hand on the small of your back which made your stomach flutter. The room itself was small, with piles of paperwork sort-of-organised on the small desk and dirty washing in a sort-of-neat pile on the floor.
The door closed behind you. You turned to face him and you felt the beginnings of the anxiety starting to paralyse you. Wondering what to say, how to initiate what might come next. But he surprised you by bringing his hands up to cup your face and kissing you right away.
It was wonderful. It was very gentle, and soft, and brief. You melted into it, eyes fluttering closed and suspending yourself in the moment, before breaking away with a smile spreading unbidden across your features along with a fierce blush you could feel.
He was looking at you with a softness, reaching up and tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You stepped closer and tentatively brought a hand to rest on his chest as you went for another kiss.
This one was more in every way. The gentle softness was replaced with a desire stirring from within, pressing your lips firmly against his to show what you wanted, moving them passionately and letting out a little noise of want. You were delighted when he reciprocated, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.
It had been a long time since you had made out with anyone. A few awkward encounters round the back of the bike sheds at school. This was different. Grace did not have the cocky-but-terrible kisses of a teenage boy. He made out with you like it was a dessert he was savouring, a confident taking of something he planned to enjoy.
And it was effortless, the way one of his hands came to rest on your waist, and how the other cupped your jaw. How you rose on your toes to give more and in return received a surprised but very satisfied noise from him, prompting his mouth to slide open and for the kisses to get dirtier, messier, more intense, and somehow still not feel like there was any rush or urgency.
His hand slid down to meet the other at your waist. Then they moved together to grab your hips and pull your body in close. It was just a taste of being manhandled and it had your breath hitching with delight.
By the time you broke apart your body was on fire in a way you had never experienced with someone else. And looking up, there was a spark of something which had crept into his blue eyes too. No one had ever looked at you with real hunger before. The reaction it caused in your body was something you would be fascinated to examine in closer detail. To file away the sudden awareness of the weight of your own breasts and the heat between your legs, how a few minutes of making out could light your whole being up like this. God it was intoxicating.
Ryland took your hand and guided you to sit on the edge of the bed. As he lowered himself in front of you, you hoped this was about to become more heated, but to your chagrin his blue eyes just softly searched your face and asked, “Tell me what you have done.”
He was knelt down on the floor in front of you and on his knees your head was a fraction higher than his own. You realised he had put you in a higher position to ask you the potentially embarrassing question. It still did not stop the embarrassment clawing its way up your throat. You looked away from him shyly.
“Hey, it’s okay.” His voice was soft. “I just want to know, if I start running my hands over your clothes will it be the first time anyone has ever done that? Or have you had partners you’ve gotten off with but just not gone ‘all the way’” he used air quotes.
Closing your eyes to answer felt less embarrassing. “I uh, had a boyfriend for like two months in senior school. I got him off a couple of times with my hand, it didn’t take much. He awkwardly squeezed my tits and stuck his hands down my pants a couple of times but didn’t really, uh, achieve anything.”
When you opened your eyes Grace’s mouth was quirking up, an amused crinkle in the corner of his eyes. “Sounds like a teenage boyfriend all-right. Thank you for telling me.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then crowded in to kiss you deeply again. “Why don’t we just take this at a leisurely pace, and you tell me when you want to stop for tonight, okay? Again, no expectation. Is that alright?”
“Yes.” You breathed, unaware you needed to hear that until he said it.
“And don’t be afraid to stop me if we’re mid… anything.” He reached up and cupped your face with his hand. “Don’t continue anything in discomfort because you think it will make me happy, alright? I already got to make out with a very hot woman tonight, I’m, frankly, overjoyed.”
You broke into a giggle and leaned forward to bring your mouth to his again, enthusiastic, messy, and a bit sloppy. He met it in kind, bringing his hands confidently to the top of your thighs and making your whole-body shudder. The more the evening went on, the less nervous he seemed to be. Like the reality of seeing you nervous made him braver. It was really hot.
After a long few minutes of making out you began to run your hands up and down his muscled arms and across his broad shoulders. You felt around his neck and ran a hand through his hair, making him moan into your mouth. It felt incredible to pull that sound out of him. You did it again, just to hear it. He responded in kind with a smile against your lips you could feel.
You wanted more.
And so you let your legs fall open and pulled him in flush against your body where he was still on his knees. He leant back and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, searching your face, and his eyes went wide when your fingers started on the buttons of his shirt.
“Is this okay?” you whispered as you moved down the line of them.
“More than. You can do whatever you want with me.” He answered, a little too quickly. You grinned and popped the last button out, opening his shirt. Your jaw dropped as he shrugged it off his shoulders.
“How are you this ripped?” you blurted. “I’ve never seen you outside the lab.”
“Good genetics and gym visits when I can’t sleep.” He pushed in to kiss you again as his hands slid from your thighs, over your hips, up your waist and came to the buttons of your own blouse. “Can I?”
You nodded enthusiastically as he undid the fiddly little buttons on your blouse. “You look great in this by the way.” He added. “Was it really obvious I was staring at your cleavage all night?”
“No you were pretty subtle on that one, actually.” You admitted, though the idea that he had been staring did make you feel very good about yourself.
“Damnit, shouldn’t have said anything.” He joked before he reached the bottom of your shirt and you shrugged it off. You had the delightful experience of watching Ryland’s eyes go wide at the sight of your laciest bra, the one with the push up which really made the girls look good.
He seemed to hover in a trance for a moment. You smiled and took his wrists, placing his hands on your breasts in encouragement. He let out a groan and squeezed, which felt really, really good.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” He murmured between kisses, checking in.
You hesitated only a moment before being honest. “That your hands feel amazing on me and I want them everywhere.”
“Everywhere?” he smirked.
“Everywhere.” You affirmed.
And then his hands were sliding down over your waist and hips, squeezing there before running down your thighs and all the way back up again. Except instead of your breasts, this time his hands slid around your back and your bra was unclipped in a single motion. It was pulled off one shoulder, then the other, then just as you started to feel self-conscious Grace moved to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, along your collarbone. By the time the bra fell away his mouth was there, soft kisses along the swell of your breast.
He cupped your other breast with his hand and brushed a thumb over the nipple. You knew you liked to play with them during your own alone time but were completely unprepared for the rush of sensation that tweak from someone else sent shooting between your legs.
“Ryland.” You gasped his name as he took the tip of your other breast into his mouth and did something equally arousing with his tongue. Your arousal was instantly dialled up to ten and you were suddenly away of how wet you must be.
When he pulled away the smug look on his face was beautiful. “I can give you more of that, sweetheart.”
And then he set about worshipping your chest with his mouth, taking his time to kiss around the area thoroughly and see what motions drew the best breathy noises from you. While he did so his hands continued to run all over your body, even snaking up into your hair and experimentally grabbing a handful. When this made you whine and writhe he chuckled against your skin and started trailing his kisses lower.
By the time he was at your belt, you were desperate for friction. Screw not sleeping with him after one date. You wanted more.
“May I?” he murmured, mouth against the leather of your belt.
“Yes, please.”
He made quick work of your jeans, ditching them. The laciest underwear you owned hid very little, and the hunger in his eyes as he looked between your legs sent another thrill of sensation down there, even as the hesitant flutter of your heart thundered in your chest.
Ryland pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your knee, then slowly moved those kisses up the inside of your thigh, the brush of his stubble a new sensation you did not know how to categorise. When he got close to the crease of your thigh the sensation disappeared, and suddenly he was at the other knee, kissing up towards the centre slowly again.
You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch him. He had closed his eyes, concentration on the feel of your skin under his lips, but as you shifted he opened them at looked straight at you, blue and piercing.
And he maintained eye contact as he slowly, so very slowly so that you had time to object if you wanted to, brought his mouth to press a kiss to your centre through the underwear.
The noise which came out of your throat was unauthorized and undignified. A smile spread across his face in return, and he brought his hands up to the waistband of your underwear, grabbing and then pausing, looking at you for permission.
You nodded frantically.
With a smile he slid your underwear off, and then you were exposed to him, his face inches from you.
A thrill of fear went through you. This was completely new. This was scary. You were nervous. But the way he had touched you was amazing and while the vulnerability was scary Ryland was not. You still felt safe with him. The logical part of your brain reasoned that you were probably too nervous to be able to orgasm, but you still wanted to find out if he could make you feel good.
He started with his fingers, featherlight touches through your folds. You inhaled sharply when he first touched you but that quickly settled into shaky breathing as he moved his touches up and down, not explicitly trying to pleasure but getting you used to the sensation of being touched there by someone else.
“How are you feeling?” he checked in.
“Nervous.” You admitted, “But excited.”
“Good.” He murmured. His fingers slid down to your entrance and traced lightly around it. Oh god now you were conscious for the first time in your life of feeling empty and wanting something inside you. Your hips squirmed in response and he steadied them with a flat hand on your lower stomach, which also did something for you that you would never have realised did something for you without him doing it.
After a few moments his fingers traced back up your slit, and with no guesswork whatsoever he gave one confident flick of your clit.
“Ryland.” You gasped, head falling back, feeling dizzy with want as you stared at the ceiling.
“Yes?” you heard the smugness in his voice.
“More.”
And then his finger pressed on your clit firmly, experimenting with different movements and pressures while he found what you reacted best to. Glancing at him found him watching you with the same measured concentration and infinitesimally small frown he usually had over a microscope. Watching. Learning.
When he found a motion which made you cry out and arch you back off the bed he grinned and proceeded to do it over and over. Fuck the notion you might be too nervous to finish, this was incredible. Could he come and do it every night?
It was not long before the familiar build started between your legs.
“Ryland,” your breath hitched on his name, “I’m getting close, I might…”
You were still staring at the white ceiling of the cabin, but heard the heat in his tone as he spoke in a voice you had not heard him deploy yet, “That’s it, relax. Let go for me.”
He slid his spare hand up to tweak the tip of your breast, his mouth pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs while his finger worked you.
And then the wave was crashing over you, and you were arching up and crying out, and everything went fuzzy. Your ears rang. Your vision went. Every sensation aside from the wave crashing over you disappeared.
Letting go for someone else was a very different experience to getting yourself off, and good god was it so much more intense. When your brain caught up with the boneless pleasure in your body Ryland was kissing his way back up your chest before climbing onto the bed next to you and scooping you into his arms.
“How was that, was that good?” he murmured. A real question in his eyes, like he wanted to know if it went quite as well as he suspected it did.
You let out a breathy laugh. “That was amazing. Thank you.”
He pressed a kiss to the side of your head and you melted into him, catching your breath. After a couple of moments, you rolled over and administered a long, relaxed kiss to his mouth, making it clear exactly how much you enjoyed that.
He was lazily lying back, looking at you with a spark of desire in his eyes, but making no move to act on it. You suspected that if you said goodbye and went back to your own cabin he would not push you for anymore.
But he had proven himself trustworthy. And caring. And sexy. And into you. So why not push to overturn the comment which started this whole debacle?
“Why don’t we take this further?” You tried to sound sexy, but heard the nerves bleed through.
He hesitated, catching your tone, then made a show of shrugging it off. “I’m happy if you want to stop here.”
Your breath caught in your throat a little. Would he actually be happy? Or would he look like a kicked puppy if you told him no, just saying it to take the pressure off you?
“Grace, do you want me to touch you?” you asked dryly, raising one eyebrow and bringing your hands to your hips.
His façade crumbled and he let out a sharp laugh as he turned red and admitted. “Oh believe me, I want you to touch me very badly.”
“Then let’s continue.” You said confidently, before your voice dropped and added. “Just uh, let me know what you like?”
He sat up, reaching forward and pressing a long, slow kiss to your mouth. “Of course.”
The man did not release you and let you begin experimenting straight away. He took his time making out with you again, his hands running up and down your naked body from your thighs to hips to waist and back again. Immediately the thrill of being touched relit a spark in your core and you gave a warm “Mhmm” into the kiss.
Before you lost the threat of where you were intending to go next, your kisses trailed around his strong jaw and down his neck, your hands moving to explore his torso. Ryland’s breathing became heavy but otherwise he was holding still, letting you learn him. When your mouth closed over one of his nipples, he let out a small whine, and when your hand reached for his belt he looked down at you with an almost helpless expression.
“Yes, please.” He breathed, and you fumbled with the belt and zipper. Ryland lifted his hips and helped you kick off his jeans and socks, leaving him in just heavily tented navy boxer briefs.
That bulge was… sizeable. Not like, comically, but certainly more than anything you had handled before. Before you got in your own head about it you helped him remove those non-descript boxer briefs. Then he was naked beneath you.
He was gorgeous. Every part of him. It was frankly unreasonable such a nerd could have all this.
Heart thundering, you tentatively brought your hand to touch the hard length in front of you. He groaned and his head fell back as you ran a finger tip up and down him before tentatively wrapping a hand around, feeling the weight and size of him.
“How do I…?” you trailed off. What angle was best here to move your wrist at? In a way which would be comfortable for him and you?
Ryland blinked for a moment and you saw the moment he realised you needed help guiding through it.
“Here.” He brought his own hand to cover yours. “Grip just like that. Not too tight. Start slow. That’s it.”
He seemed pretty sensitive. It took a couple of attempts, but when you found the right rhythm he choked out a moan and sat back on his elbows.
“Oh my, yes. Like that.”
The praise did something funny in your lower stomach. As did watching him watch your hand move like it was a divine revelation.
You tried speeding up a little, adding more pressure. “Good.” He choked out, voice in a higher pitch than before, almost in the same register as the whine.
Despite the praise opening up doors in your head which had previously been undiscovered, your wrist started to tire. This was not a motion you were used to. No part of you wanted to stop pulling these pretty noises out of him though so you slowed down and shuffled back on the bed, kneeling forward to bring your mouth to him.
“You don’t need to-“ he started, eyes widening, but you pulled back and cut him off again.
“Stop telling me I don’t need to do anything. I know I don’t. I want to try this.” You asserted.
There was a flicker of amusement behind his eyes before he responded.
“Yes ma’am.”
And then your mouth was on his tip. It was sensitive, and he whimpered. Like actually, fully whimpered in a way which immediately rewired your brain chemistry and which you knew immediately would live in your brain for the rest of your life.
But this, it turns out, was also an acquired skill. You opened wider and took more of his length in, leaning it was surprisingly difficult to keep your teeth out of the equation. As you started working your head up and down the gag reflex was all too present and being constantly fought. You were painfully aware your movements were experimental and awkward and unskilled.
But Doctor Ryland Grace was looking at you with a tenderness which was almost embarrassing, and the comments he was murmuring to you between his laboured breaths kept coming.
“Good.”
“Take your time.”
“Careful there it’s sensitive.”
“That’s it.”
“Mmm, more of that please.”
“Oh that’s good.”
He would wince an indrawn breath on occasion when your ability to hide your teeth failed you, but moaned and groaned very prettily when you did something right. His voice vibrated straight through your body and down to your core.
It was a very fun, very educational practical lesson. But after a while your jaw started to hurt too. You pulled back, filing everything you had learnt to redeploy later.
“Everything okay?” His heavy, wide blown eyes came partially back to the room as he checked in with you.
The admission was on your tongue. Clumsy and juvenile. Something which filled you with fear to say even though it was the entire reason to be here.
“I want to have sex. Like, properly.” You blinked and looked away from him to say it aloud. “Can we?”
And then he was sitting up and cupping your face in his large, warm hands and searching your eyes with his own. You saw a penny drop behind his eyes and a flash of disappointment cross his face.
“I’m not sure we can sweetheart.”
The contrast of the nickname shooting desire between your legs and the dismay at his statement was jarring. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t have any condoms.” He admitted. “I did not anticipate getting this far tonight.”
You stopped yourself laughing just a little too late, you saw him track the twist of amusement in your jaw with his own frown.
“What?”
“I agree to go on a date with you, fully admitting I am looking to find someone to fuck before the sun dies, and you don’t think the evening is gonna go there?” you grin.
He huffed out a laugh and fell forward until his head hit your shoulder. “I was intending to be respectful. Three dates at least.” The muffled voice said into your neck.
You sat back, cupping his face now and looking into it. “Well, I want this. And I have the coil in, actually, so I don’t think the condom is an issue.”
Blue eyes widened in hope, then twisted in confusion. “But…” he stopped himself.
“If you’re wondering why I have the coil if I’m a virgin: because it helps balance my hormones. It’s mood regulation.” You hedged.
“I realised just as I said it.” He shrugged. “I will not apologise for my brain not firing on all cylinders right now, there’s a very hot naked woman on my lap who just told me she wants to have sex with me.”
You snorted a laugh and wrapped your arms around him, laughing into his shoulder. He wrapped his around you in return and the two of your fell back onto the bed where your mouths connected again.
There was heat in this one. Promise.
He broke away and rested his forehead against your own. “I’m going to take my time with you. Stretch you with my fingers first.”
You nodded as his hand snaked down between your legs. It skirted over your sensitive clit to pull a gasp from you before finding your entrance again.
“I was worried about the lack of lube for your first time, but you feel pretty wet.” He admitted, one finger slowly pushing in.
You let your eyes flutter closed and focused on the feeling. “You’ve done a damn good job prepping me already. I want this.”
“Good to hear.” He brought a second finger into the equation. He curled them up and in and you almost arched straight off his lap, crying out.
He smiled and pressed a kiss against your temple. “Found it.”
The tone was very smug. It was annoying precisely because he had every right to be.
“My own fingers aren’t as long as yours. I can’t reach there myself.”
“What… here?” and then the infuriating man pressed into that deep spot again.
“Oh fuckkk…”
Letting the noises spill from you freely, your curses descending into nonsensical babbling. He continued to work you with two fingers for a while and then eventually introduced a third.
This one was a stretch. You felt yourself instinctively tense against the intrusion, but his low voice kept murmuring against your ear.
“Relax for me, I’ve got you.”
There was something about the way he said it which had a hypnotic quality to it. You unclenched and relaxed for him almost instinctively, like when you reached a level of pleasure beyond a certain point there was no input from your own brain to even consider disobeying his order.
“Good girl.”
To your absolute mortification the shockwave those words sent thorough your body resulted in very obvious clenching around his fingers as he moved them inside you. There was no way he missed it with how your breath caught in unison. He did not comment on it but you swore he was breathing smugly.
“Okay, I think you’re ready for me.” His voice was still pressed against your temple, voice rumbling through your own chest where you clung to him. “Do you have any strong feelings about what positions you want to try?”
You shook your head. “No. I always imagined lying back but it doesn’t have to be that, does it?”
His fingers were still inside you, keeping you stretched as he murmured “That is the traditional, but if you’re on top you’ll have more control.”
“I’m not sure I’d know what to do with control if it was handed to me.” You admitted. “I’m happy for you to show me the way.”
“Alright then.” Ryland pulled his fingers from you and it made you gasp as he brought them up to his mouth to taste you, licking them clean. Then, he swung round and laid you back on the bed, positioning himself between your legs and coming to his elbows.
He gently brushed the hair back out of your face where you lay back, looking up at him. “Let me know if anything hurts and I’ll stop immediately, okay?”
You nodded. “I will do. It shouldn’t hurt, given how much prep we’ve done.”
He huffed a laugh. “Well, that’s the goal. This should feel good, if it doesn’t, we can try something else.”
You reached up and pressed another kiss to his lips. “Okay.”
And then he was shifting his weight onto one forearm and pressing in close to leave a kiss on the side of your forehead. As he did so, you felt his length brush against your folds.
He did not push in immediately, running the head up and down from your entrance to your clit and back again a few times. It made you hyper-aware of how empty you felt, wanting to feel what it was like to take that inside of you. When he next grazed your entrance you made a needy sound and swirled your hips forwards, trying to feel him inside.
“Alright, okay.” He murmured, and then he was pushing in. Just an inch initially, just to let you acclimatise.
It was an alien sensation, the feeling of being stretched by an intrusion like that. It was terrifying. It was incredible. It did not hurt. It was also the most intimate thing you had ever experienced and therefore definitely the hottest.
“Ryland.” You gasped.
The sound of his name made him groan and his bright eyes flutter closed. “You good? Think you can take some more?”
“Yes.”
He pushed further in, more and more, eye reopening to watch the reactions on your face. The feeling of being stretched intensified. You became aware there were little gasping noises accompanying your laboured breathing but could not quite bring yourself to care. Your hands were grasping at him, his arms, his hair. Something to anchor yourself as you let him give you something so completely new.
And it just kept going. He pressed deeper and deeper. You were starting to wonder if that thing was infinite just as he bottomed out, biting his own lower lip, eyes blown wide.
“You feel amazing.” His voice was thin and desperate. “It’s been a while for me, I forgot how good this feels.”
“Mphm.” You experimented with shifting your hips a little, watching his eyes flutter closed. “It doesn’t hurt. You can move.”
He pressed a kiss to your temple before drawing out slowly and pushing back in again. The flutter of sensation at the friction was a pleasure you had never experienced and it had you gasping. He did it again, and again.
“You can speed up.” You urged him.
He laughed against the side of your head. “I was determined to be gentle with you.”
“Don’t want it. Fuck me, Grace.”
It was bold, for sure. As the words left your mouth you were wondering if you would live to regret them, if going too hard too fast would hurt. But the way he pulled back and looked at you, wide eyed and dishevelled, made it all worth it. Especially when he maintained eye contact and sped his hips into an even, well-paced roll, hitting deep inside you with every thrust.
He was watching your reactions closely. You nodded that you were enjoying and let the little noises escape, giving positive reinforcement in a way which did not require coming up with words.
He let out a groan of his own and repositioned his hips. When he thrust in again he hit that incredible spot he found with his fingers and it made you arch up off the bed. A smile crept across his face as he settled into that position and sped up again, ramming into that spot over and over.
There was something which felt fundamentally good about this. Good as in pleasurable, good as in correct, good as in the ideal way to exist. You were conscious of millions of years of evolution convalescing in your brain as the feeling of a man fucking into you hit some primal pleasure you had never known existed inside you before this moment.
He slowed his pace down almost to stopping. “I won’t last long if we keep that up.” He admitted. “Are there any other positions you want to try?”
You wanted to try everything, eventually. But right now, you wanted one thing.
“No.” you shook your head. “I want to know what it feels like to have you finish inside me.”
The man let out another whimper which bordered on undignified. He hung his head for a moment and took a deep breath before looking back at you.
“Do you think you could finish again?”
You tilted your head in thought. “If you can keep hitting that spot… maybe.”
“Touch yourself.” He suggested.
“What?” your eyes widened. You had not considered touching yourself while he was inside you. It felt almost rude? Like a demonstration that he was not doing enough.
“I can’t touch your clit and keep that angle up.” He reasoned. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get both.”
If you weren’t sweaty and bright red from exertion already you might have been self-conscious about your blush. But you only nodded. “If that’s okay?”
He frowned. “Why wouldn’t it be okay? Mutual pleasure is the goal here, do whatever you need to find it.”
You nodded. He kissed you long and deep and you snuck a hand down between your legs, finding your clit. When you rubbed it and clenched around him he broke off from you with a whine.
Then his hips started rolling again. He angled them again to hit that point and you moaned loudly, letting inhibitions go as you rubbed your clit and chased that feeling. His kisses started trailing along your jaw, down your neck, and across your collarbones while his hips moved.
When his mouth closed over your nipple again, the beginning of the end was in sight.
“Yes.” You gasped. “Keep that up.”
He moaned in agreement as he focused on the movements, his mouth and his hips and the way he was hitting that spot deep inside you driving any remaining nerves or doubts away.
“Ryland, I’m going to- it’s-“
And then you were falling over that cliff again. Having his length inside you as something to clench around felt beyond amazing. It was sort of life-affirming. Your vision blacked out for a second as everything but the waves of pleasure through your person and the strong body you clung to disappeared.
He had clearly been trying to hold out to get you there, as his own release followed seconds later. You were awed to feel his rhythm stutter, his breath catching, and the needy sound pour out of him as his muscles tensed up, releasing himself inside you. His body was strong and there was a faint recognition in the back of your head that he could physically overpower you easily, which was both terrifying and intoxicating. There go those evolutionary instincts again.
Ryland Grace stilled with his head buried in the crook of your neck, still buried inside you, both of you breathing deeply with your chests heaving. After a moment he pulled his head back to look at you, bringing a hand to cup your jaw as he breathlessly checked in.
“You good?”
You could hardly nod more frantically. “I am more than good, that was great.”
He smiled and his eyes crinkled with such fondness it made your heart catch. He saved you the feeling by letting his head fall onto your shoulder for a couple of moments before shuffling and pulling out.
Now that was a weird sensation. You gasped as he pulled free, suddenly able to feel the ache from the stretch and the wetness as his release trickled out of you.
And then he was there with some tissues grabbed from his desk, gently cleaning you up. You winced when he brushed over the soreness and he caught it instantly, brow drawing into a frown.
“You alright?”
You gave him the most reassuring smile you could. “I can feel I’ll be sore in the morning. It’s okay though.”
“I was going to be gentler with you.” He insisted.
Your mouth curled with amusement. “And why would I want that?”
By the time he sorted himself and curled back onto the bed with you, your eyes were feeling heavy, your body blissed out and boneless. It was a surprise when he curled his naked body around you and the rush of oxytocin made you want to whimper.
“I didn’t expect the post-sex cuddling to feel this good.” You admitted.
Ryland laughed and squeezed you tighter with his arms. “It does, doesn’t it? Millions of years of evolution to tell us job well done.”
“And I quite agree.” You mused. You let your eyes fall closed and your head fall to the side, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you. For taking such good care of me.”
He pulled back and looked at you incredulously. “Thank you for trusting me. I know it isn’t always a big deal for everyone, but the way you spoke yesterday made me feel like maybe it was for you, you know?”
Resisting the urge to squirm under his gaze you admitted “It just felt like a big part of life that was missing for me. Now I realise I was probably blowing it out of proportion in my head. It was great, but I’m not a changed woman.”
He huffed. “Sounds like I need to do better next time.”
One of your eyebrows slowly raised. “Next time?”
“One must live in hope.” He said nonchalantly to the ceiling.
You laughed, feeling your whole body shake with it. Against the warmth of his skin it was incredible.
“Can I stay here for a bit?” you asked as your laughter abated.
“Stay as long as you want.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “And let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Ryland.”
He pressed one last kiss to you shoulder before settling back onto the bed and letting the post-sex haze take him.
thigh riding with seb god i wanna drench his suit.
MEOW enjoy this!! i sure did...
Sebastian leaned back against the wall in that light brownish tan suit, the fabric still crisp from the day, his legs planted wide like he was bracing for whatever came next.
You stepped between his thighs and swung one leg over, settling your weight right on the hard muscle of his thigh. The moment you rocked forward, his breath hitched sharp. He stayed perfectly still at first, hands hovering at your hips, but the second you ground down again—slow, deliberate pressure dragging your heat along the length of his leg—his knees twitched.
A rough groan tore out of him. His body folded, shoulders slumping, one hand finally gripping your waist to steady himself while the other braced flat on the wall behind him.
He couldn’t stand still anymore. Every roll of your hips made his thigh flex under you, the expensive wool of his suit pants rubbing warm and rough through your clothes.
His cock strained visibly against the front of his trousers, pulsing with each grind, but he didn’t move to touch it. He just melted into the sensation, head tipping back, mouth open, completely wrecked by the simple act of you using his thigh.
Cassie ✨ @live-logs-and-proper - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
