JEALOUS TYPE — your sensitive boyfriends get overstimulated. it's only fair that you are too (in other ways).
pairing. peter parker x fem reader x clark kent / / tags. 18+ MDNI, f & m receiving oral, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spit, squirting, fingering, pussy pronouns, backshots / mating press, eater peter & his gf + his gf's 6'4" overgrown kryptonian
you think peter might be trying to talk to "her" again
she's so pretty. inhaling at the junction between thigh and pelvis. she likes it when i do this. rough, pink tongue licking the pad of his thumb. presses the flat callus to your clit. just felt 'er twitch.
you know it's not for you, but for clark, who's painfully hard against your back. there's rhythm to his unsteady breaths, tight chest muscles expanding and contracting in long inhales, short exhales as he wrestles for self-control.
the sunset sprays you in pinks and blues, muddying together to shine off the sweat on your skin. peter glances up between the valley of your breasts, heavy gaze drinking in the tense line of your throat, the heave of your chest.
he begs something that's garbled and messy against your pussy, sclera just a slim ring of white as his pupils bloom beyond iris. fuck, you think, he's hungry for it.
you know this is almost soothing for them. peter is making no effort to spread your legs apart, content to press his face in and keep licking you open in the muffle of your sensitive thighs. clark just nuzzles into your neck, thick arms twisting around your waist, drowning out the scents of the city with the musk of your skin.
it's torture. it's therapy. two and a half orgasms in, and neither of them seem to want to stop.
clark must know that you're teetering close to the edge. he just slides his hand down, nudging peter's nose out of the way—an unpleased grumble vibrates against your pussy, to which you whimper softly—and sinks two fingers from behind into your fluttering heat with little resistance.
"fuck," you gasp. mindless, helpless, you rock into both of them. feeling the insistent press of clark's knuckles against your g-spot, the hot swipe of peter's tongue over your folds and clit. "fuck, i'm—"
you don't even make it past the phrase before you arch, pleasure taking you by surprise. ears ringing, colors blooming behind your eyelids, tears squeezing out at the corners.
you paw at peter's soft, damp curls, his name on your breath like a prayer: "peter, peter, i can't—"
clark sounds so far off when he mumbles, strained, "gosh, i think she just..."
peter makes a sound that's half-groan, half-sob, settling for tiny kitten licks that don't stop you from twitching. "babe, you were gushing."
the sound of their voices is so strange, gnarled with pleasure, hoarse with restraint. so different to the gentle way they usually speak.
clark draws his fingers out, finally lifting his head from your shoulder. he looks at your fucked-out, teary face with a bleary smile and a sharp glimmer in his eyes. brings his hand to his lips, sucks the shine off his skin.
you can't help the pitched moan that escapes you then.
peter's thumbs tack themselves to your outer lips. spreads them in a way that makes you burn. his lips purse, and he's spitting onto your pussy, all messy and dripping. smears it over your folds, presses his thumb against your oversensitive clit again just because he likes the way your hips jump.
"c'mon," clark near grumbles, tugging on a strand of peter's hair. "switch out."
"fine, fine," peter concedes with a pout, that still-boyish side of him peeking through.
they maneuver you around, chest pressing to warm sheets, ass exposed to the air. clark sits on his heels behind you; peter gathers your head to rest against his stomach, cock twitching before your eyes.
you kiss the tip, pretty and flushed to a dusky pink. he's thinner and longer than clark, and a hell of a lot more sensitive, which is why this works.
(clark gets a little line in his forehead whenever peter's in you and cums first. he can't help it, but peter can't help it either. they get a little heated over it sometimes.)
peter shudders, cupping your cheek, trying not to twitch too much as you continue to lavish his cock. you've just begun to make slow, light strokes at his base when clark stretches you raw.
unintentionally, you squeeze peter a little hard, making him hiss.
"shit, that's good," he slurs, brows drawn tight as he gazes down at you with ruddy cheeks. you pant, open-mouthed, as you tap the head against your slightly lolled tongue, getting him all sticky.
from behind, clark's girth keeps a steady rhythm. veins drag, flush to your sensitive, slick walls; balls slap to your clit, making you jolt and your breath hitch around peter's cock.
you don't know how your arms and legs can keep you propped like this, only that you're hanging on by a thread, that you have to keep yourself up only so you can rock back and meet clark's slow movements.
he's so fucking deep. one particularly devastating thrust has you arching deeper, desperate to feel more. feel me in your stomach, he hums, fingers gripping your hips tight.
there's a ridge along the underside of him that he blames on alien biology. whatever it is, it's always dragging you back toward the edge they never let you stray too far from.
your head is too hazy to tell that you're close again, and it's only when you're wracked with shivers and can barely mouth at peter do you realize you've come again.
"she liked that?" clark coos, rhythm gradually becoming sloppy. your whine is garbled, hand moving too fast over the scorching, slick length of peter.
he's whining too, adam's apple bobbing, pitched sounds breaking the unsteady slap of clark's pelvis against your ass. tendon in his thigh draws taut, abdomen flexes. "so good, so good," he chants, then he's twitching, spilling over your fingers, dribbling onto your lips.
you barely have the time to work him through it before clark is pulling out, practically manhandling you onto your back and pushing your knees to your chest.
he thrusts back in so hard that you skid up the mattress, that your eyes roll back and you can feel every inch trying to hold back until he can make you cum again.
"last one, okay?"
(you doubt it.)
—
notes from june: back2back smuts like never put me back in school again im on fire... hope u enjoyed :))
warnings: kissing, nothing explicit, clark forgets reader needs to breathe sometimes
a/n: just a little something since i'll be working all week. again. sigh.
Clark hasn't pulled away to breathe once. It's not like he has to, really, but your lungs are burning. Every stolen breath you're able to steal feels like a gift, but your boyfriend is just. Not getting the memo.
His tongue is in your mouth, his hands buried in your hair as he kisses you with the passion of the sun. It's hot. It's incredibly flattering that he can't stand to pull away from you for even a moment. But goddamn, you feel like you're about to pass out, and not just from him.
You're able to wrench yourself away a few moments later. Any longer and you really might have passed out. For as gentle and compassionate as Clark is with you, he seems to forget a very important fact when the two of you start kissing: you can't hold your breath for hours on end!
Clark tries to chase after your lips, not wanting a second of separation. One firm hand on his chest stops him—not because you overpower him, but because he loves and respects you far too much to push a clear boundary.
"Honey? Did I do something?" he asks quietly.
"No, well—" you laugh and press your forehead to his. Clark's hesitation softens at the amusement in your gaze, and his hands rub up and down your sides. "I need to breathe, baby. Not all of us can hold our breath forever."
Clark's eyes widen into that bright blue puppy dog gaze you can never stay mad at, and an embarrassed flush burns his cheeks.
"Sorry," he murmurs. "You're distracting."
"I don't mind, Clarky. Not one bit."
all written work and dividers belong to @ackpplepie!! do not plagiarize, feed my work into ai, or translate it. i do not own the characters used above.
building on the headlock ask, but it’s you asking ryland and he’s kinda confused/shocked that you want him to do that because he doesn’t think of them being big enough to do but then you finally convince him to do it and BOTH of you are more turned on than ever, because he feels big and strong and you because, well your hot nerdy bf has you in a headlock and it’s also hitting all the right parts and it’s great
the words "your hot nerdy bf has you in a headlock" have me feeling unspeakable things. please i want to be prone underneath him in a headlock so so sos os os os os so so sos os so so bad
You and Simon revel in the fact that everyone thinks he's just as much of a hardass off the field as he is on it, that he's authoritative and resolute, an enigma wrapped up in a mystery covered in a riddle. They couldn't be further from the truth. He's the neediest, most lovesick, most devoted beefcake cunt you've ever met, the deep timbre of his voice just as soft and affectionate, pretty brown eyes following your every move, looking so reverential and in love and shit. He fuckin' worships you, couldn't keep his hands and lips off of you if he tried. If you were to say jump, he'd ask, "How high, sweetheart?" He does something to irritate you, best believe he'd do everything in his power to correct it. Some pissant's bothering you? All he needs is a look, and it's on like Donkey Kong. You don't have to worry about anything, luv; you just gotta keep being you and loving on him. Hell, YOU have his bank cards.
And yes, he's right where he bloody fuckin' wants to be.
Ryland wakes up from a nightmare and just had to make sure you were okay. You two end up closer than you expected, though.
(1.3k words, no use of y/n, pure, sweet fluff)
how hard can we yearn for Ryland Grace? The answer is yes.
————————————————————————
You were sound asleep in your own bed on Erid, curled up in the coziness of your crochet blanket that you had brought from Earth. It was one of the only things that stuck with you through everything, since your mom had made it for your birthday right before you left for Project Hail Mary.
Even the sound of your bedroom door opening didn’t wake you up.
Ryland Grace walked in slowly, clutching his Earth-made quilt around his shoulders. This is stupid, he thought. I’m a grown man. I should be able to handle a nightmare without bothering them.
He hovered near the foot of your bed, twisting his fingers into the fabric as he spotted your face buried into the comfortable bedding. He knew he shouldn’t wake you, but the image of your lifeless face was still vivid in his head.
Nightmares were common for both of you, of course, but they frequented his mind more than yours. The traumatic moments before his forced shipment aboard the Hail Mary was the most common sequence, but lately you started appearing in them too.
Specifically, his mind decided to attack his worries about not being able to save you.
The thoughts had plagued him before he was safe and sound on Erid. Scenarios where the oxygen failed on the ship and you fell asleep and never woke up. Where your tether broke during a spacewalk and you drifted helplessly away into the endless void of space.
He’d be alone. Even though he had Rocky, there were some things about being human that the Eridian wouldn’t understand or relate to.
Tonight was the worst by far, though.
His mind had supplied him with images of you becoming trapped during that awful ship spin before Rocky had saved you both. You were slowly suffocating while the gravity slowly increased in that cockpit. He couldn’t even call your name with his chest compressed against the ship’s console.
He awoke with a start, and hadn’t been able to sleep for hours.
Now, here he was, about to wake you up because of his own worries. Ryland wandered slowly to the side of your bed with sweaty palms, and carefully reached out a hand. He settled it on your blanket covered shoulder, and shook it gently.
He whispered your name, hesitating when you didn’t wake up immediately. This was a bad idea, he thought, but before he could retreat, he heard the distinct sound of that deep breath you took. A sure sign that you were waking up.
“Ryland?” You mumbled as you rubbed your eyes. “You okay? Somethin’ wrong?” You sat up, the blanket slipping down your form as you reached for the small light on your bedside table.
When you flicked it on, you recognized the familiar post-nightmare expression on his face. Ryland’s hair was sticking up in all sorts of directions from running his hands through it. His blue eyes were slightly puffy, possibly from crying, and underlined with tired circles behind his glasses. His blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, like a protection from the horrible dream.
“I just…” He hesitated, looking down at his hands for a moment. “It sounds stupid but…I had a nightmare, and I couldn’t really fall asleep?” He huffed, running a hand through his already mussed hair. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Oh,” You smiled at him. You didn’t mind. You never really did when it came to him. “You wanna talk about it?” You suggested, patting the bed next to you.
Ryland took the offered spot next to you without another word. He settled into the pillows, laying down right next to you as he stared at the ceiling. “Can I just…stay? Just for a little bit?” He murmured.
He couldn’t even meet your eye.
“Of course,” You laid down right next to him, and turned to your side to face him. “You can stay.”
“Thanks,” Ryland sighed, and you felt his body relax next to you.
“Anytime,” You muttered. You reached up and took the frames off of his face, setting them gently on the bedside table before turning off the light. The room sank into darkness. “Get some rest. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good plan,” He responded, stifling a yawn beside you as you settled back into the blankets. His hand brushed against yours, like he was trying to prove that you were here, that you were alive and well right there next to him.
You didn’t pull away. Instead, you threaded your fingers through his. You heard his breath hitch in the dark room as you tugged him closer.
“Uh…what are you doing?” He whispered.
“Shhh,” You hushed him, slowly threading your fingers through his hair. He practically melted against you, and a small contented sound escaped his throat before he could stop it.
“That’s…nice…” Ryland muttered, sinking into your arms without resistance. His breathing slowed against your collarbones and you both drifted off, closer than you expected to be tonight.
The artificial dawn light creeped in through the curtains of your Eridian bedroom. You blinked your eyes open slowly, breathing in a deep breath through your nose as your senses slowly came back to you.
The first thing you felt was a warm arm curled snugly around your waist. Followed by the feeling of long legs tangled with your own.
The final thing you noticed was the steady sound of Ryland’s breathing. Small puffs of warm air brushed your collarbones as he slept soundly in the crook of your neck.
Right. The nightmare.
You shifted the smallest bit, just enough to catch a glimpse of his sleeping face. His expression was calm, his eyes closed and his mouth parted just slightly in the early morning light. The wrinkles that usually accompanied his every expression were nearly invisible, just faint lines near his eyes and brows.
You reached down and brushed the hair away from his forehead, only stopping when his brows furrowed softly in confusion.
“Mmm…” He groaned as his eyes looked blearily up at you. “Wh’time is it?”
“Too early,” You said softly.
“Definitely,” He grumbled as he nestled back into the crook of your neck, sending a cozy warmth through your chest. Without thinking, you pressed a kiss to his hairline.
He hummed when he felt your lips meet his forehead, smiling against the soft skin of your neck. “Do that again,”
“You are demanding in the morning, aren’t you?” You mumbled before pressing another kiss against his forehead.
He huffed out a small laugh, and you felt his smile spread wider. “I’m not demanding…” he mumbled “Y’just really warm. Coulda been doin’ this months ago. Just gotta make up for lost time.” He sighed in contentment and tightened his hold on your waist, hugging you closer just to hear you breathe.
“Is that so?” You asked him, and you watched as he tilted his head back just enough to meet your eye.
“Absolutely.” He murmured, his voice still rough from sleep. He looked up at you with those sleepy blue eyes, and that soft smile on his face.
“Hi,” You whispered.
“Hey,” He whispered back.
You just couldn’t resist it.
You slid a hand to his jaw and leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. He hummed against you, returning it just as softly, like he had all the time in the world. A cozy heat spread from where your lips met all the way to your chest and down your spine.
When you parted, he let out a small, giddy laugh.
“Oh, geez,” he whispered, and when you looked at him, his eyes were still closed. He cleared his throat, and finally looked up at you with a sheepish smile. “Shoulda been doing that months ago too.”
“Guess we should make up for lost time,” You teased as you spotted the light blush dusting his cheeks.
“Guess we should,” Ryland agreed, before tugging you down into another kiss in the early morning light.
having to share a bed with Simon Riley who you've known forever and you sorta have a crush on him and you kinda hope there'll be a bit of a chill or something else out of those cheesy romance books.
and when bed time rolls around, you get into the bed and under the covers and instead of laying next to you, Simon curls up at the foot of the bed like a dog. he bends his large body into a shape that can't be comfortable and shouldn't be possible. his chin rests on one of your knees, deep brown eyes focused on the door.
just as you're beginning to doze off, you can hear and feel him do a big sad dog sigh and you fall asleep with a small smile on your face.
Yea yea we all love to obsess over sweaty men... but what about that man being obsessed with you?
Simon felt filty. Utterly disgusting, as he slowly kneeled right in front of the laundry basket that is filled to the brim, your short, cute sports wear just within an arm reach.
You had just taken a shower, would probably let him smear his face all over your hot and wet body if he had asked nicely, but Simon knows better than that, it would be embarrassing for the both of you, right? Maybe he'd make you uncomfortable and you'd get the ick, making things awkward.
So yeah, sneaking around to take a quick sniff without you noticing could be justified.
He keeps his head in an angle to be able to glance around if needed, on alert as if on a mission, the absurdity of it all almost makes him scoff. His giant hands reach down to grab your shorts and quickly press it to his crooked nose, his white lashes fluttering and eyes nearly rolling back in response.
Simon bites down on his lower lip, cock stirring in his sweatpants as he keeps inhaling your scent like a mutt, the bright shade of red on his ears spreading to his cheeks by the time his tongue peeks out to have a taste. He bucks into nothing, humping the air until his brain gets enough oxygen to drop one hand down and squeeze around his hard cock.
You look for him around the house, only to find him on his knees, smelling your dirty clothes. Your boyfriend almost cries after getting caught, you've never seen his face so red, trying to hide what he's been up to.
Hey!! Saw that u were taking requests and honestly I would appreciate anything with cocky grad school ryland (maybe a twinge of jealousy?) Sorry if im being too vague lol. I love your work and im so impressed with how often u post. You deserve so much more appreciation than u get 🛐
not vague at all!! i hope you like this--i have to admit, trying to write a cockier ryland was a little bit of a challenge for me, but i hope i was able to rise to the occasion lol.
and thank you!! to be fair, i have gotten so much love here and i am so so grateful for it, beyond words. the reason i'm able to post so much is that i really have nothing going on--i passed candidacy in the spring, but i don't have to start writing my dissertation for another year because i'm going abroad on fellowship starting in september, so i'm mad chilling rn.
pride (and a little bit of prejudice) - ryland grace x reader
also posted on ao3 | my masterlist
Ryland Grace is exactly the kind of STEM grad student that you hate: insufferable, full of himself, and doesn't know how to shut up. Unfortunately for you, he seems to delight in the challenge of trying to get you to like him. You're happy to knock him down a few pegs.
~9k words; fluff and smut; grad student!ryland; grad student!reader; fem!reader; what i think is an elegant amount of pride and prejudice references; oral - f!receiving; riding; missionary; unprotected sex; creampie
“Do I have to go?”
Marissa looks at you in the mirror and rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Yes, you do. Hand me the setting spray.”
You dutifully pass the bottle over before leaning closer to your reflection to continue applying your eyeliner. “Ugh. It’s just—you know how I am about STEM people.”
“Myself excluded.”
“Obviously.” Damn. The wing looks like shit. You click your tongue and wipe it off carefully. “Look. If they were all as well-adjusted as you, I wouldn’t have a problem. But no. They all act like God’s greatest gift to the universe. And their writing is terrible.”
She says nothing at that, yet, closing her eyes and letting the setting spray mist over her face. “They’re really not so bad. And I promised Josh we would both go.”
Josh. You do not like him, not just because he’s exactly the arrogant STEM grad student you just described, but also because you think he’s terrible for her. But she’s head-over-heels, and you want to be supportive, so whatever. You give it a month.
“And,” she says lightly, fanning her face with her hands, “his roommate is really cute.”
“No.”
“And nice! He’s so nice. I think you’d like him.”
“Probably not.”
Marissa pouts, then, and after a moment she takes the eyeliner pen from your hands and motions for you to turn to face her. You close your eyes as she gently swipes the black ink at the corner of your eye. “Just give him a chance. And if he’s lame, or the party is boring, we can come back here and gorge ourselves on canned cocktails and popcorn. Open.”
You open your eyes and turn back toward your reflection. It is annoying how much better she is at makeup than you. “Thanks. And…fine. But I am holding you to that. And I make no promises about the roommate.”
“Deal. Now hurry up, we’re going to be late.”
--
You’ll give them one thing: STEM students do not do parties halfway.
The two of you had arrived only a little late, and half of the people there were already shitfaced. They must carefully calculate what alcohol to knock back in order to get drunk as quickly and efficiently as possible. Nerds.
Marissa immediately beelines to Josh, leaving you standing in the entryway awkwardly. Fine. You’ll tell her she’s a bad roommate tomorrow and make her buy you a coffee. You head to the kitchen, presumably where the alcohol is; it’s also more well-lit than the rest of the apartment. A few people are standing around, chatting, but you ignore them to survey the bottles crowding the counter.
You settle for making a simple vodka lemonade when someone sidles up beside you. “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Probably not.” You don’t look up at him from making your drink, because you’re kind of not interested in trying to go home with someone tonight. There is a metric fuck ton of grading waiting for you in the morning.
He doesn’t seem to take the hint. “I’m Ryland. One of the hosts for this evening.”
Why is he talking like that? Whatever. This must be the roommate Marissa mentioned. Even though you told her, multiple times, that you weren’t promising to put in any effort here, you sigh and turn toward him anyway to give him your name in return. “I’m Marissa’s roommate.”
“Oh, Josh’s girlfriend. Nice.”
“Sure.”
Annoyingly, Marissa was right. Ryland is cute. His blond hair is ruffled in a way that screams ‘I don’t care’ but is also most definitely styled that way on purpose. There’s a little bit of stubble coming in on his face. You think he’s recently decided to try growing it out. His blue eyes have a hint of mirth behind his wire-frame glasses as he watches you look him over. “What department are you in? Wait—don’t tell me. I have a sixth sense for these sorts of things."
You watch, then, as he takes his time looking you over. You try not to roll your eyes. He is already giving you the distinct sense that he is the kind of person who is used to getting everything that he wants, and suddenly you are hit with the urge to humble him, to knock him down a few pegs so he can have some meaningful character growth.
He snaps his fingers. “Chemistry.”
You make a buzzer sound. “Wrong.”
“Really? Hm. Okay. Not bio—I would have met you already. Earth sciences?”
“Nope. That’s strike two.”
He grins. It’s annoying. He’s annoying, you have decided, because the alternative is something that you will not allow. “I didn’t know we were going off of the strike system.”
You bring your plastic cup to your lips. Oops. You might have made your drink a little too strong. “We are now. Last guess.”
Ryland leans his hip against the countertop and looks you over again, even more intensely. “Comp sci.”
“Wow. That is…” You let it hang there for a second, so he can feel good about himself before you let him down. “Incorrect. Sorry. No prize for you.”
“There was a prize? Damn.” He’s still grinning, seemingly unfazed by being wrong. Boo. “Well, what is it?”
“English lit.”
His eyes widen. “Yeah, I never would have guessed that.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, for starters, pretty much everyone in this apartment right now is in the sciences.” He picks up his own drink, then, and takes a long sip, looking at you over the rim of the cup. “And you don’t look the type.”
You scoff and cross your arms. “The hole you’re digging yourself into is getting deeper. You know that, right?”
“I just meant—I don’t know, you seem intelligent.” Instead of deigning that comment with a response, you mime digging and throwing dirt over your shoulder. “Alright, that’s fair.”
“This usually goes a little better for you, huh?”
“A bit, yeah. Can I get a do-over?” Ryland mirrors your posture, crossing his own arms over his chest. His shirt has some kind of science pun printed on it, but you can’t see all of the joke.
“No.” You shift against the counter and uncross your arms—no body-mirroring for him—before taking another sip and then sighing. Ugh. Fine. “But you can ask me again after I’ve had a few more drinks.”
This makes him smile again, but this time it’s a little more purposeful, a little calculating. “Bottoms up, then.” He taps his cup against yours, and you both take a deep drink.
The two of you just look at each other, then, sizing up your opponents, until someone yells in the living room. “Everyone, get in here! We’re playing a game.” You’re pretty sure it’s Josh. Man, you fucking hate that guy.
“Shall we?” Ryland gestures toward the doorway.
You say nothing, simply turning around and walking out of the kitchen. You will be doing everything in your power not to sit next to this frustratingly cute and, frankly, annoying man.
--
They have been arguing over the rules for the past fifteen minutes.
Marissa is sitting on Josh’s lap next to you. You are trying not barf at the way he’s groping her thighs. On your other side is Ryland, because evidently the universe is choosing to punish you this evening.
You sigh as someone nitpicks another rule again, something about ‘well that’s not how I’ve always played it,’ and pull out your phone. Initially, you intended to just look up the rules yourself so something will actually happen, but then you see an email from your advisor. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” Ryland leans over to look at your phone, pressing into your side. Great. He’s an arrogant dick who also has no sense of personal space. “You know, it’s a little lame to be on your phone at a party.”
You ignore the last comment. “It’s an email from my advisor.”
“Short story due at eleven, or something?”
Does he think that this is effective flirting? Being an asshole? “English lit, not creative writing, remember? And she wants to meet about potential dissertation topics.”
He hums and peers at your screen a little more closely. You turn it off out of spite. “And do you have those? Ideas for your diss?”
“Victorian novels. I just need to pick a more specific lens.”
“Wow. Isn’t that stuff super uptight and prudish?”
It is actually impressive at this point. “It’s literally kind of the opposite. God, you probably don’t even know who Foucault is, do you?”
Ryland waves a hand and takes another drink. “Sure I do. History of Sexuality, right?” You blink at him in surprise, and he just smiles cheekily. “Not all STEM students are illiterate.”
“You could have fooled me,” you snipe back. You lift up your cup. Damn. Empty.
You start to stand to get another drink, because it doesn’t seem like much progress has been made on the rules, but he gets up instead. “I got it. What do you want?”
“Um. Vodka and…whatever is fine. Don’t roofie me. I watch a lot of true crime. I know how to make it look like you’ve had an accident.”
Ryland laughs, abruptly, like he wasn’t expecting it. “Good to know.”
You watch as he walks away. Marissa elbows you. “Sounds like it’s going well. I told you.”
“Uh, have you even been listening? He’s an asshole,” you scoff. She simply smiles knowingly. “Absolutely not.”
Josh pipes up. You wish he wouldn’t. “Ryland’s a great guy, actually. Probably the smartest person in the department. The faculty love him.”
There are a few things you would like to say in response, ranging from ‘who asked’ to ‘being smart doesn’t give you license to be a prick,’ but you don’t get the chance to pick, because Ryland is already returning from the kitchen and settling in beside you again on the couch. It is unclear whether he is pressing his thigh against yours on purpose. He clinks his cup against yours after he’s handed you your drink.
You sputter the second it hits your lips. “Jesus Christ, what did you put in this? Gasoline?”
“You said vodka and whatever. I might have emphasized the vodka over the whatever.” He clinks you again. “Come on, proper drink this time.”
“Are you trying to get me shitfaced?”
He sets his cup down on the table with a grin before sprawling his arm across the back of the couch behind you. “You did say I’d have to wait for a do-over until after a few drinks,” he points out.
God, it must be 80% liquor. You try not to grimace as you swallow it down. “Actually, I said you could ask for one. I never promised I’d say yes.”
The hand that isn’t behind you taps against his thigh. “Are you this pedantic with everyone you meet?”
“No. Just the annoying people.”
“Mm. I see.” The look he’s giving you is—you don’t like it, whatever it is, you don’t like the way his eyes seem to sharpen at the challenge, how he searches your face, the fact that he’s still smiling, but it’s gained that calculated edge again. “Guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”
Yeah, good luck with that, buddy, you think.
--
“That’s not even—I’m starting to think you haven’t even read volume one, you just threw out the title to try and score some points.”
Ryland is still grinning, and the two of you are still sitting on the couch, because he’d goaded you into a conversation after the game finished. You are pointedly ignoring Josh and Marissa making out next to you. You feel your hand twitch, probably because you would like to punch the look he’s giving you off his face.
“I’ve skimmed it.”
“You’ve. Skimmed it.”
“Yeah. It was kind of boring.”
The worst thing is that you kind of agree with him, because Foucault is so ubiquitous at this point that he can be kind of a chore to read, but you will not be giving him the satisfaction. “Right, sorry, I forgot—your critical thinking skills are probably a little lacking. They don’t really emphasize close reading in microbiology, do they?”
This makes him smile harder. “You remembered.”
“Oh, fuck off, Marissa probably mentioned it before. Speaking of—Marissa? I’d like to—” You turn around and immediately regret the decision, because now you’ll need to and burn the image of Josh’s tongue stuck down her throat out of your mind.
“I think she’s a little preoccupied at the moment.”
“Yeah, I see that now. Whatever, I’m going home.”
His eyebrows furrow. “Uh, it’s, like, one in the morning. Just crash on the couch.” You look at him flatly. “Right. It’s kind of in use at the moment.”
“I’ll just walk, it’s fine. It’s not that far.” You go to stand and then almost fall over. “Okay, I know that made it look like I’m too drunk to stand, but the couch is just really deep.”
“Of course.”
“Seriously. I’m just going to find my shoes and bounce.”
He stands up beside you. “I’ll walk you home.”
“Not necessary.”
“It kind of is.” Ryland finds your shoes before you can and hands them over. “This neighborhood is terrible. My bike keeps getting stolen.”
You slip your shoes on after a few attempts. “Have you tried not getting it stolen?”
“Hadn’t thought of that. Thanks.”
A laugh slips out before you can even register it. You purposefully do not look to see whatever smug expression he’s likely wearing. “Fine,” you sigh. “Just—I don’t owe you for this, or whatever. Don’t go asking for any favors like proofreading your papers, since I’m sure they’re probably riddled with grammatical errors.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
--
The walk really isn’t that long, but he sticks with you the whole way, catching your arm when you stumble over a raised crack in the concrete. He also doesn’t shut up the entire time, bouncing between commenting on the houses or pointing out the meager constellations in the sky above you.
When you finally reach your apartment complex, he turns to face you as you’re fumbling with your keys and unlocking the door. “So. About that do-over.”
You smile at him, sweetly, standing just inside the threshold, before closing the door in his face.
--
Erik Satie is drifting through the apartment from the TV—that three-hour loop of Gymnopédie no. 1, but it’s from your neighbor’s apartment, you know the one—while you skim through the final reading you need to do for next week’s seminar. You are comfortably swaddled in your favorite blanket, and a glass of wine sits untouched on the coffee table, because you are waiting to drink it until you finish the reading. As a treat.
The door to the apartment swings open. “I hope you’re decent,” Marissa calls, “we’re just stopping by to drop some stuff off before we head out again.”
You glance down. You’re only in pajama shorts and a tank top, but most of it is hidden by the blanket, so it’s probably fine. “Yeah, I’m decent. Also, who’s ‘we’?”
Marissa doesn’t need to answer, because then she’s walking in with Josh and—Ryland. Of course. Great. Wonderful. “We’ll be out of your hair in two seconds!” And then she and Josh are walking into her room, leaving you alone with Ryland.
He looks at the TV, then at your blanket cocoon. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
Then, because he’s an annoying prick, he walks over and plops down right next to you on the couch. “What are you up to?”
You shuffle over as best as you can while still wrapped up in the blanket. “Reading for class. Lacan.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Figures.”
“Can I see?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, because he’s already grabbing your laptop from your lap and skimming the text, pushing his glasses up while he does so. “Oh, psychoanalysis. That always seemed like a load of BS to me.”
Your left eyelid twitches, not because he’s snatched your laptop without actually asking or even that you disagree with him. It is, once again, because you do agree with him. “Well, it’s important for the history of literary studies, so.”
“How so?” He sets the laptop on the table instead of handing it back to you. Whatever. You were almost done with it anyway. “Also, classic video,” he says, gesturing at the TV.
“Thanks. And seriously? Psychoanalysis has been a dominant critical lens in lit for, like, decades.” Unfortunately.
Ryland simply leans back, making himself comfortable on the couch. Your couch. “I’ll take your word for it.”
The soft piano music is still playing. It feels at odds with your growing frustration. You lean forward to close your laptop, letting the blanket slip off of your shoulders. He shifts, just barely, beside you on the couch. “I feel like it’s been longer than a few minutes,” you mumble, waving your hand in the direction of Marissa’s room. “Aren’t you guys going to be late to—whatever it is that you’re going to?”
“Nah. We’re just going to a bar to meet up with some people in bio and astrophysics.” He sits up a little straighter, then, as if he’s been struck with an idea. “You should come.”
“Uh, no. I already have plans.”
“Right. I’m guessing those plans involve the glass of wine and Erik Satie.”
“Precisely.”
Ryland looks between you and the wine for a few beats, before his hand shoots out and grabs the glass. And then he’s chugging it.
“Dude, seriously?” You whine. “I was saving that.”
He brings the glass down from his lips, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry.” He does not sound even a little apologetic. “Here, there’s still some left.”
You make a disgusted face at him and push his hand away. “Ew, no, I don’t want it now. It’s probably got your disgusting backwash in it.”
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, and then downs the last swallow. “It wasn’t even very good wine. You should try a Zinfandel next time. Maybe a White. I think you'd like it.”
This man. Comes into your apartment. Chugs your wine. And then insults it. “You’re incorrigible.”
The right corner of his mouth lifts. “I get that a lot. Also, ‘incorrigible’? Very Jane Austen.”
“Don’t even. Your lips aren’t worthy to speak her name.”
He laughs, and it’s the surprised one again, and your mouth pulls into a smile without you meaning to. “Well, looks like your evening just opened up. Come with us.”
Marissa and Josh choose that moment to reemerge from her room. “Ooh, yes!” She gasps. “You should totally come. I want you to meet the new astrophysics cohort. I think you’d like them.”
Probably not, but she’s looking at you so pleadingly, and you figure you can leverage this into her paying for groceries in a couple days. “Fine, fine. I just need, like, ten minutes.”
You stand up and leave the blanket crumpled on the sofa. “What, you don’t want to go dressed like that?” Ryland says behind you.
You say nothing as you walk to your room, though there may be a middle finger thrown up somewhere along the way.
--
You are getting so tired of being subjected to science while drinking.
One of the new first-years that Marissa mentioned is chatting animatedly at you. Not to you, at you, because you can’t even remember the last time you said something in this increasingly one-sided conversation. Something about going to Harvard, you think, and it’s unbearable, because he keeps referring to it as ‘the school in Boston,’ as if that isn’t widely known as the way people who go to Harvard and need everyone to know that fact talk about it.
You’re contemplating how much it would hurt to start slamming your head against the bar top when Ryland—because of fucking course—walks up to the two of you. “Sorry—George, right? I have a burning English literature question for my friend here, so I need to steal her away for a second.”
He tugs you away, and you barely have time to grab your drink from the bar. “Not friends.”
“Sorry, what was that? ‘Thank you for saving me from that conversation’? If so, you’re welcome.”
You roll your eyes as the two of you stop and stand toward the back of the bar. “I didn’t need saving. The conversation would have stopped eventually.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “I’m pretty sure he was trying to get in your pants.”
“So? What do you want, a medal? ‘Oh Ryland,’” you fawn, overexaggerated and utterly fake, “‘thank you for saving me from someone who wanted to have sex with me! Whatever would I have done without my white knight!’ Something like that?”
He looks down at you over the rims of his glasses and leans against the wall. “I think that’s the first time you’ve actually said my name.”
“Oh, my God. Do you have to try to be this self-centered, or does it just come naturally to you?”
This, apparently, does not warrant a response in his mind, because he simply brings his beer to his lips and takes a swig before speaking again. “I did actually have a question. Do I get my do-over yet?”
You hope that the look you’re giving him right now is effectively communicating how ridiculous you think all of this is. “Are you seriously still stuck on that? That was, what, a month ago?”
“Three weeks, actually.”
A huffed laugh comes out through your nose at that. “And you called me pedantic.”
Ryland smiles, wide and brilliant, and you are choosing to define the weird flip in your chest as annoyance. “So you do remember our conversation.”
“Why are you, like, obsessed with me? Is annoying me just that much fun for you?”
“Nah.” He steps a little closer to you, then, and you have to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact. “I just like the challenge. I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t solve.”
You decide, in that moment, to be the biggest, most frustrating, and, most importantly, most unsolvable problem ever.
--
The library is packed and deadly silent, save for the periodic page-turn and the clacking of laptop keys. There’s a tinge of seriousness to the air as the undergraduates bear down for midterms: no quiet laughter, no running around, no music blasting way too loud out of someone’s ear buds.
Josh is over at the apartment, again, which is annoying, firstly because it means the relationship is lasting longer than you thought it would, and second because you cannot get any work done when they hang out. (For obvious reasons.) There’s no exam you’re prepping for like many of the students around you, but you are trying to work on one of your seminar papers. Last year you had put most of them off until the end of the semester, and that had been a disaster, so you’re trying to get into the habit of starting them early.
You can sense him before you see him. He has a knack for finding you around campus. At first, you thought he might be stalking you, but you have come to learn that he is simply not organized enough for something like that.
“Is this seat taken?” Ryland asks. He sits down, because he never bothers to wait for your response. “What are you up to?”
“Writing a paper. Hush. We’re in a library.”
“Right.” He doesn’t take anything out to work on, instead just sitting there and tapping his fingers on the table, then grabbing one of your books and flipping through it.
He’s fidgeting. “You’re fidgeting,” you whisper. “It’s annoying. Stop.”
He sighs and puts the book down. “Did you like the thing I sent you?” Someone at the next table shoots him a death glare, and he puts his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry.”
Then he pulls his phone out and types something before setting it down on the table. The screen of your own phone lights up. Ryland looks between it and you expectantly. You close your eyes, sighing, and grab it. You don’t even know who originally gave him your number. Probably Marissa.
Hey
Hi
What’s the paper about?
applying psychoanalysis to Wuthering Heights
Sounds boring.
What are you doing this weekend?
…applying psychoanalysis to Wuthering Heights
I see
Well what if
And hear me out on this
You did something else?
Something that is actually fun and interesting
like what.
also, I want you to know that I am actively choosing to ignore that you are insulting my field.
Noted.
And, coming to the observatory
Marissa is giving that public-facing presentation
And they’re doing a cool show after
You should come!
It will heal your inner child
You fight the urge to roll your eyes, because you’re worried you’re going to strain them with how much you’ve been doing it recently. You had accidentally let it slip to him a week or so ago that your dream job as a child was being an astronaut, and he simply would not let it go, no matter how many times you pointed out that most people’s dream job when they were a kindergartener was to be an astronaut.
if I say yes, will you stop talking about my ‘inner child’?
it’s especially rich coming from someone who thinks psychoanalysis is ‘a load of BS’
…I can try?
You put your phone back down and try to return to your paper. It lights up several more times, and Ryland grows more fidgety each time you ignore it. He looks about ready to explode when you finally give up and look at the little screen again.
So is that a yes?
I’m assuming that’s a yes.
Hellooooo
I know that you know that I’m still texting you
Your eyes do this thing. I don’t know if you’re aware
But it makes it obvious
And I am very perceptive. Some would say the most perceptive person ever
I want to go get a coffee. Do you want a coffee?
You should come get a coffee. You look tired
you really need to get tested for ADHD
Probably, but that sounds like a lot of effort
it’s really not. I got tested last year
Wait really?
You have ADHD?
I didn’t know that
I’m well-medicated
you should try it.
Meh.
Sooooooo
Coffee?
You are pretty tired, and it is becoming very clear that you will not be getting any work done as long as he’s sitting there, so you sigh (again) and start packing your things up. Ryland stands immediately and waits for you, impatiently tapping his foot and messing with the pockets of his jeans. You put your things in your backpack even more slowly, just to mess with him.
He exhales loudly when you finally make it outside. He had gotten stopped by an undergrad, one of his students, probably, since you’re pretty sure you heard something about office hours. The student had looked at Ryland like he hung the stars in the sky; it is actually quite annoying how good he seems to be at teaching. He even has a RateMyProfessor page, which TAs don’t often get, and it is full of glowing reviews. Not that you’ve looked at it, or anything.
“Finally. I don’t know how you get any work done in there. Way too quiet.”
“Again. ADHD. Testing. Go do it.”
“Nah. I mean, everything’s worked out for me pretty well so far without being treated for it. I am a—”
“A presidential fellow, yes, I think you’ve mentioned that before.” He falls into step beside you, shortening his strides so you don’t have to quicken your pace to keep up. “And a published scholar, and you already have a research assistantship lined up for the summer. It’s incredible, really, how much you manage to talk about yourself.”
The conversation has, evidently, grown boring for him, because he immediately changes the subject. “You never answered my question. About if you liked the thing that I sent you.”
You snort. “What, the picture of Mr. Darcy with the caption ‘literally me’? As if. You wish you were Mr. Darcy.”
“Hey. I could be. I think I could pull of the tall, dark, stoic persona.” You look at him sideways and quirk an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe not the stoic part.”
“Or the dark hair. You’ve got the insufferable pride down, though.” The whole point is that Mr. Darcy isn’t actually all that insufferably proud, not really, but whatever.
Ryland ignores the second comment. “Yeah, I don’t think I could do the dark hair. To be honest, I’ve never even seen that movie. Or read the book, but that’s probably obvious.”
You stop in your tracks. He keeps walking for a few seconds until he notices that you’re no longer beside him, and then he also stops and turns around. “You’ve. Never seen. Pride and Prejudice.”
“Uh, no?”
“Not even the BBC series?”
“Well, seeing as I didn’t even know there was one until just now, nope.”
This is. Unacceptable. You’re about to tell him as much, but then you realize that you shouldn’t care whether he’s seen the movie or not, and that, actually, it gives you something to hold over his head, so you resume walking.
He matches your pace again. “Why, should I?”
An image pops into your mind, then, unbidden: the two of you sitting together, watching Pride and Prejudice, drinking wine. That gets mentally waved away. “No. Whatever. Do what you want, I don’t care.”
Ryland is silent for a moment, which is pretty unusual for him. “Yeah. I probably wouldn’t like it, anyway.”
He’s goading you, and you know it, and you know that he knows it, so you purposefully choose to stay silent. It does not take him long to start talking again, all the way to the coffee shop, the entire time you sit there and drink your shitty cappuccino that he ordered for you without asking what you wanted. (It would have been the cappuccino.)
--
“Thank you for coming, everyone, and enjoy the observatory!”
Marissa steps away from the podium and walks toward you, Ryland, and Josh. She immediately wraps her arms around Josh’s neck and kisses him. You fight the urge to grimace.
“That was amazing,” you say, once she’s done with that revolting display.
Ryland nods next to you. “Even she managed to follow along,” and he nudges you with his elbow. You jab him back, much harder.
“Thanks, guys. I really appreciate you all coming. Now, go, go, Josh and I are going to—enjoy the observatory.” She grins and does an exaggerated wink before walking away with Josh.
You and Ryland stand next to each other, silent, watching them leave. “I think they’re going through a rough patch,” he finally remarks.
That makes you whip your head towards him. “Really?” Marissa hadn’t mentioned this to you, although you both had been so busy recently that you hadn’t had much time to hang out together, just the two of you.
“Yeah. Can I be honest?” Once again, he does not wait for an answer. “Josh is kind of a dick, and Marissa is way out of his league.”
“Oh my God, thank you!” You burst out. He looks at you with a slightly shocked smile. “Sorry. I really don’t like him. I thought they would have broken up already.”
He simply laughs and then looks away, gesturing vaguely toward the rest of the observatory. “Well. Do you want to look around?”
“Sure. As long as there is no mansplaining along the way.”
You follow him toward the first exhibition area on the way to the domed screen room. “Is it mansplaining if I know what I’m talking about and you don’t?”
“Tonight? Yeah. It is.”
The next hour or so is spent moving leisurely through the observatory. Unfortunately, you have to admit—begrudgingly—that he is quite knowledgeable about all of this, and you end up listening attentively as he comments on the various displays. It’s—he’s just a tad less insufferable like this, when he’s explaining the solar system or the speed of light, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that makes you understand why people are otherwise so drawn to him.
At one point, he stops in front of a didactic discussing the possibility of life beyond Earth. “People are so hung up on water,” he murmurs, “and they swear that it’s necessary for life.”
“I mean, isn’t it?”
Ryland looks at you then and smiles. It’s almost wistful. “That’s what the prevailing opinion has been, yeah. I’m going to prove them wrong.”
You should think that this is incredibly cocky, just like everything else about him, but he sounds so convinced, so sure of himself, that you find yourself almost believing him. Almost.
--
The ‘rough patch’ that Ryland referred to becomes apparent on the day of your birthday, when Marissa tells you that Josh isn’t coming to the party, because apparently he doesn’t want to hang out with your ‘humanities friends,’ as he called them, and her mouth twists when she says it.
“Ryland’s coming, though,” she adds, her face buried into your shoulder as you hug her. “Said he wouldn’t miss it.”
“That’s—I mean. He could if he wanted to.”
She chuckles, a little wetly, and pulls away. “I still don’t understand why you hate him so much.”
“I don’t…hate him.” The admission is probably more surprising to you than it is to Marissa. “I just think he’s insufferable, and arrogant, and incredibly self-centered.”
“I cannot wait until the two of you hate fuck. It’s going to be awesome, and I am going to tell you ‘I told you so’ every day.” There she is. Fuck Josh. It’s your birthday, and you want her to be happy.
You scoff and continue setting out the alcohol the two of you had purchased earlier that day onto the kitchen island. “As if. The universe will experience heat death before—that happens.”
“See?” Marissa smiles. “You’re even using science metaphors. He’s in there.” She presses a finger to your temple.
“Sure. If by ‘in there’ you mean it like termites in your walls. Or bed bugs.”
About thirty minutes later, people start to filter in, mostly other grad students in your department, some from Marissa’s that you can actually tolerate. Ryland is right on time, and he gives you a hug and whispers ‘happy birthday,’ but you otherwise don’t see much of him; you’re too busy flitting around and saying hello, engaging in a debate about Charles Dickens and trying to avoid the guy in the year above you—Ben—who you hooked up with for a while last year.
It’s fun. You’re having fun, you tell yourself, even though all anyone can talk about is English literature, and you are so tired of talking about it, because it’s all you think about most of the time, and Ben had cornered you at one point and given you a hug that lasted way too long.
You’re standing out on your dinky little balcony off of the living room, trying to take a breath and enjoy the cold night air, when the glass door slides open and Ryland walks out. “Having fun?”
“Yeah. Loads.” You adjust the party hat on your head that Marissa had wrestled you into.
He comes up beside you and drapes his arms on the railing. “Who was that guy you were talking to, earlier?”
“Ben, probably.”
He hums. “He seemed. Eager.”
You turn around to rest your back against the wood. “Something like that. We used to—well.”
“But not anymore?” You can tell that he’s trying to say this lightly and failing, because the words come out a little strained.
“No. It was—it was fine, for what it was. Why do you care?”
Ryland doesn’t answer the question, instead shifting so he’s facing you. “Fine? Not good?”
“I guess. He wasn’t. I don’t know.”
“Not good at giving you what you wanted?” His voice has dropped, coming out low and raspy, and he moves forward an inch. “He doesn’t seem like the type.”
Your body tilts, reflexively, and you look up at him, watching his eyes search your face, his glasses sliding down his nose a little. “What type would that be?” You whisper.
His hand reaches forward, then, and his fingers graze your upper arm, just above your elbow. “The type to know what you need and be able to give it to you.”
The streetlamp in the distance illuminates the side of his face, just barely, enough to show you the look in his eyes, the hunger there as he steps a little closer, as his hand curls around your bicep. “And you think you know what that is, I take it?” Your voice almost catches in your throat.
“I don’t think,” he murmurs. “I know.”
And then he closes the distance, his nose brushing against yours, and he’s kissing you, and it is not soft or reverent or gentle. It is desperate, and wet, and fierce, and you moan as his other arm wraps around the small of your back. He licks into your mouth, then, and you press your body against him. You are aching, aching for the friction and the taking and the wanting, and—
And then someone is fiddling with the glass door, and the two of you jump apart as Marissa finally manages to slide it open. “Cake time! Oh—sorry. Am I…was I interrupting something?”
“No,” you say, at the exact moment Ryland says, “Yeah, kind of,” and then the two of you are looking at each other, and you remember how annoying he is, how he had assumed everything about you, what you wanted and needed, and that he could give it to you; so you push past him back into your apartment.
When you blow the candles out, you can’t think of a wish.
--
Marissa and Josh break up by the end of the semester.
You spend a week comforting her, promising her that it wasn’t her fault, that Josh was a dick who didn’t deserve her—which is true, by the way—and the whole time you try not to think about how this means you would likely be seeing a lot less of Ryland.
He hadn’t texted you, not since your birthday, and he had stopped popping up randomly around campus. This is good. It means that you finish your paper, and then Marissa decides to go home a little early to spend time with her family, and then you are alone in your apartment, ignoring a text from Ben and finishing up the last of your grading for the semester.
Then you get an email from your professor, the one you had submitted the Wuthering Heights paper to, and—it wasn’t great. The feedback was mostly negative, calling it pessimistic and overdone, warning you that your dissertation would need to be better.
So now you’re bundled up on the couch, attempting to get drunk off of a bottle of White Zinfandel, while Erik Satie plays in the background. You really wish Marissa was here, so you could commiserate together, but she’s not, so you simply down the last little bit of wine in your glass, and you find that you don’t have the energy to get up and pour yourself another, even though you’re barely buzzed at this point.
There’s a knock on the door.
You have no idea who it could be, so you decide to ignore it, but then they keep knocking. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” you call out, shuffling over to the door because the blanket is still wrapped around you.
Ryland is on the other side when you open it, holding a cardboard box. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
A few beats pass, and then he holds the box up. “Some of Marissa’s stuff. Josh was—well. You know how he is.”
“Yeah. She’s not here. You can—just set it down on the counter.” You step aside so he can walk in and place it on the kitchen island.
He looks at the TV, then the empty glass on the coffee table, the wine bottle sitting out by the fridge, and finally the way that you’re currently waddling around in your cocoon. “Rough night?”
“Something like that.” You’re too exhausted to bicker, so you simply make your way back to the couch and sit down. “Bad feedback on a paper. Really bad.”
“The psychoanalysis one?” He’s still in your apartment. Whatever. You can’t find it in you to care. You nod. “Hm. I told you it was boring.”
“Ryland.” This makes him freeze, because you’ve made it a point not to call him by his name. “I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Alright.”
Then he does something you do not expect: he walks forward instead of just leaving, sitting down on the couch next to you, grabbing the remote off the table and navigating through a bunch of different menus. “What are you doing.”
“Putting on a movie.”
He has to pull his credit card out, because Pride and Prejudice isn’t on any streaming services. You have it on DVD. You do not tell him this.
The movie starts playing, and you close your eyes as the opening piano number starts playing, and he shifts a little closer and puts his arm around you. You let him.
He laughs when he should, and makes stupid little comments, about how it doesn’t make sense that they’re calling Lizzie plain because Keira Knightly is beautiful, and that Mrs. Bennett is kind of an overbearing bitch, and at one point you giggle at something he says, and his arm tightens around you.
Then he watches, raptly, as Mr. Darcy helps Lizzie into the carriage, at the shot of his hand flexing afterward. “Oh. I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“The appeal. The—he loves her. So much that the touch is enough and also not. He knows that she might not feel the same, and that it doesn’t make sense for them to be together, and he still hopes that she loves him back. And if she doesn’t, he’ll live off of that touch for the rest of his life.”
It’s—you’re not a film scholar, but he’s reading the scene quite well, and he’s looking at you in a way that you can’t place. The two of you just keep staring at each other for a while, until you finally whisper, “You’re not watching the movie.”
“Right. Sorry.”
The rest of the movie plays, and you cry a little when Mr. Darcy walks through the field at sunrise, when he calls Lizzie ‘Mrs. Darcy’ and kisses her at Pemberley, wishing that you could be seen and loved so thoroughly. “Well, what did you think?” You ask, wiping at your face and clearing your throat.
“It—I liked it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You keep staring at the TV for a little while, because you’re scared to look at him, scared to break the fragile silence that has fallen around you both, scared to admit that you have been a little bit unfair in your judgement of him.
He squeezes your shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”
You turn to face him, and you let the blanket wrapped around you fall as you do. Ryland’s eyes dip down, just for a moment, to look at the straps of your tank top, the way that the blanket pools around your waist. When he meets your gaze again, his eyes are wide and pleading, and his eyebrows are raised, pinching at the center. “Ryland,” you breathe.
“Yes?”
“I—I’m sorry. About my birthday.”
“Uh, what?” For a moment, the irrational part of your brain thinks he doesn’t remember, and he must catch the way that your face falls minutely. “No, I’m not—I just wasn’t expecting. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But I did.”
“But you didn’t,” he insists. “I was—what was that word you used—incorrigible, that’s it.” You smile, just a little, and it makes him that much bolder, bringing his hand back up to grasp your nearly bare shoulder. You shudder at the touch. “What did Mr. Darcy say? About pride?”
His fingers shift to play with the strap of your top. You turn toward him more fully so you can place a hand on his knee. “That—it’s hard to forgive someone’s offenses against him. That once his good opinion is lost, it’s lost forever.”
Ryland hums. “Have I lost your good opinion, then?”
“No,” you whisper. Because—as much as he has been utterly insufferable over the past few months, he has also been kind, and caring, and devoted, and you don’t think anyone else has been so utterly captivated by you before. “No, you haven’t.”
You lean forward, then, and this kiss is soft, and gentle, so gentle that you have to be the one to deepen it, squeezing his leg and running your tongue over his bottom lip, and the way he groans into your mouth goes straight between your thighs. “Ryland,” you mumble into his mouth, “please,” and you don’t even know what you’re asking for.
But he does—of course he does—and he leans forward until your back is resting against the couch, and he’s unraveling the blanket around you, pressing his mouth against your neck as he drags your shorts down. You think you know where he’s going, then, but he keeps surprising you; his hands slide up underneath your shirt and lift the fabric up until he’s licking at your breasts, and at the shocked gasp you let out, he smiles. “I told you I knew what you needed.”
You don’t get a chance to respond. His lips close around one of your nipples, sucking and licking, and you clutch at his shoulders and buck your hips up. “Oh,” you sigh, “that’s—just like that, you—you—”
His hips rut against the couch, but he keeps taking his time, laving his tongue against you, grasping your thigh with one of his hands and pressing the palm of the other into your cunt. You whine, and then you can feel him grinning against your breast, and that old fire flickers inside of you, the one that urges you to put him in his place. You decide to wait. For now.
Finally, he nudges your underwear aside and feels the heat, the wetness of you, just for a moment, before one of his fingers slowly slides inside of you. Your back arches, just a little, at the feeling, and he looks up at you from your chest. His glasses are crooked, and you fix them before sliding your hand into his hair. “You sound—it’s just like I imagined,” he groans around the bud of your nipple, “so needy. Just let me, I can make you feel so good, I know I can, I know I’m the only one who can do it, just the way you need.”
Your hips jerk against his hand, and he dips another finger inside of you, and the sound of it is utterly obscene. “You—you’re so fucking cocky,” you manage to get out, “always so sure that you’re right.”
His hand shifts, then, so that he can press his thumb against your clit, and it sends your head pressing against the cushion underneath you. “But I am. That’s the thing, isn’t it—I’m right, and you know that I’m right.” You simply turn your cheek into the couch instead of responding, because you think you can come like this, with his fingers inside of you and his thumb rubbing at your clit. “No,” Ryland mutters, the hand that was holding your thigh coming up to grasp your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “This isn’t—I’m not done.”
You want to ask him what he’s not done with, but then he’s shifting down the couch, pulling your underwear down and staring at your glistening cunt, pushing his glasses up to make sure he can see it. Part of you wants to feel a little embarrassed, but mostly you just want him to make you come, so you jut your hips up towards his face.
His eyes flick up to yours, just for a moment, full of amusement, and then his mouth comes up against you, and you realize in that moment that it’s not just good for talking. It’s—he actively learns your movements, gaging the way you grind against his tongue, adjusting how his tongue laps at you to drag out your pleasure, quickening when you need it and slowing when you want him to go faster. “You—you motherfucker, please,” you whimper.
“No,” he says, simply, into the slick of you.
“I—What? What do you mean, no?”
His head tilts up, then, resting against your thigh. His fingers are still dragging inside of you. “I said I know what you need, not just what you want. This is me giving it to you,” and he curls against your walls, “Don’t you want that?”
You can only gasp and clutch at his hair. “Fuck. You.”
“That’s the plan.”
Time is meaningless, then, as he licks and sucks and teeths at your clit, adding another finger inside of you, always stopping right when you’re on the edge, until you’re trembling against the couch, until the only thought on your mind is coming against his mouth. Finally, finally, he doesn’t still when he normally would, moaning into your cunt as you ride your orgasm out against his face.
When he pulls his shirt off over his head and shimmies out of his jeans, you’re able to gather yourself enough to push at his shoulders, until he’s sitting on the couch while you straddle him, and you try to commit the surprised and wanting look on his face to memory. “You think you’ve got everything figured out,” you laugh breathlessly. “But maybe I know what you need, too.”
He clutches your hips as you hover over him. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Someone to put you in your place.”
You sink down onto him, then, and relish the way his eyes flutter shut, the way his lips part and let out a moan, how his fingers dig into your skin. The pace you set is slow and exacting. You want to watch every look that crosses his face, feel every twitch of his cock inside of you, hear the way he whimpers and whines, just like you knew that he would.
“So good.” Your hand moves up to rest on his throat, and his eyes snap open, and you find that you can’t look away from the deep blue of them, even if you wanted to. “So good, just for me.”
Ryland nods feverishly as his hands draw up your back. “Wanted this—for so long. So fucking long.”
You smile and quicken your pace, clutching at the back of the couch behind him with your other hand. “I know. I know you did.”
His head lolls back as you grind down onto him, and after a few moments the hand at his throat moves up so you can grab his jaw and make him look at you. There aren’t any more words, now, save for the way he gasps your name, over and over and over again, and you know that you’ll never get tired of it, the way your name sounds when it’s cried out from his mouth.
You can tell when he’s close, even before he tells you, when he’s babbling into your throat as you press your chest against his. “I—I’m—don’t want to, not until you come again.”
“Then do something about it, if you want it so bad.”
He lifts you up, then, briefly, before laying you back against the couch again, never taking his eyes off of you, leveraging the access the position gives him to circle at your clit again with his fingers. You fight the urge to close your eyes. You want to watch him, watch as he looks at you with this expression that you cannot name; you want to be able to look down to see his hips snapping into yours, his fingers moving in frantic circles because he cannot stand the thought of not giving you what you need, just like he promised.
“Ryland,” you moan again, grasping his shoulders. His name on your lips is like some kind of command to attention for him. “Just. Just like that. It’s so—you—”
He dips his head down to bite gently at your throat. “I know, I know, I—I told you, I told you I could do it, that I knew how, just let me do it, please, please, I need you so badly,” and that makes your body draw taut and then release, the thought that he doesn’t just want you to satisfy some childish urge, but that he needs you, he needs you to feel good, needs to feel you come around him.
Somewhere in the middle of all of that you can feel him still against you, his teeth grazing against your neck and your name vibrating against the flutter of your pulse, and then he just stays there, resting inside of you, skin pressed against yours.
You let your breaths fall into pace with his for a while. Every so often, you clench around him, just so you can hear his strangled moan. Finally, you speak, your fingers brushing up the length of his spine. “Marissa is going to be so insufferable when I tell her about this.”
“Probably,” Ryland mumbles into your neck. You shudder against him at the feeling. “She was the one who told me to go up to you at the party.”
“Wait, really?” Your hand stills. “She never told me that.”
He huffs a little. “Yeah. She said that I was your type.”
You—this is worth the next month of groceries, you think, but you don’t say it out loud, instead reveling in the feeling of his skin against yours, in the way that she was, ultimately, exactly right about what you wanted.
simon riley who quits smoking for you without a second thought
it was a nasty habit he's had since his teens, his way of dying a little bit with each lit cigarette. he never expected to last this long, with all the packs he goes through, bullets dodged, and the battles he's barely survived. he never thought to quit, always itching for a stick between his fingers to ease his anxiety and shaky hands.
before he met you, he never had a reason to. now that he has you, tucked into his side and leeching off his warmth, he knew he had to change. the little looks of disappointment every time he went for a smoke gutted him, or when you'd grimace every time you had to swallow his cum made him grit his teeth. or simply the idea that his smoking could kill your pretty lungs.
he quit cold turkey, like an idiot. it was the hardest thing he's been through, even if he wouldn't admit it, and he's been shot, stabbed and many other questionable things.
but it'd be easy in comparison if it meant keeping you healthy, giving you the live you deserved with him.
sure, he was as grumpy as ever and itched to put his lighter to good use, his hands shaking at his sides with restraint. he needed something to do, something to take his mind off the bad thing he craves.
and there's nothing more he craves than you. lips wrapped around your clit as he feasts on your puddy. tongue laving over the swollen flesh with half lidded eyes, murmuring excuses of, "jus' need m'lips 'n 'ands busy, luv." plunging thick fingers into your plushy cunt, slick and soaked with arousal as you let him. you're so proud of him for quitting, letting him overstimulate your pussy if it meant he never picked up another pack.
so instead of smoking ten a day, he'd eat you out ten times more instead.
part two point five of how do you like your eggs in the morning? | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | ao3
Summary: An invitation. A garden. A dozen things he could have done differently.
Tags: childhood friends to lovers, pining, fingering, f!reader, flashbacks, angst
A/N: 18+ only! this is part 2.5 of a 3 part series. happy ending guaranteed, but you'll have to wait for part 3. content warnings for mentions of terminal illness and infidelity.
The letter arrives like flowers through frost: cardstock, robin's egg blue, poking out from the mailbox amidst a bouquet of medical bills and junk. Nobody has been to the house in several days. Colt is reluctantly on location, breaking his back rehearsing a car roll. Ryland reckons he is just as sore from sleeping in a hospital chair for a week straight.
He opens it without thinking.
You're cordially invited,
He sees your face before he sees your name.
You look a little sharper than when he saw you last. Maybe from changes in makeup, maybe from the subtle knife of mid-twenties aging; you are still young, but more sophisticated than you were at twenty three. Elegant. Your hair is different. You're in a pale yellow dress, foot popped, grinning at the camera, one hand flexed to show off the ring, and the other one up around the neck of your fiancé (Ryland knows his name—and even if he didn't, it's right there, on the paper, expensively inked and intertwined with yours—but he refuses to acknowledge it on principle).
Three names, on an attached slip, to RSVP. His name is last: his mom's, then Colt's, then his. He hadn't expected an invite. If he thinks about it long enough, he can still feel your hand against his cheek. He'd earned that. He hasn't earned this. But it most likely isn't a matter of earned; you had to invite his mom, and you had to invite Colt, which means you had to invite him.
He recognizes the curve of your Ys, the loop you took on sometime around the sixth grade. His name, in your hand. He brushes a thumb across the ink.
He has a suit.
He has a ticket to New York, for an academic conference he anticipates being disinvited from any day now.
He shouldn't go. To be respectful of you. To stay home with his mom. To spare himself.
He shouldn't go.
-
He skips the ceremony, abandoning any fantasy of speak now or forever hold your peace, and walks straight into the reception.
It's a beautiful venue. No real surprise there—you've always had good taste in everything but men. And lord knows you've been to more than your fair share of weddings over the years. Everywhere he looks are little familiar details (lavender centerpieces, white roses, candles on the wall), like you used all of your mom's receptions to curate exactly what you might want for yourself one day.
He's timed his entrance carefully. Late. The first dance, the garter, the toasts are all finished; the dance floor has attracted a healthy crowd; caterers buzz around the half-empty tables, clearing away glasses, swapping out dinner plates for cake. The room is a sea of people he doesn't know, friends of yours from law school and from work and from your new life. Presumably your mother and Josh are around here somewhere.
And there, across the room. Surrounded by bridesmaids. Hair pinned up. Empty seat to your left.
You.
Your dress is white, of course, white and satin and thin-strapped, and he watches one of those straps slip precipitously close to the edge of your shoulder as you laugh at something a bridesmaid said, and watches the delicate motion of your throat as you sip champagne, and watches the drag of your thumb across your lower lip as you check that your lipstick is intact, and then you look up and he's in front of you and you are here.
"Hey," he says.
You don't quite gape, but you get close. "You," you say, standing. "Hi."
"Hi."
"Hi. I wasn't." You shake your head as you come around the table. "You RSVP'd no."
"Did I?"
"I'm very familiar with the guest list, at this point. The only one who said yes was—"
"Colt, yeah. I'm Colt tonight."
"Right." You stop in front of him, and then—clasp your hands together. Like you were about to hug him, but thought better of it. "Well. Thanks for coming."
Before you can sit back down, he rushes to say, "Can we talk?"
You arch a brow, glancing back at the table. Your bridesmaids are all distracted. Talking amongst themselves. He can't really make out their individual faces. He thinks he recognizes one girl from high school, from your grade, Cathy or Kristen or something. "Uh oh."
"No, it's nothing bad. I'm just, I'm flying back tomorrow." He shrugs. "Thought it could be nice to catch up."
"Depends. Are you going to make me cry this time?" You wind an arm through his elbow, which he didn't know he had extended, and he realizes with a bone-deep relief that this is you saying yes.
"I'll try my best not to."
"You'd better," you say. He lets you lead. He's a little fuzzy on where the exits are. "I spent, like, two hours getting my makeup done. But sure. I could use the fresh air."
In the entryway, you pull your arm from his, getting ahead of him by a few steps. There is a moment where you are shadowed by the light from inside, a dark golden glow cast over your dress. Salt in the air. Waves onto sand.
He blinks, and it's gone.
The exit opens up to a garden, empty of people, filled to bursting with white roses. It must be somewhere around midnight, but the night above looks later, somehow, the hazy purple-grey of a two a.m. sky.
"So, is actual Colt okay," you say, breaking the silence, "or…"
"Away on set."
"That's going well, then. The whole Hollywood thing."
"Yeah. He's, he's really doing it. He sends his best." He adjusts his glasses. "Mom, too, they both—they both send their best."
"She's—"
"She's been better. But she's in good spirits, all things considered. Chemo's going well. Another month until they can check if it worked. Again. And then if it works they're going to. There's this surgery. Anyway. She still has that quilt, um, the one you and your mom, from last time—"
You nod. "Yeah, I'm glad she. Not glad that she has another use for it, but, glad she has it." He feels your hand on his arm. He looks down at it. Your right hand; no ring. "It's good she has you, too."
"Yeah." He chuckles, low. Bitter. His glasses slide down his nose. "That's the one upside to a forced sabbatical. Plenty of free time."
Your hand pulls away. "I saw. UNESCO." If you still keep up with him, his work, that would mean you maybe went into medical malpractice law after all—but he doesn't know—and before he can ask, you continue, "So you're—"
"Still on staff, officially. By the time I get home, probably not."
"You never were afraid of pissing people off."
"Guess I should have been."
"Mm. You'll figure it out."
"Yeah. Maybe. I could use some advice."
"Really? From the child bride?" There's no bitterness in your voice, just a smile. Light. Teasing. The way it used to be.
"You seem to have it all figured out," he says with a shrug. "The job. The ring. Life."
You laugh. "Nobody has it all figured out. There could always be something…" The smile fades, not into a frown. Something in between.
"Better?"
You don't look at him. He watches as you play with your ring. "Different."
He stops walking. You make it a few steps ahead of him. "Are you happy?"
You turn.
He can't read your face. He isn't sure what he wants it to say. Of course he hopes he was wrong about your fiancé; he's never wanted more to be wrong about anything in his entire life. Of course he hopes he's changed. Of course he doesn't want you to be stuck with—it's just that there is a small, selfish corner of his brain, closer to the surface than he wants to admit, that almost—that almost wishes—not that—but if there was any chance at all—
"I should get back," you say. You lean up to kiss him on the cheek, once, quick. "It was good to see you, Colt."
You walk away. Two steps. Ten steps.
"Wait," he says.
You turn.
"I never actually got to see the ring. The new one."
You narrow your eyes at him. "Not much to see." But you do walk back, heels clicking, hand outstretched. "They all look the same, more or less."
He takes your hand, and looks at it.
You're right. It's nothing out of the ordinary. The simple band. The diamond above. But your hand is warm in his. Your wrist is soft where he brushes his thumb across it, your pulse delicate beneath his fingers, and, on a whim, he steps in, and tugs you closer, and brings his other hand around your waist.
Your eyes are wide as you look up at him. He swears he feels your pulse pick up, feather-light. "What are you doing?"
He takes a step back. You follow. Then to the side, then back, vaguely in rhythm with the distant sounds of music from inside, and the ocean in his ears.
"Feels like I owe you at least one dance in your life that I don't completely fuck up by the end. Think of it as a wedding gift."
Your smile is small, but warm. Relaxed. "So I shouldn't be expecting anything off the registry, then."
"I don't know. Anything on there in the soon-to-be-fired adjunct's salary range?"
You scrunch up your nose, like you're genuinely thinking about it; the corner of your mouth lets him know you're not. "Luggage tags?"
He laughs. "Okay. Luggage tags." He dips you. He feels, through the hand on your back, the way your breath catches. "I'll see what I can do."
He brings you up from the dip slow, close. He lets his eyes linger. Your mouth is an inch away from his, less, even, and he watches your lips part and then feels as you press them to his, and
-
No. You wouldn't do that.
-
He brings you up from the dip slow, close, and it's nothing, nothing at all, to lean in and kiss you.
He presses his hand into your back, and cradles your face with the other. He walks you backwards until you are pressed against a wall, and moves his mouth over yours, deep and unhurried, like he can kiss away your husband. Like he can erase the reception, and the altar, and everything that came before.
You seem surprised at first, suspended for a moment, only a moment, before you thaw to his touch. Your hands rise to his chest; his face; they wind up around his neck, your head tipping back against the brick behind you. You open your mouth first. When he mirrors the movement, when his tongue finds to yours, you make a sound, into his mouth. A soft one. A small one.
He pulls you closer.
Your hands are in his hair. He can feel the heat of your body through your dress, the whole length of it, and the dress goes down to your ankles but that doesn't stop him from reaching down, reaching under, those expensive shoes of yours giving you enough height that he is able to run a hand up between your knees and your thighs and. And.
"Fuck." He breaks away to say it. You're wet already, enough that it's soaked through your underwear, which is so delicate to the touch it might as well not be there at all. White lace, he assumes. He wants to pull it off you with his teeth. "Is this for him or for me?"
Instead of answering, you close the distance, letting him taste the champagne on your tongue again.
He thinks about that, that non-answer, thinks about it over and over as he pulls your underwear to the side and presses his fingers into you, or
-
"Is this for him or for me?"
Instead of answering, you lean in—but he pulls back, keeping the distance between his lips and yours. "Come on," he says, his voice low. "Use your words."
"I." He pulls those stupid lacy panties to the side, teasing his fingers at your entrance, and you make the softest sound, less whimper than sob. "Please don't make me answer that."
And then you kiss him, and he's so stunned he lets you, or
-
"For him or for me?"
You lean in, he pulls back—but not so far. Not even enough to see you, really, just far away enough that he can talk without you swallowing the sound.
"Please," he says, letting his forehead rest against yours. "Please just say it."
You hesitate, or
-
"Please," he says, "I know I don't deserve it, but—I need to hear it. Even if it's not true. Please."
You press back. He lets himself meet your gaze. There is a light shimmer across your eyelids, or else nothing at all; your lipstick is a mess, or perfectly intact; your eyes are a little glossy. A little red.
"You," you finally say. "You. Always you."
He kisses you again at the same time he slides a finger into you, so that he can taste the gasp you let out. You are hot around him, hot and soft and wet, and he drags his thumb up, looking for your clit, and he knows he's found it because he can feel the exact moment you start to have trouble kissing him back.
"You're so beautiful," he says, and he feels the way you throb around him at the words.
"Ryland—"
"You are," he says, and you just said his name with his fingers inside you and he is going to be cool about it, he is not going to get distracted, he is going to be so focused and so normal. "You are, you always are, I should have told you—I've thought about this for so long—"
He gets his other hand up to your torso, letting one strap slip off your shoulder so that he can cup your chest, dragging a thumb over a nipple and smiling against your mouth when you arch into the touch.
"Me too," you say. The words slip out of you, ragged, like they're something you weren't expecting, or weren't supposed to say aloud. You're clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into his back as your fingers twitch, as you try to keep upright, try to keep from falling apart—but he can feel the way your breath catches. He can feel the flutter of your walls around him, and he knows, he knows he can get you there, knows moments before it happens that he is going to make you fall apart here, now, against a garden wall, thirty feet away from your own wedding reception.
He breaks away to kiss up your neck, below your ear. "Come on," he says, and the sound you make is so devastating that he has no choice but to return his mouth to yours. "Come for me. Come for me, please—it's you, it's you, too, it's always been you—"
He wants to watch your face, but you kiss him desperately, one hand pulling him closer by the hair like you're trying to muffle yourself, and so he settles for the feel of you, your mouth and your moans and the way they vibrate through you both as you finish around his fingers.
He keeps kissing you through the whole thing.
Softer, when the aftershocks begin. Gentle against your lips; then, when the hand on the back of his head loosens, he moves to your cheek, your eyelids, your temple. Your forehead.
When he pulls his fingers out of you, you let out one last sound—more sigh than anything else. Leg returning to the ground. He narrowly resists the urge to take his own fingers, the fingers still wet with you, into his mouth. Instead, with his other hand, he helps fix your strap, and takes a step back to look at you as you lean against the wall.
You press a thumb beneath each eye, wiping gently. "You promised you wouldn't ruin my makeup."
"I said I wouldn't make you cry," he says. You reward him with a laugh that is tiny and gorgeous and a knife to his heart. "Come back with me."
You pause. "What?"
"Don't go back in there. I have a hotel room, Colt's hotel room. We can—"
"No." You step away from him. "I can't. This was." Your hands run over your dress, trying to smooth new wrinkles out of the fabric. "Shit. We shouldn't have. I shouldn't have. I just stood up in front of everyone and said—I promised—"
"Seems like an empty fucking promise, at this point."
"It's not. It's not." You shake your head frantically. "This was just a mistake. I'm married."
"Sure." He feels like he's about to throw up. "You've got husband number one under your belt. Family tradition, right?"
You go still. Your eyes flick up to meet his, and he feels it in his throat. "Glad to see you haven't changed," you say. Then it's back to business—tucking up a strand of hair, checking your lipstick, not even looking at him as you walk away.
He watches you go, or
-
"Come back with me," he says. "I'm sure there are tickets left, on the same flight. Or we can wait for the next one. Come home."
"This is home, for me." There's a tiny divot between your brows, the one you always get when you are confused, or irritated, or infuriated, and it's there now and he wants to press his lips to it but you are out of reach. "My whole life is here. My apartment, my friends, my marriage."
"What about me? I'm here. I'm here now."
"Yeah." You press two careful hands to your face. There are tears there. He wants to wipe them away, but when he steps forward, you counter with a step back. "I think I was a little better off when you weren't."
You turn, or
-
"Come back with me. Or, or, or I can miss my flight. I can stay."
"I'm married. I have a husband."
"He doesn't have to know. We don't have to tell anyone, we can. Just tonight, or—"
You shake your head, or
-
"Come back with me. Please." You are starting to blur before him, and he doesn't know if it's tears or memory or three years of distance, and he does not care. "Everything is a mess. All of it. I have no idea what I'm doing. Most days I don't—I can't—I don't know anything, but I know that I have been in love with you for ten years, and you have to. You have to at least let me tell you that. You have to know."
You are farther away than before. You are very still.
"You haven't been in love with me for ten years," you say quietly. "You haven't even seen me since—" Your face is calm. The dampness on your cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes, all gone. "You don't know me anymore."
"I do know you." He steps forward. It doesn't bring him any closer. "I do."
"No, Ryland." The kindness in your voice is the cruelest thing he's ever heard. "You don't."
"No?"
"No."
-
No.
-
It's no use.
He doesn't know how long he's been sitting here, looking at the blue envelope. The yellow dress. The loop-tailed y.
It doesn't matter. None of it matters. His career is over and his mother is dying and all he can do is sit here, in an empty house, staring and staring and staring, and no matter how many times he runs the simulation, adjusts the variables, charts and recharts the data, the verdict is the same: there is no sensible world in which you would choose him over a man who was smart enough to kiss you and brave enough to be honest about the reason why.
He looks at the photo again.
You look happy.
He marks three Not Attendings, putting the card aside to bring to the hospital. The registry site remains open on his laptop. He'll pick something off of it, labeled with his mom's name. His mom's, and Colt's. The best thing he can do for you, he understands now, is leave you alone.
-
Months later, in a classroom, scrolling over a break, he sees a post from your brother. A photo album. Green centerpieces on the tables; sunflowers; your hair hanging loose and your smile radiant as your new husband dips you.
Your reception dress was short, not floor-length. Fringed, not satin.
He adds it to the list of things he was wrong about, and goes back to work.
You look from your place in bed, glasses almost sliding off of your nose. You glance around the room once before pointing at yourself. Simon gives you a dead-serious nod of his head, drilling holes into you with his eyes.
“Huh, what’d I do, Si?”
“All that. I’m tellin’ you t’ stop bein’ a tease.”
You take yourself into account. You are sitting in bed in your ugly, mismatched pajamas, reading a book with everything about you totally undone. You were just nodding off when he walked in. What’s Simon on about?
“I’m-… Are we playing around? Joking? I don’t get it.” You’re about as un-sexy as you can be.
He huffs and walks up to the edge of the bed, reaching under the covers to wrap a large hand around your ankle and pull you to the edge, locked under his gaze as blankets crowd around you. “Look at ya, love. Quit playing games.”
You finally find it in you to laugh at his ambiguity, watching the corners of his mouth quirk. He shifts on his feet uncomfortably, tightening his grip around your ankle. “I don’t understand. I’m very unattractive right now. Startlingly so.”
“Don’t say tha’.” He mutters, leaning over to shove his face into the crook of your neck, humming in relief as he presses into you. You wrestle your arms free to throw around him, curling into his heavy body. The moment goes on sweetly until his hips roll lazily against you, exhaling shakily.
If Ryland Grace was my boyfriend i would make him put my lotion on me every time i come out the shower.
"make him" baby you don't have to convince him of ANYTHING. he is giddy to do it. he is slow and he is thorough, palms sliding gently over every inch of you. he thinks he is so slick when he leans in to kiss your neck from behind; when one arm slides around your waist to pull you back against him; when the hand on your leg starts sliding up your thigh. you are going to need another shower in 1-2 hours.
(and if the lotion has any kind of scent, he is DONE for lmao. this poor man is out in public trying desperately not to get riled up any time he catches a whiff of, like, cocoa butter or lavender or any other perfectly innocuous scent, because he has Pavlov'd himself into associating it with you in a very specific context)
bodily neutral, also no mention of skin color or hair. reader is described as wearing swimwear, so that is whatever that term means for you!
simon and you are good friends, and he has a giant crush :)
thinking about discussing tan lines, inseam lengths, and sunscreen with tf141, and simon is listening.
of course johnny is shameless and rocks a speedo. kyle has several 5 inch inseam swimming trunks (god bless) that sit just right. but simon. oh poor simon. he hasn't been to a beach on purpose in a long time. maybe he went with alejandro and rudy once while he was in mexico, but even then he wore something borrowed, or maybe even just didn't get in the water. so now that he has you, and he is working his 50 step plan of getting you to go on 1 (one) date with him, so he has learned when he needs to listen.
you, johnny, and kyle are discussing beach plans while simon tries to look very busy nearby. price has fucked off and decided to just spend the time off with his wife. But everyone's discharges/time off lined up just so that they could take their new friend (you) out of town and to the seaside.
the dreaded conversation comes up about what you are going to wear. simon's face turns red at the sight of you in long sleeves and pants, he can't imagine what a swimsuit would do to him.
johnny, the bugger, has to open his damn mouth and ask what type of swimwear you think looks best on a potential partner. johnny claims his prosthetic leg has better mobility if he wears a speedo (he would wear one regardless), and kyle claims his own shorts cannot be any shorter or else the whole beach will get a show.
"i think all options are fine, any and all thighs are good thighs." you say.
johnny argues, "aye, but my option has more thigh. it has all of the thigh lass."
"maybe too much thigh, mate. i'm not here to see that much bulge." kyle throws in.
as they argue, something dawns on simon. he has packed for the wrong occasion. folded in (thrown into) his duffle bag are a pair of gym shorts that go all the way to the knee that he hasn't worn in years, and a tank top that he wears to the gym. he is fucked. somewhere along the 50 step plan, he wants to appeal to you physically. finding someone attractive definitely adds to you wanting to date them, right? simon has to do something.
he claims he needs to head out for a pack of cigs and doesn't give anyone time to say they will join him. on the drive in, he saw several stores touting discount swimwear. they will have to do. he goes into the first one he sees, and christ he needs a cigarette.
cut forward to an hour and a half later. kyle, johnny, and you are all setting up down by the beach, text messages have been sent to simon to let him know where you all are.
kyle and johnny go for a swim, but you take your time applying sunscreen and waiting on simon. soon comes a mass of pale skin covered in tattoos and clad in a pair of short (and borderline circulation cutting) dark blue swim trunks covered in hot pink palm trees. he waited amongst the sand dunes for the guys to go in the water, at the very least to avoid their teasing. his face is bright red by the time he reaches you, but you are all smiles.
"i think you might need some of this," you say holding up the sunscreen bottle, "do you want to get each other's backs?"
simon thinks he's in heaven. he saw you eyeing him, and his thighs thank you very much, and now you're going to touch him. an angel in a swimsuit is worried about the state of his skin, and you are going to touch all over his back. scars be damned, he's been wishing for this for months. and the best part is, he is going to touch you too. in the least creepy way possible, he cannot wait. simon bends down to grab the bottle from you, when from the water comes a wolf whistle.
"now that's how you wear a pair of trunks! stay just like that! give us a show, aye?"
that bugger.
-------------------------------
hi!! i tried to keep this as gender and body neutral as possible! i know that the beach can be an obstacle for many reasons, so i wanted to write something light hearted and nonspecific. let me know if there is anything i can change! i love soft simon and his soft thighs! also, the beaches i am used to are very duney, so i apologize to the rocky beach folks.
People wonder how someone like you— no offense— could stand someone like Simon. He’s too intimidating— too tall, too broody. He’s covered in scars, both from his dad and from his black ops. The man is built like a mountain, and towering over people in that skull mask of his doesn’t help his case. He’s a Ghost. No one knows who he is or anything about him. Those who get close enough usually wind up dead because lord knows the most socialization Ghost does at his job is killing some terrorist. Even his own teammates haven’t seen his face.
Little do they know Simon is a completely different person outside work. He never touches his mask unless you ask him to fuck you in it, so he’s free for you to caress and touch any time you damn please. His hair is fluffy! It’s so soft and fuzzy you could spend hours combing your fingers through it. Around you, his face is always covered in smiles; you also pepper it in kisses a dozen times a day.
He wear normal, civilian clothes: hoodies that you borrow because they smell like him, soft pjs that are so comfy to cuddle against, sweatpants that have you shamelessly ogling his bits, sometimes going shirtless in only a towel that leads you to pull it down and suck him off…
He’s got favorite hangouts, hobbies that he enjoys, friends he could spend hours with. He likes taking you on dates on his motorcycle. He loves the way the wind blows against him when he’s not stuffed in gear. He loves your arms wrapping around his waist and your head resting against his shoulder. Sometimes, he’ll take you on picnics so he can lay his head on your lap and gaze up at the clouds or skies. He likes when you spoon him and sing him to sleep.
Oh, and he’s a chatterbox. He could talk your ears off. All day, he yaps about anything and everything. Doesn’t matter so long as he has a thought about something and you’re around to hear it. You’re half tempted to bug the place because you could swear he talks to himself when you’re away.
He’s a golden retriever basically. He’s capable of being a normal person. All he wants to do is be happy. He’ll follow you around like a puppy, pawing at you for affection and trying to get as much of you as he can. With the height difference, it’s almost comical how he’ll almost double over to snuggle his head into the crook of your neck or beg for a kiss. It’s a wonder he doesn’t tire of you, but he never will. He likes this piece of heaven he’s found. There’s a ring on your finger to remind you of that.
𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 SUMMARY: in your last relationship aftercare wasn’t even a concept, but with Simon Riley it’s so much more than that.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: just Simon giving you aftercare for the first time because what the hell I have free will ALSO 18+ puhlease!! Mdni I’ll boot kick you out.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff so rotten your teeth will fall out.
Pairings: bf!Simon x gf!Reader
The next best thing to sex with Simon Riley was the aftercare - you thought as your gaze followed him into the bathroom, his frame disappearing behind the doorframe. You were sore, heart hammering and skin slick with sweat as you basked in the aftermath of it all, but a soft smile stretched across your lips.
You felt like you were positively glowing.
It shocked you the first time you both had sex. Not that you expected him to discard you with his back turned. But considering your past relationship, the lack of love after making it was normal for you.
Didn’t make it suck any less though.
So when it came to Simon. A man who practically intimidated every neighbour of yours within a block, muscle and tattoo ridden and who killed for a living - aftercare seemed … overly emotionally strenuous for him. Like it would make things too real? You thought.
But when it came and he held you as though you could crack like strained glass, gently wiping your skin with a lukewarm towel, you couldn’t hide how enamoured you felt.
How did so much care and love come from the same hands that drew blood.
“What’s tha’ look for?” Simon pointed bluntly as he butterflied your hips open to clean your core “nothing just-“ you swallowed thickly, blinking “didn’t expect all this” you breathe. Simon’s brows furrowed in confusion, gaze still tethered to wiping you clean “Christ dove, what kind of men have you been havin’ sex with” his abrasive tone made you huff a laugh “shitty ones” you retorted.
“Fuckin’ clearly” he said, guiding the rough towel over your stomach.
Seconds passed and you were still unable to wipe the adoration off your face, something Simon noticed with a huff of a laugh “ya lookin’ at me like I’ve just bought you a fuckin’ puppy” mirth dripped off of his tone.
You gently pushed him “shut up”
“What kinda man do ya’ take me for” Simon questioned while he moved to soothe the inside of your thighs. You let his words hang in the air before you responded “not a shitty one” he hummed in amusement, his belief of your words wavered thin.
Simon tended to the hickeys and bruises, apologising gruffly for getting carried away. To which you said that you didn’t mind “Good” he said, throwing the towel into the dirty clothes basket before lying down next to you “C’mere” he graveled, arms outstretched.
You complied, draping your arm across his scarred chest. A new found sense of relief flooded through you at the feeling of being so tenderly cared for. Simon heaved a sigh, coiling his arm around your waist to pull you closer “M’fuckin’ girl” he murmured before kissing the crown of your head.
CWs: smut! medications & side effects, low libido, subtly touches themes of depression. porn is being watched during sex. this is like two smut fics into one lmao
CoD Masterlist | Main Masterlist
"Do you want to watch porn together?"
Never a dull moment with you, he thinks. Always full of surprises. The way you sprinkle excitement and spice in his slow, boring life is the only thing that keeps him afloat.
And Simon can confidently say that this is the least bored he’s ever been with you.
He's learned to school his expression into place; however, not even years of duty can mask the curious quirk of his brow. He shifts on the sofa, propping one ankle over the opposite knee. One arm rests on the backrest of the couch, fingers thrumming against the leather.
Your eyes fall onto his other hand, sitting atop his thigh.
He nods with his chin. "Run tha' by me again?"
You stand barefoot on the carpet. Loose shorts and an old tank top that has stretched out from one too many washes. The nibble of your lip tells him that you're ready to eat your words as soon as he questions them. The same goes for the way you're tormenting the cuticle on your thumb.
But he's interested. Fucking hell, this is the most intrigued he's been in ages.
"Porn?" He inquires the moment you open your mouth to most likely take everything back.
You close your lips with a pop and look at the ceiling, trying to force the heat collected on your cheeks to dissipate—flow southward perhaps, where it's not a bother but a welcome feeling instead.
But then you clear your throat. Straighten your spine. "Yes, porn."
Simon echoes you, enunciating the word. "Porn."
"Porn."
He nods, the corners of his lips curving in a smirk.
"With me?"
You tongue your cheek, eyes sharp. "Did I stutter?"
He pinches the air in front of his face. "A little."
But he must have taken it a step too far, because you're suddenly rolling your eyes and huffing.
"Right. I shouldn't have asked—" You mutter, turning on your heels.
Simon's got quick hands. One of them reaches forward and grabs your wrist, pulling you in. You stumble between his legs, big thighs now parted for you to stand comfortably before him.
His eyes soften, then, only because he can tell you've taken pains to summon the courage to ask him such a curious thing.
Simon rests the back of his head against the couch to look up at you. Instead of finding your eyes, however, he sees your profile—stubbornly, you're forcing yourself to look at everything but him.
"M'sorry, alrigh'?" He rumbles. The tip of his finger finds your jaw, and he gently steers you to face him. "Took me off guard is all."
The line between your brows deepens, sudden worry branching through your features. Though when his finger on your jawline turns into a palm cradling your cheek, you sigh, leaning into his hand.
And as your body softens, your tongue loosens, too.
"I just—" You bite your lip, nibbling at the flecks of dry skin. Once again, your eyes dart around, as if the firmness you need is stuck somewhere in the furniture of the house.
He grounds you again, this time with a light tap of his fingers.
You rub your forehead in frustration. "Ever since they upped the dosage of my meds, I—we—"
You don't need to finish the sentence for him to understand where you're getting at.
Yes, you haven't fucked in months. He’d wager it’s been at least two, maybe three, and the last thoroughly satisfying fuck he’s had with you goes back to a couple of days prior to that fated doctor’s appointment. It’s not the longest break, and he’s aware. Fucking hell, before he met you, he could’ve gone years without getting his dick wet. He has gone through years of solitude, in fact.
Though it’s you that he misses. Fucking you senseless. Eating you out. It’s the taste of your skin, not the taste of skin itself. It’s the scent that nestles in the creases of your neck, not the smell of sex.
Most people would say that, in such cases, they don’t remember the last time they had sex. Simon, however, does. He remembers it quite vividly, actually. Nothing can erase from his mind the picture you paint when you’re feeling good—when he’s making you feel good.
He misses it. Misses you. He’s human, after all.
But he likes you with that smile. Likes you proper happy. Likes you healthy, hungry, and then sated. Likes you laughing at jokes, at life. Likes the fight that’s suddenly surged within you. The need for control in a life that left you without it.
He misses it, true, but he likes you alive.
And nothing will ever change his stance on that.
His other hand brushes your thigh with the back of his knuckles.
“Go on,” he murmurs.
“Well, I—I can’t stop this—” You gesture vaguely at your stomach, as if it’s there where it all festers. “—Sense of guilt. I feel guilty, alright? I—I know you’ll say I shouldn’t—”
“Aye, you shouldn’t.”
“—But,” you interject, pointing a finger at him. “I still do.”
“Love,” he insists, but not unkindly. “Won’t fuck you outta guilt, yeah? You gotta want it.”
“I do!” You whine, lightly stomping your foot against the carpet in frustration. “I swear I do! I just—"
You rip your cheek out of his touch. His hand falls to your other thigh, then, no matter how reluctantly, just to give you space.
“I—I don’t think I remember how to feel like I do anymore,” your voice cracks. “I hate it. I hate how I can’t control it anymore.”
Simon falls still. Stays silent, waiting for you to get to the point of your reasoning. No sense in stopping you when, clearly, you’ve been trying so hard to tell him what feelings have been festering inside you.
You take in a steadying breath, smoothing your hands down your shirt.
“And I thought, you know, maybe porn can help me. Maybe it can make me horny.”
He nods, urging you to go on. His hands on you, slow and grounding, draw mindless shapes.
“But it’s weird to… get ready for it.” You cinch your shoulders. “I don’t want to watch some porn in the bathroom waiting to get wet only to find you after, because—because it literally takes a walk from the loo to the bedroom that it’s just… gone.”
Simon thinks about it.
It would be odd, he doesn’t deny that. Doesn’t know what you like to watch when he’s deployed. Then, it feels wrong to look at another person while he’s fucking you. Doesn’t care much about other people and those fake moans, or selfish ones and their plastic performances.
You’ve got a few videos you both took when drunk or when trying to spice it up a little. Perhaps those?
He knows he’s got one of you that he can’t get tired of.
You’re lying on your front as he pounds into you, pretty ass wiggling against his crotch whenever he stops. The phone is propped up on the pillow, its back leaning against the headboard. The shot shows your face first, then the curve of your spine. Your ass pressed to the V of his stomach, bouncing round and soft.
He put the phone there, even as you insisted it’d be better if both of you were in the frame. But he was stubborn, asked to have something to look at when he’s away, and he joked about how he’s not a fan of his ugly mug.
“Can’t have a wank an’ look at this mug now, can I.”
Your face, mainly. That’s what he likes to watch. Brows pulled tight, eyes hooded, mouth agape. White paints the knuckle of his hand as it fists your hair, forcing your head back. Then, there’s you. The uncomfortable and jagged curve of your neck, your tendons bulging at the sides, the veins that branch out from your collarbones and find root at your jawline.
Fuck, the sounds you make. Those strained breaths that stroke your vocal cords like you’re an instrument—moans clipped and sharp, rhythmic with the pistoning of his hips.
Oh, the groan of your first orgasm. The whites of your eyes eating up your pupils. The curve of your mouth, a pained smile that trembles, unsure whether to cry out or laugh blissfully.
It’s your voice that brings him back. His eyes focus on you once again, redefining the lines of your shape.
He must have stayed quiet for a bit too long, because the worried look on your face starts withering into something even worse, something like rejection.
“We could watch anything,” you provide nervously, rubbing your palms against your thighs. “Your favourites, maybe? Do you have any? I don’t know, you can take the lead on that—on everything, actually. I—I need to—”
With a frustrated sigh, you run a hand down the back of your neck. “I need to feel like you want to fuck me. I—I want to feel like I want to have sex again. I want to be in control of it.”
Your chest heaves. “Please tell me I’m making sense.”
Fucking hell. It would be odd, true, but fuck odd.
Your brows pinch. “It’s okay if you don’t wa—"
“I got an idea.”
“This isn’t what I had in mind,” you blabber breathlessly.
Simon’s fingers are buried inside you. The video is muted because you asked.
“Met you halfway, didn’t I?”
His phone sits propped against the headboard, the lower margin hidden beneath the hills and curls of the pillowcase. The light is dim in the bedroom, similarly to how it looks on his phone. He’s got you with your stomach pressed against the mattress, just like in that video. The only thing keeping your head from slipping against the bed is his fist, holding firmly onto your locks.
“But I—” You choke when his knuckles brush your clit. “—I don’t like to look at myself.”
Simon cracks his neck, tilting it side to side.
“S’porn, innit?”
You groan. “God, Simon—”
“You asked for my favourite,” he rumbles. “There y’go.”
There’s a slow, accommodating fashion in the movements of his hand. Languid strokes given with two fingers, sometimes slipping out to smear your wetness down your slit, brushing featherlight on your clit.
“But this won’t make me horny,” you whine, though there’s a telltale weakness in your statement that doesn’t manage to mask the lie.
Greedy eyes eat what his mouth still can’t. The sweat collecting on your temples, the slope of your nose and the curve of your mouth—lips pouting, teeth sinking into the flesh to silence yourself. Shy thing. You’ve never been one, but he reckons there’s nothing wrong with a change of pace, every once in a while.
He parts your folds with his fingers and gulps harshly when the thick sound of your wetness reaches his ears. Proved yourself wrong, there.
“Won’t it?”
He’s kneeling on top of you, knees digging into the mattress on either side of your thighs. The video is not what he focuses on, though. He’s got better things to admire. The angles of your shoulder blades, the indents of your muscles as they tense, and the sweet dip of your spine. Where it hollows and where it ends—two tiny dimples crowning the plump of your ass.
Fuck you’re a painting, aren’t you?
“Look at yourself,” he drawls, forcing your eyes to the screen with a tug of your hair. “Look at how good you were feelin’, mh?”
The little whine that escapes you matches the clench of your pussy around his fingers. Gladly, he realises that you’re not cutting off the blood flow of his hand, but instead you’re opening up to him, feeling much softer than when he first entered you.
For a brief second, his eyes flicker to the screen.
There’s the pretty curl of your lips as you look up at him, subjecting your neck to bend in an uncomfortable arch, though his face is out of frame. You go a little cross-eyed, right there, as your smirk turns into a beautiful smile—all teeth and wrinkled nose.
The video keeps rolling, and after a heartbeat, you offer your tongue. From the top of the screen, a rope of spit falls and lands directly on it, and he watches as you drink it down.
The soft bob of your throat, the delighted grin it follows, the mouthed “thank you”.
Simon’s cock sits above your ass. It hangs heavy with blood and gleaming at the tip, aching to be touched. His balls feel painfully tight, and if he ventures and grinds down between your cheeks, he might finish before this thing even starts.
His fingers switch, moving from inside you to lightly tap at your clit. Deliberately slow, circling around your clit to unsheathe it and leave the most sensitive part to his mercy whenever he glides down.
You suck in a breath.
Gentle touches wake up your body, skin rushing with waves of shivers that tiptoe up your spine.
“Can—can you do that?”
Simon’s pads slide forward, from your clit to the curls on your pelvis, slipping easily with the wetness collected on his pads. Back and forth, until the tautness in your thighs melts away into the sheets underneath.
“Do what, swee’heart?”
Shyly, you look up. Your neck cranes backwards in a mimicry of that same painful curve he’s witnessed time and time again.
Your lashes flutter up to him. “Can you spit in my mouth like that?”
And it goes straight to his cock.
Don’t need to tell him twice.
The hand in your hair slowly releases its grip, and by the way your moan comes, breathless and aching, he can tell the sting it left must have added to your pleasure. His fingers grasp your jaw, digging into your cheeks.
Shifting forward, Simon aligns his mouth with yours from above.
“Open up.”
You blink, doe-eyed and bashful. Lick your lips and nibble at the flakes of dry skin, pondering for a moment, before you heed his order and part your mouth for him, letting your tongue loll down your chin.
Simon’s eyes roll back.
His throat is parched, and he wonders how the fuck he will spit in your mouth when you managed to dry out his tongue with just a look.
Nevertheless, he summons the strength and purses his lips, letting a rope of spit fall slowly onto your tongue.
He watches your nostrils flare in anticipation. Your brows as they flutter when it lands. How you seem to savour it when you swallow. How you find his face again in your stupor, with your eyes smothered under the dark veil of lust.
His cock grows tighter when you smile.
“Thank you,” you mouth, licking your lips as if you might taste more of him again.
Simon’s left breathless as you repeat your own words, and he has to summon all his strength not to spear you with his cock right then and there. He genuinely wants to pace himself, but you look so fucking appetising that he just craves to have a taste. He should give you time to adjust, space to settle—he shouldn’t devour you with his mouth.
He should, should, should. Should be better. Should be softer. Should be—
I need to feel like you want to fuck me.
Simon’s heart comes to an abrupt stop.
He should, should, should—
—give you more.
Show you how he wants to fuck you, like you asked, instead of going at a slow, far-fetched pace. He was never one to sit down and have a feast patiently. Simon’s hungry, he’s always been. To merely nibble on supper would feel artificial, plainly wrong.
And above everything, Simon wants you.
He leans down and smashes his lips to yours.
The sound of clacking teeth almost swallows your gasp, but the surprise is short-lived—promptly replaced with the same kind of hunger, only delivered more tentatively.
His kiss is hungry and unrestrained. His teeth sink into your lip before launching again, smearing spit down your chin. You taste like you. Of mint and sugar. Herbs from the tea you shared, sweet because of the biscuits you dipped in yours, even as he grimaced at the sight.
It’s the taste of you. The feel of your skin.
The growing warmth of your cheeks as his stubble irritates them, the slick of your tongue as it dances with his.
Your palm lands harshly at the nape of his neck, grasping blindly until it clutches around a handful of hair. Your fingers wander and grab, nails scratching his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. Now that your hand isn’t supporting your weight anymore, you’re using him as leverage—pulling down his head and further smashing his mouth against yours.
Simon’s hand around your throat tightens just slightly.
“Remember tha’?” He purrs, lips to lips. Then, he steers your face to look ahead, where the video keeps rolling.
And you’re so diligent, following his lead. “Yes.”
“Mh,” he rumbles. “Felt good, didn’t it?”
The swell of your ass grinds against his cock. Simon kisses his teeth, jaw tight in the effort to keep himself sane.
“Yes.”
His offhand reaches down to the base of his cock. Slaps the head against the curve of your ass once, twice.
“Wanna cum on my cock like that?” He murmurs, reaching down to lick the shell of your ear. You shiver. “Wanna feel like tha’ again?”
You wiggle underneath him, letting out the smallest whine. Shy thing, you. That’s one of the things that has changed. He’s always loved the bite of your teeth, the cut of your tongue. Loved the leash you put on him, how it revealed his need for control for what it truly was—mere, unfettered fear. Shackles he thought were keeping him safe, when they were only locking him up in a cage of his own making.
He recognises that same trait within you, now. Recognises, also, how you’re trying to be rid of it.
It’s why he’s more than delighted to understand that you're fighting against those chains—forever his clever, clever girl.
He narrowly misses your hand reaching forward to press the buttons on the side of his phone.
Your voice fills the room.
“Oh fuck,” you groan.
Simon’s hand has your hair in a brutal grip, pulling you back until all the phone can record are the angles of your jaw and the sharpness of your collarbones. His chest peeks from above, glistening with sweat and ruddy in blotches.
Your ragged moans are punched out of your lips by the rhythmic snap of his hips. Thrust after thrust framed by the slap of skin and his voice—some raucous, crackling thing that rips from his chest, claws and all.
“Like tha’, pet,” he snarls. “Fuckin’ take it.”
And you nod, sweet thing. You nod dumbly as you smile up at him. Your tits hang and bounce as the raw force of his hold lifts your chest from the bed. One last pull, tight and strong, turns those moans into one sharp yell.
His grin is unseen but clearly plastered in his tone. “Y’liked that, uh?”
Another tug, another helpless moan.
“Ah fuck, yer close,” he chuckles. The wet squelches of your pussy ratchet up in volume as he thrusts in, over and over, picking up the pace. “Listen to tha’. Yer gonna cum, love?”
The lower half of his face pops into frame from above, only to land a kiss on the crown of your head.
“Can feel ya getting’ tight.” His lips brush your skin. “Go on, sweet girl.”
Before leaving the grip in your hair.
“Cum on my fuckin’ cock—"
Your face hits the pillow with a groan that drowns in linen. The phone falls, now recording the ceiling. No one bothers to pick it up again.
“Fuck me,” you heave. “Fuck me like that again, baby.”
Simon has to close his eyes and inhale to get himself back in line.
“Fuckin’ hell.” He kisses his teeth. “C’mere.”
He pulls your head back once again. Kisses you until his lips feel numb. Right beneath him, you keep chanting your plea like he isn’t about to give in already.
“Fuck me, baby,” you mumble to his mouth, on and on without rest. “Please fuck me. I—I want to feel you inside me, please. Please.”
I want to feel like I want to have sex again.
“I want it,” you whimper. “I want you.”
Blood pulses from the base of his cock all the way to the tip. He can feel the shockwaves seizing his limbs when he presses it to your cunt, sliding it up and down your slick until he’s drenched in it.
He kisses your temple. Moves upwards to the back of your head, safely cradling your jaw in his palm.
“Missed it, haven’t ya,” he purrs by your ear. His cock enters an inch. “Feel tha’?”
He’s never been this hard in his life—never been this turned on either.
You must realise it too. Words fail you, but your voice doesn’t. It crackles through your lips with a moan that shatters on his palm.
“Missed you too, pet.”
He’s barely been inside you, and if he doesn’t truly, really, focus, he’ll ram his cock and come so fucking deep you’ll drip for days.
Suddenly, the thought feels more tempting than wrong.
“Yer gonna take it, yeah?” He grunts, moving forward with his hips. “Gonna take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”
A pleasing sob. “Please.”
With a groan, Simon gives in.
Not a sound leaves your lips. He can feel them open up against his hand, choking on air, and that is all you yield as he pushes in. The rest tightens into one euphoric knot at the base of his throat, cutting off each intake of air.
In a swift motion, Simon buries his cock to the hilt, hips flush to your ass. His head collapses against you, mouth to your shoulder, and peppers kisses all over its curve. When he pulls back, the first stroke after months sends his brain into a frenzy. His teeth sink into your neck, growling like the famished beast that he is—
One you tame with your hand in his hair, tightening the grip to settle him.
“Oh my fucking—" Words tumble out of your mouth in a strained whimper. “Fuck it feels so good. Move. Move, please move—”
Simon’s mouth opens against your neck. His tongue licks a path from your thundering heart to the shell of your ear, where he tries to focus.
It’s the smell of you. The floral of your shampoo and the sourness of sweat. The butter of your face cream and the ginger of perfume.
“I got you, pet,” he croaks, as his heart suddenly ties itself in a knot. “I got you.”
You’re incomparable. Fit like a glove, you do. Adjusting to him in the blink of an eye, already heaving like he stole the air from your lungs—though he’s just started, and considering the desperation of your hands, he reckons you’re far from done, too.
He’s deliberately slow, savouring each second that passes—but sometimes he slips, and thrusts in a little harder. Apologises with his lips down your neck, turning your hiss into the softest sigh. Thumbs your waist with the hand fisting the sheets, also the only thing preventing him from collapsing on top of you.
You find his fingers and twine them with yours.
The only sound he hears is the one coming from the video, the screen now flush to the pillow. It fell at some point. He never bothered to check when.
His groans, the slap of skin, your pleas as you come—
“Fuck,” you pant, hissing through your teeth. “Ngh—keep going. God, plea—keep going—”
“Yeah?” His voice purrs. “Fuckin’ feel that—Christ yer dripping.”
Your breath picks up, ricochets in the bedroom as another orgasm stalks closer.
“M’gonna come again—”
“Go on then,” he rumbles. “Do it, love. Cum all over me.”
Abruptly, your fingers reach for his phone and lock it. The echo of your moans is cut short, and so are his grunts. For a second, his tinnitus manages to shroud the lack of sounds.
But then, there’s the quiet stagger of your breathing that breaches past, poking a hole through the cotton stuffing his ears. The creaking of the bedframe follows. How his movements make the springs moan under his weight.
The wet of your nose nuzzles his cheek. “I missed you.”
Your fingers relent the grip in his hair, hand falling down to cup his cheek instead.
“I missed you.”
It’s said so wistfully that Simon, for a moment, feels entirely out of his depth.
He kisses the shell of your ear before guiding your gaze to point his way. Glossy eyes find him, thinly veiled with gratitude. He almost melts then and there. You got him wrapped around your finger, bow and all.
“I love you,” you say, placing your lips on his. “I love you so much.”
Simon’s chest grows tight.
He can feel those words take hold of his heart. Squeeze it bloody, only to travel southward and tighten around the base of his cock, too. In a stutter, his hips falter, and he has to come to a standstill if he doesn’t want this to end so abruptly.
“Christ,” he mutters, “Yer killing me, pet.”
The smoothness of your teeth brushes his lips as you smile. “Mh. And we don’t want that.”
He buries his nose in the crook of your neck and inhales the flowers, the butter and the herbs. The ginger, the sweat and the biscuits.
“Aye, we don’t,” he sighs.
Your tongue licks a stripe across his mouth. “But I love you.”
Simon groans. “Yer a cheeky fuckin’—”
He pulls back and slams in again, as if to chastise you, but it isn’t received as punishment at all. In fact, it spurs you on—you moan into his mouth and put him under your spell. A chant, continuous, of endless I love yous that peel off the layers that make him.
Simon finally gives in. He’s missed you, too.
He collapses on top of you, punching a gasp from your mouth as your whole body is enveloped by his. His arm snakes under your belly, and you favour him by lifting your hips. The angle has him hit somewhere deeper, and you shatter beneath him. Your throat cracks a groan, soaked by the pillow, and finally, you let go when his fingers find your clit.
“Missed you,” he croaks in your ear.
His pace picks up.
“Missed this voice ‘ere.” His mouth latches onto your neck. “Missed yer fuckin’ taste. Missed this fuckin’ cunt.”
Doesn’t care about the strain in his spine and the burn of his calves, not when your moans start growing louder and wetter.
“Fuckin’—” He stutters. “Love ya. Wanna fuck you every day—”
Your slick rolls out of you thick as liquor for each thrust, coating his fingers. Two, at first. Then three, gliding smoothly from side to side over the tight knot of your clit.
“When yer knackered, when yer cooking, when yer in the fucking shop an’ bend over to pick up some shite—”
“Oh fuck, Simon—keep going—”
“—Fuck, yer made f’me. Naked or not. I always want you. I do.”
“I’m—oh fuck—I’m gonna come—”
And he can fucking feel it.
“That’s it, pet. Give it to me.”
Your body seizes at first, taut as a bowstring. And then, you bloom.
Wave after wave, rippling against him with your whole being. Even as cramped as you are, crowded under the weight of him, you fuck him through your ecstasy. Push your ass backwards to ride him for all his worth.
And Simon is entirely helpless, so entranced by the pulsing of your cunt around his cock that he barely realises how he’s coming, too. It’s all it took, really. To feel you clutch at his hair with your fingers, to have you fight for control—steal it from the tight grip of his hands.
His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your neck, groaning when his release wrecks him from within. Feels your pulse ratchet up under his tongue, your stutters as they bubble up your throat as you wordlessly beg for him to want you, to love you.
As he silently gives it all to you. All you ask, and more.
Eventually, you fall still. The tightness of your muscles melts. All the effort of your movement turns into mere, occasional twitching as adrenaline leaves your bloodstream.
You’re soft again. Turning your head on the pillow to find him, resting with his cheek right by your side.
“I missed you,” you say wetly. “I’m sorry.”
Simon brushes his nose against yours.
He knows how that type of guilt feels—the misplaced one, the one with no reason to be there at all. It festers within your stomach and doesn’t care about the damage it yields, because it’s not how it operates.
It’s unfounded. Still, he knows words won’t be able to quell the heartache.
But Simon sees what you still can’t. It takes balls to survive a life you don’t want anymore. He knows a thing or two about that. Swam in his own ocean of shit.
Still, he watched you take control back in your hands. You asked for help and crafted a new life that fits you better and patched the wounds left by the one you once led. You witnessed yourself burst at the seams and decided that it was time to pick up the needle.
That requires an incomparable amount of courage.
Simon knows it well. Still bears the scars to prove it.
“Don’t gotta be,” he whispers. “Proud of ya.”
Your eyes widen. Open the faucet, too. The glittering rim left by your orgasm turns into a river. Tears cascade from the corners of your eyes and branch above the bridge of your nose, down your temple, into your hair.
“For what?” You chuckle dismissively. “Having sex?”
But Simon kisses your nose instead. Offers a lovely smile he hasn’t granted in a while.
“Yeah,” he concedes, because you need time. “Tha’ too.”
Your giggle is refreshing and genuine, though a bit strangled. He realises only then that you’ve been crushed underneath his weight all this time, so he props himself on his elbows. You sigh, wiggling to turn around in the cramped space between his chest and the bedsheets, until your eyes are aligned with his.
Your lashes are clumped, sticking to one another with dewdrops of happiness. They flutter when you look up at his face.
“Thank you,” you say. “For being here. For being proud of me.”
Always.
Simon leans down and breathes a kiss on your forehead.
