my inbox is waiting for your unhinged thoughts and silly ideas!!
m a s t e r l i s t
keanuverse (coming soon)
moon knight
ex machina
spider verse
genshin impact
r e c e n t w o r k s
🧸 | fluff
☁️ | angst
🔥 | smut
🌱 the ruse | 🧸🔥 Nathan Bateman x Reader
Nathan wants to buy out your father's business, but the latter is skeptical of closing the deal with the BlueBook owner. The solution? He's going to seduce you.
🌱 pink interface | 🧸🔥 Nathan Bateman x Reader
Nathan made you a period tracker... but it's nothing you'll find on the public market.
🌱 coffee doodles ch. 3 | 🧸☁️ Marc Spector x Reader
Marc frequents the coffee shop you work at in the dead of night.
this chapter: you finally receive a phone call...?
Guards! Put the blond man in spandex in situations!
Welcome to the Star Spider Grace AU Pilot! Here’s the previous Initial concepts . Me & Sam have been brewing this concept and now we’re both into too deep. Dunno how many chapters I will draw but anyway-
ISSUE #1 / ISSUE#2 / ISSUE#3 / ISSUE#4 (already on my ko-Fi!)
Fics inspired by this concept:
Project Evolution by @sam-i-am-27 : THE fic. Sam and I have been coming out with most of the concepts together (both for the comic and the fic) but this is their own work so go check them out! Since we draw/write each at our own pace some stuff are/will be different.
Your Graceful, Neighbourhood Spiderman by @var1an-onl1n3
Friendly Neighborhood Star-Spider by Daisy_yellow
Uncover: to lay bare, disclose, reveal by @foxinsheepsclothing-ao3
Darn it, let’s do this one final time! By @therivergirl
One and Only Star-Spider by Finding_7th
With Great Power by overarainbow
Your Friendly Neighbourhood Astrophage by S0me_Idi0t
We Are The Butcher by Faux_the_Fox
Webbing Life's Into One (Bring you a home) by Sky_110
If you find more let me know! I'm only tagging those who explicitly credited me, as there are other spiderman AU fics on ao3 not necessarely related to my version
“You look nice,” Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”
“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.
“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.
“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.
Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”
He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.
He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.
‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.
“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”
“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.
“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”
“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”
“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.
“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek.
“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.
“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”
Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”
“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom.
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.
“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”
“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”
“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish.
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”
“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!”
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”
“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”
It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.
“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays.
It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all.
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.
“I’ll go with you.”
He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.
“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.
“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.
His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too.
You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.
“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.
“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.
He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.
So navy it was.
You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though.
Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.
“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”
“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.
“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.
Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.
He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.
It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.
Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.
“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.
You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.
It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”
“It’s fake satin. I think.”
“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”
“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.
“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.
“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.
“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.
“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”
“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”
“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool.
Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber.
There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.
“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”
“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly.
It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.
He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.
“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”
“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.
Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.
With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.
“Enjoyed it, probably.”
“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in.
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.
“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”
“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.
“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.
Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment.
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.
“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”
“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval.
“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”
“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up.
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”
You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”
“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.
“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected.
“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.
“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.
Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be.
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”
“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option.
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.
It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”
He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”
It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer.
“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now.
Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family.
“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.
“What?”
“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”
“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”
“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”
You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”
It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”
“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”
“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”
“If it’s with you.” He amends.
“And slow kissing? You like that too?”
“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head.
“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.
“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.
“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.
There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it.
“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”
“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.
“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”
“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”
“Science, opposites attract I guess.”
“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons.
Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”
“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.
“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little.
“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.”
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”
“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?”
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”
You scoff. “A little?”
“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”
“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking.
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself.
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.
It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of.
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful.
It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.
It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”
Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”
“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you.
For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.
“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips.
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”
“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.
He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back.
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left.
Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.
The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night.
You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination.
“Presumptious.” You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”
“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.
“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”
“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”
“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”
“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.
But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”
“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”
“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”
“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”
He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late.
Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.
“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous.
“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon.
“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you.
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
“It has.” You lick your lips.
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.
It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.
“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”
“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for.
“Just me?”
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.
His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.
There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”
“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”
“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.
The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.
You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.
“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.
“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly.
“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight.
“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.
His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.
It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.
It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”
With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.
Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”
“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.
You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear.
“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.
Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.
Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.
“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.”
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”
He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.
“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.
“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.”
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.
It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”
“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.
“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”
“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.
“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.
“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.”
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know.
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”
“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”
“Deal.”
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
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.
this is a SMUT submission for jtoddsbaby’s fighting ring (congratulations on 1k @jtoddsbaby)
a jason todd x f!reader story
in this dessert…
reader is at the club to find a one night stand... and she finds just the right man, only it is Jason Todd, the same boy she had once been a mean girl to.
can she apologize to him properly?
flavor: smut, porn with a bit of plot
wc: 2.9+ k
contents: fem!reader. reader was a bully to Jason in high school. inspired by when did you get hot? by Sabrina Carpenter. nasty making out. Jason is mean in bed. degradation. clit slapping. ass spanking. p in v sex. unprotected sex. cowgirl position. blowjob.
baker's notes: felt sad, so I wrote pure filth lmao.
want more desserts? check out the menu
this fic contains smut, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
The floor hummed with the vibration of the bass, a reverberation you felt up to your eardrums. The music enveloped you and urged everyone to dance to it's high intensity rhythm, as the neon lights flashed around erratically.
It wasn't odd for you to find yourself in the middle of a dance floor in the weekends, sweating the stress of the week away, and if you were lucky enough, you would end up enticing a man right between your legs to relax you further.
That was your mission this week. Seduction. Hence why you were wearing your sluttiest dress, that barely covered your pretty little ass, and you'd done your make up with cutting edge precision. No man around you would be safe from your bedroom eyes, the generous cleavage accentuated with tasteful jewelry, and the most lethal smirk painted in a shade of glossy, maroon red.
And you had been approached by many, which meant part of your mission had been successful. Now all that was left to do was to find someone that was appealing to your eyes.
You had been pulled away from the dance floor by your friend, as she spoke about getting some much needed refreshments. You couldn't blame her: the stifling heat of the summer was only accentuated by the press of bodies against each other.
And so you found yourself in the bar, reunited again with the rest of your friend group. They were talking and laughing animatedly with some other group. One of your friend's caught your eye, and she grinned. "Hey, don't you know Jason?"
She gestured to a hunk of a man you failed to see how you'd failed to see. But when you did see him, it was impossible to notice anyone else, he occupied your entire field of vision, with his broad shoulders and big arms that strained against a simple black t-shirt, the cargo pants he wore that he was filling pretty nicely, and a face that seemed to be carved by the angels in heaven themselves. Target acquired.
It wasn't until you met his eyes, deep, intense, ever-consuming, that something tugged in the depths of your memory. High school days, that now seemed so far away, and those same eyes staring straight through you, at your very soul in the crowded hallways.
He had been a scrawny kid then, with his knobbly knees that always had scratches on them, and his quick wit in class that made everyone envious. And you? You'd been what some would call a mean girl (you would now call it being a pathetic kid that took out her own insecurities on others. Therapy did that to you). Not something you were proud of now, but you couldn't erase the past. But you could hope that Jason wouldn't remember your meanness towards him.
Except that intense way he looked at you, the flush of his cheeks in the pallor of his skin, the furrow of his thick brows… yeah, he definitely remembered.
White-hot shame filled your cheeks, flooded your being, and suddenly the summer felt even more unbearable.
The conversation around you shifted to other topics, something you weren't paying much attention to. Instead you were left to ponder on your mistakes ten years ago, materialized as a Greek god of a man. You watched as he took just two wide steps to collapse the distance between you.
You swallowed hard, hand finding purchase on the bar top to stabilize you now that Jason had entered your life. Re-entered. "I don't know if you remember me," you said in an uncharacteristically meek tone.
"Hard to forget you." His voice had changed. Once squeaky and filled with cracks, it was now deep, and rumbly. You didn't know if it was that sexy quality to his timbre or the words themselves, but you now felt all that heat that had presented itself as shame shifting inside your body, rushing, with the speed of dripping honey, down to your lower belly.
"Yeah, well… this would be easier if you had," you murmured. He seemed to hear, even over the music that played way too loud. You saw his lips curve into a smirk, lopsided and almost cruel in it's attractiveness. You supposed you deserved all that cruelty.
"What would be easier?" Fuck. He'd drawn closer, and the words were whispered straight to your ear, his full lips brushing the shell of your ear. You wondered were else you could lead those lips. If they would feel just as silky soft, or it he'd be rough with his mouth? How would his teeth feel, nipping at your own lips?
You swallowed hard, feeling as if you were swallowing on nails instead of air. "Apologizing."
"Now that's something I never thought I'd see in my life," he said, his eyes coming into view. Had they always been this sparkling green color? Or was memory playing tricks on you? "Thank god I got a second chance…"
Again you felt the uncomfortable heat of shame washing all over you. What did it say about you if it only served to make you wetter?
"I mean it," you said, shaking your head. "I was a lonely, stupid girl who thought she could be cool or some shit by being mean to people. Not something I'd like to be remembered as, and I know words mean squat in front of all the damage I did, but I still feel like it's my obligation to apologize. So, I'm sorry."
Jason considered you for a few seconds that stretched too long. At first it was his eyes boring into yours. And then his searing gaze shifted. To the bare skin of your decolletage, to the silken dress that draped delectably over your body, to your legs, almost entirely bare thanks to the length of the dress —or lack there off. Slowly, his gaze made the path back to your eyes, and you were sure that a different expression had entered his eyes. Something akin to hunger. You felt your mouth dry up, anticipation of his next words hang over you like a guillotine waiting to be dropped.
"You're right, words mean squat. But there is a way you could make up for it all…"
And that's how you ended up in his apartment. Your softness under his hardness as he pressed you against a wall. It was as if it had been his turn to be mean after all these years: his rough hands were demanding over your soft skin, his full mouth harsh against yours.
He was as greedy with his actions as he'd been with his gaze in the club. He took your mouth in quick swipes of his tongue, silken against your own. His teeth made delicious friction with your lower lip, gathering the gloss there and tasting it slowly.
His tempo varied: he started slow, got increasingly fast, and just when you'd start to moan and whine, the lack of oxygen making you dizzy, he'd slow down.
Everything combined… well it was making you feel woozy. You felt yourself melt against the wall, against his chest, as if you were made of nothing more that beeswax and he was the brightest flame.
His hands were just as restless. He pressed them against your waist, wide and warm even through the silk of your dress. He bunched the flimsy fabric, and the dress lifted to his whims. Not once did his mouth leave yours as his hand wandered down to feel the skin newly exposed. Rough callouses against the supple skin of your stomach made you shudder against his chest, a soft sigh escaping your mouth and slipping past his lips.
When his knuckles dipped lower and he noticed the lack of fabric, he pulled away. "No panties?" he spoke, his voice no more than a rough rasp. He smirked, his tongue peeking between his lips to swipe at the shared saliva that had gathered on his lower lip. You watched the movement, all to enticing in its simplicity. "Such a slut, hmm?" The degrading words only served to get you more hot and bothered.
His hand slipped between your leg, and he found exactly what he had been hoping for. You were dripping, a wetness that gathered and became borderline uncomfortable. He swiped the tips of his fingers through the wetness, humming in appreciation.
You bit your lower lip, the moan that rose in your throat muffled. He found your clit expertly, and flicked it once, then twice, observing you as if you were nothing more than a specimen under a microscope. He gathered your reaction, your little sounds that slipped against all resistance. The shame and arousal that came from his intense look.
When you tried to look away, overpowered by his gaze, his free hand came up to your jaw and angled your face so you kept looking at him. And as he maintained that eye contact, his fingers, now all wet and slippery thanks to your desire, slipped right into you.
You gasped, unprepared by the intrusion of two thick digits. He wasn't kind with it, even if he must've known that he wasn't slender by no means. He pushed them in completely, and without giving you time to adjust, he started to scissor you open.
You were rendered stupid: all you could do was moan out some variation of "oh, Jason…" over and over again.
His warm hand was still cupping your face, and he switched his gaze from your heavy-lidded eyes down to where his hand was working you without mercy. You were dripping even more wetness all over his fingers and palm, and you could see the reaction that it incited in Jason. You saw his pupils dilate and contract several times, the way his breath became in short, labored puffs against your own lips, and the way his pants seemed even more tight than they'd already been.
It didn't take much for you to get pushed down the edge, just a well placed swipe of his broad palm against your clit, with enough pressure, and an expert curl of his mean fingers. And the damn broke. It felt overpowering, the high that took over you. Waves of pleasure crashed over the shore of your body, and in their wake, you felt like a shell, wrung out of all energy. You had to grip Jason's beefy arms to keep yourself upright, a fact that didn't help his smugness.
He retracted his hand, covered with your essence, glinting in the warm light of his apartment. "Look at what I did to you… all this from scrawny little Jason, huh?"
You flushed even more than you already were. You shook your head, lowering the hem of your dress. "Not my fault you got so… hot." He probably didn't need the ego boost, but this was atonement, right?
And if you thought that this had been enough pay back for Jason… you soon realized you were sorely mistaken, because this had been nothing more than just the beginning. You watched as he licked his hand clean, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. You wondered when he'd gained all this sex appeal.
"Fuck, doll," he said, his lips glinting with some of your cum. He swiped it clean with a flick of his tongue. "You taste divine. I think you need to taste yourself, hmm?"
With none too gentle pulls of his hands, you found yourself being thrown on his bed, a small squeak escaping your lips. You watched as he loomed over you, watched as he shrugged his shirt off with a quick and graceful movement. Some day, you'd ask about all the scars that littered his muscular torso. Some day, because you knew this wasn't going to be a one time thing. Some day, because right now, your eyes were too busy taking him in. Too busy tracing the movement of his fingers as they nimbly undid his belt.
Your mouth dried up as he pushed his pants down, and with it went his boxers. And lord, were you blinded by the sheer size of him. His cock was heavy and hard, already flushed a pretty pink color at the tip and leaking. It was some forbidden fruit you were too eager to taste. So you reached for it. Only to be swatted lightly by him at the wrist.
You looked up at him with doe eyes, and his chest stuttered with his breath. "Relax doll, you'll have your go at it," he cooed. "But it's not reward mean girls day, is it? It's punish mean girls…"
He lowered himself over you, his mouth coming over yours demandingly. You responded with reciprocal fervor, your hand coming up to thread in his silk soft hair. His hand came down between your legs once again, as if he couldn't resist your pussy. You moaned against his mouth when he brushed against your folds.
"Still so eager," he murmured against the corner of your mouth. You panted in response. "Once isn't enough for this doll, hmm?"
You shook your head, chasing his mouth with yours. He pulled away, not very far, but far enough to be out of reach. Your hazy and muddled mind, silly with desire didn't register his lifting hand until it was too late. You felt a sharp slap against your clit, making you mewl and reach for him in desperation.
Your response must've pleased Jason greatly, because he didn't hesitate to flip your position and make you get on his cock. You struggled to take him, and he showed no mercy, his hands demanding at the plush flesh of your hips, pushing himself in with an expert thrust of his hips.
You whined and scratched at his chest, your sharp nails digging into the hard muscle there, leaving angry red marks. "Jay…" you protested against the fullness, the uncomfortable feeling.
You felt him press his lips against your cheek, a sneer curling them. "I know, doll. But you were so wet and eager for this cock, yeah? So you got to bounce on it."
You were still adjusting, blinking away the tears of pleasurable pain, so you didn't move just yet. His hand came down your ass, hard and fast, pushing a gasp out of your mouth.
"Baby, ride," his words were sweet, but his tone was anything but. So you complied, and the fast pace you set made him grip your hips tighter, his head thrown back in pleasure as you squeezed him inside you.
The angle, the girth of him, the length… it all made you hit a delectable spot inside you every time you bounced back down. It didn't take long before the uncomfortable feeling became pleasure, growing inside your body exponentially, threatening to break some limit inside you.
He watched greedily as you bounced, the ripples it made on your body, obscured by the dark fabric of the dress. So he took it off desperately, throwing it aside somewhere in his room.
When your pace started to slow down, he spanked your ass again, and his merciless ways only made your desire heighten.
He probably saw the way your body was starting to tense, so he slid his fingers between your bodies, finding purchase on your puffy clit. He drew relentless circles around the bundle of nerves, determined to wring out every drop of pleasure from inside you.
You let out a lewd moan of his name as the pleasure reached crescendo, and it all came crashing down, your hips stuttering as you came all over his cock, squeezing him greedily.
"Oh fuck, doll," he grunted, his brows furrowed in concentration. "If you squeeze me that hard, I'm going to come…"
You were deaf to his words, your limbs twisting with pleasure as he kept going at it on your clit. Until the euphoria burned you, and the pleasure melted into pain. You pushed at his chest and got off his cock, a feat made easy by the slippery mess you'd made.
Your breath was labored as you tried to come down from your high and down to earth. You let out a sigh, and knew that you were probably going to be ruined by him forever.
Jason still wasn’t done with you. “Here, have a taste of yourself.” He grabbed you by your hair and pulled your mouth down on his cock. You let out a surprised sound, not contraire at all.
You eagerly licked off all the mess you’d made over him, the sweet tartness of your own body mixed with the saltiness of his pre, before he pushed you down by the nape of your neck. Your jaw hurt as you tried to take him in entirely. He hit the back of your throat repeatedly, fucking your mouth with fervor. The tears in your eyes, smearing the mascara down to your cheeks didn’t deter him, only served to propel him more.
As your head bobbed and you struggled to take him, your throat contracting over his tip, he made a guttural sound. You knew he was close. And he’d been so mean to you all evening, so you decided to use your teeth too. Literally.
As soon as he felt the slight pain on his cock, he started to push you away by the hair.
You watched as he came, spurts of it hitting your chest. Watched as all his meanness melted away when he came, leaving only a deliciously flushed man who was tried to regain the upper hand.
You moved up his body, your mouth slanting over his. “Was that apology enough?”
He let out a chuckle. “I don’t know doll. I think you’ll have to start apologizing more frequently.”
pairing:red hood x fem!reader. reader is a vigilante working under batman.
summary:you and jason have history… he’s a little obsessed to say the least, and your encounters have always been loaded with tension. well this time, that very tension has snapped. and the helmet is kept on as it snaps…
word count: 3,458
tags:smut, p in v, degradation, red hood’s helmet kept on, praise, edging, PWF (porn with feelings), creampie, unprotected sex (not advised), fingering, stomach bulge, kinda angsty, arguing, cussing, physical fighting
divider by @designlikenonsense !!!
The morning’s light filtered through your window, waking you. The sun was your own personal alarm clock, after all these years of light sleep. Some would say that it’s a part of the vigilante lifestyle.
You were willing to go through all these lengths, fully committing to it the day Batman offered you the opportunity. It was perfect— the both of you had the same rigid moral code, and the same sense for justice.
You were more than good at your job. You had become a reliable ally over the years, time and time again proving yourself to Batman. Taking it upon yourself to intervene during Red Hood’s own little missions.
Interrupting before he’d kill any criminal. He saw death as the ultimate way to pay for what they had done. That was the first and most obvious difference between you two.
He hated you for intervening and not letting him do what he saw as justice. But you knew better— justice isn’t revenge. You had tried countless times to try and guide him in the right direction— you still had hope in him. But he was just too stubborn.
And once he’d learnt that you were Batman’s ally, his hatred for you grew. He mocked you relentlessly, went out of his way to sabotage your missions, and even fought you at times when he was really pissed.
Groggily, you get up and decide to start the day at dawn. Waddling over to your bathroom and splashing your face with cold water, immediately waking you up.
The day went by in a blur, as most days had started to look the same lately. Eat, fight crime, sleep. That was just how things were, and you weren’t complaining. You had gotten used to it.
By night, you were finishing up your patrol through Gotham. Standing on a rooftop of a high building, you look at the city beneath you. Your eyes scan over every little corner, watching the people carefully, looking for anything somewhat suspicious.
That’s when a familiar figure in the distance caught your eye. You take a closer look, and the sight you’re met with doesn’t seem to surprise you at all. Red Hood.
He has tied up and seems to have held some person hostage. Before you could even make a move, a vibration in your pocket alerted you.
Batman.
He’s asking for the latest intel on the case you both were looking at, and asking you to return to the cave soon. You type a quick reply, promising to be there in a few minutes, saying you had to deal with something that wouldn’t take too long.
Shoving the device back into your pocket, your eyes trace back to the area where Red Hood was at. But he wasn’t there, and nor was the hostage. The absence of him made your heart skip a beat, and you were worried you might’ve been too late.
Your feet move on instinct, when a firm hand grabs onto your elbow, pulling you back before you could even move. You turn around rapidly, met with the sight of him right in front of you.
“Looking for something?” His modulated voice asks tauntingly, and at that you rip your elbow from his grasp.
“Where is that guy you were holding hostage?” You ask, cutting to the chase. You take a step back to put some distance between you two, but Red Hood just takes a step closer as you move.
He lets out some sort of sound, and you could tell that beneath that helmet he’s smirking. “Long gone. Guess Batman’s little sidekick was too late.”
Your stomach drops. Fuck. Then heat fills your chest almost instantly, angry that he could treat taking someone’s life so casually. “That wasn’t necessary. I would’ve arrested the man—“
“Well, what’s that gonna do? He needed to pay for what he did. A life for a life.” He says, voice rising as he backs you towards a nearby wall on the rooftop.
You shook your head. “You shouldn’t have done that.” You try to flip the positions, but Red Hood doesn’t let up. He pins you against the wall with his towering figure. Even though his helmet conceals his every expression, you could almost see the look on his face right now.
Months and months of running into each other built you up to be able to read through the helmet. And you felt as though you could understand him, understand why he was doing that. You could understand it all, because you were once in the same position as he was.
And it broke you into pieces without hesitation . The last thing you wanted to see was him killing over and over again, and still not satisfied. You knew it’d break him even more, even as he’s already broken enough.
His gloved hand roughly grabs your chin, tilting your head upwards so you were staring directly at the helmet. Your hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, eyebrows furrowed in a glare.
He stares at you for a long moment, then scoffs. “I hate you. You know that?”
“You don’t have to tell me what I already know.” You spat, struggling in this position he was holding you down in.
“Seeing you make this face, seeing you fail brings me pleasure. Defeat looks good on you, princess.” He laughs, his voice modulator dripping with carefully curated mockery.
“I didn’t fail. You still don’t have to do this. Killing people won’t help make a difference—“ you retort, but he just cuts you off, slamming his hand on the wall beside your head.
“Shut up.” Red Hood hissed. “I’ve heard that lecture a thousand times now.” He leans in so close, helmet barely inches away from your face.
Catching him off guard, your hand grabs his free arm and pulls hard, twisting your body away from him and the wall. He quickly recovers, grabbing your wrist.
The two of you erupt in a fight, your boot coming up to kick him in the stomach as his hand grabs your calf sharply, your bodies moving fluidly around each other.
If the two of you weren’t sole enemies, you would have made an unstoppable duo. The way you moved against each other felt in sync, even as you both fought for the upper hand.
As the other moved and got the upper hand, the other quickly retaliated. It was a game that would go nowhere, something that was bound to end in a tie, or something that could go on for long— as the both of you were stubborn as hell.
Equals, as everybody else but the two of you could see. Equals in fighting, equals in intelligence, equals in the way you two had tried so hard to ignore the underlying tension that had been lurking between the both of you for as long as you could remember.
You finally pull yourself out of his hold, running as fast as you possibly could, jumping off rooftops with speed. Red Hood didn’t follow after you as you thought he would’ve, but he did stand there on that rooftop for a very long time, just watching as you disappeared into the darkness of Gotham.
A few days had passed, and you tried to ignore the thoughts of him as best as you could. But you haven’t seen him at all since that night, and his absence just seemed to serve to make you think of him more and more.
You wondered if he finally thought of everything you’ve been saying for so long, although that was unlikely so you gave up on that thought.
The uncertainty, the not knowing, was uncomfortable. Even just seeing him running around the city streets with that stupid little helmet on would be enough, as much as you hated to admit it.
You headed to the bat cave, as Batman had called you earlier asking for your presence.
You found him perched on a chair, typing profusely and seeming to be concentrated as per usual. The sound of your footsteps pulled him out of his deep concentration.
“Hey. You needed me?” you yawn, tying your hair up. All these thoughts about Red Hood have left you restless during nights, so you were undeniably exhausted and lacking sleep.
He nodded. “I have a mission for you.”
Here, you didn’t see the caped crusader. You saw Bruce Wayne. You were trusted enough for him to reveal his identity to you, as he saw it useful and necessary after some time.
The thought made you wish that you could see the man behind the red helmet too. You knew who he was of course, it had been found out a while ago, but knowing a name wasn’t as good as knowing a face.
“Tell me.” You say, pulling up a chair.
Bruce turned to you, giving you all his attention. “Red Hood is planning on moving against a big criminal organization at the gotham docks tonight.”
“You want me to intervene.” You state. Hearing his name brought some sort of relief to you, as you haven’t heard of him or seen him since a couple of days ago.
“Yes. Knowing him, he’ll probably utilise a bomb of some sort.” Bruce adds.
“Got it.” You pause, getting up and tucking your chair in. “Which dock in particular?”
“Not sure. But it’ll be easy for you to spot him, as you have proven before.”
Nodding one last time, you leave the cave to start patrol early and prepare to successfully intervene and prevent hundreds of people dying due to a bomb.
The sun dipped into the sky, an orange hue painting Gotham’s skyline. You wait at an area where you have a view of most of the docks, where you could see every little movement.
You feel ringing in your pocket, and your hand reaches down to answer, but then the shuffling sound of boots against the stone floor demands your attention.
To your surprise, it’s Red Hood. You expected him to prioritise bombing the area up, but here he is— walking right over to you. The ringing vibrations fade into the background.
“I know what your plan is.” You state simply, lifting your chin.
He barks out a laugh, his feet coming to a halt. “You sure? Cause you just fell right into my trap.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowing as you try to figure out what he’s got up his sleeve. Maybe his words are just a carefully laid out misdirection.
“Confused? Seems the Bat messed up and sent you on a mission to intervene on something that was never going to happen.” He reveals, but it is still a little too vague.
His arms cross over his broad chest. “The organisation is smuggling illegal drops into gotham next week. Not this week.” He says in such a matter-of-fact tone, as if it was obvious.
“How did Batman not know this then? Why did he think it’d happen tonight and that you’d bomb it all up?” You inquire, taking a step closer.
“Because I made him think that. It was all a part of my plan to lure you here.” You could tell that he was probably grinning ear-to-ear underneath that helmet. “Thought you were smarter than that, princess.”
You let him back you into a wall, the uncomfortable feeling of being played settling deep in your chest.
“But no. All you do is follow the blind bat, eager to please him.” His modulated voice drops even lower, that familiar taunt creeping into his tone.
“It’s because I trust him. And he made a mistake, that’s all.” You say, refusing to let the humiliation you were feeling show on your face.
Red Hood just stares at you through the helmet, as if studying you up close. Your words seemed to have sparked something deep within him that he hated.
“Trust is something only a fool believes in.” He snapped, but you met him in the eye.
What you didn’t expect him to do next was to grab you roughly by the back of your head, pull you in so impossibly close, his free hand roaming around your body.
But that was exactly what he did, and nothing could’ve prepared you for it.
You gasp sharply, trying to pull back so you could ask him what the hell he was doing, but his hands didn’t stop. They moved with purpose, clearly not holding back as if they had been restrained for weeks.
A broken moan escapes you when he presses his hips to yours, letting you feel how much he’s wanted this. A part of you was embarrassed— that you were melting so much, being so vulnerable and exposed to him, that he was enjoying this…
But another part of you— the stronger part— wanted this as badly as he did, though you were only realising this now.
His hips rut against you desperately, chasing friction. Even his voice modulator couldn’t hide his groans. You were panting heavily, hands clinging on to his shoulders for purchase.
His hips suddenly slowed its erratic pace, and at that you whine. “Want it bad, don’t you?”
“Please…” you plead, hips lifting against his to try and relive some of that intense friction.
“Say it. Tell me how badly you want my cock.”
You shake your head, but you say it anyway. “I want it bad, Jason.”
His hand grips your chin, and he seems a little stunned as if he didn’t expect you to call him that. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” You challenged. He doesn’t answer, gloved hands going straight down to undo your belt. He’s avoiding answering.
You don’t press, and instead you attempt to take his helmet off, but he pulls back as if he’s been burnt. “Don’t touch my helmet. It’s staying on when I fuck your brains out,” He mutters, pushing your hands away.
“Are you scared?” you ask him, head tilting to the side.
“No.” He declares too quickly. “I told you i’m not taking it off, end of story.”
He tosses your belt to the side, pushing your tactical shorts down. His gaze drops to your panties, which now have a prominent wet spot at the front.
“So wet already, and i’ve barely done anything.” Red Hood rubs tight circles against where you ached most, through the flimsy fabric. “I wonder what the big bad bat would think if he knew his little protégée was out here about to get fucked stupid.”
You try to glare at him, but the sensations of his fingers working against you made your face contort in pleasure. You even pull your own panties down, wanting to remove all barriers between you and him.
“Practically begging for it, aren’t you?” Red Hood’s voice modulator coming out even more rough than usual. “Just needing something to fill you up.”
His middle finger drags along your clit, gathering up your wetness then bringing it to his lips. He leans in, so he can whisper in your ear. “You’re so pathetic.”
You let out a soft moan, hand wrapping around his wrist as his own hand returns to your soaked pussy. “Getting off on being degraded.” He adds, clearly relishing in how you reacted to being teased.
He slips a finger in you, curling just right against that spot, then adding another. His fingers thrust in and out of you relentlessly, already pushing you towards release.
“Not allowed to cum until I say so, okay?” He breathes out against your ear, fingers scissoring inside you rapidly.
“I’m gonna—“ you warn, clutching tightly onto his shoulders, hips twitching as you felt inevitable release coming.
“No. Hold it in.” At that you whine, but you still try your hardest as he keeps you right on the edge. “You deserve this, after intervening all my other missions for months. You hear me?”
You nod instinctively, and clasp your hand over your mouth as soon as he felt his thumb now working on rubbing your sensitive clit as his fingers hit that spot effortlessly— over and over again without fail.
Finally, as soon as you hear the single word “cum” come out of his mouth, you let yourself go, shuddering hard against his body, mouth agape against your palm in a silent moan.
He keeps thrusting his fingers and rubbing you with his thumb, but at a slower pace, drawing it all out. After, he pulls them out and brings them to your mouth. You suck on his fingers, something you almost hated yourself for, but riding the post-orgasm high made you do things you would’ve never imagined.
He then cups your cheeks, wiping the mess on your lips with his thumb— almost fondly, even if he’d never admit it. “Took my fingers so well. Maybe I should reward you for that.”
Your hand abruptly shoots towards the strained budge against the front of his tactical pants, his breath hitching at the sudden movement. “Straight to the point, huh? I like it.”
“Just shut up and get it on with,” you say, unbuckling his belt for him and roughly shoving his pants down. He helps you with getting his boxers down just enough to free himself.
Your lips part when you take him fully in, seeing how he was already hard and leaking. Your hand slowly wraps around him, feeling how hot and heavy he was in your grasp.
“That’s enough.” He says, unable to wait any longer. He nudges the head at your entrance, teasing, as he begins to fuck himself between your thighs.
His head drops to your shoulder, hand slinging around your waist as he lets out a quiet groan. Your hips shift against him, aching for him to be in you. “Please, I can’t wait much longer, please Jason, I-“
When he hears you say his name again, he pushes all the way in without warning, earning a sharp moan from you. He filled you almost instantly.
“Fuck, you’re so tight.” Red Hood growls, not moving, just feeling the way your walls wrap and flutter around him. His gloved hand presses down on your abdomen, feeling your stomach bulge due to the fact that he was fully seated inside you.
“Gonna move now, okay?” He says, starting to roll his hips in a circle. Even every little movement he made was already so close to that spongy little spot in you.
“Too much-!” You cry out, but he doesn’t stop.
“You’re already taking me so well. I know you’ve got it in you for more, princess.” Red Hood murmurs, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. You nod at his words, and he begins to pick up his pace.
The sounds of your bodies together were obscene, and the filthy praise he gave you after all the earlier degradation just served to pull you closer to the edge.
Red Hood pulls all the way out, before slamming back in, hand grabbing your leg and hooking it around his hip so he could reach an even deeper angle. He was determined to get you to cum again before he finally let himself go.
His hand reached between you two, roughly drawing tight circles on your swollen pussy. His helmet-clad face nuzzled into your neck as he kept fucking you hard and mean.
It happened before you could properly warn him, your words slurring together incoherently in a way he couldn’t understand. You gushed around his thick length, arms wrapped tight around his neck as you let out a long moan.
He kept moving, drawing it out and now chasing his own release. He didn’t stop praising you, even as his own voice started to tremble subtly. “So good, you did so well—“
He started to ramble, hips falling out of his methodical rhythm as he rutted hard and fast unevenly. “Gonna fill you up, won’t be able to walk tomorrow, gonna feel me dripping down your thighs.”
With one final thrust, he let himself go— filling you up with every spurt, hips twitching erratically from the aftershocks.
His body slumped against yours, and you could feel him breathing hard even through the helmet. Your hand reaches up to touch it.
His fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you mid motion. “No. Not taking it off.”
Even then, even after fucking you stupid just like he promised— he still refused to take it off. Cause taking it off would mean being vulnerable, exposing himself entirely to you— showing the broken man behind the helmet, and he didn’t know if he could afford that.
You frowned, wishing you could see beyond the Red Hood mantle, wishing you could take it off and really see who’s stolen your heart.
author’s note: hiii!!! i hope u had fun reading all this. thinking of making a part two 👀 pls let me know if i should make a second part!!
anyways Ryland going crazy the whole night you managed to finally have sex together. It’s been a LONG ROUGH while since he’s felt human touch, especially feeling someone’s inside. He’s clearly sensitive to it all due to the isolation but he still fucks it through, it’s too good to stop. Afraid that it’ll be his last sex in general so he’s fucking like an overstimulated rabbit.
This became much sweeter than I thought, but please enjoy (Sorry it took FOREVER!) I know people have done a lot of touch starved Ryland but here is my spin on it. Also please never be nervous requesting from me, I am a freak and will write most things 😌
Ryland Grace x gn!reader. 18+. grounding exercises, overstimulation, kinda talking an out-of-practice Ryland through it. Slight dom!Ryland at the end. Smut and fluff.
The night is quiet and still on Erid, a crowded sky of unfamiliar stars shining down on your little slice of safety in the dome, and you and Ryland are making love for the first time.
Well... attemping. Attempting to make love.
You know it's been a long time since he's felt another human against him in any capacity. He was untouched during his entire time on the Mary - save for Rocky in his ball - then was stranded for years on an alien planet as the only one of his species.
When your crew landed in your craft and you shook his hand for the first time, you could see he was fighting back tears.
It was only natural he'd fall in love with one of you, and you were the lucky recipient of that affection, which was returned to him with the same magnitude and force. You adore Ryland Grace. There is no doubt about it in your mind or your heart. He is your soulmate and you were lucky enough to meet him in an unfamiliar sky, how wonderful fate is.
But...
He hasn't touched anyone for years. It's like he's sort of forgotten how. And now, as you lay in bed with him, naked and pressed together, his hips are rutting wildly as he tries to slot himself inside you and, in his eagerness, he keeps missing. His hands are all over your body with no semblance of reason and his kisses on your face are a bit too sloppy.
It's a lot, is all.
"Ry... Ry stop. That's my bellybutton," you whisper, softly, trying not to make him self-conscious. It is far too late for that, though, because the moment you say it he whines in horror.
Words fall from his lips like a leak from a spigot which he cannot turn off. His eyes glaze over with tears and you are suddenly overcome with the horrible realisation that he's not here, he's not with you, not really. He looks at you like he is a prey animal caught in a predator's maw.
You can't have that, not for your Ryland.
Ever-so-carefully you take him by his shoulders and roll him onto his back. He makes a ragged noise, like he's afraid you're going to leave him alone in the bed and walk away, but you carefully seat yourself on his hips so his cock can gently bob against your ass.
"What's going on? Talk to me, please."
He does cry then, streaks dripping down his cheeks and into the pillow beneath him.
"It's stupid."
"It's not, not if it has you worried."
"I'm... I'm worried you'll disappear. Go away like a dream and it'll just be me here alone again. I couldn't take that. Couldn't take you being gone and being all on my own," He huffs a humourless laugh as he edges around hyperventilation. "Pathetic, right?"
"No, not at all... but I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere. Nothing on Erid could drag me away from you." You let the affirmation sink in before you launch into your next plan.
"Ryland, I need you to breathe with me."
"What...?" he's still panicking a bit. You make sure your voice is low and soothing.
"Breathe with me. In-two-three-four... hold-two-three-four..."
You sit there, instructing him on his box-breathing. He follows along dutifully until you can feel his trembling slow a little. You trace idle patterns on his belly, just to help ground him.
"That's it, baby. Now, can you name five things you can see?"
He's not wearing his glasses, so when he looks around, his options are limited. Ryland works with what he has.
"I can see you."
"What can you see? Be specific."
"Y...your hair. Sticking to your forehead."
"Go on, honey."
"The way your arms move as you stroke m-my stomach. Your chest moving as you breathe. Your lashes fluttering as you blink at me. Your smile."
The last one creeps over your face as you hear him audibly calm down.
"Very good, Ry. Now: four things you can touch."
He slowly unballs his hands from the bedsheet and begins to explore you. There is purpose to his touch now, not the awkward fumblings of an out-of-practice lover, but the caresses of a new and excited one.
"Your goosebumps as I run my fingers over your skin. The way your thighs sit over my hips. The curve of your ass against my cock. Your heartbeat."
He settles his palm over your chest to test that one and finds it sure, steady.
"Perfect. Three things you can hear?"
"You talking to me. The sea outside." He scrambles for a third, until you gently start to hum for him. "Is that... are you humming Space Oddity?"
You nod and he finally laughs. You can feel the anxiety leaving him. He is exactly where he needs to be once again: here, with you. You finish the exercise anyway.
"Two things you can smell?"
"The fresh bedding... and your sweat. In a good way, you know?"
You do know. You lean down for the last one.
"And one thing you can taste?"
The answer, of course, is you. Your kiss. He captures your lips softly and surely with his own this time, tongue pressing against the seam of your mouth to seek entrance. You allow it. The two of you luxuriate in the kiss to appreciate it for what it is: being safe in the moment together.
He carefully rolls you onto your back and you let him, now that you're sure he has a grasp of the situation. When you feel his cock line up against you this time he is easily able to slip inside. You gasp in unison. His forehead presses to yours.
"You okay, Ry?" you manage. He nods gently.
"Yes. Yeah. Just--fudge--just been a while since I felt. Uh. Inside, you know?"
"That's okay. We have all the time in the world."
He begins to have you properly then. Slow, sure rolls of his hips as he fucks through the first waves of his overstimulation and finds a pace which satisfies you both. You drag him closer to you, as close as you can: chest to chest, your legs around his waist, foreheads still met as your sweat mingles together. There is something rabbit-like about the way he takes you but you can tell that he's here with you now, so you're happy to meet his energy with the same level of excitement.
"Fuck, Ry, this is amazing..."
"Yeah?" the word catches in his throat, as if he can scarcely believe it.
"Yeah, it is. Your cock fits just perfect, makes me feel so good..."
"Oh god... gosh... ah, fuck, screw it," he mumbles, letting his teacher-brain-language-inhibitor finally slide away and his horny-brain take over. His large hands pin your hips to the bed as he quickens his pace, skin slapping against skin in the most beautiful symphony you've heard on Erid.
Pleasure rolls along your body in the same way the waves crash on the beach outside. It is a crescendo which is coming to its conclusion. As if he can tell, his hand slips between your bodies so he can stroke you where you need it most, fingers quick and clever and sure.
"Love you so much..." he mutters as he feels you begin to lose yourself.
"Fuck--! Love you too, Ry--!"
You come around him, arching your back into his thrusts, and he releases inside you so deep that you can feel it in your guts. The two of you collapse onto the bed and for a while, nothing can be heard but your laboured breathing.
His fingers begin to walk their way across your arm and you giggle at the tickle.
"Five things I can see..." he whispers, and begins to count them off again, pressing a kiss to your sweaty skin with each one.
You're here. He's here. And it's perfect.
tags: @kenstimetoshine @nerd-do-well @kiffycreative @bookerdefay @pixiebuggz @regalfirebird @go-bonkers-go-foolish @inthegalaxxy@sexyleftist @julepod @cosmicyeehaw @s4turnsb3st @qardasngan@valentine-blue (lmk if you wanna be added or removed!)
pairing: professor!ryland grace x grad student fem!reader
word count: 4.5k
content: smut w a plot, oral (m receiving), fingerfucking, use of pet names, softdom!ryland yet also kinda subby!ryland, p in v!!!!!!, unprotected sex, and college professor x grad student AU
summary: dr. grace prides himself on being a rule-abiding professor, but human biology is a cruel master. when his favorite grad student, you, hits her breaking point over her review, ryland's instinct to comfort her completely overrides his ethics... but it doesn't end there.
a/n: hello my loves!!! this took me so much time lol.. and it was not proof read so feel free to correct anything. lots of microbiology stuff in here that may or may not be wrong!! also some of this was written while I was half asleep so please have mercy on me... literally while writing it I felt like it was so dragged on and detailed. but I hope you enjoy!! 🙂↕️🤍
"Alright you guys! Welcome back, hope you all had a lovely weekend, but it's time to get back to business." Dr. Grace exclaimed. Always so ecstatic for a Monday morning lecture.
"Your midterm exams are in approximately..." He paused, checking his computer screen for the date, September 19th, "seventeen days, which means you have about two weeks left of review and lectures from me. So let's get started."
He turned to the massive whiteboard behind him, grabbing a green marker out of a tray with ease.
"Today we will be reviewing two things... Number one:" he paused for dramatic effect, "the absolute weird, yet fairly interesting, freaks of the microscopic world.... extremophiles!" He turned back with an excited grin as he scanned the lecture hall.
The hall was fairly empty.. this was a very difficult class, so not many people took it. There were maybe 30 people around you, all in the center rows.. and they all seemed to be just as interested for Dr. Grace's class as you, but you knew they weren't.
"Remember the lesson from... early August, I believe? The one about the creatures (extremophiles) who see a boiling hydrothermal vent or... a solid block of ice and thinks 'Yeah.... this is home. time to breed!' Yeah, we're gonna review those freaks."
He turned back to his white board. "But! That's only half of the misery for today. Second on the agenda, we will be reviewing.. cellular respiration in anaerobic conditions... Or as I like to call it: What organisms do to generate energy when the universe decides to deny them oxygen."
He turned back around, putting the markers cap on with a soft pop! He scanned the rows again. Majority of the class was quiet, other than the soft clicking of other students taking notes. You, however remained perfectly engrossed in what Dr. Grace had to say. His eyes grazed the room until they met yours where he found you paying attention, as always. He winked and gave you a smile before looking away.
He grabbed a sheet of paper off his desk, reading from his list of review questions.
"Alright! Who can tell me what happens when you take an organism that usually lives in a crazy hot volcanic environment, and you put it in a averagely normal temperature petri disc? What happens to its cellular membrane? Does it A. Dissolve, B. Freeze, or C. Just get severely pissed off?"
The classroom remained silent. You knew the answer.. of course you did. Dr. Grace had been reviewing with you for quite some time after you asked him to tutor you. He had you come by his office at least once a week so he could make sure you were keeping up with everything.
You remained quiet, seeing if anyone would answer. No one did.
Before you could raise your hand, he spoke again.
"Come on, guys. There's like a 33.3333333% chance you get it right if you simply just guess." He sighed. "If you guys don't participate, I'm not going to know what you need improvement on."
Still... Silence.
Finally, after an awkward 30 seconds, you raised your hand and spoke when he gave you a small nod.
"Well, Dr. Grace, the cell membrane would freeze.. or just lock up. Generally for an organism like that, it would have a ether-linked lipid monolayer that needs the extreme to survive. If you dropped it into something that is just average temp, the membrane would completely shut down... which would stop all nutrients from passing in and out of the cell." You explained.
He grinned as you spoke. Now leaning against his desk, his cheek pressed into his palm.
"Excellent explanation," he said as he stood up straight, applauding you.
"You see class, this is exactly the type of dedication you need to have! Be like her, my favorite future scientist."
You smiled softly, holding his gaze as he praised you for something you went over only days ago.
The rest of the class was full of review and awkward silence until the hour finally ticked away.
The entire class hurried to pack their bags and escape the everlasting tension, however you hung back, taking your precious time.
"Don't forget to bring your best active motivated brains tomorrow! I need to see more energy!!!!" Your professor exclaimed.
You finished packing your books into you bag and slung your bag over your shoulder. You approach Dr. Grace's Desk. He was already typing away at his computer as always, yet he looked up the moment he took a deep breath, your perfume filling his nostrils.
He smiled up at you. "Great job today, you truly are my best student," He said, then sighed. "Hey, listen, you know how much I enjoy tutoring you, but we're gonna have to put in on hold for a bit, mkay honey? I've got a lot of students who really need some extra review."
You paused for a moment. Honey? He'd never called you that before... and it certainly shocked you. You felt heat creep up your neck, but you shook it off.
"Uh.. yeah that's fine, Dr. Grace.. No worries" You said, shifting your weight.
"Wonderful. If you need help, just let me know, okay? Just because I've got other students to tutor doesn't mean I'm gonna let my star student get confused," he replied, tilting his head. "But I doubt you'll need anything. You're my top student, you know that."
You smiled at him, still slightly stuck on the fact he had called you honey. "Yeah, Thanks Dr. Grace... I'll see you tomorrow?"
He nodded, his head tilting back towards his computer. He was quiet..., but you ignored it.
⪻────★────⪼
As the week went by, you attended Dr. Grace's lectures just as you normally would. However, once you got to week two of review, all the subjects became blurred.
You were extremely stressed out.
Midterms were in only 9 days.
But... you couldn't bother Dr. Grace. He told you he had other students to worry about.. and you didn't want to get into his way.
You were sat on your campus bed, flipping through the microbiology book he'd given you. You scanned the pages, looking through his handwriting notes, doodles, opinions.. You sighed. Everything just kept mixing together.
You decided you needed a breather. You got out of your bed, grabbed your coat and headed out of your dormitory.
You walked through the campus grounds until you made it to your favorite coffee shop, The Petrova Pot.
You pushed the door open, the sound of the bell ringing following suite.
You walked to the counter, smiling at the barista as you ordered your coffee. A plain ol' vanilla latte. Just something simply.
They had your coffee out in only seconds, and then you headed to the back of the cafe, a more secluded area that had a few dining tables. You began making you way towards your favorite spot in the corner when you noticed it was taken.
And it was taken by Dr. Grace.
You smiled.
You walked over to him, sitting across from him and his laptop.
"Good evening, Dr. Grace."
He froze, and looked up. As his eyes met yours, a smile spread across his face.
"Well hello there.. funny seeing you here," he said as he shut his laptop. "What's my star student doing getting coffee so late?" He asked, genuinely curious.
You hummed in response. "Oh I just needed a breather... I've been a little stressed about the exam lately." You said. Dancing around the fact that literally everything was squishing together into a confusing jumbled mess of microbiology.
He frowned. "How come? You've been doing so well in class.."
You sighed. His face was so cute. He looked genuinely upset for you.
What? Did you just call you teacher cute?
You snapped yourself out of your gaze and got back to the conversation at hand.
"Everything is just.. merging together," you admitted, "I can't... I don't know."
He nodded. "Science does that to you.." he thought for a moment, checking his watch. "I don't have any tutoring sessions for at least another... 3 hours. Wanna come by my office for some help?" He asked.
You, of course, perked up immediately. You nodded. "Yes please, Dr. Grace."
He chuckled softly, grabbing his laptop bag that was hung from the back of the chair. He slid his laptop inside and stood up.
"Come on then," He said with a smile, his glasses slipping off the bridge of his nose.
You stood, grabbing your coffee before following him to the exit of the cafe.
⪻────★────⪼
The walk to your professors office was mostly quiet. Except for the many times he saw a bird in the distance that was interesting to him. He would say some nerdy fact he somehow knew, and you'd follow with a laugh or a smile and nod.
The two of you walked through the campus hallway until you got to his door. He fished through his pocket until he found his key, pushing it into the lock and twisting the door open.
"After you," He said, holding the door open.
"Thank you." You said with a smile, walking inside his office. You were familiar with it. You'd had many tutoring sessions here before, but something felt very different today.
He shut the door behind the two of you, locking it.. as he usually did. He slid into the rolling chair behind his desk, you in the soft chair across from him.
He pressed his elbows to his desk, resting his chin in one palm. Making eye contact with you.
You held each others gaze for a while until he looked away, clearing his throat. He scanned his desk as if he was looking for something.
"So uh.. what was it you needed help with?" He asked, looking at you again.
"Oh uhm... it's a lot..., but recently I've been missing up the exponential growth rate formula with the logistic growth rate formula.. Which is crazy because they're pretty different, but.. whatever" you shrugged.
He nodded, listening intently. He spun his chair around and opened his file cabinet where he had paperwork, notebook paper, and various worksheets. He slid out a piece of notebook paper and a worksheet titled "Exponential Growth Rate vs. Logistic Growth Rate."
"Well, my dear, you're in luck." He grinned, sliding the papers in front of you.
Dear... He had called you that before, but this time.. something sounded different. Either that or you were completely and utterly delusional, but let's stick with the first option.
Your mind began to fill with thoughts upon thoughts. So much so that you completely toned out his entire explanation on what you were trying to get help on.
You were staring flat down at the papers in front of you, zoned out. That was until your head was tilted up by a hand on your chin.
"Something on your mind?"
You froze.
Your face grew pink immediately as you began to try and stutter through an explanation as to why you had just completely ignored everything that came out of his mouth.
"I- uhm- sorry I'm just- Tired." You said, swallowing as you made eye contact with him.
"Are you sure?"
You nodded. "Uh.. yeah let's just.. get back to the formulas."
He sighed, his hand falling from your face. You almost let out a sigh from the loss of contact, but you managed to keep it in.
The two of you worked on a few problems before he let you try on your own, him tending to a few emails on his computer. The worksheet was.... very confusing. Just a bunch of graphs and you had to label them. Just lots of tedious stuff. Eventually you got to a problem on the back. You did it over and over and over again, but the answer you got was never an answer that was on the list.
You groaned, laying your head down on the table. "This is so irritating." You mumbled.
You heard his chair spin in your direction. "Hey, come on now. Don't get upset sweetheart, it's okay."
You groaned again. This time not out of frustration... well.. not completely. He kept calling you names. Making your face flush every single time.
You sighed and looked up. He was now beside you, crouched down on his knee.
"Hey, look at me.." He said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.
You looked down at him, moving your chair to the side so it was facing him.
He slid his hand up your leg, resting it on your knee, rubbing gently. "It's okay, honey.. I know it's frustrating." He said.
You swallowed. You could feel your face heating up. But not just your face. His palm on your leg felt like it was burning through the fabric of your jeans. You sat there, looking down at him. Heart race increasing by the second. You didn't dare speak.
He held your gaze, his hand now rubbing up and down from your knee to your thigh.
"C'mon, talk to me."
God what were you to do. He was right there. His face closest it had probably ever been, and he was staring at you in such a.. caring way. But you could tell there was something more.
You took a deep breath, your lips parting as you did. His eyes darted down for a split second. So fast you would've missed it by the blink of an eye, but you didnt.
"Dr. Grace." you said, voice trembling in the slightest.
"Listen to me.." He murmured, "You are so incredibly smart.. You've been pushing yourself so hard lately. Just breathe and tell me what you're struggling wi-"
You cut him off. You pulled him into a kiss, your grip strong on the collar of his suit.
At first, he was shocked. Then he kissed you back. But after a few seconds, he pulled away, standing from his knees. Pushing himself away from you.
"I- I'm sorry. I- We can't-" He stuttered, pushing his back into a wall.
Your heart rate increased once again. You thought about getting up. Leaving and never returning to his class again. However that clearly wasn't the right choice. You could feel it in your gut.
You stood. Walking until you were right in front of him. His panicked eyes met yours.
"Please.. we can't-" He said quietly. He looked like he was going to cry.
"Dr. Grace.. I will leave. But only if you tell me you want me to."
His lips parted. He tried to speak but nothing came out. He was shocked.
You stood there. Waiting for him to say anything at all.
After what felt like ages, he finally spoke again.
"I can't do that.." He said. He was clearly scared. Not because of you, not because of how he felt towards you, but for his career.
But obviously some things were more important than others.
"Don't go. Please don't go." He said, staring directly into your eyes.
You remained silent. Just to see if he'd change his mind. He could've. He looked absolutely terrified, yet also full of so much desire.
"Please. I want you so badly."
"Okay." You nodded.
With that, he stepped forward, sliding one arm around your waist and one hand to your cheek, pulling you into another kiss like the last. Except this one was initiated by him.
Both of your hands slid around his neck, your fingers tangling in his dirty blonde hair.
The two of you kissed for what felt like hours until he finally broke away, but only to tilt his head down so he could kiss your neck.
You gasped softly, feeling his breath beneath your jaw. He began to push you backwards gently until your body hit his desk.
Before you could protest anything, he crouched down slightly, but only for a second so that he could wrap his hands around the backs of your thighs. He hoisted you up onto his desk, his lips never leaving your skin.
"Please." kiss "Let me show you" kiss "how badly" kiss "I need you." He said. He pulled back to look at you. "Please.. I know how insane I've been driving you. I was doing it on purpose.. I... I need to make it up to you."
The sound of him practically begging to please you drove you even more insane than the subtle touches, the pet names, etc.
You nodded. "Okay.."
He let out a breath of relief before kissing you again. His hands slid to the back hem of your shirt, tugging at it. You pulled back, but only long enough to pull your shirt off.
"So pretty.." He whispered between kisses. His hands sliding up your waist, kneading at your skin. One hand slid behind your back, unhooking the clasp of your bra. It felt between the two of you.
His hands almost instantly moved up, but they only hovered. He pulled back slightly.
"Can I..?"
"Are you seriously asking me that right now, Dr. Grace."
"Are you seriously still calling me by my surname?"
"I-" You began.
He pressed his finger to your lips. "Ah. Call me Ryland, sweetheart."
You nodded. "Okay..., Ryland."
He smiled. The way his name rolled off your tounge was so satisfying to him.
"Now.. where was I." He said before kissing you again, his hands finally making contact with your breasts. He squeezed softly, tugging at the now hard mounds on your skin.
A soft moan left your lips, and that only pushed him further. He broke away from the kiss once again, trailing down your throat, your collarbones, your chest, until his lips finally made contact with your nipples.
Your fingers gripped the fabric of his suit jacket that he still had on for some odd reason. You were about to push him back to tell him to take it off when he sucked harder, his teeth biting gently down.
You hips bucked instinctively towards his, and only then did you notice how wet you were.
"Ryland.." you gasped softly as his lips left your skin with a soft pop.
"I know, honey, I know.. it's okay." He said, stepping back. He slid his jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Then quickly unbuttoned his dress shirt that had a hidden coffee stain on the sleeve.
Once his shirt was fully off, you noticed how.. jacked he was. The whole sight was attractive. His biceps, his abs, his subtle happy trail that led under the waistband of his jeans...
He caught your gaze. He moved his hand to cup your jaw, making you look up at him. "Didn't expect this, hm?"
You shook your head. Of course you didn't. Who would?
"Don't get cocky." You said, slipping your fingers into his belt loops, pulling him closer. His jeans looked incredibly tight.
He hummed and kissed you again.
You moved your hand, unzipping his pants, pushing them down to his thighs.
Even though you were in a locked office, there was still a chance of an admin with a key walking in... and honestly that turned you on even more.
Now that his jeans were pushed away, he was a lot more free. You traced your finger around the line of his cock, causing him to whimper softly.
It was as if he hadn't been touched in years.
You hummed softly, pulling away, but only so you could see his facial expression. You palmed him through his boxers very gently. Making sure he felt everything.
His head fell down onto your shoulder, followed by him whimpering into your neck
"F..fuck- Please.. please don't tease me right now."
You laughed softly. "Don't worry, you won't have to wait much longer.." You said, pushing his boxers down.
His cock sprang free, already leaking precum. The sight made you drool. He was big... not only in length but also in girth.
You stood up from the desk, pushing him into the guest chair that was conveniently behind him.
"What are you-"
You didn't let him finish. You wrapped your lips around him, a deep, wet feeling that made him groan.
He gripped the armrests as you sucked the head of his cock, swirling your tongue around the ridge. He let out a ragged breath, his hips beginning to buck instinctively.
"Holy shit-" He gasped, trying to hold his hips back so he didn't hurt you.
You used your hand to grip the base, pumping him in rhythm with your mouth, making sure he felt every bit of the friction.
He leaned back, eyes closed, his chest heaving as you took him deeper, your throat tightening around him.
He took your continuation as a sign. He reached down, his fingers tangling in your hair to guide your head, pushing you further onto him. The pressure was immense, filling your mouth completely, making you swallow each time he thrust upward.
He shifted his weight, his legs spreading wide to give you better access, and he started to move with a desperate urgency, his hips snapping forward quickly.
Every time he hit the back of your throat, a muffled, needy sound escaped you, which only seemed to fuel him.
"Oh my g-god- I- I'm so close already" He whimpered. His legs began to shake.
And just as he was about to let go, you pulled back. Thin strings of saliva connecting from your lips to his tip.
He whimpered, looking down at you. He looked absolutely wrecked. His hips twitching.
"Wh-why'd you do that..?" He asked, panting softly.
"Just a little payback." You said as you stood up. You were obviously just teasing him, but he seemed to believe it.
"No no no.. please I'm sorry," he said, grabbing your hand. "Please, honey, I'll show you how sorry I am."
You gave him a sympathetic smile. "I was joking, Ryland."
His face fell, but he shook it off, standing despite the shake in his legs.
He came close, pulling you into his chest. He whispered softly into your hair. "I'm not.."
You pulled back, looking up at him.
"Oh?" You nodded. "Okay, show me."
He nodded in return. pushing you back into the desk. As he was about to lay you down, he stopped. He turned around, bending down to pick his jacket up. He laid it down in the desk.
Your heart warmed at that sight. Was he really worried about you getting hurt in a moment like this? You laughed to yourself.
He didn't question it and just laid you back. He moved his hands to the waistband of your jeans now, and he pulled them down easily, along with your panties which were absolutely soaked.
He hummed in approval.
"You're so beautiful, sweetheart.." He whispered, bending down to kiss you once before pulling away. He slid his finger down your body until they eventually reached your soaking mess.
He began dragging his fingers through your folds, lathering them with your arousal. You moaned softly, head falling back on his desk.
He gently circled your entrance with two fingers, teasing until he plunged them inside of your. The stretch felt good.
"Ry-"
"I know, honey. It's okay. I've got to stretch you out a little." He whispered. His voice was just.. so hot. that it turned you on even more.
He continued finger fucking you softly until you were clenching around him, squirming against his palm. "Ryland please- please I'm gonna cum-" You whimpered.
Originally his plan was to deny you an orgasm, just as you did to him, but when you looked that sweet while whimpering his name? He couldn't. So, he picked up his pace, hitting that spongy spot over and over again, making you see stars.
It took only seconds for your orgasm to wash over you. You moaned loudly, your eyes rolling back. He fucked you through it, waiting until your legs stopped their relentless shaking to pull his fingers out. He brought them to his mouth, unable to wait to taste you.
The sight made you shiver.
"Mm.. you taste so good." He mumbled.
You whined softly. Getting aroused again simply from the praise spilling from his lips.
"It's okay. I'm about to make everything all better, okay?" He said, pulling you to the edge of the table.
You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him close. He smiled at your eagerness as he lined himself up with your entrance.
"Look at me." He said, grabbing your hand. "I need you to breathe."
You nodded, taking a deep breath, your hips daring to move.
After you took a few deep breaths, he finally began to sink inside of you. The stretch burned, causing both of you to whimper softly. He eventually fully bottomed out inside you, panting softly. He wanted to move so so badly, but he wouldn't dare.
You were breathless. It stung, but it felt so good to be so filled up. Your hips shifted against his, making both of you gasp.
"Ryland.."
"Yes, Sweetheart?"
"Move." You said, unable to wait any longer.
He obliged, pulling completely out except for his tip, and then slamming right back in. He made up a gentle pace. No too fast, but not too slow.
"God.. you're so tight." He groaned softly, gripping your hips.
Soft whimpers fell from your lips. You gently threw your arm over your head, but that only lasted for a few seconds.
"Nuh uh, baby.. mmn- I... Wanna see your pretty face while I fuck you.." He said, pulling your hand away.
You looked at him, eyes half lidded as you panted. The sight of you was perfect to him, and it only made him pound into you faster.
You gasped, feeling as he hit that spongy spot once against. "Oh my g-god- Fuck- right there-" You moaned, your pussy clenching around him. "Ryland-"
He groaned at how tight you were around him. "That's it honey, cum for me.."
And that's just what you did. You closed your eyes, heels digging into his lower back as you cried out his name. He followed behind in almost seconds, white hot please cascading over the both of you. He gently fucked the two of you through it, until he eventually pulled out. The both of you panting.
He sighed softly, pulling you up into a sitting position so he could wrap his arms around you.
You leaned back against him, completely exhausted, letting your head sink back into the crook of his neck. His hands moved in slow, soothing circles over your bare waist, anchoring you to him in the quiet, dim light of the office.
Neither of you spoke; right now, nothing mattered.
He simply pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his heartbeat steady and grounding beneath your palm.
"Stay right here," he whispered into your hair, his voice thick with devotion. "Just for a little while. Let me hold you."
Thinking about how ghost has this uncanny ability to settle babies right down...and yet he has no interest in having one of his own.
That doesn't stop him from knocking on your door while baby screams herself dry at 2am. He can block the noise easily, wouldn't be where he is if he couldn't, but he knows your upstairs neighbor will submit a complaint.
"Ah, sorry for keeping you awake simo–" you mumble, tired when you answer the door. Bags under your eyes, formula on your shirt.
"No. You go sit down. Where is she?" Ghost huffs, squeezing past you through the door. Despite the question, he's already bee-lining to your room, where baby's crying carries through the entire apartment.
"I don't know what's wrong. She's not hungry, not gassy. Won't cuddle, won't suck her paci–" you trail off, dazedly watching simon gently cradle your little girl in his arms and have her settled in mere minutes. "...what."
Your baby, who's made it her life's mission to scream nearly every night, is curling chubby fingers into ghosts hoodie and humming all happy.
"Just needed my jacket, I think. Picky girl," ghost hums fondly, tucking her whole tiny body into one arm. With the other, he steers you towards your bed. "You need to sleep. I'll get her handled, okay?"
Anyone else would say that you're crazy for letting a man you aren't dating or married to be alone in your apartment with your kid. To which you would tell them about how he pulled you out of your darkest moments while trying to parent alone. How he never judges you. How he wants nothing but the best for your little girl.
So you nod, yawn and settle down. "Okay...thank you, simon."
In the morning, baby will be back in her crib snuggled up tight, and ghost will have left a hot jug of coffee on your counter.
author’s note: maybe perhaps listen to fireproof by one direction to get you in the mood :)
sorry i’ve been gone for a bit. i’ve been working a lot more than i thought i was and ngl the world cup kinda took over my life. ive had this sitting in my drafts for a bit and decided to share. i have been planning a multi part fic idea based on college!ryland…and this little drabble may or may not have started the idea ;)
i’ve had so much fun writing things over the last few months so hopefully i can finish it up soon to share with yall <3
Everyone knew you as the hyper-independent, no-nonsense friend. You were serious about your education, graduating top of your class with a degree in Molecular Biology, and now working through your PhD. You had your version of fun, which meant watching whatever your comfort show was on repeat or reading for long periods on the couch.
You never really dated, and your friends would call you the chronically single friend if you were actively trying to date. but the entirety of the time your friends knew you, you had never dated. And sure, you were busy, but sometimes they didn't know if you were genuinely uninterested in the matter, scared shitless, or completely blind to the number of guys begging for your attention. You were somehow a combination of all three.
As you sat with your friends on the quad, you listened to them rattle off their plans for tonight as you finished reading a chapter of your book. "You should really come with us," one of your friends said, flashing you a knowing smile. You didn't look up until you placed your bookmark in your book, closing it and laying it down in your lap. "It's the first time I've had a weekend off from work in over a month. And I plan on rotting in my bed." Your friends groaned, rolling their eyes.
"Exactly, it's your first weekend off in months. It's Friday night, you should come out with us." They were begging you like they did every week; sometimes you felt bad, continuously saying no to them, and would cave. But you were exhausted after midterms and just wanted some quiet time to yourself.
And right as you were opening your mouth to rebut the argument your friends were making, your friends cheered like the answer to their prayers had finally arrived. "Yes! Thank God! Grace, please convince our dear friend here that she needs to live a little and come out with us this weekend." You rolled your eyes as he plopped down in the grass next to you.
Ryland Grace became one of your best friends when you were in undergrad. He was also a Molecular Biology major with big hopes and extremely driven. While almost everyone else thought he was a smug dick who wanted to prove how much better than everyone he was, which was true, he was also equally a great and caring friend, once you made it past all his walls. All it took was one group project from hell that bonded you two together during your first semester, and you guys became inseparable.
"You're not coming tonight," a little disappointment laced in his voice, as he looked at you. "Don't give me that look, Ryland. I already made up my mind." You crossed your arms, trying to avoid his stupid puppy-dog look. "But we haven't all gone out in sooo looong." He bumps his shoulder into yours, and your friends snicker at you and Ryland's almost mirrored look. Both of you are ridiculously close to each other, staring at each other over your glasses. Except you're looking at him with your signature look of annoyance, and he is smirking at you knowingly, because he's about to win this battle with the next couple of lines out of his mouth.
"C'mon, I've missed not having you around. Please?" His voice softens in the way it only seems to do with you, and he knows it's working. "I'll take you to Moe's tomorrow if you come." He intoned, and he practically watched your armor crack. He knew how much you loved Moe’s. It was a 4 story bookstore that you could spend hours browsing in. You usually went alone because it was hard to convince anyone to stay there with you for too long.
Your whole body turns towards him, and your friends are enjoying watching the show. "But you can't rush me, even if we are there all day." You say, attitude not faltering even though, as always, you're giving in to what he wants. "I'll do you one better. I'll pay for whatever books you leave there with." You scoff, fist out for him to bump, "Okay, deal." In unison, you both turn around to face your friends, and his arm snakes around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him.
"You're welcome, ladies," he gloats, and they roll their eyes. "It's not fair. We would've bribed her with books, too, had you not done it first."
"Well, you snooze, you lose.”
“Whatever just admit he’s your favorite.” your friend fake pouts.
Your friends had always insinuated there was something else between you and Grace. You two did everything together. Study, eat lunch in between classes, he would sometimes come visit you at your job and bring you coffee if you asked. You two were comfortable in each other’s spaces. Touching each other, sharing food, all strict boundaries that you typically had with other people were just nonexistent towards him. And while you argued it was because he knew you better than anyone, the chemistry between you guys was undeniable.
You push him off of you, grabbing your stuff. "And on that note, I gotta get to class." You lift yourself from the ground, slinging your bag on one shoulder and walking away, and before you know it, Ryland is tripping over his own feet to get up, "I'll walk ya." And your friends laugh and think you're both idiots as they watch him jog up to you. He peels your bag off your shoulder, sling it over his own. He smiles at like you created the stars as you begin talking to him about all the books you’ll be looking for tomorrow.
Warnings: praise kink, hand pinning, sex while a literal crime is happening outside, reckless vigilante behavior, inspired by a scene in Narcos, MDNI
a/n: I fear Jason would actually do this in one of his more deranged moods. The others are probably more willing to leave you high and dry, finish the job, and come back later. Jason knows Bruce raised enough children to cover his ass.
Jason Todd is probably one of the few vigilantes who would rather finish what he started with you than rush off to help with the burning building caused by a car explosion a few streets away.
Don't start thinking that Jason doesn't care about Gotham. He loves Gotham, actually. Enough that the city has shaved years off his life and been the reason for his demise more than once. But does he care enough to pull out of the sweet, velvety walls of your pussy?
No, actually.
Bruce raised enough Bat-children for that particular reason.
You tried to get up when the first blast rattled the windows, but Jason was far faster. One broad hand caught both of your wrists and pinned them above your head while the other dragged your ankle to its rightful place over his shoulder, rough fingers curling around your calf as he settled his weight over you again.
"Jason, you have to go. What even was that?"
"Car bomb," he practically purred, pushing the leaky tip of his cock back into your pussy like the explosion had been nothing more than a minor interruption.
You tried to form a protest. Really, you did. But your protest amounted to little more than slapping one of his biceps when he cooed about how wet you were for him. His hips moved in slow, lazy strokes, making it increasingly difficult to remember the rest of the lecture you had prepared for him.
Another siren screamed somewhere outside, followed by the distant crackle of fire and shouting. Red and blue light flashed through the broken blinds of his safehouse, moving over Jason's naked body in restless streaks. It illuminated the sweat running between his pecs and caught in the pale scars scattered across his chest as he folded you deeper beneath him.
His green eyes never left your face, not even when another siren joined the first, while Gotham continued doing what Gotham did best.
Falling apart.
"Y-you need to go, Jay," you insisted, forcing the words between the moans slipping from your lips as he continued hitting that weak spot
"In a minute," he answered with a wink and a firm squeeze around your wrists.
God, Jason could be mean when he wanted to be. Today just happened to be one of those days.
Apparently, a minute meant whenever he was finished pulling every pretty sound he could from your lips, listening to the wet drag of your pussy around his cock whenever he found the spot that curled your toes.
"Couldn't leave you like this. So needy," he muttered against your throat, planting a constellation of kisses along your skin. The scrape of his stubble followed each one, rough enough to leave you warm before his lips soothed over the same spot. "Look at you. So wet for me."
"Jay," you breathed.
His palm pressed against the bulge his cock made low in your stomach, buried so deep inside you that you could barely breathe. You had a perfectly good argument prepared about how wrong it was for him to still be inside you while people were probably panicking in the streets, but then he pushed your leg farther back and rolled his hips again, and suddenly civic responsibility became a very difficult concept to hold on to.
"Gorgeous," he mused against your throat, kissing the hollow beneath your collarbone.
He finally released your hands, only so you could claw at his broad shoulders while he cupped your breasts. Jason muttered under his breath about how soft you were and how perfectly your breasts fit into his palms while you melted beneath him.
"I know, baby." His thumb and forefinger circled your nipple as it budded beneath his touch with a soft tug. "Gotham's falling apart." His teeth grazed your throat, leaving behind a mark that would darken by morning. "It does that every night."
The radio on the floor beside his helmet and your overnight bag had been going off nonstop by then, voices overlapping through bursts of static.
"Red Hood, respond."
Tim.
"Hood, I didn't come to Gotham to pick up after you. Where the hell are you?"
Dick.
Obviously, Jason was far too occupied to turn off the radio or do anything about the situation outside.
His grip around your breast tightened as his thrusts grew harder, matching the desperate movement of your hips. The mattress shifted beneath you while he watched your face with an unbearably smug, yet adoring look.
"Pretty thing," he groaned, eyes falling shut as his dark brows pinched together. He muttered about how close he was before catching your mouth with his. "What if I just let the city burn for you, hm?"
A burst of gunfire cracked through the radio and echoed from two streets down, sharp enough to make you flinch and tighten around his cock. Jason only paused long enough to listen, still toying with your breast as he cocked his head slightly.
"Modified M4," he confirmed against your pout. Another burst followed, as did his hips. "Cheap suppressor, too."
The radio crackled again with several increasingly annoyed demands to know where he was. Jason groaned for an entirely different reason and pressed his forehead against yours. His fingers left your breast and slipped between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease.
Your back arched before you could stop it.
"There you go," he praised, his mouth brushing across your cheek. "That's it, dove. Let me feel you."
His roughened thumb moved in slow circles, cruel and steady.
"You gonna come on my cock?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "That what you need?"
The words kept spilling out between kisses, each one rougher and more desperate than the last.
Then Dick mentioned something about tracking Jason's suit and dragging him out himself.
That finally got a reaction.
Not the reaction Dick wanted, obviously.
Jason hooked an arm around your waist and hauled you upright until you were straddling him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your sides as he guided you down again.
"Then we'd better finish before he gets here."
"Jason, I swear to God - "
"Yeah?" His green eyes glinted beneath lowered lashes. "Tell him how good I make you feel."
You made an offended little noise, but Jason only laughed and caught your lower lip between his teeth before kissing you again.
"That's my baby," he murmured, hands tightening around your waist as his thrusts grew meaner beneath you. Chest pressed against yours. The sound of skin hitting skin and all the lewd noises of your cunt filling the room. "So soft. So perfectly made for me. Don't know how you expect me to leave when you feel this good."
Outside, sirens wailed. The radio kept spitting out his name. Red light slid through the blinds while Gotham tried to tear itself apart a few streets away.
"You are genuinely the worst vigilante in Gotham."
"But I'm your favorite," Jason laughed as he pushed himself impossibly deeper.
You could bite, scratch, curse, and remind him that people were literally depending on him, but he answered every protest with another kiss and harsh thrust.
He was not leaving until both of you came.
And even then, Jason Todd had never been particularly good at stopping after one round.
also posted on ao3 | my masterlist
Ryland is being highly secretive about the trip he's planning. It is unclear why he tells you to pack a swimsuit in the middle of February.
~5.6k words; Latin teacher!reader; smut; semi-public sex; beach sex; riding; unprotected sex; love confessions (it's finally here....)
a/n: everyone ignore the fact that this is the most self-indulgent one yet and instead learn a little something about the punic wars
When you walk into the teacher’s lounge to have lunch—it’s one of those rare days that you’re not on cafeteria duty—Ryland is laser-focused on his laptop. His glasses are also hanging below his chin, which means that he’s doing this weird thing where he leans back in his chair in order to see better. Normally, he’s pretty good about reflexively putting them back on, but he is apparently so distracted by whatever he’s working on that this was the solution his brain came up with.
This is a fairly normal sight. He likes to spend as much time as he can grading during work hours so he doesn’t have to take it all home, particularly now that the two of you spend most of your evenings together. There will be an at-home grading session, every once in a while, and usually you like to do them together. (Well. He would like to try and grade together. You usually have other ideas.)
(And, look, you don’t have nearly as much grading as he does, because there simply aren’t as many sections of middle school Latin as there are science, so when he comes over to grade you usually don’t have anything to do, and watching him grade for longer than five minutes just—it does something to you, okay? Especially when he’s talking through his thought process.)
All of that is to say that you think nothing of it when you walk into the room, except that you are going to fix his glasses for him because really, he’s going to wreck his eyes even more than he already has. But when you step forward to do so, he slams the laptop shut with such force that you think he might have just broken the hinges.
“Uh. Okay. Why are you acting like a kid whose mom just caught them watching porn?”
“No reason. Maybe I was watching porn.”
You look at him for a few seconds. He is drumming his fingers on his laptop and staring right back at you, waiting to see if you will make this a whole thing or just go along with the bit. You decide you’ll let him off the hook. For now. “Well, first of all, that would be kind of insane to do that in the teacher’s lounge, and second,” you say, walking over to the fridge and rummaging through it to grab your lunch (leftovers from dinner with Ryland last night), “all of those sites are banned on the school Wi-Fi. Because of the incident.”
The incident actually hadn’t involved a student. Someone in admin had apparently been using the school’s internet to download porn onto external hard drives. It is sort of insane to you that those sites hadn’t been banned prior to this, but whatever.
You pop your food in the microwave and lean on the counter to watch him. He is still rhythmically tapping his fingers. “You got me there. I still think about how much he downloaded. What was it, five terabytes?”
“Seven, I think.”
“What does someone even need with seven terabytes of porn? That’s, like, seventy million times the amount of storage it took to put people on the moon.” It is so endearing, you think, that his benchmark for computer storage is the Apollo program.
The microwave beeps, and you take your food out and sit down at the table across from him. “To be fair, I’m pretty sure a single picture on a smartphone takes up more space than the Apollo 11 code.”
“This is true.”
He is still trying to distract you. “You’re not going to tell me what you were actually doing, are you?”
“Nope.”
Ryland slowly opens his laptop again. The hinges, surprisingly, still work. He does not put his glasses up, and you realize that it is not because he has forgotten, but because he doesn’t want you to see the reflection of his screen in the lenses. Wow. He’s being thorough.
You simply hum and start eating your lunch. His eyes flick between you and his screen several times. It is very attractive. You mark that thought for later.
He looks up at you again. “You’re not going to keep asking?”
“Nah.”
He nods and types something. Then his fingers still, and he narrows his eyes at you. “…Because you’re going to try and look at my laptop later.”
You give an exaggerated gasp and hold your hand to your chest, affronted. “I would do no such thing.” You would. You are already planning to try and look when you are over at his apartment that night.
It’s like he can hear the thought in your mind as it happens, because he closes the laptop again (slowly, this time) and says, “Sure. I really believe that.”
“You should.” You take another bite of your lunch and smile innocently. Oh, you are so going to look whenever you get the chance.
“You—you are—” Ryland seems to be searching for some kind of metaphor or analogy for the situation. It is always very fun to see whatever far-fetched comparison he will try to draw. “Hannibal. Sure. You’re being Hannibal, and you are trying to bring elephants across my Alps.”
Aw. That’s sweet. He remembered your ramble from the other day about the Punic Wars. You’re also glad he included the detail about the elephants, because sometimes he likes to mess with you by referencing Hannibal and then slowly revealing he’s talking about the fictional character who eats people and not the Carthaginian general.
You simply tut and set your utensil down. “Hannibal lost, in the end. I’m more like Scipio Africanus, if we want to continue the analogy.”
“So…you’re going to burn my city to the ground?”
Wrong Scipio, but it’s an easy mistake to make. That was Scipio Aemilianus, the adoptive grandson of Scipio Africanus (it’s complicated), and Carthage was raised in the Third Punic War, not the Second, when Hannibal was general. You refrain from pointing all of this out to him. Instead, you say, “Carthago delenda est, Ryland. Carthago delenda est.”
--
Your chance comes that weekend, when you and Ryland are sitting on his couch and putting together a Lego set. His laptop is open with the set’s instructions displayed, because he always hogs the physical manual that comes in the box, even though he swears he doesn’t actually need it, and that Lego sets are quite intuitive for him. (He is currently a few pages back trying to figure out what step he skipped.)
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and once he seems focused enough on trying to find his mistake, you slowly inch your hand forward to the laptop. Then you open a new tab. The cursor is drifting toward the settings to check his history when you are suddenly knocked over on to your side on the couch, and Ryland is on top of you, and he flips you onto your back so he can start tickling you as a form of punishment for your transgression.
“I knew it, I knew it, I knew you were going to look—I didn’t even make a mistake, that was a trap—” You can barely hear him over your laughter, and you’re also focused on feebly attempting to get him to stop, but you’re not actually trying that hard, because even when he is tormenting you like this you simply like the feeling of his hands too much to actually intervene.
He blows a raspberry into your neck for good measure, and while he’s distracted with that you start tickling him back, and he squeaks into your skin. “Okay, alright, you caught me, please tell me, I am dying to know.”
Ryland draws back and hovers over you, placing both of his hands beside your head to hold himself up. Your hands still in their attack and lay flat on his sides, because now you’re preoccupied with his smile and his eyes and the way his glasses are holding on to his face for dear life. “I know you are,” he says, simply, and then he leans down to kiss you, and it is soft and searing and apologetic all at once, because he knows that you really, really want to know what he is planning, and he is not going to tell you.
The Lego set is forgotten for a little while. When you finally return to it later, you point out that, actually, he did make a mistake, about four pages back. Ryland closes his laptop and silently hands you the physical instructions.
--
You do not try to snoop again, and he rewards you for this by telling you that you are going on a mini trip in a few weeks, when there’s another three-day weekend, and he also tells you that you should pack a swimsuit for it, the one piece with the cutouts that he really likes. You are burning with more questions, particularly what kind of trip requires a swimsuit in February, but you refrain. You are being very good about it all. You are pointedly ignoring that this does kind of make you Hannibal instead of Scipio, but the Romans really respected Hannibal, anyway, and the elephants were pretty sick.
The two of you have to submit time-off requests, because technically the Friday that the kids don’t have to come in is scheduled as a PD day. The vice principal chooses not to comment on the fact that you both submit the request within five minutes of each other. It is basically the school’s worst-kept secret that the two of you are together and has been since your trip to Yosemite, because if everyone thought you spent a suspicious amount of time together before, it is now even worse.
The three-day weekend is approaching. Ryland has given you no other details. You are considering revising your decision to refrain from looking through his laptop, but, again, you are trying to be good, so you do not. He is very appreciative of your restraint, and he shows you this appreciation multiple times in the week leading up to the trip, in your kitchen, in his shower, in one of the supply closets at the end of a school day. (That door locks just fine, unlike his classroom.)
You stay over at his apartment the night before the trip. He rewards your patience again that night, and then in the morning he cooks breakfast for the two of you, which is really saying a lot, because the man hates cooking with a passion. You are practically vibrating with excitement by the time you’re in the rental car; it is not a Mitsubishi Mirage this time, and he admits that they didn’t have one available, because really it is the most fuel-efficient option.
The two of you chat for a while about work, but there’s really not that much to say—again, the two of you spend most of your time together—so you decide that, actually, you will correct his mistake about the Punic Wars, if only to distract you from analyzing the passing surroundings to deduce where he’s taking you.
“So Scipio Africanus did not burn Carthage down.”
“Correct,” you smile, as if you were giving a lecture to a student. “That was Scipio Aemilianus.”
“And he’s the one who wasn’t originally called Scipio, because he was adopted. He was related to the—that one guy. A Lucius or something.”
You are so proud. “Mm-hm. Lucius Aemilius Paulus Macedonius. He got that last name from pretty much decimating the Macedonians and one of their suspected allies.”
Ryland nods thoughtfully as he makes another turn. You still cannot tell where you’re going, although you think you must be close, because you can feel the nervous and excited energy radiating off of him. “And did anyone ever tell them that they could use more than the same nine names they all have?”
“No. Or if someone did, it didn’t really catch on. That’s why they all have extra names.”
“Naturally.”
After a few more turns, he’s pulling into the driveway of a house, and when you open the car door you’re hit with the smell of saltwater. You must be very close to the beach, and indeed, when you walk up the stairs to the side door—Ryland is carrying all of your bags and moving slowly behind you, because he refuses to admit defeat—you gasp, because the ocean is right there, and the house sits on long stilts that go right into the sand. There’s a stairway and a little path that leads to the beach.
“Oh, wow, this is—Ryland.”
“Yeah?” He has decided to take the bags separately up the stairs and is finally carrying up the last batch.
“You. This. Thank you,” you finally say, because the view is beautiful, and even though it’s February and you definitely can’t swim, he knows that you like the smell of the saltwater and looking out at the endless horizon. You hug him tightly, and he drops the bag he was holding to wrap his arms around you, and it immediately goes tumbling down the stairs. He doesn’t do anything about it, possibly because it’s one of his and not yours. “I feel like I need to up my game,” you mumble into him. “First Yosemite, now this? I don’t—I don’t have anything for you.”
He says your name, softly, and presses a kiss into your hair. “You give me everything. Every day.”
The two of you stay like this for a while, and then he pulls back to punch in the code for the door before bounding down the stairs to get his bag. He almost trips but catches himself with the railing just in time, which is good, because that would have been a pretty inauspicious start to the weekend.
“Now,” he says, huffing a little from going up and down the stairs so many times, “let’s go inside and put this stuff away so we can use the hot tub.”
“There’s a hot tub?”
“Uh, of course there is?” Ryland looks at you like this should have been obvious. “Why else would I tell you to pack a swimsuit in February?”
“I don’t know!”
--
The hot tub is very nice. You don’t thank him there for putting all of this together, because that would be very unsanitary, but you do so after, very enthusiastically, when the two of you are in the shower rinsing off.
He pays you back for that about thirty minutes later on the couch. This just adds to the tally, because really, you weren’t done thanking him, so the large island in the kitchen gets put to use for things that are decidedly not cooking-related a few hours later. You wonder, idly, as he kisses up the length of your spine while you’re bent over the marble countertop, if part of the impetus for this trip was so that he could have brand-new surfaces to do all of this on, because there weren’t really any left in either of your apartments.
This makes another idea occur to you while you’re sitting on the couch together, a random movie playing on the TV as the sun sets below the ocean’s horizon, casting a warm glow through the windows. “We should move in together,” you blurt.
His head whips around to look at you. You’re surprised there wasn’t some kind of snapping sound with how fast the movement was. “I—really?”
“Yeah.” You lean forward to grab the remote and pause the movie. “I mean, we spend most nights at each other’s places anyway. I keep clothes and a bunch of extra bathroom stuff at your apartment. Why not just remove the middleman and—”
Ryland doesn’t let you finish, because he’s rapidly nodding and pulling you into a hug. “Yes. Way more efficient, I agree. That’s. Come here,” because this is, apparently, one of those rare instances where he cannot find the words he wants to say, so he heaves you onto his lap and kisses you in an attempt to communicate it all. And then, probably because the couch had already been put into use earlier, he stands up, his hands grasping the backs of your thighs as he carries you to the bedroom.
--
There is an incredibly loud alarm blaring from his phone, and it is entirely too early for that, so you assume that it’s an alarm for work or something that he forgot to switch off, and that he’ll hit snooze so the two of you can go back to sleep.
Instead, he’s shooting up out of bed and hurrying around the room to put on some clothes, and then he’s shaking you vigorously. “Come on, up, up, we have to hurry.”
You groan and watch him almost fall over as he puts his socks on. “What are we doing that requires this much energy at—I don’t even know what time it is.”
“Almost five.”
“Five in the morning? What are you—okay, okay, I’m getting up,” you grumble, because he is giving you a very cute pout. Ryland tells you to bundle up, so you throw on a sweatshirt and some warm socks, and then he’s hustling you to the bathroom so you can brush your teeth. “Are you going to tell me what is going on?” Your toothbrush is in your mouth, so the words come out distinctly more garbled than that, but he understands what you’re saying anyway.
“Sunrise. On the beach. Hurry up.”
You spit the toothpaste out. “We’re going to watch the sunrise.”
“Yes.”
“On the beach. Which is on the west coast. Where the sun sets.”
“Glad you’ve still got your cardinal directions. Let’s go.”
There’s not even time for you to roll your eyes at his comment, because he’s tugging you into the kitchen and pouring coffee into a thermos and then pulling you outside, barely giving you a moment to put your shoes on. He holds your hand while you walk down the stairs, which is pretty impressive, because it means he has to wedge the thermos in the crook of his other arm, which is also carrying a bundle of blankets.
You watch with a smile as he spreads one of them out and wipes it free of sand before gesturing for you to sit, and you kick your shoes off to tuck your legs underneath you once you do. He hands you the thermos while he plops down next to you and wraps the other blanket around you both. You take a grateful sip of the warm coffee, and once he’s settled, you hand it back to him so he can do the same.
The sun has already started to rise, and even though you’re facing the wrong way—which you point out to him, multiple times—it’s still incredibly serene. There’s a light fog drifting over the water in the distance, and the sky is shifting from black to dark purple to pink and orange, and the waves crash rhythmically against the beach. It’s kind of perfect, you think, taking it all in.
He’s doing the thing again, the thing where he’s having a moment and looking at you instead of the view, but rather than pointing out that he’s missing the fog he loves so much, you turn to meet his eyes. “What?” You know what, but you’d like to hear him say it anyway.
At first, he doesn’t respond, choosing instead to keep staring, searching your face and inhaling a few times as if he is going to speak. Finally, he breathes, “I love you,” and it’s not the thing you were expecting, but in retrospect it probably should have been. “Sorry, that’s—I had a whole speech planned, it was going to be very cute and full of references and everything, I even wrote it down at one point but I had to throw it away because you are so nosy, but I love that about you, really,” and he keeps on rambling, and you’re worried that he’s going to talk himself into hyperventilating.
You slide your hand to the side of his neck and shut him up with your mouth, and he is still trying to talk, so you whisper into him, “I love you, please stop talking, I love you so much,” and finally, finally he gets the hint and sighs into your mouth. You swing your leg over him to sit on his lap—you are fairly certain that he decides to just toss the thermos to the side so you can do this—and he adjusts the blanket so it’s still wrapped around you, because he loves you and he doesn’t want you to get cold.
The thought makes you start to tear up, and you’re pretty sure he’s already crying a little bit, but neither of you want to stop, either, so you roll your hips down against him, and Ryland’s hands fist in your sweatshirt. The mumbled I love you’s continue to pour out; your teeth are clacking together, and you almost accidentally bite his tongue, and it is all so right and perfect.
“We should, let’s go inside,” he manages to choke out. You swallow it up and keep kissing him, sliding your hands underneath the hem of his shirt because you need to touch him right this second.
“Mm-mm.” You draw back a little to mouth at his throat, nudging his jaw up with your nose and clenching at the sound of his breathy moan and the feeling of his stubble catching against your skin. “Want you right here.”
“You are going to be the death of me,” he pants, but he slides the blanket so it hangs around you while he lays back on the blanket, and you follow, licking into his mouth and rocking your hips again. His hands squeeze the swell of your ass before sliding upward, underneath your sweatshirt. Ryland maps the planes of your ribs and the undersides of your breasts with the pads of his fingers, even though he has every inch memorized already, because he wants to keep relearning it every time, just in case there’s something new that he can discover and relish and tuck away.
And he is very pleased to discover that you declined to put on a bra—who wants to do that at five in the morning—and greedily palms the bare flesh he’s found. One of his hands slips out from underneath your clothes and comes up to cup the side of your face, and his thumb drags across your bottom lip. You open your mouth so he can press the digit against your tongue, and he keeps it there while you whine around it and suck. The sight makes his hips jerk, and you can feel him through his jeans, right at the center of the pressure building between your thighs.
He takes his thumb out of your mouth with a pop and returns his hand underneath your sweatshirt, using your saliva to help glide over the tight bud of your nipple. It works, it’s so good, and you shudder and drop a little closer to him to bury your face in the crook of his neck.
“Not really sure—how the logistics of this are going to work—to be honest.” He’s saying this but is still bucking up into you, and you feel like he is already demonstrating how the logistics will operate, and you tell him as much, which makes him laugh and then choke a little when you shift your head to teeth at his earlobe. “The clothes. It’s, it’s the clothes I’m worried about here.”
“Oh. Well, that’s, we can figure that out as we go along,” because you would really like to ride him on this beach, even though it’s five-thirty in the morning, and it’s cold, and you are also not sure how to deal with the clothes of it all, and rationally this would all be much easier if you just went back inside. But it’s not that you can’t wait, it’s that you don’t want to, because you love him and you need him to understand the depth of it right here, right this very moment.
You think that Ryland understands this, that he feels the same, because he moves his hands back to your hips to slide you back-and-forth against him; it distantly occurs to you that this might have influenced his decision to wear jeans, which might be a silly thought, because he’s always wearing jeans, but he also knows that the feeling of the fabric dragging against your cunt makes you go just a little bit insane. (Most of the things he does affect you in this way, but this one is pretty high up on the list.)
Okay, you think, it is about time to figure out the clothes issue, and his seem easier, so you lift yourself up to work at the button and the zipper before tugging his jeans down a little—it’s not even worth it to try and take them all the way off—and you can tell he is not happy about the sudden lack of friction but also likes this new development, particularly when you grasp him through his boxers, so he slides his hands underneath the waistband of your pants. You are very thankful that you went with sweatpants, because it is making this whole operation much, much easier.
Well. Not that much easier. It is still incredibly awkward, and you have to keep shifting around so he can slide them off along with your underwear, which require slightly more effort because the fabric is already soaked. At one point you are essentially flailing around on top of him to get all of this clothing completely off of you, and then the two of you are shaking against each other with laughter.
Ryland presses a kiss against your cheek in between laughs. “Is there—hah,” because you’ve now tugged his boxers down, and the length of him is sliding against the soft skin of your bare hip, “is there a plan for if someone walks by?”
Hm. You hadn’t really thought of that. In all fairness, there have been other things on your mind. “Um, we could—pretend we’re sleeping? Like this,” and you drop and let all of your weight rest against him (after moving up a little so you don’t crush a very important body part, because that would really derail all of this effort).
He lets out an oof at the sudden pressure and laughs, and then he starts dancing his fingers up and down your sides. “Alright, okay, got it, that’s the plan, can we—”
You are already way ahead of him. He sucks his breath in through his teeth as you slide down a little, letting the head of his cock press ever-so-slightly against the slickness of your folds. The hands at your sides squeeze involuntarily, and there’s a whine in the back of your throat at the feeling of his nails lightly pressing into your skin.
The two of you stay like this, just for a moment, feeling the heady anticipation build and unfurl between you. You break first, barely, lifting your hips up a fraction and moving a little further down his body so you can gently slide your cunt against him, feeling him twitch and sigh and grasping your sides.
If you had to pick something you loved the most, it was this: the comfort that lies in switching so seamlessly between laughter and pleasure, the way he grins at you in one moment and draws his eyebrows together in the next, how your sighs and giggles mingling together never make him want you less, only more.
You feverishly press a kiss against his throat and murmur, “I love you,” into his skin, hoping that the sound will etch itself there, invisible but still felt, and then you raise your hips and guide him inside of you. There’s still some soreness there from the day before, a dull ache when you sink down and clench around him, but the good kind, the precious kind, the kind that promises that he was there yesterday, is there now, would be there tomorrow and each day after that.
The world narrows down until all that exists is the rise and fall of your hips, the toe-curling drag of his cock, the way his head tips back and his Adam’s apple moves, the sound of his shuddering groans and whispered I love you’s.
His hands grasp your hips again, trying to help you with the rhythm, and you let him for a while. You savor the feeling of being held and guided and seen, the way his own hips rise to meet yours, the friction it brings against your clit, before you murmur, “Put your hands on the blanket. Next—next to your head.”
“Like this?” Ryland withdraws his hands and lays them against the blanket on either side of his head, palms up. You simply nod and interlace your fingers with his, holding his hands against the blanket, careful not to let the one draped around your shoulders slip and fall in the process. He groans and arches against you at the feeling, at you pressing him down and using his hands as leverage to ride him. The rhythm you set is a little uneven, a little sloppy, but to him it is perfect.
His eyes are half-lidded, and you can tell he’s fighting the urge to squeeze them shut so he can focus on the feeling of you clench around him. “Look at me. Please, please look at me, Ryland.” He has to blink, slowly, heavily, a few times, but his eyes widen behind the lenses of his glasses, and he nods, mouth parting as he sighs. “Love you, I love you so much, need you to know—it’s not—I have loved you for so long, I don’t know how to—I don’t have the words, just,” and you still, hips flush against his, to kiss him desperately. It is messy and uncoordinated, but he’s still nodding, because he knows the thing that you are trying to say that can’t be put into words.
When you pull back, he opens his eyes again to look, to watch you move your hips faster and bite your lip and let out a stilted moan. You don’t let go of his hands, not yet, because the feeling of his palms against yours and your fingers laced tightly just makes you that much closer, and you think you can never be close enough.
You can tell when he’s getting close, because he tries to move his hands to do something, anything, to make you get there first, because he’s always putting your pleasure first, always putting you ahead of everything else. “Wait, wait, I want—let me, I want you to—”
You press his hands more forcefully against the blanket, and the sensation makes his eyes flutter and his head tip back even further. This, this is the thing you want to give him, you need to give him, to make him feel good, with no benefit other than getting to watch him come undone, feeling him stutter and spill inside of you. “Let me do this, please let me do this—you have me, you’ll have me forever, just let me give this to you, please, Ryland, please,” and he nods frantically, squeezing your hands, keening and whining and babbling that he loves you, he’s got you, that you feel so good around him.
The sound of your hips rising and falling, grinding down onto his cock, the way you both gasp and moan at the feeling, it is all probably obscene, but there is simply nothing in you that cares about anything other than this: the sight of him looking at you, the sight of him finally squeezing his eyes shut when it all becomes too much, the broken groan that you swallow with a kiss when he comes, the whimper against your lips when you clench around him.
You lay there for a while, pressed against him, letting go of his hands so he can wrap his arms around you, and the two of you simply listen to the waves and each other’s breaths.
“I don’t know,” you finally mumble, “how we’re going to get my pants back on. Why am I always the one with my pants off.”
He laughs, and you can feel it rumbling against your chest, and you’re fairly certain that he’s already hard again.
You figure out the pants. The two of you are inside for approximately five seconds before they are off again. He pays you back, again and again, so much that the tally is completely skewed, but it doesn’t bother you, because you have so much time now to balance the scales. By the end of the day, there is a tab on your phone for apartments in walking distance of the school. When you show it to him, he silently pulls out his laptop and reveals that he’s had a search bookmarked for a month. You mark a tally on your side shortly after.
When the days become repetitive and the nights become suffocating, Ryland Grace decides to hop online to let out some steam. What starts as a fleeting late night distraction, becomes far more complicated when the person behind the screen feels strangely familiar
Wc: 6.4k || part one | next part |
Tags: Age gap (Grace is in his mid thirties, reader is in their mid twenties) sex work, reader likes it, sad pathetic Grace, masturbation, fuck machine, Grace and reader met as adults, brief mention of Coltland twins, eventual angst.
a/n: University name is completely made up btw, it does exist actually but disregard that. This started as a thought, I may or may not have lost control while writing, as always English is not my first language so please excuse any mistakes! Not proofread
Requests open!
“Hey” Grace followed the small footsteps of an ant crawling across the concrete railings. He doesn't know why his feet decided to bring him here out of all places, but since he's here anyways, might as well enjoy the view and relax for a moment.
He needs it really, especially after a terrible breakup with his girlfriend just moments prior, he can't blame her for saying what she said and deciding to end things.
“You're selfish! You care about no one but yourself!”
With no heads up though? That's just cruel, well- since when did people ever give a heads up before breaking up. “Hey I'm breaking up with you tomorrow night, 7 pm sharp, see you!”
Nevertheless he's also at fault here, at least that's what he thinks. With his head all up in clouds just as she said, he might’ve not given her enough attention. He knows the feeling of being abandoned all too well, he never expected himself to do it to other people though, his girlfriend much less. Even if it was unintentional, it doesn't remove the guilt that's currently pulling him down.
she must've felt unloved and not seen. But what's done is done, he can't really bring back time and magically make things better can he? At least she's with Mark, it hurts but it's better knowing she has someone she can go to after all this.
Unlike him, maybe that's why he ended up here by the bridge, looking out at the sunset with his newly found friend crawling ever so slowly on the concrete.
“Make sure to find the right girl and treat her right, you know you'll fall and die after sex right?” nothing came back.
The tiny insect stood motionless on the pavement while he waited as if a thoughtful reply was still making its way through a committee.
Seconds drifted by.
He blinked.
The ant did not.
Grace blinked again staring at the ant with the growing realization that the conversation might be a little one sided.
“Well!” Grace huffed while his hands collided with the railings pushing himself upright. “That was a nice conversation Mister, really eye opening unfortunately though! I really need to go home since it's dark and I'm hungry.”
Grace tilted his head and lowered it in the process towards the ant mimicking a bow “Goodbye sir” he turned around and worked his feet towards his apartment, making sure to stop by a grocery store on the way if he did not want to die of starvation.
.✦ ݁˖
Nobody really prepares you for the real world, more so when your parents are absolute good-for-nothings that never bothered to teach how to cook, clean, or basic hygiene.
Grace had to find out the hard way when his mouth started hurting one day during 4th grade. When he looked in the mirror, his teeth were decaying and his gums had these bumps that hurt like crap, he thought people avoided him because he was weird, turns out it was probably because of his bad breath– key word probably, he'd never know for sure, but he chose to believe that the reason is solely because he's weird. It's better to hear that you got ignored for being different than by having a bad breath, Grace stands by that, he does not want to be known as a stinky bad breath kid.
That also means that Grace, someone with a doctorate in molecular biology, teaches middle schoolers and undergraduates, is very much wack at cooking.
Which is why he's standing by the stove, contemplating what can only generously be described as chicken, poor thing died for nothing.
“....takeout it is then!”
Grace decided that the only way to give the burnt chicken justice is by buying an actual edible chicken cooked by someone else so it does not have to go through the tragedy that the poor things go through when he touches a pan.
After placing the order, Grace carefully put the unmistakably burnt chicken into the trash, what a waste, that could've been a tasty orange chicken.
“Didn't even get a chance the second time.” he let out a quiet chuckle, it was small– forced. He couldn't tell if he was trying to make light of it for his own sake, maybe this is just how he coped, with jokes that aren't funny just to fill the silence.
Just as the laugh came, it disappeared just as quickly, the reality of his situation weighing heavily on his back once again after a day of trying to forget everything.
The silence covered the apartment, to the point that he swore his ears started ringing by how quiet it was.
The apartment felt larger too, now that its frequent visitors most likely will not be coming back anytime soon. There was no voice of the girl in his life asking what he had burnt this time, no voice from his twin brother joking about his dreadful cooking, nothing.
The faint hum of the refrigerator is starting to get on his nerves, his smile faded.
It was deafening.
Sadness is a weird thing, when you think you finally got over something, suddenly it comes crashing down tenfold than it was earlier.
Grace did not cry when he got fired.
Grace did not cry when his parents died.
Grace did not cry when his twin brother cut contact with him and chose to leave him all alone with no one to go to.
Grace did not cry when his only girlfriend broke up with him and left him for another guy.
So he will not cry.
Still it doesn't remove the tightness in his chest, the heavy feeling at the back of his throat, that churning and turning of his stomach that he can't control, the wetness of his eyes increasing at every lousy attempt of swallowing, (and failing.)
It's not easy, but he will go through it because what choice does he have? Nothing. He can't do anything but to accept it and move on.
The silence stretched on, Grace sat with it for another minute before releasing a tired breath while his eyes were squeezed shut. He had so many what ifs, and questions that he desperately needed an answer to, the breakup was his last straw, now he's not just thinking about things he possibly had done wrong during his relationship but also his mistakes from way back, all the things he wanted to fix that he wasn't able to.
It came crawling back, Grace doesn't know just how much more he can take for the night.
His shoulders slumped as the tension bled out of him, whatever answers he was hoping to find aren't going to appear no matter how long he tears himself down.
Grace stood up straight, lifted his chin and left the kitchen to walk towards his room, the knot in his chest still refusing to leave. Busying himself in his work or just doing anything will be better than him being all alone with his thoughts that will for sure make him spiral once again.
His fingers glided through the keyboard flawlessly as he typed in his password, out of habit he opened Microsoft Word, the half finished report flashed his screen.
Grace read the same sentence three times and retained none of it.
With a sigh, he rubbed his eyes and leaned back on his chair.
The apartment was still too quiet.
Every attempt at getting any work done seems to lead to Grace doing something completely unrelated, being easily influenced by his own mind, the report on his screen didn't seem to be getting finished any time soon.
"Enough." Grace muttered under his breath.
He pushed the report aside and directed his mouse to open a new tab, at first it was the usual stuff, random videos on YouTube, news articles and checked his social media, despite all of that he wouldn't be able to tell you the contents of all the things he'd watched and seen in the past hour because his mind wasn't even paying attention, just doing something to fill the space in his thoughts.
But the distraction never lasted, The moment one page loaded, his mind started wandering somewhere who knows what again.
Grace drummed his fingers against the desk.
He didn't want to think anymore, he didn't want to sit alone with his pretentiously loud thoughts for another hour.
So when the thought crossed his mind, he didn't spend much time arguing with it.
Anything to feel something else for a while.
The cursor hovered over the search bar.
‘pornhub’
He doesn't feel shame because why would he? Everybody does it, additionally it's been a long time since he had a release. Because of his hectic schedule of teaching middle schoolers then going to college to teach undergraduates, then the gradings, and lesson plans if he hadn't prepared one already, it was a lot. His girlfriend– well ex girlfriend was usually the one who initiates sex and because of the misunderstandings that led her to break up with him eventually, she stopped asking, and Grace feels like such a dick why he never once asked why, or even check up on her if she's okay or if she wants something or–
Stop, it's done, more thinking won't bring back the past.
Grace navigated the videos that popped up, it all looks so fake that he can't even get his dick to harden, is it bad that he's actually a bit disgusted by all those fake cum coming out of that girl's pussy? But hey he's not yucking someone else's yum.
Eventually he settled on a random video that he found after his endless clicking, it has a more natural vibe, (he prefers it that way.)
Grace unzipped his pants and pushed it down just a bit, enough to let his dick spring out.
A soft groan rumbled his throat as his hand warmed up his dick, tension from his muscles melted away, his eyes closed shut.
He didn't even bother looking at the random woman masturbating on his screen, he focused on the sounds that's coming out of her mouth, his hand pumping his dick at her every moan.
His thumb circled around his tip and pressed hard, Grace played around at the slit that's leaking with pre cum and smeared it all over. The dry friction of him jerking off got on his nerves quickly, at times where he's in a hurry and just needs a quick release, he just goes straight at it, no lube just jerking off raw.
But he's not in a hurry is he? He has all the time in the world so might as well make the most of it. He reached for his drawer and pulled out a bottle of lube and poured a generous amount on his palm, rubbing it together for a few seconds before reaching down and giving his dick its well deserved attention.
Small moans managed to escape from his throat as his hand was pumping his own cock, Grace knew he was close when he felt his dick twitch. His hand squeezed tightly before speeding up chasing his release.
“fuck…yeah..just like that..” Grace muttered under his own breath, deep and gentle, the same tone he used when complimenting his girlfriend for taking his dick to her mouth– which to his dismay only happened once in their years of relationship, why? Because she labeled herself as a pillow princess that expected all her needs to be taken care of and no consideration for Grace's own pleasure. Back then he didn't have any issues with it since he'd much rather pleasure her instead but now that he thinks about it. Yeah..having someones mouth on your dick– kneeling before you is incredibly hot and turns him on more than he expected.
“I'm coming!.. I'm comminggg!” the voice from his laptop echoed through the room, the obnoxious fake moan was heard loud and clear– still at the same time he grunted while a thick white fluid squirted out of his dick.
His hand didn't stop.
It kept pumping up and down while his breath started to shake, sweat was trickling down his forehead, his chest rising and going down quicker than normal.
The overstimulation kicked in no doubt but that didn't stop Grace, the feeling was addictive, every single fiber in his body was telling him to remove his hand or to simply stop but he didn't, his dick was already starting to limp and yet he didn't shred it any mercy.
“fuck..” his voice cracked when a moan slipped out of his mouth, his body was twitching and getting that sudden pops when your body is overstimulated.
His hand went faster, and faster, harder, quicker and–
Ding Dong!
Grace jumped in his seat, his hand pulled away from his dick out of habit as he tried and collect himself together after that intense session.
“uhh..” yeah that was the doorbell, Grace's body immediately entered what could only be described as processing mode.
He blinked once.
Twice.
Then he continued staring at his laptop screen like it had personally offended his family, God forbid a guy watch porn and masturbate.
The person outside must be getting impatient when a ring of a doorbell comes one after another, the sound overlapping, this guy is abusing the hell out of his doorbell.
It's 11 pm.
Who the hell needs him at this hour?
With great reluctance and a huge amount of annoyance, Grace pulled his pants back up, tucking away his cock for a while, he made sure to wash his hands because whoever the person outside of his house, does not deserve (probably) to get touched by cum covered hands.
Ding ding ding ding ding
The person growing more impatient than ever, Grace finally made his way to the front door, his hand twisted the doorknob to see the glorious face of the person begging for his companionship at this hour.
“Delivery for Ryland, chicken wings, it's not paid.” the teenage guy blurted out with a monotone voice, seemingly done with the whole situation. It is late, must be annoying in his end especially since they're probably closing soon– if they aren't already. Grace knows all too well since he himself had worked in fast food during his teenage years.
“oh! Uh..right sorry– give me a minute, I completely forgot.” Grace said frantically, his hand was raised signaling the guy to wait for a moment while he hurried inside to fetch money from his wallet.
He made sure to tip the guy generously for the inconvenience, (even though it's his job, and he's simply doing what he needs to do but it's the thought that counts.)
Grace huffed while the table let out a loud ‘thunk’ when he basically threw it on there.
He dragged his hands slowly down his face, fingers pressing into his eyes, before tracing down to his jaw, as though he could rub away his frustration.
Just great, not that it's the guys fault, but now he's dealing with his cum stained underwear, hopefully the guy didn't notice the wet patch on his pants– he might as well kill himself at this point.
Grace turned his head to stare at the takeout bag that he's no longer interested in eating. The app had literally given him a countdown, updates, there were notifications as well, a map, and an estimated time of arrival, somehow, he'd ignored all of it.
He headed back to his room after putting the takeout in the fridge. He intends to eat it in the morning, since his appetite currently is basically non existent.
After closing the door behind him, the chair squeaked as Grace sat down, he checked the time earlier, it was 11:07 pm. His body is tired and aching, yelling at him to rest, enough masturbation from the night.
He turned his attention to his laptop to close it but the contents on his screen stopped him briefly.
He was sure he was on pornhub, watching some girl masturbating with that awful acting, now he's on a website. He must've clicked on an ad somewhere accidentally when he got up earlier.
‘NotaCamsite.com’ pulled a few chuckles out of him, it's a bad name, terrible even, but he can't deny– it is a bit funny.
Abandoning the plan of getting some sleep early– at least for Grace 11 pm can still be considered as early, his messed up schedule fucked his perception on time.
Scrolling for a bit, he concluded that it's basically your usual cam site, he never actually visited one before but he doesn't live under a rock to not know what and how cam sites work.
Cam models promoting their streams, and the site asking him to buy tokens and quote on quote. ‘Running low on tokens? Recharge now! So you can show your favorite models some love.’
His eyes trailed down towards the small text under the big ‘PURCHASE NOW!’
‘Sign up and get a free 500 tokens to make a model happy!’
Fuck it right? Grace thought.
It's free and it doesn't ask for any banking information when he tries to sign up, the tokens will hypothetically just appear on his account if he did hypothetically sign up and hypothetically watch a few streams and hypothetically give it to a cam model.
Yes yes right hypothetically.
No way he'll actually do it.
No….
Grace clicked his tongue while staring at his laptop screen.
…..
Ah his hand slipped.
Well he can't let that 500 tokens go to waste now can he.
Sleep now saying it's goodbye after Grace began scrolling through the streams available.
Apparently 500 tokens costs $50 so basically 10 tokens for a dollar, not too shabby, he swears he'll finally have his sweet date with his bed once he gives away his precious free 500 tokens.
Upon endless scrolling, Grace often lingers from certain streams that caught his attention, all of it was enough to get his dick to rise up again.
Months of no sexual activity really does affect a person.
He palmed his erection and squeezed it tightly, not enough to hurt. Pre cum was already leaking from his tip, the clear fluid glistening.
He smeared the pre cum all over his tip, a ritual at this point every time he masturbates, he let go for a moment to grab the lube sitting on his table. Grace poured a generous amount all over his hand once again.
After putting it back, he gently ran his hand into his dick, the cold base making him hiss. He looked back at the screen, his free hand scrolling once again, looking at all the cam models presenting their pussy for the camera and doing wonders with it.
His eyebrows raised for a moment when he saw a woman taking a foot tall tentacle deep into her vagina- impressive really but it isn't what he's looking for.
His hand kept pumping his dick while woman after woman came on screen– quite literally.
He kept scrolling and–
Grace didn't mean to stop, his fingers just froze, his body moving before his mind could even think.
Mid scroll, as if the moment had snagged him by the wrist, a quiet hitch broke his breathing.
He wouldn't call it love at first sight, no he doesn't believe in those kind of things, what he can say though is the woman looks absolutely breathtaking.
He never means to judge somebody just by their appearance–
The woman he's looking at through his laptop screen is simply just that beautiful. Your legs were spread open with a fuck machine pounding your pussy, you were screaming– in a good way, at least Grace hopes so, you look like you're enjoying it so that's good.
Just as the silicone dick was thrusting into you at a monstrous speed, the hand on his dick sped up just the same.
“ah..fuck..so pretty....”
His eyes never once looked at anywhere else other than you, unfortunately for him, the silicone dick seems to be slowing down, real slow.
His hand never stopped pumping his dick but the lack of movement on your end was a bit disappointing, when he realized that you're not gonna start moving anytime soon, he threw his head back and worked on his dick, his thumb playing with his tip, gliding it around and eventually pressing down hard on his slit.
Just as he was about to be lost in the pleasure a voice snapped him out of it.
“everyone..” a tired voice was heard “is that all you wanted to see, are you sure? Keep the donations coming and the fuck machine will continue destroying my pussy, won't you like that?” he watched as you turned to the camera, a mask adorned your face with intricate designs only covering your eyes.
Grace's eyes flickered open when he heard your voice, it sounded nice too…in the back of his mind, that voice sounds vaguely familiar but he chose to ignore it for now.
More importantly, you're threatening to end the stream if no more donations came in, he's not even close to cumming yet, this won't do.
A quiet hum vibrated on his throat when he remembered the free 500 tokens sitting in his account right now– Grace hadn't noticed earlier but there were texts on the top left of the screen.
100 tokens = 1 minute
500 tokens = 7 minutes
1k tokens = 15 minutes
And so on, there were a lot more options, such as 15k tokens to choose what kind of toy you'll use, 10k to focus on a specific fetish–
Grace shook his head snapping himself back to reality– the point is, he has 500 free ones and he can– no, he will use it for an extra 7 minutes, until he came at least.
He wasted no time and dragged his mouse to click on the donate button, he typed in 500 and quickly pressed send, he's pent up and his dick is standing tall and hard, his tip leaking angrily, hungry for any kind of stimulation, and Grace stopping waiting for the Camgirl to get pounded did not help at all.
Eventually his donation was delivered and shown on the screen.
‘rylace139 has donated 500 tokens’
His user was horrid, very clear that he didn't spend any time thinking about it, before he could even talk shit about his user on his mind, your voice grabbed his attention.
“ah! Looks like one of you guys wanted to see this pussy for longer.”
Yeah, he does.
“500 tokens? That's very generous of you Ry.”
Keep calling him that.
“Ry you're real naughty tonight huh, you don't want me to rest? You want me to get ruined instead?”
Well no– he wants you to rest but fuck, he's had a long day and he wants nothing more than to see what your beautiful face would look like once you cum hard.
“Well since you asked nicely…I'll make sure to put on a good show for you, watch me okay?”
You say with that flirty voice, Grace's strokes sped up matching the frequency of your fuck machine, God he doesn't know why he's so turned on, it feels so wrong but he can't stop.
He's so sure that whatever tone you're using is only for show, but fuck you know how to use the hell out of it, because he just felt himself twitch when you said your last message before getting fucked again.
It puts him on edge, with the way his dick kept twitching and the amount of pre cum leaking, he knew he's close, he hopes you are too.
“please..” he whined before pressing hard on his dick as the cum shoots out, it covered his hand and made a mess on his stomach too.
Just a moment later, you're screaming again as your climax hit you hard– your legs were shaking as the fuck machine showed no mercy and kept pounding in and out of your cunt.
Grace watched while his dick was limping from the aftermath, he could feel himself getting turned on again but after all of his orgasms, he's not sure if his cock down there can take more.
You still had a few minutes left and Grace sat through the entirety of it, the way you pleaded for the machine to go faster and harder, although surely it won't respond– gIves it a nice touch though, makes it feel real.
He was leaning back in his chair as he watched you get unraveled, eventually the timer did reach its end and the machine slowed down to a stop.
You were panting, face down ass up, with your pussy dripping with juices. “I think..”
You look beautiful, Grace thought.
“That's enough for tonight.” you sat up and looked at the camera, the ruined bed sheets in view with all the wet patches in it makes it all the more erotic.
“bye my lovelies, thank you all for your donations, make sure to come back tomorrow and spend more money on me okay? Love you all~”
And then screen froze, Grace stared at it for a good minute or two before dragging his mouse to click on your account, you really are beautiful– well you aren't exactly showing your face, with that mask always present to cover your eyes, still he knows you're beautiful, he just knows.
The gnawing feeling of familiarity is eating Grace away but he just can't put his finger on it, you probably just sound like somebody he had met before, he left it at that before closing his laptop shut and finally thought about cleaning himself up.
The weird feeling of sticky underwear pressed against him is not very ideal, the cum on his stomach that's very much drying quickly doesn't feel too good either.
Shower it is.
.✦ ݁˖
After ending the stream you sat on your bed and simply laid still while staring in the distance, sex work has never been easy, it's tiring, but for the most part atleast you don't hate it too much, it's daunting work but it pays the bills.
Even if you had to put up that kind of act that your viewers liked, desperate slut wants to get ravished or something. You let out a shaky breath before standing to clean yourself up, the sharp pain on your abdomen hits you instantly, it's not too painful thankfully, just very uncomfortable.
Cleaning yourself up and the bed was exhausting, it's a task that normally wouldn't take too much energy out of you but after hours of streaming, you want nothing more than to lay down and melt.
You were actually glad that the donations had slowed down and eventually stopped, you were ready to finally pack things up but you just had to say that– out of habit really. You sighed frustrated while looking back at what you'd done.
You forgot just how much the viewers liked it when you talked like that– you mentally punched yourself when you had heard the notification that someone had donated 500 tokens, seven more minutes, well you had no one to blame but yourself, it felt good though so that was helpful. A soft sigh came out from your lips as you laid there dazed.
All in all tonight had been good, it's not life changing, sure, but you earned enough to cover a few months of rent. Not too bad.
A few regulars came to watch you, nothing significant happened but now with the money you earned you can justify spending hours online looking through different kinds of things that you want to buy– maybe you'd go out as well, you won't have to just window shop because now you have the money.
You grabbed your phone to look at your account, the other things were irrelevant, you just wanted to know the total of all the donations sent to you– you already know it's high, the donations decorated your screen whenever people send you one, and some high numbers popped up today.
Still you were curious though
Scrolling down all the donations that you received, you recognize all the users, they're regulars that often donate enough so they can command you to do stuff, a few users you're familiar with that donated small amounts but no biggie, you remember them giving you thousands, you pin the thought of teasing them next stream.
Your scrolling halted when you saw a user you don't recognize
“Oh, new guy.”
You weren't small but not big enough that new people often came to donate that much for their first time. You had a dedicated fan base that you were thankful for, making it easier to communicate with the viewers.
You clicked on the users account.
Created today, no profile picture, no bio, just a username. ‘rylace139’
You don't remember him commenting during your stream earlier, only the fact that he was the last one that donated to your stream, a quiet viewer.
You seem to have piqued his interest, you smile to yourself, making sure that you'll make that person talk if he comes and watch your stream again– you hope so, you just love playing with your fans, makes the job more interesting.
It was late at night and your eyelids are starting to grow heavy, it's time to sleep you figured.
You plugged in your phone and turned off the lamp, and settled inside your blanket making it into your self owned cocoon.
.✦ ݁˖
Grace woke up a mess, he had forgotten to take off his glasses and now it's sitting on his chin lopsided, he remembered last night, he went to shower but decided to get just a little bit of work done before going to bed.
30 minutes turned into an hour, he got into his bed at 2 in the morning, thankfully his schedule for today is late in the afternoon, he checked the time and it's only 11 am.
Good. If he hurries to make food he can still consider it breakfast.
Probably.
Mostly.
Oh who cares, he's a grown man he's gonna eat whenever and wherever he wants, he can call his breakfast dinner for all he cares, he's the one in charge of this apartment.
With a big yawn, Grace stood up and headed towards the kitchen, didn't bother to fix his glasses, it's still dangling on his face, how it's not falling? He's not sure himself.
He shuffled around the kitchen and was about to make something simple, like a grilled cheese, however, the paper bag sitting nicely inside his fridge that hasn't even been opened caught his eye.
Right, he ordered takeout last night and didn't even eat it. The consequences of his terrible decisions now coming back to bite his ass, his stomach is growling and aching painfully from hunger. From lunch time yesterday to now, he hadn't eaten a single thing.
He grabbed it out of the fridge. Grace had come to a conclusion that transferring the cold, hard, and stale chicken onto a plate and heating it up is too much work. Which is why he opted to eat it straight out of its packaging.
He picked a chicken wing up and ate it cold without a second thought, leaning against the counter top as he scrolled through his phone with his free hand, looking through the things he needed to do for the day.
It wasn't exactly a balanced breakfast, (yes, he insists it's still breakfast despite the time being 11:12 am.) but food is food and he isn't about to waste perfectly edible chicken over arbitrary meal rules.
Upon scrolling through his phone– 5th wing down, he learned that there's a few new faculty members and they're hosting some kind of welcoming party. Now it makes sense why his schedule for today is so late. A lot happened yesterday that Grace hadn't even thought to question why his time for today starts at 1 pm.
After finishing the whole box of wings, he started to get ready, following his routine to a tea. A quick shower, brushed his teeth, fresh shirt, neatly pressed slacks, a tie that took two tries to get right, and finally his glasses, now sitting where it's actually supposed to be.
One final glance at the clock, he thought he might be late. He wasn't, thankfully.
Years of sprinting across university campuses had taught him exactly how long he could procrastinate before it genuinely became a problem.
Summer break had bought everyone a few weeks of silence before the next academic year comes and discombobulate their respective sleep schedules once again. Well, a few weeks is a stretch. It's only the students that's really getting a break here, the teachers still have to prepare everything, pretty evident on Grace's very much tired figure that's currently locking his bicycle on one of the railings.
He never intended to come here today in the first place. On an ordinary occasion, yes, he would welcome the new faces but he's tired. A different kind of tired, not like the ones where he stayed up all night grading papers or preparing for a particularly eventful day, no. The kind of tired where the only thing he wants to do is lay down and rot.
Unfortunately for him, after the welcoming party there's a faculty meeting. Something he really doesn't want to miss, which is why he's headed towards the administrative building. Begrudgingly so, he can't wait for the day to be over.
The moment Grace stepped into the lobby, he was greeted by colorful streamers, a long table line of food, and a banner stretched across the wall.
‘WELCOME TO OUR NEW FACULTY MEMBERS’
“Huh..”
“Look at you, coming here to greet our new family.”
“Co-workers.”
“Eh, same thing.”
Grace turned towards the familiar voice, finding one of his fellow science teachers already balancing a paper plate filled with meat and carbs. “I was told there'd be a faculty meeting.”
“There is, eventually.” He gestured towards the decorations. “Principal thought it'd be nice to welcome the new hires first.”
“How fun.” Grace let out a breath.
“You don't look like you're having fun.”
“I skipped a perfectly good nap for this.”
He snorted. “You'll survive.”
Grace watched him walk off to get even more ribs onto his plate..that was still very much full of food.
A few people greeted him upon his arrival, someone had even silently handed him a coffee, perhaps sensing his exhaustion– if it's not obvious by the way he moves. The coffee there sucks but he appreciates it nonetheless.
The air was filled with teachers socializing and catching up with everything they've done during the break, a few also approached him and engaged in small talk. Grace isn't that cruel to shrug them off just because he's a bit under the weather, he tried to befriend everybody when he first started teaching here, not really a smart move for him to suddenly act like a snob.
A soft clink against a glass caught everyone's attention. The Principal stepped to the front of the room, smiling warmly.
“Good afternoon everyone, Thank you all for coming before the school year officially begins. As always, I'd like to welcome the newest members of our faculty. I hope everyone makes them feel at home.” A small round of applause echoed across the room. “Why don't we start with introductions?”
One by one, the new teachers stepped forward, giving brief summaries about themselves. Grace paid attention to every single one while sipping his coffee, he didn't want to give off the wrong vibes towards the new hires.
His ears twitched when he heard a familiar voice, there at the front he saw you, adjusting a folder tucked between your arm before offering the room an easy smile.
“Good afternoon everyone, I'll be joining the science department this year.” You say followed by your name. “Before this, I worked as an office assistant at Westbridge University while finishing my degree. I mostly handled graduate student records, thesis paperwork, and scheduling, and whatever administrative emergencies happened to come through the office.”
His brows knitted together.
“I've been looking forward to teaching here, and I hope we all get along.” Polite applause followed as you stepped back into the crowd.
Grace joined and clapped but his mind was elsewhere, it was rummaging through his old memories trying to find where he had seen and heard you.
Westbridge University..
Office assistant..
Then it clicked, it's you.
He knew that face, not intimately but well enough. Back when he was working his ass off for his PhD, there had been one student assistant sitting behind the front desk whenever he dragged himself into the office.
The one who never forgot to remind him to eat lunch.
The one who noticed whenever the dark circles under his eyes became a little deeper.
The one who'd sigh whenever he'd submit his paperwork minutes before the deadline.
“Sir Grace, you arranged this out of order.”
“You can't survive on coffee alone.”
“Did you even sleep today?”
Nothing drastic happened, you were simply someone he befriended back then that he slowly lost contact with, it's a pleasant surprise that he was able to see you again. He hopes you aren't too mad.
As you sat down, Grace was still replaying your introduction in his head when he heard you answer a question.
“I've always wanted to teach.”
Huh.. It's oddly familiar, he just can't seem to put his finger on it.
For the briefest second, his mind wandered back to the previous night– to the anonymous masked Camgirl he jerked his cock off to when he stumbled upon her stream.
The resemblance was eerily close, not that he has evidence, he doesn't know what the Camgirl looks like. It's very common for people to have similar voices as well.
His thoughts screeched to a halt almost as quickly as they'd begun when it started going somewhere inappropriate.
Not to mention it's incredibly rude– and more than a little insane, to look at a Co worker (that you were also acquainted with back in the past) and think,
‘you sound like the Camgirl I watched last night’
He quietly pushed the thought aside as he sipped his coffee.
Synopsis: When Rocky drops off some lingerie with the Ceremonial clothes for the Saving-Erid celebration as a "Mating Gift," For the two of you, well… It's only fair that it gets used, right? It's rude to decline a gift, after all.
WC: 11.4k
AN: People. This was NOT supposed to be this long!! I just... had an accident. Yeah. And don't just like writing pornography of my favorite science teacher. You have to believe me!
Male Subtop reader, Confident/Dom!bottom Grace.
Pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, he sighs, clicking his tongue against his cheek as he checks the time, again.
What's this time? The hundredth-millionth-bagillionth?
He's lost count, but…
It sure felt like it.
The two of you were supposed to get the Celebration clothes today— made specifically by the "Best Garment-makers on Erid," according to Rocky, set for two weeks from now. He's known about the celebration for awhile; Rocky and Adrian had brought it up millions of times since a month ago, when it was officially scheduled.
And, yeah, he's done the same. Sue him— It was alien culture, of which he's been actually dying (or pretty close to it, on the way here) to know more of. Who wouldn't be shaking in their bones to see what their clothes-making skills were? How'd they'd adapt to the Human physique and create something for the two of you to wear that's connected to everyone and their history?
Especially when it was for celebrating work he'd been a big part of.
Saving Erid, and — hopefully — Earth. Their stars, too.
Big stuff.
Amazing stuff.
"Elevated Stress Levels Present," Armando calls from the other room, stating what he already knows. "Advising Relaxation Protocols for Doctor Ryland Grace."
He grumbles.
"Yeah, buddy, I know," He huffs, tugging his glasses from his face only to sink down and cross his forearms over the table, nudging his forehead into his arms. "I know. I'm just excited. I mean— come on! Getting to try clothes made from a separate species on their planet! What's cooler?"
"Elevated Heart-rate Present, Advising Relaxation Protocols for Doctor Ryland Grace." Armando dead-pans, emotionless and cruel. "Advising Contact with Crew mates… Requesting Captain—"
Huh. Looks like Armando still has some old programming from the ships system; you and Rocky missed that part.
Or left it in on purpose.
Who knows.
"Wha— You're no fun." He interrupts, groaning. "You're ruining my vibe."
Ruining my vibe? He questions internally, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he picks his head up from his elbow at the sound of the bathroom door. Well… It works. I didn't even think I'd remember that… Just Another lingo to steal from my probably-now-adult students.
Catching your form in the corner of his eye, he perks up, his gaze flitting over to you to watch as you come in. Instinctively, his shoulders droop a little, along with his gaze— his attention slips from your face, shower-messy and damp hair, to your shoulders, to your tummy, to the low slope of your hips…
"Who's ruining your… 'vibe'?" You question casually, slipping your arms through the arm-holes in your shirt. "Armando?"
He swallows.
Forcing his gaze up, he nods, grabbing his glasses from in front of him. "Yeah. They threatened to tattle on me," the arm of his glasses poke at his bottom lip as he brings them up, loosely crossing his arm over his lower stomach as he continues, hoping to avoid explaining why. Nonetheless, by the look on your face, you can likely already tell. "The shower work okay?"
Even as he's talking, his brain loses traction on his thoughts. Instead, they change course and latch onto you, never lessening in their intensity.
And By gosh, do you look good— even now, on a random day on a completely different planet than your shared home one, you look awfully amazing. He has to mess with his hair in the mirror for ten minutes every morning to get it looking even somewhat okay, yet you can wake up or shower without all of that and still be as beautiful as ever.
It was unfair, really.
"Mhmn," You nod, bringing your arms up and shoving your head through the neck hole of your shirt, dragging the fabric down roughly. You leave it as is, though it's not all the way down, leaving just a peek of your happy trail. "Have you just been obsessively checking the time, or…?"
Shoot.
He fumbles, flushing. "W— Well… No? Maybe?"
On habit, he reaches up, messing with his hair as he chews on the end of his glasses arm.
As you step forward and lean against the counter, his focus naturally shifts to track the movement, knowing already that you know him all too well. You could practically read his mind.
You had him figured out; knew that he could cry he was so excited and overwhelmed, that he was antsy and likely couldn't take another hour waiting.
He'd been like this for days now.
"Maybe?" You echo, raising a brow and tilting your head.
He presses his lips together around the tip of his glasses' arm, looking away to look right back.
If anything crawled on his face — it didn't even have to settle — you'd have deciphered and came up with a solution before it even left, always evolving around what he'd end up liking most. And as much as he enjoyed it, it freaked him out a little that you could just... do that, so simply.
You knew what he wanted way before he did.
It was as aggravating as it was helpful.
"Yeah, maybe." He repeats, more confidently this time, digging his fate a little deeper. The points of his teeth dig into the plastic earpiece on his glasses, adding to the littering evidence of past repeat offenses.
"So you haven't been pacing and thinking about it the entire time?"
"Nope. Totally not. I… would not do anything like that. Ever!" He lies.
He's not smooth at all.
It's obvious.
"Then why's your hair all messed up?"
Pausing, he lifts his hand and runs it through the front of his hair again— he doesn't even have to see it to realize it's got I've been stress-messing up my hair, all over it. His fingers catch on a small knot before they're even halfway through the crime.
He crumbles.
"Okay, okay, fine. I was pacing and losing my mind a little— But just a little! Nothing major. Just… casual, completely normal nerves!"
Sighing, he sinks into the edge of the counter, finally pulling his glasses away from his mouth and tucking them into their home on his face. He gnaws on the inside of his bottom lip, his hands dropping to curl and mess with the edge of the countertop, just to give him something to fiddle with.
After a moment, he lifts his gaze — not quite unlike a guilty puppy — and drags his attention to the look on your face; expectant, unyielding, but also strangely knowing. It's a weird mix, but it makes honesty bubble up between the spaces of his ribs, fighting their way to his mouth.
"Okay, I…" He exhales, digging his teeth into the fat of his bottom lip anxiously. The nail of his thumb picks at the edge of the counter; an output of his over-abundant energy. "I am… slightly nervous about the clothes. Garments. Whatever it is they're called."
At the sound of you moving, he glances up, watching you push away from the counter and come over. He forces his hand away from the countertop, opting to pull his glasses from his face again and mess with those.
"Because…?" You nudge, settling into place beside him— not quite touching, but close enough to.
"What if something goes wrong?" He questions, staring down at the hinge of his glasses as he opens and closes the arms, folding them up only to drag them back out. It squeaks slightly with every repetition, warning of their impending doom.
They are old, after all. Slightly. This is his last back-up.
"What if there's a problem and we don't get them in time? Or— or somehow we can't make it to the ceremony? Or I get sick again and can't see it?" He rambles, letting his nervousness tumble from his mouth without restraint; it feels both good to get it out and bad, because he's putting these thoughts out into the ether.
Who knows. He could jinx it.
It's happened before.
"I don't want to miss it," He mumbles. "This is once in a life-time. I'd regret it forever."
His shoulders drop weakly, and he sucks in a broken inhale, blinking quickly to calm himself down— and to further achieve that, he steps over to you, lowering his head and resting it on your shoulder.
You're warm, and you smell a lot like your soap; it's a good thing. It always smells a little different on you than him, for some reason— better.
"It'll work out, Ryland," You press a kiss to his temple, and his back tingles where you rest your hand there. "It'll be fine. These people are geniuses. If anything does happen — which it hopefully won't — they're smart enough to work around it. It'll be alright."
"I know," He grumbles, his voice muffled from your shoulder. He reaches around you, ditching his glasses on the counter to bury his nose further into you, exhaling slowly. "I can't help but think about all the possibilities anyway."
"Think about it from their perspective," You continue, "This is bigger than anyone here. You saw how Rocky and Adrian would chitter and do their little jazz-show when they sung about it— it's more than just a celebration to them. They wouldn't let anything get in-between it and its success, so, you bet your ass it'll work out perfectly fine."
Sinking into your side, he repeats what you've said in his head, letting it sink in. It was likely that you were right, per usual— you didn't quite wallow over the bad rather than the good like he had a habit of doing. Anything good he'd achieve, it'd get soiled by his brain automatically shifting to attach to his mistakes, or what big thing would have to happen next that he'd have to do.
Yeah.
It'll be… okay. It'll work out.
Hopefully.
"You're probably right," He huffs, pulling his head up from your shoulder to let his gaze roam your face. Your eyebrows are drawn together in seriousness, your expression settled like you were both trying to reassure him and get him out of his own over-thinking at the same time.
It works, even just a smidge.
He continues, managing a shaky smile at the feeling of your hand running up his spine, dropping and repeating to create a rhythmic motion. "Like usual. You're the clear thinker here—" He pauses, his expression scrunching. "Clear-er thinker. Yep. That's the one."
"Jeez," You laugh at him. Something in his chest untangles at the noise, steadying his grin. "Glad to know where I stand as the 'clear-er thinker.' That's what you think of me, huh?"
"Well, if we're being truthful—"
The sound of the doorbell interrupts him mid-way, and he stiffens, making a split-second of eye-contact with you before he's shoving himself back, his socks sliding on the floor in his urgency. Your laugh rings out again behind him, and he mirrors it breathlessly as he opens the door and stares down at whoever is beyond it.
It's Rocky, of course, in his own little xenonite sphere. With the garments.
Heck yes!
"Why Grace laughing, Question?" Rocky implores, chittering lowly. "I bring the Ceremonial Clothes! They have finished their 'detox,' statement. Ready for use!"
"Hey, Rocky," He greets, leaning against the doors threshold to catch his breath— it wasn't necessarily the sprint over to the door that got him, but more of his elevated Heart-rate. "What took so long?"
Okay, and maybe a little of the running. He hasn't been doing much of that lately.
Maybe he should.
"Grace too impatient, statement. Not take long at all!" Rocky argues, knocking into his leg as he pushes past him to get inside. "Bad bad bad trait."
Ryland's eyebrows raise as he steps out of the way, a shocked, small giggle being pulled from his throat. It wasn't too surprising, not really. He's heard more than enough "Calm down, you're being impatient,"'s in this lifetime.
Gosh, and to think he's said that same thing about a million times to his students back at Cleveland middle.
Yikes.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," He huffs, pushing the door closed and trailing after him towards the kitchen. "You say that so much I think I've gotten the point by now."
"Have not, statement." Rocky defends. "Grace still Impatient. Grace no understand point."
Scoffing lightly, Ryland scrunches his nose at the back of Rocky's carapace, sticking his nose out at him— when Rocky suddenly turns, Grace straightens up, acting like he wasn't doing anything at all.
"Grace-friend, Grace make a stinky face at Rocky, statement!" Rocky tattles, clambering over in his sphere to stand beside you before he sets the Ceremonial clothing down.
"Wha— Hey, how do you know?!" Ryland huffs, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. He continues on into the kitchen, stopping at the curve of it and glancing between the two of you. "I was behind you, there's no way you could've seen me. I was just walking— I wouldn't do a thing as such… It's childish!"
You don't have time to say a thing before Rocky continues, his carapace vibrating lightly. "Grace lie, statement. Rocky saw stinky face. Rocky knows. Rocky has better vision than stinky Grace."
"Grace is not lying." Ryland argues, scrunching his nose at his perpetrator; the Eridian two feet to his left— but once he remembers he is, in fact, not wearing his glasses, he snags them off the counter and shoves them on his face. "And I don't stink!"
Rather desperately, Ryland looks over to you, making a lazy, clumsily hidden "you're supposed to take a side," gesture with his hand as he shifts on his feet.
In return, all you do is shrug, making a face that just yells "No thank you."
He exhales.
"Rocky saw Grace move hand, statement. Grace bad at hiding."
"We're moving on now," You interrupt, breaking eye-contact to look down at Rocky. "Tell us about the clothes, would you?"
Ryland perks up, stepping closer to peer down at him and the clothes too. They're all sorts of different colors, shining in various hues of the overhead lights, and they make small noises when the fabrics shift against one another. "Yeah. What're they made of? Will they hold temperatures well? Are they breathable?"
"Rocky is an Engineer, not ceremonial garment-maker. Knowledge of these is beyond Rocky's capabilities." He chirps, fiddling with the clothes with the smaller, "touch-stuff" part of his sphere. He grabs one with his claw, holding it up.
Quickly, Ryland grabs it, assessing the feeling of it. It's both smooth and firm, oddly enough. Like it was a recreation of their own, more fire-resistant, fabrics.
So awesome!
"How long do these typically take to make?" He asks, turning it over in his hand before he holds it up in front of him. It's far from a full-body piece— there's many gaps with little sewn-in gems or sigils tied between them. The biggest breaks are around the ribs, the stomach, and the back.
More markings and symbols are imprinted into the fabric itself, telling stories he can't quite understand yet.
"Two Earth years," Rocky states, handing you a different piece for you to look at one too. "Not very long."
Glancing over, Ryland looks over your expression— and, as usual, you look silently intrigued at what's in your hands. But yet again, you let him blabber out all of his questions instead of voicing your own. When he'd brought it up before, you'd said it didn't bother you any and that you were content to sit back and let him talk, but still.
He looks away.
"Huh…" He hums, turning back to Rocky. "These are amazing, buddy! Do you know how they made the fabric? What is it exactly? Is it like yours?"
"Rare plant fibers, statement. Many many many. Take long time to dry."
Plant fibers? He thinks, Rare plant fibers to make ceremonial clothing— I wonder which ones. The blue plant? The pink… aphrodisiac… one? The thick red plant? So awesome!
"Okay, what do the markings mean? I keep seeing all these little sigils 'n stuff. What're they about? For good luck? History-related? Experience or event-related?"
Rocky sings a low tune, adjusting in his Xenonite ball. "All of the above, statement. Little 🎝 ♩ 🎝 🎝 means success. Other ♩ ♪ 🎝 means bravery. Too many to explain, statement."
"Okay, cool," He says, looking over the garment in his hand again. "I'm seeing lots of empty space. Is there any reason for that, or…?"
When you lean against the counter and set your piece beside you, he glances over briefly, only for his brain to tug him back to his curiosity. He wanted to know— for these guys, almost everything seemed to have certain meanings. It'd taken awhile to log all of the ones he's seen before, and that was a quarter of what's sewn into the clothes in front of him.
He's in for a long night tonight.
"Standards," Rocky replies. "You are mated, so gaps are to woo mate. When not mated, no gaps! No point to show off for no mate, statement."
What?
"Mated…?" Ryland echoes, feeling his cheeks heat up as he pauses— on instinct, his gaze jumps back over to you to see what you're thinking, more interested to know your opinion on the matter than the word mated being tossed around by Rocky so casually.
I mean, sure, he's not wrong, Ryland thinks, staring at your face, per-say.
Your expression shifts every so slightly, and he catches the change the second it happens. Your head tilts faintly and you straighten up a little, but that's about it. You don't look over once, as if it doesn't make you perk up any; like you were more than comfortable with the term.
His tummy heats up at the thought.
"We call it dating on Earth," You pipe up, adjusting in your spot. "Or marriage, but not all of us are monogamous. We often go through bunches of people before we find ours."
For the first time, Ryland keeps his mouth firmly shut, quickly looking between the two of you.
"Uh… It's more of a lifestyle choice. Some marry early 'n stick with their choice, some bounce around like a ball. Most don't pick one and stay, but a lot do."
"And this is Standard, question?"
Ryland clears his throat, speaking up for you when you make little move. You weren't quite the teacher like he was, but he didn't mind it any— in fact, he kind of liked it. "Yes. Very standard."
"Gross gross gross. Rocky like Adrian. Rocky not want anyone else... No one compare."
"Cute," He nods, setting the garment in his hand down beside yours on the counter. "We're happy for you, Rocky. You deserve it."
"Yeah," You agree, exhaling slowly.
"Yes, yes, yes," He says. "Rocky understands. Rocky very lucky. Happy happy happy."
A soft laugh tumbles from Ryland's mouth, calming and shifting to a small, comfortable smile. It was always great to see Rocky and the others so secure in their bonds, so sure in themselves and their mates.
It was very adorable.
Rocky perks up in his sphere, his carapace swaying just slightly. The Xenonite of his ball clicks quietly against the flooring with each one of his movements, keeping it from true quiet in the brief lull of conversation. "Garment-makers add mating gifts, statement!"
Grace's eyebrows tick up. "Gifts? For what?"
"Yes, gifts. As thank-you!" Rocky pauses, excitedly chittering as he grabs the other two garments off the floor and hands them to you, revealing two others beneath them. "For Grace and Grace mate!"
Oh my God.
"Take!"
"Wha— what are these?" Ryland sputters, slowly accepting the two clothing pieces forced into his hand. One looks suspiciously like the bottoms of a Lingerie set, and two looks awfully like a matching top. "Rocky, where did you come up with this?"
It's even got a cute little bow.
Quickly, Ryland tilts his head toward you, making eye-contact the moment you register what the actual frick it is. Heat swallows his face, covering his cheeks and the back of his neck in a hot, probably horribly obvious blush— he goes to toss the two onto the counter to get it out of his hands, only to realize right before that it might look like rejection towards the gifts.
He swallows, reluctantly keeping them close.
"Found similars on Human Technology! Adrian said would make nice gift before big ceremony for mates," He says. "Garment-makers accepted good idea, statement. Gifts!"
"Why were you look at Lingerie on the laptop?" He blurts, slightly exasperated, slightly scared.
"Why was it even on the laptop?" You add, shooting a questioning look to the (arguably) pretty clothing set in his hands, to his face, then down to Rocky.
"Where did you even find it?" He continues. "I didn't think anything like it was even on there."
"Grace worry too much," Rocky muses, his carapace resuming the little happy swaying motion. "Do you like your gifts, question?"
Okay.
Okay— well, shock aside… no, shock not aside. This is crazy.
"They're, uh…" Ryland pauses, clearing his throat in a poor attempt to focus. "They're awesome, buddy. Thank you."
In his peripheral, he catches as you turn your head away and bite your bottom lip; like you were flustered and/or about to laugh.
He huffs.
"Rocky glad. Yes, yes, yes. Garment-makers too! And Adrian— Adrian!"
Suddenly, Rocky turns in his sphere, bolting towards the door. The Xenonite has no traction against the flooring of the house, so he slips once or twice, only to sing chords Ryland hasn't exactly heard before once he gets to the door.
"Why not open?! Rocky need to tell Adrian good news!" He chitters angrily, pushing his ball into the door repeatedly— until Ryland's brain kicks into gear and he moves over, quickly opening it for him before he damages anything or hurts himself.
"Slow down, Rocky— You have plenty of time to tell Adrian before you bust a hole in our door!"
Rocky continues his pace even as he stumbles down the few front steps and into the gravel, practically running towards the exiting door and ignoring what had been said to him in favor of repeating alternate versions of Adrian needs to know!
"That's one way to drop off Lingerie," You mutter, "Force it over and book it for the hills. My kind of guy, really. Saves the embarrassment."
"Not funny," He grumbles, shutting the door with his foot before he makes his way back into the kitchen. "What are we gonna do with this now? Put it on Armando?"
Admittedly, it was a little funny.
Maybe a bit more than that.
"Is it for Chicks?" You snicker, the heels of your palms pressing into the counter beside your hips. He can feel your eyes track every single one of his movements— and normally, that makes him flustered enough, but with lingerie in his hands?
Just turn him back into stardust.
"I don't know, I didn't check," He responds, trying and failing to ignore the inferno making home of his face— it's not only embarrassing, but, oddly enough, humiliating. In a weird way. "He didn't give me the chance before running off."
He did not want this in his hands— or anything sex-related, really. That was bedroom stuff. Not… kitchen stuff. Or "anywhere outside the bedroom," stuff.
It just felt wrong, plain and simple.
When he spots the gimme it gesture you make, he quickly tosses it over, exhaling shakily once it's out of his hands. He stares as you catch it, watching as you toss the top part down on the counter next to the other non-sex related clothes.
"What are you doing?" He questions, licking his lips nervously.
"Looking?"
"You… know the difference between male and female lingerie? Why do you— how do you tell?"
"It's obviously for women 'cause it comes with a lacy bra, baby. I'm just seeing all the symbols on it— these are different than the ones on the ceremonial stuff."
Why would they make it for ladies if neither of you are women? He thinks, What the heck does that even mean? What does it entail? Do they think one of us is a girl? Huh? I'm so confused.
He clears his throat, shifting his weight on his feet. His eyes flit from your face, down to the lingerie, back to your face, back down…
"What do you think those mean? Good… fertility?" He winces, running his hand through his hair and lightly pulling on it. "Good bonding? Long relationships? I— I mean, we do know that reproduction for Eridians is quite dangerous if not done carefully. Maybe they're wishing us, uh, luck?"
"Maybe," You shrug, rather careless about the whole thing. "Wanna try it on?"
You grin, holding the lacy, see-through panties off of the edge of your finger, out to him.
He chokes on his spit.
A rope of heat knots in his stomach as he shakes his head rapidly, coughing into his elbow before swallowing harshly. "No!"
He's not sure which is more dominant: Embarrassment or heat. Both suffocate his insides and his face, making his heart-rate tick up a few notches and his breathing fall out of rhythm.
"Why not?" You muse, stepping back only to hold the panties over his lower half, closing one of your eyes like you were picturing him in it. "You'd look good in it, you know. Like you do with everything, so… There's no need to be nervous, Ry."
"Quit," His voice cracks awfully in his desperation as he moves to hide behind the counter, his face aching with the embarrassment latched onto it. "That— That's not amusing. I'd look terrible in that— I— I doubt it'd even fit! I mean, look at me!"
Casually — and not looking at him — you lean your weight on your hip, looking down at the equally lacy and see-through bra on the counter, only to look back after a second— He's got a feeling he knows what's going on in that brain of yours, and none of his ideas make the flush in his body go down any.
"I gave them your measurements for the ceremony stuff, remember? They're guaranteed to fit… if you wanna try it."
if.
"That's if they were made for me," He defends weakly, letting his gaze drift back over to you. You're just standing there, panties in hand, with a mildly teasing look on your face. When he looks longer, he finds a few more things; all of which have his stomach twisting with a concoction of emotions. "They could've thought you were the one who would wear it instead, not me— You'd look better in it, anyways! I don't wear lingerie!"
Wordlessly, you raise a brow, putting the underwear flush against your crotch over your jeans— and it becomes blatantly obvious that you, in fact, were not the expected recipient.
Awh, crud.
"See?" You hum, tossing it down on the counter next to its companion. "All yours."
His attention follows as he stares down at it— it's slightly taunting, the stupidly pretty little markings and sigils. It's obvious how much effort was put into it; the thin (but arguably soft) lace, the patterns within it, the detailed waistband. It's even got a little drawstring in the place of elastic.
Oh, gosh.
He's stuck.
If you just tossed in the back of the closet and forgot about it, he'd feel bad for not using a gift that was given to him and made with effort. If he did try it on, even just once, he doubts he'd get those feelings out of his head; whether good or bad.
But, for some reason, the moment wrings an old memory out of his brain— the one time he'd gotten caught by his mom with a certain magazine when she'd randomly cleaned his room as a teen.
He was so embarrassed then.
Quite similarly to now.
"It… It's kind of pretty?" He mutters, glancing back up to your face. "But I don't know. I've never worn anything like… that— or, uh, tried to."
Truth be told, he'd never even thought about the concept. He understood the point, yeah, but didn't find it worthwhile— he was often attracted enough by his partner alone (cough: you) to not need anything else to nudge that along. You alone were more than perfect; way more than anything else he'd need.
"You don't have to wear it, Ryland. I was kidding. If you don't wanna, you don't wanna," You pause, adjusting in your spot. "I don't care what you wear— pretty lingerie, normal clothes, nothing…"
He coughs, looking away.
"I, uh, I think I get the point— please, stop talking for just— just a second."
"…Alright."
Like with a lot of things, he wasn't sure. He's tried skirts on, yeah, on the Mary. Even dresses, again, on the Mary. But never panties. Even just the idea was questionable; he's never worn panties, never even worn lingerie, and didn't even know he was down to try. To wear …it… would just be to see how it was.
An experiment. Yeah.
Gosh. He's told his students many, many times, that if you're unsure about something, you've gotta try it out to figure it out!
Look at him now.
"O…Kay," He finally relents, looking away from the aforementioned set on the counter.
"Okay?" You echo, tilting your head.
"Yeah. Okay." He affirms, nodding slightly before he leans forward, his palms pressing into the counter, like he's trying to stand up to the rather intimidating, lacy, colored set of clothing. "It can't be that bad, right? I mean, it's just underwear. For… sex!"
"Yeah, Ry," You laugh a little, a small smile crawling onto the sharp corners of your mouth. His focus slips downward to the points of your teeth until he forces his gaze back up, swallowing the saliva that'd pooled in his mouth.
God, you— you look so good just standing there. It's torturous, even more-so thanks to the topic at-hand; he's embarrassed beyond belief.
His cheeks hurt.
"That's kind of their entire purpose, sweetheart," You continue, "But we don't have to have sex, especially if you don't want to. You can just try 'em on in your own time, for fun. Nothing has to come of it."
He pauses.
"You don't want to see me try them on?"
"Not if you don't want to show me."
…Oh.
That wasn't even the problem at all; he didn't even think about… well, not showing you. But…
He wanted to; his want and his interest are settled somewhere in his gut, buried deep and swallowed by his embarrassment so well he'd barely noticed it was there.
Until you brought the idea up, anyway.
Ugh…
It could be nice.
Can't knock it 'til you try it, right?
He couldn't just not try it on 'cause he's nervous. That'd be hypocritical.
Finally, he clears his throat, slowly shaking his head. "No, I— I want to. I think it could be, uh… fun? Or enjoyable? At least a little?"
Coming out from behind the counter, he exhales shakily, attempting to change the topic before he ended up dying of embarrassment. "Anyway, moving on! Let's see what's going on with these ceremonial clothes, huh?"
Gently closing the bathroom door behind him, he inhales harshly, forcing it out within the same pace as a feeble attempt to slow his heart-beat down a little, and hopefully make his feelings simmer with it.
It barely works, but it's good enough for him.
Not really.
Tossing the lingerie down on the sink, he stares down at it and messes with the hinge of his glasses. Then, he steps back, crossing his arms over his chest nervously and internally hyping himself up.
People do this all the time, he thinks, chewing on the earpiece of his glasses, It's nothing to worry about. It's entirely cool— he doesn't even care if I wear it or not, anyways!
No pressure.
He was just… making himself nervous. There was no edge to perform, no one but himself to impress— but he still felt like he should try to impress you, just because. It was a natural instinct; to prove himself, to woo you, to make sure you didn't have doubts.
It's not like either of you can exactly get away from each-other, here. He couldn't mess this up like his last ones.
…But, again, you were nothing like the people he'd been with before.
You never got irritated when he'd get overwhelmed or miss his students and get himself all upset, never cared when he always wanted it to be foggy outside, never minded when he'd keep you up talking about random stuff all the time (even when you really wanted to sleep) or when he'd take way too long in the shower.
You were his saving grace. Literally.
So… He could do this for you.
Yeah.
He exhales. "…Okay, I can do this. It's no biggie."
Setting his glasses down on the counter, he drops his hands to his waist once they're empty, carefully grabbing the bottom hem of his shirt and pulling it up, over his head, and off. Gaining a little more confidence, he goes for his jeans buttons next, quickly fumbling to get those undone before he loses his momentum.
He yanks the denim downward as soon as the buttons pop open, accidentally pulling his briefs down a little in his rush— he kicks the fabric off once its down to his calves, fighting a bit to get his other foot out of it and steadying himself with a hand on the sink counter.
He could do this one thing for you— he will do it for you. You expressed an — albeit teasing — interest in it, and he feels like he doesn't give you enough, so this is nothing compared to what you end up silently doing for him.
And, heck, he'd be lying if he wasn't even slightly curious about it; the two of you couldn't wear the ceremonial clothing until two weeks from now, and he wanted to know how the fabric interacted with his movements and his body.
It was a win-win. You get to see him in girly lingerie, and he got to be the first human in history to try out alien fabrics.
Of course, no one would know that but you and him, seen how there's no way to transfer information this far out in space away from the NASA transmitters and receivers, but still. He'd know it.
Nudging his jeans aside with his sock-clad foot, he glances back over to the widely-colored set splayed out carelessly on the counter, feeling himself get slightly flustered again.
He slows down a little, not yet pushing his briefs down in favor to just… think about it for a second longer.
You were busy in the living room fiddling with Armando's movement ranges; not at all in-the-know of what the heck he was doing in here… hopefully. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but he did knock his hip into the sharp corner of his dresser coming into the room and ended up groaning pretty loudly.
You hadn't said anything, though.
He's probably fine.
If he got too embarrassed, he could just pretend he wasn't doing anything but messing with the shower-head again (it had quite the habit of having a few straying streams that always, somehow, ended up directly in his eyes no matter where he stood).
He could shove the lingerie into a dresser drawer somewhere and hide it forever— or, heck, even pretend he lost it, if he got to that point of desperation.
There were many options.
But… He's curious, as any Alien-interested man would be.
And he's also flustered beyond belief.
Aw, heck.
Carefully, he hooks his thumb around the elastic of his briefs, shuddering slightly when the sewing seam ghosts over a sensitive spot on its descent. Once they're down, he steps out of them, using his foot to nudge them over with the rest of his clothes.
He feels bare.
Well, technically, he is— but in a vulnerable sense.
He's putting on lingerie, for the person he loves (and totally not for the fabric), and they're gonna see him in said lingerie. At least until he runs away to go hide.
Uuuugh.
Snagging the panties from the counter, he looks them over for a minute, until pushing past it and leaning down to put them on. He steps through the leg holes first, quickly tugging it up until the waistband circles around the low of his hips.
And Jesus.
It feels… strange. In a weird way— they're comfortable as all fudge, and they fit perfectly, like you said. They're also slightly warm for some reason… but now that he thinks about it, all of the Eridian fabrics he's touched hold some sort of heat on their own.
It actually feels really good.
"Um…"
He reaches up, messing with his hair awkwardly as he tries to settle into being comfortable in them beyond their natural feel. Once he adjusts a little, they feel better, but it takes a few more moments for his shoulders to sink and for him to acclimate.
They're… not that bad.
"O… Kay. This isn't that awful… I think I was being a little dramatic before."
The bra, though, is out of the question. He's got no true need for that— no breasts for it to support or cover, so he's more than happy to ignore its existence and move on to grabbing his shirt. He slips that back on, just to soothe some of the I feel very naked right now sensations and recuperate for a minute, avoiding the reflection of the mirror.
He had very different ways to go about this from here.
One: Just ignore the fact he's wearing them and behave at least somewhat normally to get used to it.
Two: Put his clothes back on and do the same as number One, but try to manage the reveal casually later on. Maybe before bed?
Three: Call you back here now, so he can step over that hurdle and deal with what comes next more smoothly, and not be flustered and nervous and half-hard thinking about it the rest of the day.
Three sounds pretty good.
Abandoning his dirty clothes to rest on the floor, he pulls the door open, getting halfway out of the bathroom before he back-tracks to turn off the light. He keeps one hand over his groin, trying to save a least a little dignity until you come in and… do whatever it is you'll do to him.
He swallows, clearing his throat as he steps over to the bedroom door, calling out into the hallway for you.
"Hey, uh, [Name]? Can you bring me my glasses? I think they're on the kitchen counter!"
He knows he has his glasses; they're in the bathroom where he accidentally forgot them.
He thinks the excuse will work fine.
"Hold on," You reply, "I'll be there in a second, baby. Gotta fix this first."
What are you working on? He wants to ask, but settles on an "Okay," instead, stepping back from the door to sit on the bed. His thighs press and rub together as he sinks into the mattress, thanks to the fact he's not wearing his briefs— he spreads his legs a little to avoid it, softly clearing his throat.
His hands worry over the lower hem of his Star-trek shirt, fiddling with the old and frayed threads slipping from their stitches as he, rather impatiently, waits for you. He both wants you to show up now and also take way more time than you need; just to give him enough time to settle.
But you don't.
This time, when you speak, you're way closer— somewhere in the hall. "Hey, uh, they're not there. Did you lose them somewhere else? Have you checked the bathroom yet?" You push the door open a second or so after, stilling in the threshold.
At your silence, he nervously glances up, his teeth sinking into the fat of his bottom lip as he runs his gaze over your face. Your eyebrows are raised, mouth slightly parted, hands falling away from the door and back to their home next to your sides.
His face flames, his body-temperature kicking up a few degrees. He doesn't move his hands away, but he can see the look on your face; you know exactly what he's wearing without needing to have him move them.
His shirt didn't cover everything, after all.
"…Surprise?" He manages, voice weak; shy. "And, um, I know where I, uh, left my glasses. Sorry. I just… needed you to come."
You lick your lips, adjusting your weight between your feet. "So you… didn't lose your glasses?"
"…No."
You exhale.
"Jesus, Ryland."
The expression on your face makes his stomach curl in on itself like a Black hole— it makes all of his nerves and everything else well worth it.
Your gaze leaves hot blooms of heat along his body everywhere you look, succeeding in doubling his flustered-ness and faint embarrassment for tricking you. Though, he can't miss the way your expression changes; The way you overcome his little ploy and realize what he was doing, how your eyebrows furrow just slightly as your gaze drifts downward to his thighs before back up to his face.
"It's, um, surprisingly comfortable, if you were wondering," He mutters, wiggling in his spot to find his comfort, and to give his body something to expel even a little bit of his nerves. "…Very soft."
"Yeah? It fits okay?" You implore, staying in the doorway— he's not sure who you're doing it more for, yourself or him. "It looks good on you."
Either way, he doesn't like it. Nerves or no nerves, he always wanted you close. It felt alike a crime to have you be out of arms reach, even when he was secure in everything else. Having you close… it felt nicer, made him relax. His brain would know that you were there, away from any further harm that could make its way to you.
He nods, gaining some lost confidence— enough to pull his hands away, instead using them to help him carefully stand up. He feels better now, less like he should runaway and hide.
You had a tendency to make that feeling disappear.
Like now.
He swallows. "Yeah— pretty much, um, perfectly, actually. You were right… per usual."
This time, it's your turn to nod. You keep your eyes up near his chest and his face — no doubt to allow him to feel less seen, even though, for you, that's all he wants — and around that area, never dipping downward for more than a second or two.
Your chest rises and falls in steady, deep breaths, but it's your hands that tattle on you. Your hands flex at your sides and mess with the loose strap of your belt; he knows what that tick means. He knows most, if not all, of your ticks and tells.
He takes a lot of pride in that.
Clearing his throat, he shifts on his feet.
"You, uh, you know you can look, right?" He asks, tilting his chin up a little— almost all of his embarrassment is gone, or close to it. The knot of warmth in his stomach, though? It never lessens, not even slightly. "I mean, um, I did put it on for you. I don't— I want you to look. It's for you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He echoes quietly, licking his lips.
He stands up a little straighter when you finally move to step inside, away from the door, and closer to him. Forcing his hands to let go of his shirt, he lets his arms drop to rest at his sides, watching your every move— and, again, your expression gets him. Bad.
"So…?" He pipes up, shifting on his feet. "Do you like it? You're being… too quiet. It's freaking me out."
Whilst you stay quiet for a little longer — like in the way you do when you're focused — your eyes stay locked onto what is exposed of the lingerie, not covered by the length of his shirt. He allows your silence to stick around a little longer, staring at your face, your expression.
You've got that look in your eye; the one that has his breathing picking up a notch, that has his heart-beat fall out of rhythm with his breathing.
You look like you want to tear him apart. Respectfully.
"I'll, uh, take that as a yes, then," He mutters, standing up a little straighter for you once you stop in front of him. When you finally lift your gaze and make eye-contact, electricity sparks up his spine, making goosebumps rise along his arms.
"Shit, Ryland," You breathe, breaking your silent streak— the sound of your voice has saliva pooling in his mouth, forcing him to swallow. "You look perfect."
"'Perfect,' Is a little much," He mumbles, licking his lips again. "I, uh, don't know about all of that."
He glances down to your lips once, twice, then three times, before you move to circle him to get the full picture. His head turns to follow you, but he ditches the attempt half-way— he doesn't need to see you to know where you are, or where you're looking. His body, his brain, is tuned to wherever you are, constantly searching.
"No— You look amazing— Better than that… and it isn't at all thanks to the lingerie." You pause, rounding out to stand in front of him. Your focus flits to his face, the panties, his thighs, then back up. Your voice lowers. "fuck me, shit."
His face feels like It's on fire.
"Um, thanks," He manages, his voice cracking weakly. "I, uh, I'm happy you like it."
He watches as you nod, only for his focus to drop down to your mouth, staring as you lick your lips.
He wants to kiss you— pathetically badly. His tummy is in tangles, twisting and turning, making his brain turn into a muddled, distracted mess; he wants you to kiss him, to guide him back onto the bed, to touch him 'til it hurts.
His want hurts— no, need. Want is too weak a word for this; he wants you eternally, like an old history story that continues decades beyond its time.
His eyebrows furrow as he lifts his gaze, panting shakily as he calls your name. His hands curl into fists at his sides as he inhales shakily through his mouth, desperate. "…Please."
He barely gets a gasp in before you're curling your hand around his hip— you don't even get him halfway to you before you're stepping forward to close the gap, cutting his inhale off with a kiss.
Instantly, he moans into your mouth, his arms finding solace around you— one moves to grab at your hair to keep you in place, and the other sinks around to your lower back, to keep you close. Your knee bumps into his thigh as you guide him backward, pushing him back to sit on the edge of the bed.
The proximity to his dick has him twitching, whining lowly as you break apart; the dissatisfaction is soothed when your hands roam his sides, jumping over his ticklish spots as you reach for the hem of his shirt.
"Can I—"
"Yes, yes," He interrupts, nodding quickly. The backs of your fingers brush his stomach as you grab his shirt, and he lifts his arms for you, making it easier for you to yank it upward and toss it aside somewhere he doesn't truly care about now.
"Hurry." He grumbles, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you back down to him to reconnect in a kiss. The moment you do, he spreads his legs, giving more space for your knee; he feels pleased by how quickly you take the hint, pushing his legs a little wider to fit you before your weight sinks the bed between them.
Now shirtless and only in the panties, he leans back a little, forcing you to loom over him a bit more. His hand tangles in your hair, warmth spreading like wildfire from his tummy and upward as your breath fans across his face; And when you adjust, his already-hard dick grinds against the front of your jeans, making him jerk and twitch, moaning into you.
"Good?" You pant, one of your hands keeping you balanced, the other on his waist as you lean over him, your weight deepening into the bed as you chase another kiss.
"Yes," He repeats, nodding against you. Upon the added weight, his thighs close around your leg, the lace of the lingerie rubbing against the flushed tip of his dick— his hand tightens in your hair as he whines, his other ditching its spot to grab needily at your hip, trying to keep you from moving. "Mnn— F— fudge, just like that, please—"
When he feels you nod, his grip on your hair loosens, letting you sink down to mouth at his throat without a fight— and just like he asked, you stay right where you were, planting little popcorn kisses to the underside of his jaw, his throat, his shoulders, as his hips weakly grind against your leg.
Until he pulls your head back up by your hair, smushing your lips together as he pants harshly; his stomach caves in a twitch when your hand drifts down to hold the back of his knee, widening the space between his legs to make it more comfortable for yourself to move.
"Wanna move up the bed? I'm slipping," You question, asking in-between quick, short kisses. He can feel your breath against his face, catch the little, faint noises tacked onto the tail of each one.
He nods against your mouth, humming a broken "uh-huh," automatically.
When you break apart, he inhales roughly, trying to straighten his muddled brain out— but when you lean down, grab him by the hips, and push him further up the bed for him, every attempt is instantly destroyed; he moans lowly, propping himself up on his elbows to stare as you hurriedly pull your shirt off.
"You're so pretty," He whines, licking his kiss-bitten lips as his gaze drifts from your face, down to the scars littered along your form, to the belt and jeans keeping you from him, then back to your face.
Tossing his head back, he groans, feeling his dick throb against the lace— his heart was beating so fast he could hear it in his ears, but the raised temperature of his body doesn't swallow the ache from the loss of your touch.
His brain feels fuzzy.
When the bed dips with your weight, he picks his head back up, watching you crawl up to him until you're settled on top of him, his thighs pressing into the front of your own. He pushes himself up a little higher, catching your lips and dragging you down with him until his back is pressed against the mattress, feeling your weight settle beside his head as you hold yourself up.
Now that he's not the only one shirtless, one of his hands roam down to rest over your ribs, settling over a small burn scar there— his fingers dig in lightly, trying to pull you down to lay on top of him. When you finally relent, the clasp of your belt is cold against his cock, even through the thin fabric of the panties. His hips jerk weakly, a small groan sticking in his throat as his thighs tighten around your hips, the same going for the hand in your hair.
He always liked it when you'd lay completely on top of him; for a reason he's yet to figure out, it always felt the best, and it's not like you'd purposefully crush or hurt him. It felt better because he knew he could trust you to figure out what he needed, even if it's not what he wanted— you'd put his well-being over his pleasure, even if it'd break his high.
You'd make it better by giving him a greater one, anyway.
"Shit," You breathe, pushing yourself up a little with the help of the hand beside his head. He lets the disconnect happen, panting in bliss below you and letting you do whatever it is; his hand slips from your hair to rest on your hip again when you nudge yourself up further to kneel, and the sound of your belt buckle coming undone has his brain snapping to full attention.
"Still good?" You ask breathlessly, checking in while you undo your belt and pull the worn leather from the loops.
He nods against the pillows, breathing in through his mouth as he stares shamelessly at your crotch and your hands, his dick twitching faintly. "Mhmn."
Hooking a finger in one of your now-empty belt loops, he tugs on it lightly, reaching to undo the buttons and open the fly to your jeans. While he's busy doing that, his brain splits between the task and the feeling of your hand gently tracing down his thigh, your fingers sinking lightly into the flesh there.
Yanking the buttons open and unzipping your fly, he laughs a little as you pull back and flop down beside him on your back, but he focuses more on the lift of your hips as you shimmy out of your jeans— as soon as they're off, he sits up and moves to straddle you, muting the moan that was going to escape at the feeling of your warmth alone as his hands find station on your stomach.
"These really are nicely made," You pipe up, kicking your jeans off the bed as he settles on top of you. Your forefinger ghosts over the sensitive skin of his hip as you slip it beyond the waistband, pulling it out only to let it go and gently snap back into place around his waist.
His stomach jerks, and the breath is tugged right out of his mouth; it's broken, barely noticeable, but the way you look up and smile slightly means you heard it more than well enough. His dick strains against the lace of the panties, pre-cum slicking up some of it in small, desperate spots.
"Yeah," He agrees mindlessly, licking his lips as he nods again. He can feel your hard-on from underneath him, easier than before, thanks to the fact your jeans are off now— he sinks to sit completely, sucking in a breath as it pokes against him.
The way your eyes flutter and you inhale sharply has another little glob of pre-cum slipping from his tip, adding to the other tiny spots staining the lace pressed against his dick; he wiggles a little like he's trying to get comfortable, but all he's aiming for is a repeated reaction.
And, of course, you catch onto him quick, narrowing your eyes at him as you moan lowly— he gets no time to respond before you're sitting up, dragging him back with you when you move to lean back against the headboard; thanks to the position, the panties rut against him with every one of your movements, forcing a whine from his lips.
But he can't say he minds too much with the change when your hand settles at his hip, pulling him closer until you distract him with another round of kisses. Every time you inhale, your stomach bumps into his cock, steadily tightening the rope in his tummy.
He grabs at your shoulder, shifting until he's as close to you as can be, grinding against your stomach— the rough sensation of the lace against the dichotomy of the smoothness of your stomach has him groaning into your mouth, exhaling harshly.
Your arm is warm as you hook it to rest beneath his ass, setting him at a slight angle that has his hips stuttering and muffled, broken whines, whimpers, and huffs being yanked freely from his throat; he adjusts on his knees, tightening them desperately around your hips and swallowing the moan that slips from your mouth and into his.
"Hnng— hah, [Name]— Please—"
His hand snakes to rest behind your head, fingers twisting in your hair as his hips continue their sloppy, careless, pleasure-chasing rhythm, pushing your face more into his so you can't pull away too quickly. He feels your other hand drop from his hip to slip between his dick and your stomach, allowing him to thrust up into the palm of your hand until you pull the panties down, coiling your hand around him instead.
The pad of your thumb runs across his pre-cum slick tip, making his stomach jerk as his rhythm breaks into needy, small thrusts, chasing the skill of your hand— then he breaks your mouths apart, groaning within his throat as his fingers tighten in your hair, pulling your head back a little.
"Mmhng— I— I'm gonna cum, wait, please," He pants, his eyebrows furrowing deeply as his head drops, spine curving as he nudges his forehead into your shoulder. His other hand pulls away from your side only to curl into a tight fist, spread wide, and close again, his voice muffled as he moans open-mouthed into your neck.
All you do is briefly adjust the arm below him, panting loudly as your hand continues its path on his dick— his thighs tense and twitch, his breathing breaking weakly in between each inhale and exhale as he lets go of your hair, instead hooking his arm around the back of your neck to pull him as close as possible.
It still doesn't feel like enough.
"[Name], I—" He gasps, his voice cracking as he pushes his nose further into the crook between your neck and your shoulder, feeling the points of his teeth gently ghost over your pulse-point on accident. "P— Please, wait, I— mmng, don't— I don't want to cum too fast," He whines.
"R— Relax, Ryland," You huff, grinding your palm against his tip; your fingers bump into the sensitive spot just below there when you curl your fingers around him again, making him squeeze his eyes shut and try to ignore the taut rope of his insides. "I, ah, I want to make you cum. That— that's the whole point of this: To make you feel good. That's all I want, I don't care about anything else."
That's all I want.
It echoes in his head once, then twice, before getting overlapped and ruined by pleasure, shoved aside to try to focus on not cumming— if he came too soon and you didn't, then he'd just feel bad; you'd have to wait at least five to twelve minutes until he'd be okay with doing anything else and not cry from oversensitivity. And even though you've, quite literally, never cared about anything but getting him off, doesn't mean he thinks the same way.
He wants to make you cum.
Plain and simple.
Quickly, his hand coils around your wrist, forcing your hand to quit moving— which is a good thing, because he was way too close to cumming that If you'd kept going a second longer, he would've been canned. He straightens his spine, breathing through his mouth as his heart thuds against his ribs like it's trying to escape.
His hips continue to twitch and jerk weakly into nothing, making his expression scrunch; he'd just edged himself, forcing himself not to cum so he could make you cum first.
It was a little strange, he'd admit, but it's what he wanted.
He hangs his head, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip hard enough for it to hurt, only to distract him from the sound of your ruined panting and how warm you are. If he doesn't find something other than you to focus on, he'll one-up himself and cum without you even needing to keep touching him.
"Wha— What's the matter?" You ask, your fingers instantly releasing him; like you thought you'd done something. You pull your arm out from underneath him, too, giving him space. "Ryland?"
"Y— yes?"
"What's wrong? Did I hurt you? What'd I do?"
Now he just feels guilty.
"You didn't do anything," He mumbles, shaking his head and spreading his knees a little so they'll stop suffocating your hips. He hadn't even realized they were, just moments ago. "I, um… I wanted you to cum first?"
"What?" You breathe, confused. Your free hand presses into the bed by your thighs, still not touching him.
It kind-of aches that you're not.
He clears his throat awkwardly, and his hand — that's not around your wrist — droops from the back of your neck, sinking to rest on your bicep. His thumb takes a back-and-forth motion over the scar there, giving his hands something to do.
"I want to make you cum first," He repeats, slightly more confident this time. "You always get me off before I can do you, I— I want to make you cum. Before me."
"But you were close," You grumble, letting your head lull back against the headboard. A small smile fights its way onto his lips, and he gives into it, a small breath of a laugh following at your dissatisfaction.
"Yeah," He agrees, one of his thighs twitching absently. "I was, but I don't really care— Not that much, anyway."
His hand finally lets go of your wrist, moving to gently grasp your pre-cum slick hand instead; he doesn't lace your fingers together, but he does let the back of your palm rest in his, his fingers easily curled a little into your palm— until he adjusts, sinking back to lay on his tummy between your legs.
You catch on to what he's doing pretty quick, picking up your head and sighing lightly.
"Ryland… You don't have to do that. Seriously. It's gross."
"Making you cum isn't gross," He huffs defiantly, wiggling a little to get comfortable— he exhales shakily when his dick grinds into the bed through the lace of the panties, only to clear his throat to re-focus. "And I want to. You're not forcing me to do anything; I'm doing this of my own volition, like an adult."
"You're a germophobe, but you want to suck me off. Baby, that makes no sense."
"Yeah— germs are grody, but you aren't. Just… be quiet. Please. I want this."
He adjusts on his elbows, reaching for the waistband of your underwear— when you give him a lazy nod, he returns the gesture, pulling your underwear off once you lift your hips and allow him to. He tosses them aside carelessly, not bothered by wherever they could land on the floor before he crawls upward, laying a little on top of you so it'll be easier on him.
Wordlessly, you spread your legs to give him more room, but he catches the way your breath stutters in your chest, even just faintly, when he comes closer.
"You're sure you want to do this?" You mutter, reaching over and pushing his bangs out of his face. "There are other ways to make me cum, you know that. You don't have to do this."
"Yeah, I know," He affirms, nudging his head lightly into your hand before he takes your dick into his hand, inhaling slowly before he takes you into his mouth. Immediately, your thighs tense around his sides, and the groan that spills from your mouth has him moaning around your dick.
Admittedly, sucking you off has always been something he wanted to do, even if it seldom came up— he had an oral fixation, sue him, and he liked the weight of you in his mouth; you weren't thick (or rough) enough that'd choke or gag every time, meaning you were perfect to soothe that need.
Really, you were just perfect in general.
Pressing the tip of his tongue to the underside of your cock, he inhales roughly as he comes up, mouthing lazily at your tip— you pant above him, each breath tacked with a faint, barely-there moan, all of which have him grinding against the bed to get rid of his need for friction.
His teeth graze you accidentally as he comes up for air, and he hums an apologetic noise around you, feeling your stomach twitch when he does; in replacement of his mouth, he wraps his hand around your dick, licking his lips as he catches his breath.
"Sorry," He breathes, swallowing the spit gathering in his mouth. "That was an accident. I didn't mean to do that."
"You— You're fine, Ryland," You ease, sucking in a shaky breath as he runs his thumb along the crown of your tip. He leans back into your hand when you thread your fingers through his hair, going back to sucking you off as you scratch lightly at his head.
One of his hands come up, gripping idly at your waist as he takes you deeper into his mouth, gagging slightly before coming back up a little and licking at the underside of your tip. You moan a little louder that time, and the way your fingers pull at his hair accidentally have him groaning as he does it again, grinding against the bed to give well-needed attention to his dick; which is still wildly sensitive.
"Jesus christ," You gasp, and he glances up when he hears your head thump against the headboard— your expression is scrunched together and your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth parted as you whine and moan, your other hand a fist around the comforter.
Oh my God.
He drags his tongue over the underside of your dick as he comes back up, only to force himself back down right after— he pushes your legs open wider with his forearm when they try to jerk closed around him, making sure he has enough room to keep going without interruption.
He continues rutting into the bed as he sucks you off, choking on his own breath when he rights just the right spot— he pulls off of you just to gasp and return, his hand tightening around your hips desperately as he closes his eyes, repeating the weak grind of his hips and whining around you.
When your hand gets a little rougher in his hair and your stomach caves in a twitch, he knows you're close; your noises change, too, getting a little more raspy and broken when he pays special attention to the places he knows you're sensitive.
All he has to do is hold out until you cum— it's simple enough, but with the way each thrust of his hips into the bed and the feeling of you in his mouth feels, it's sure going to be a close one.
He adjusts in his spot, whining lowly when you pull your hand from his hair; when he glances up, he can see you bite into your forearm, your fingers curled into your fist as you pant, and your chest heaving as your thighs twitch around him.
The sight has him rutting desperately into the sheets, choking lightly around you when he hits the sweet-spot that has him closing his eyes and tightening his hold on your hip.
Your dick twitches in his mouth, and he hums a moan around you, exhaling quickly through his nose.
"S— Shit," You moan, voice broken in a way he understands almost immediately. "Ryland, I—"
This time, when he comes up, he times his rhythm with the jerking of his hips, feeling your stomach tense and thighs twitch around him when he takes you down to your base— he holds himself there as he feels you cum, finally thrusting his hips.
He cums right after you, his brain filling with cotton as bliss crashes down onto him, making a tangled string of whimpers and moans spill out around you as you cum into his mouth; its an odd, but also weirdly pleasant sensation— he made you cum just by sucking you off.
It makes a certain kind of ego and pride well up in his brain.
Coming down from his high, his finally registers that you're gently pulling him off of your dick, and he lets it happen. The moment you're out of his mouth, he swallows and gasps for air, coughing lightly and wiping his mouth.
The cum on the lingerie makes it stick wetly to him, and he winces as he sits up, laughing breathlessly.
"See?" He pants, curling his hand around your calf idly. "It's not too bad."
Let me make you feel good: Reader is injured, and TF141 takes care of her, but they get more than they bargained for....
mdni +18 HEAVY SMUT!!
a/n: thank you, anon, for the request, hope you enjoy! this was a fun one to write
“Fuck, we need to hurry, lads! She’s not going to make it!” Gaz shouted, his tired eyes glued to your weak, pale form.
“She will, Sergeant!” Price retorted, his focus entirely on clearing the route to the safehouse so Simon and the rest of the team could get you safely inside.
The covert mission had gone sideways, devolving into a chaotic, open-fire assault. You had been caught in the crossfire—two AK-47 rounds tearing into your shoulder and lower abdomen.
“F-fuck... I’m not dead yet, guys,” you tried to joke. Your vision was blurring like hell, the massive blood loss rapidly catching up to you.
Before you could process anything else, you were lifted and delicately placed onto a large dining table that was now serving as a makeshift surgery station.
“Right, we need to act fast. Johnny, get the med kit! Gaz, prep her!” Ghost barked. The sheer ferocity in his voice was meant to command, but it couldn't entirely hide his panic.
Meanwhile, the Captain paced the perimeter of the room, desperately trying to establish comms with HQ. The situation was dire, and looking around the bare room, he wasn't entirely sure they had the resources needed to pull you through.
Gaz tore into the buckles of your tactical gear. Seconds stretched into agonizing eternities as he fought through the endless layers of ballistic nylon and heavy clothing. Seeing the struggle, Johnny sprinted back into the room with the medical kit and immediately pitched in; time was rapidly running out.
“Ah, fuck this!” Soap growled. Snatching a pair of trauma shears from the kit, he began hacking ruthlessly through your combat shirt and base layers to expose your upper body, slicing right through your sports bra to clear the area around your mangled shoulder.
The agony of being handled was too much. Gasping, you forced yourself up onto your elbows, but the sudden movement caused a fresh torrent of dark maroon liquid to pour from the wounds, pooling onto the table like a homicide scene.
You could only suck air through gritted teeth, a strangled groan catching in your throat as the pain spiked into something truly unbearable.
“Easy, soldier. Stay down, you’ve lost too much blood,” Ghost muttered, his heavy hands pressing firmly but carefully against your good shoulder to lay you back down.
All you could manage was a weak nod, biting your lip so hard it bled as a blur of hands moved frantically over your skin.
After what felt like a lifetime of agonizing pressure and burning needles, they finally retrieved the lodged bullets and stitched the ragged wounds closed.
Even with the bleeding stopped, you lacked the strength to move, choosing to remain flat on the makeshift operating table—utterly exhausted, but alive. The men refused to leave. They scattered to different corners of the room, their eyes locked on you with absolute vigilance, as if looking away for even a single second would mean losing you for good.
Against their best wishes, you forced yourself to sit up. You couldn't afford to lie there looking weak; you needed to get back on your feet as quickly as possible—not just for your own survival, but for the sake of the unit.
As you swung your legs over the edge of the table and pulled yourself upright, every man in the room perked up. But the look on their faces was strange, almost as if they were seeing something they shouldn't. In your haste, you hadn't realized—or frankly, cared—that you were still completely topless, save for the bloody bandages wrapped tightly around your torso.
The air in the room instantly shifted.
Ghost noticed first. He didn't say a word, his hidden gaze locking onto your chest, taking in your toned physique. He knew you were a woman, obviously, but seeing you stripped of all that bulky tactical gear was a stark reminder.
Soap was the next to notice. Following his Lieutenant's locked-in stare, his eyes landed on your exposed top half. A faint, involuntary smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was quickly replaced by the same awe-struck wonder.
Gaz and Price were stationed on the opposite side of the room. Even with your back facing them, the sight had a profound effect. To Price, you had always been like a daughter, much like the boys were his sons, albeit a bit of a tomboy. But seeing your bare back, the reality hit him; although your strength was undeniable, you were still so much smaller than any of them. Tiny. Fragile.
Gaz, meanwhile, could feel his face burning a deep crimson. He caught himself staring, frantically trying to look anywhere else in the room but at you—and failing miserably every single time.
You attempted to stand, your footing still terribly wobbly. But before you could even push yourself off the table, all four men moved in unison, jumping to your rescue. Large, heavy hands instantly anchored to your skin, handling you as if you were some sort of delicate ornament.
“Not so fast, soldier. You need to rest,” Price said, his hands gently but firmly forcing you back down.
“Captain, I’m fine,” you protested, though an involuntary wince escaped your lips at their slightest touch.
Price only shook his head, refusing to let you up. All four of them stood hovering over you, their expressions shifting into something they’d never dare admit out loud: pure, unadulterated desire.
You stared up at them from the table, your tired eyes darkening. There was something entirely unexplainable about the air in the room. Maybe it was the adrenaline of them saving your life, maybe it was the suffocating proximity between you and the unit, or maybe it was just the raw, animalistic shift in how they were looking at you.
They wanted to protect you, but you wanted to prove a point. You were not as fragile as they wanted you to be.
You locked eyes with Price as you reached down, unbuttoning your cargo pants and shifting to wiggle yourself free from them, your combat boots already discarded in the aftermath of the medical chaos. Price didn’t look away once. You lay there practically naked beneath their collective gaze, and the sudden, tense shift in the room was palpable as a familiar, heavy heat settled over all four of them. A familiar twitch in their boxers.
You pulled yourself upright once more, a sharp wince catching in your throat as the movement pulled at your fresh stitches.
“No,” you commanded, your voice low but unyielding as you pushed away the heavy hands attempting to force you back down.
As you sat up, you brought yourself level with their faces. Looking at them all, you reached out and grabbed Ghost’s hand. You stripped the heavy tactical glove from his fist and placed his bare palm directly over your breast, coaxing him to squeeze the soft tissue in his hand.
He obliged instantly. His gaze remained locked with yours, a low, gravelly groan escaping his throat as his fingers flexed, groping the soft flesh.
Soap and Gaz stood frozen, mouths slightly agape, looking between you and their Lieutenant as if trying to figure out if the sheer lack of sleep was causing them to hallucinate. You only smiled darkly in their direction.
Turning back to the Captain, you noted the tight, rigid set of his jaw as he stared into your eyes.
You took his hand next, guiding it to your other breast and coaxing him into the same heavy grip. Price didn’t hesitate; his fingers kneaded your skin, pinching your nipple ever so slightly and forcing a sharp, breathless moan from your lips.
“I’m not a little girl. I know what I’m doing, and I know what I want,” you said, your voice dripping with absolute certainty as you stared the Captain directly in the eye.
“And this is what I want.”
You motioned for Price to sit down, watching you. It was a silent agreement, an invitation for you to show him exactly what you meant.
Turning back to Ghost, you looked up at the hardened man, your eyes softening with genuine adoration.
“Simon, you saved my life. Let me make you feel good. It’s the least I can do,” you purred. Resting against him, you could feel his rigid erection pressing hard against your chest.
You noticed his initial hesitation, so you reached down and gripped his heavy bulge, palming him softly through his uniform. The contact elicited a low groan from deep in his chest as his head fell back in sheer pleasure.
“You don’t have to, dove. It’s okay,” he muttered, his protective instinct warring with his desire.
But you insisted, tightening your grip on his crotch as a slight pout formed on your lips. “Let me do this. Please,” you pleaded, looking up at him through your lashes. That single look was enough to completely break his resolve.
Without another word, Ghost carefully lifted you from the table, anchoring his large hands under you to situate you onto his lap. He was hyper-aware of your injuries, moving with a surprising gentleness to ensure he didn't cause you any pain.
Releasing his cock from his trousers, he kept his heavy hands steady on your hips. You shifted, pulling your soaked panties to the side to give him full access. As you slowly lowered yourself onto his length, you drew a sharp, sudden breath. So big.
“Are you okay?” he asked frantically, his dark eyes widening with instant concern.
“Y-yes... you’re just a l-little big, Si,” you breathed, letting out a weak laugh before forcing yourself down further. Your tight walls yielded to him, stretching until you sucked him in completely, bottoming out against him.
You began to ride him, your core clenching tightly around his thickness as you bounced weakly up and down on his lap. Despite your exhaustion, you were determined to show your gratitude. Simon’s hands immediately secured your waist, carefully avoiding your fresh stitches, while his other hand cupped your ass.
His heavy, dark eyes were locked onto your face, tracking every scrunched expression of pleasure.
“F-fuck, y-yeah,” you gasped, eyes squeezed shut as you rode your Lieutenant with everything you had left. The quiet room was suddenly filled with the heavy, unhurried sound of wet friction and your breathless mewls as your climax began to build.
“Such a good girl,” Simon breathed out, his own apex rapidly approaching. Feeling your thrusts begin to slow from exhaustion, he took over the momentum. He shifted your weight securely against him, anchoring you to his shoulders while he began bucking his hips upward into you.
“S-shit, I’m c-close,” you squealed as the tension finally snapped, sending you over the peak.
Your release was followed closely by the heavy, guttural grunts of your Lieutenant, his harsh, deep thrusts shuddering to a slow, rhythmic halt as he filled you.
You rode out the lingering waves of your high, your hips slowly gyrating back and forth as you threw your head back, arching your spine. Watching you tremble, Ghost brought his hand up to your breast, giving the soft flesh a heavy, teasing slap that made you gasp against his neck
“Jesus C-christ,” Gaz let out, his voice shaking. Witnessing you and his superior officer like that had left him utterly reeled—and burning with a desperate, heavy jealousy.
“Captain, surely—”
“It’s alright, Gaz,” Price interrupted smoothly. He fished a cigar from his heavy tactical vest and struck a match, blowing a thick, fragrant cloud of rich tobacco smoke into the room.
You only looked back at Gaz, your expression thoroughly dazed and dark with lingering pleasure as you slid off Simon’s cock.
You sauntered over to where Gaz was standing, your movements slow and deliberate.
Reaching up, you pulled the band free from your hair, letting the locks tumble down your shoulders. In an instant, the tomboy Sergeant they all knew had completely vanished. Gaz could only stare, swallowing hard as he fought a desire he had never wanted to admit out loud.
“I just want to make you feel good, that’s all,” you purred. You reached out and took his massive hand in yours, lifting it to your mouth. You slipped his fingers past your lips, sucking on them deliberately while looking up into his eyes with a raw, hungry need.
Gaz couldn’t even conjure words. He was completely mesmerized by the wicked contrast of your tongue lapping at his fingers, even while your wide eyes pinned him with the look of an innocent little bird.
With a soft pop, you let his fingers slide free and sank slowly to your knees.
Your hands made quick work of his belt and the buckles of his pants, freeing his raging erection from his boxers. You ran your tongue along the underside, starting from the heavy base right up to the swollen, sensitive tip. You pressed a gentle, lingering kiss right against the head, causing him to shudder violently from the faint touch.
You let out a soft giggle, entirely satisfied with how responsive he was to your mouth. Your tongue swirled around the tip, catching the bead of pre-cum that had begun to leak out.
Kyle’s hands instinctively found your hair, his fingers firmly burying themselves into your roots. You took him into your mouth, your cheeks hollowing as your head began to bob rhythmically up and down, taking in as much of his cock as you could manage.
“Holy shit,” he choked out, his knuckles turning white in your hair.
Before long, your steady pace wasn’t enough to satisfy the desperate edge he was feeling. Taking matters into his own hands, he firmly guided your head up and down his cock with a coarser, heavier tempo, his hips beginning to buck aggressively into your mouth.
Watching him unravel and feeling the raw pleasure you were causing him only made you ache, a fresh wave of juices slicking down your thighs as you sucked him off.
You could tell he was close when his thrusts turned sloppy and frantic. You hollowed your cheeks harder, taking him as deep into your throat as you could manage and letting out a low, vibrating moan.
The deep resonance of your throat was the final trigger he needed to break.
His thrusts slowed down to a heavy, shuddering halt as he hit his climax. The thick, white substance began to leak from the corner of your mouth, but you swallowed every single drop whole.
“Fuck,” he breathed out, completely breathless as he watched you hungrily drink him dry. When you finally pulled away from him, it was with a loud, wet pop.
You didn’t stop there. Leaning back in, you gave the tip a few slow, lingering kitten-licks, ensuring every last drop was savoured.
Before you could even catch your breath, you felt two strong hands heft you up and place you roughly back onto the table on your back.
You couldn’t help but wince, though a breathless laugh escaped your lips, knowing exactly who it was.
“Easy, Soap!” Ghost scolded, nearly having a heart attack at how carelessly the Sergeant was manhandling your injured frame.
“Sorry, L.T. Cannae wait, that’s all,” Soap retorted, flashing you a wicked wink as he unbuckled his trousers. Patience had never been his strong suit.
“At least someone isn’t afraid to break me,” you teased, throwing a pointed look toward both Simon and Gaz. They both rolled their eyes in response, but their attention remained entirely locked onto whatever you and Johnny were about to do next.
Sitting up, you met Johnny’s lips, making out with him messily. His hand wrapped firmly around your throat in a soft, possessive grip. Soap gently pushed you back down against the wood and began trailing a path of sloppy, wet kisses down your stomach, tracking lower and lower until he stopped right at your soaked heat.
“Been waiting to taste her, bonnie,” he purred, his hot breath tickling your already hyper-sensitive folds.
You could only whine in response. Without any further warning, Soap attacked your bud, sucking and slurping against you like a starving man who had never been fed. The intense friction brought loud, desperate mewls from your throat, and your hips instinctively bucked upward into his mouth, begging for more.
“Pretty girl, ain't she?” Soap teased the room, looking up for a split second before diving right back in. His tongue focused entirely on that sensitive bundle of nerves, and your hand flew up, burying your fingers into his mohawk to hold him close as he continued to eat you out.
“F-fuck, Soap... right there!”
Your praise only antagonised him further. His tongue licked the entire length of your cunt, unrelenting and heavy.
“I’m gonna c-cum!” you screeched, your hips bucking frantically. Anticipating the release, Soap slid two fingers deep inside, ruthlessly fucking your greedy hole while his tongue continued to attack your clit.
The room filled with heavy, wet sounds as you closed in on your climax. Soap hit that sweet spot over and over until you finally snapped, squirting heavily all over his mouth. He let out a muffled laugh, his mouth still firmly attached to you as he slurped up every last drop of your sweet release.
You lay there completely breathless, your mind entirely blank from the intensity of the orgasm.
“O-oh my God,” you weakly wheezed, your chest rising and falling heavily.
“That’s a good girl,” Soap muttered. He wasn't looking at your face, but rather down at your swollen, overstimulated cunt, thoroughly pleased with himself for the shatter you had just pulled from you.
Price had remained seated the entire time, thoroughly amused by your performance. Taking another deep drag of his cigar, his heavy eyes watched the absolute mess his Sergeant had become.
“Not bad.” A gravelly voice pulled you from your post-orgasmic bliss.
A dark, knowing smirk plastered itself across your face as you turned and made your way over to the Captain. Opting to crawl across the floor, you slid right between his legs, resting your cheek heavily against his massive bulge.
“What am I to do with you, hm?” he asked softly. His large, rough hand travelled to your cheek, stroking your skin with surprising endearment.
“Captain—”
“Shh.” You were quickly silenced as his thumb slipped past your lips, pressing into your mouth.
“Here I thought you were just one of the boys. How wrong I could have been,” he murmured, looking down into your eyes with a complex look—akin to a father who was both deeply rattled and intensely proud. “Come here.”
Price patted his lap. You didn’t even think twice before crawling upward, desperate and needy for your Captain’s validation.
“Such a good girl, hmm?”
You could only nod in response, feeling like absolute putty in his hands. This side of you truly did something to him. He was so used to seeing the battle-hardened soldier; seeing you this eager for his touch, this desperate for his approval, was utterly intoxicating.
Before you could process the heat, he spun you around until your back was flush against his chest. Freeing his rigid cock from his trousers, he lifted you by the hips and lowered you straight down onto him.
You winced again, the sudden movement tugging at your fresh stitches while the sheer size of him stretched your walls to their absolute limit. But you bit down hard on your lip, refusing to show a single shred of hesitation.
“That’s it, baby,” Price quietly praised against your ear.
He immediately began bucking upward from behind. With your back flush against his chest, every deep, heavy thrust buried him all the way to your cervix, sending white-hot waves of pleasure radiating throughout your entire body.
Price pressed soft, lingering kisses along the slope of your neck as you melted completely into his touch, his gravelly voice whispering absolute sweet nothings into your ear while he single-handedly ruined your tired cunt.
It didn’t take long for the others to get hard again. The sight of you completely fucked out, getting railed thoroughly by the Captain, sent their own cocks throbbing. Without a word, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz began to jerk themselves off right then and there, their eyes completely glued to the sight.
“C-captain,” you whined out, feeling a dangerous wave of overstimulation creep up on you.
“Shh, you’re doing so good, baby. So good,” he cooed. His hand snaked down between your thighs, finding your swollen, slick nub and rubbing agonizingly perfect circles against it to force you over the edge.
You instinctively tried to arch away from the overwhelming sensation, but his grip on your hips was ironclad. He held you firmly in place, forcing you to take every single ounce of the pleasure he was giving. His thrusts grew rougher, the tempo turning fast and relentless as his hips bucked into you. Both of you were right on the precipice.
“FUCK!” you screeched, the tight knot in your stomach coiling hard before completely releasing, your walls clamping down violently all over your Captain’s cock.
Price wasn’t far behind. With a final, deep surge and a rough, guttural moan, he released his own hot seed deep inside you.
As you finally came back down from your high, your heavy eyelids fluttered open. You watched as the other three members of the team finally came into their own hands, pushed over the edge by watching you reach your nth orgasm of the night. A twisted, deeply satisfied smile crossed your swollen lips.
The bond forged in that room from that night onward was something infinitely stronger—something neither you nor the men could ever begin to describe to outsiders. But it didn't matter. No one else needed to understand the unspoken rule of what you all shared.
