Full of Grace (Part One) ˚ ✦ . . 🪐 ˚ . . ✦ . ˚ 🌒 . ✦ 🌍
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• part one | • part two (tba)
Pairing: Ryland Grace x F! Reader
Word Count: 7.8k
Summary: Bitter enemies after a messy encounter at a club, they have no idea they are also anonymous online chat partners. For months, their late-night messages have shifted from harmless flirting into an undeniable, dangerous connection. When they finally cross paths again in the real world, the sparks fly... and the sharp line between hatred and desire begins to fade.
Note: Here is a silly attempt to write and contribute to the growing Project Hail Mary fandom. One of the longest ones I have written so far for a singular chapter so I'm just gonna separate them in two parts. This has been stuck in my head for some time now. Inspired by @beskarrd's "EXTRA CREDIT" one-shot (i love you hope you know that) and someone on here saying the concept of 'ServiceTop!Ryland'... Yeah, I haven't been the same since. Just a small heads-up: I don't use AI to write my stories. Every single word, plot beat, and piece of dialogue comes straight from my own brain; I just proofread everything once or twice to clear up the text and make sure it reads right! English isn't my first language, so there might still be some grammatical errors here and there. Also, the science may or may not be too accurate. LMAO. Also, if you're interested, I also write in Wattpad. Big credit to mahawavy and thefriendlypigeon for the amazing fanart. I happen to pass them on pinterest and thought it was super near. Let me know what you think. Happy reading!
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Physicists like to define gravity as a constant. A reliable factor is the acceleration of 9.81 meters per second squared toward the center of the Earth. As if everything heavy was obligated to fall in a straight line. When two masses are placed within a defined distance, say two meters apart, Newton’s law states that the resulting force is directly proportional to their combined mass and inversely proportional to the square of that distance, multiplied by the gravitational constant. Enough, in theory, to keep planets in orbit.
In a less forgiving context, enough to ruin the dress she had just managed to put on a tequila-slicked dance floor. In the humid, neon-soaked atmosphere of the club, the ‘g’ didn't just stand for gravity. No, rather, it stood for the Grievance by Pearl Jam currently unfolding near the DJ booth.
Before coming here, you already had a rough day.
Two of your subject professors had labeled your work as sloppy. After three months of revisions, redesigns, and constant consultations, your prototype for an empathy-centered design still wasn’t a guaranteed pass. According to them, it was either too much or not enough for the panel of architects in your department. That left you with only one and a half months before your final defense, barely enough time to finish everything. It was doable, but nearly impossible, especially with you barely functioning while working part-time as a draftsman. Even that had started to fall apart; your department representative eventually pulled you off the project, saying you were distracted and needed to take a day off.
Since then, you’d been moping in your apartment, wallowing in the kind of silence that felt heavier than rest. Somewhere along the way, you started convincing yourself that maybe the quiet was better than the reality waiting outside: your work, your profession, everything you were supposed to keep together.
That was when Jody, a friend from the Engineering Department, showed up uninvited. She listened to everything when you burst out of self-deprecation and frustration. She refused to accept your self-pity and decided you were going out whether you liked it or not, much to your chagrin.
“Celebrate?” You had asked disbelievingly, eyes red.
“For what? Failing? Almost getting fired?”
“It’s not the end of the world,” She states, nudging you softly. You were about to protest, but she held up a finger.
“It’s a Saturday,” she said firmly.
“Just this once. Come on. It sucks to be stuck here all the time. You need a distraction.”
It took a lot of persuasion, a lot of resistance, and the creeping realization that if you stayed alone any longer, you might actually start crying, which you hated but knew was inevitable.
Jody was right, though. You needed a distraction, even just for one night. After that, you’d figure things out like you always did.
Which was how you ended up here. In a skimpy dress that showed too much skin, a little less cloth, hair, and make-up done neatly. Any essence of a breakdown three hours ago is almost non-existent.
Keyword: almost.
Neglecting air resistance was easy; neglecting the fact that a twelve-dollar gin and tonic was now soaking into their hemlines was impossible. Add that to some heads turning their way, and some audible gasps, and it was really hard not to notice.
So, what does it all equate to? What was the force of it all?
Utter embarrassment and annoyance. Bubbling aggravation. Anger. Oh, is that a hint of the color red?
The shattered glass spread across a wide area on the tiled floors, shimmering dangerously under the spangling lights. A busboy was quick to intervene, except a minute of cleanup was still sixty seconds too long. It was more than enough time for your clumsy intruder to take center stage and turn a simple spill into a full-blown scene.
“Shit! Are you okay? I’m so, so sorry—I’m such a klutz.” The stranger’s apology was a frantic stammer as he ducked his head, desperate to disappear into the darkest corners of the room.
He's mortified.
A pair of brown eyes clashed with blue; one pair was frantic, while the other was sharpening into blades. To make matters worse, exponentially worse, you suddenly felt two hands settle firmly on your cold, saturated midriff. His hands were warm, bordering on hot, large palms paired with long, slender fingers. You could feel the heat radiating through your dress, a searing point of contact that sent a strange, low-frequency change in temperature settling deep within your stomach.
You sucked in a sharp, horrified breath.
Ryland Grace, against his better judgment (bless his soul) and under the influence of alcohol, was acting on pure, panicked instinct. Foolishly hoping that if he rubbed the fabric together fast enough, the alcohol might miraculously dissipate. Clever guy, right? Hardly. In reality, he was busy tearing himself to shreds, cycling through every gruesome, self-inflicted mental punishment a thirty-six-year-old with a doctorate in molecular biology could possibly invent. Instead, he just earned a violent shove and a look that could have curdled milk.
"Get your hands off me," you hissed, your voice low and dangerous. Your cheeks and face were a bit pinker than they were. With your arms crossed over your chest, the wet fabric clings to your skin in a way that feels far too exposed in a room full of strangers.
'Where was Jody when you needed her? God, could this day get any worse?'
"Okay, okay! That’s on me. I’m so sorry," Ryland sputters, holding his hands up as if surrendering. If your eyes were any indication of firing literal bullets and drilling holes in his body, then yes.
"Here, please, just take my jacket." He added hesitantly, peeling the layers off, but you could only feel your temples pulse in time with the bass.
Your lips thinned into a firm line, the familiar sting of frustrated tears pricking at your eyes. You didn’t know if you wanted to cry, scream, or test if the tall stranger's face would accelerate toward your fist at the speed of gravity. You sure as hell wanted to test Newton's Law now.
You ignored his offered jacket, eyes darting through the chromatic room, desperate to find a familiar blonde head bobbing among the throng. But there was no sign of Jody. Around you, the club had already forgotten your mini-drama. The crowd returned to its rhythmic, skin-to-skin pulse. The rotating beams swept over you in flares of mocking pink and electric blue while the speakers blared the high-voltage chorus of Wildest Dreams.
No offense to Taylor Swift but it was the perfect soundtrack for a nightmare.
"Look," You paused, your gaze pinning back to him.
"Ryland," he answered almost instantly, his eyes alert and tracking your every move. His jacket was already off, draped over his elbow like an offering. Beneath it, he wore a cream-colored t-shirt with the words 'I paused my Mitochondria for this' sprawled across the chest. It was an aggressively nerdy confession for someone currently ruining your night, and the shirt hugged an incredibly annoying physique that you found entirely unnecessary. Looking directly into his eyes was a challenge, too. His glasses acted like prisms, warping the club’s bright beams into erratic, blinding shards of light.
If circumstances were different, you would find this whole ordeal cute. Romantic, even. But you were fuming, tired, burned out, and sick.
"Okay, Ry-land," you echoed blankly. "My day is already a disaster. Keep the jacket, I don't want it. The last thing I’m going to do is wear a pervert's clothing."
His jaw practically hit the sticky floor. "Hey, now hold on. That–that was not a grope, and I am not a pervert! I just.. I was trying to help—"
"Helping by being a dick? Real smooth, buddy," you snapped, cutting him off with a sharp wave of your hand. "Try that line on someone stupid enough to believe you."
The flickering light caught the shift in his expression. Now, it was his turn to be annoyed. "That’s not what I was doing. It was an accident."
"An accident to get into a stranger's pants? Men like you are pathetic," you spat. Blame it on the alcohol, the mounting stress, or the way the music was thumping against your skull, but your dam was finally overflowing. You were breathing hard, spouting vitriol you didn’t entirely mean, words you’d normally never throw at a stranger.
"You all try the same desperate acts just to get a girl’s attention in a place like this."
“What the hell is your problem?”
“My problem? My problem is you! Don’t go touching on acting all innocent when you planned this out. Y-you sicko!”
The shout was deafening, even by club standards. You felt the heat crawling up your neck as onlookers paused their movements to gawk at the wreckage of your conversation. Ryland remained motionless, taking the brunt of your sharpened tongue. But the silence didn't last as a shadow dawned across his features. A sudden, sharp hardening of his gaze that told you you’d finally pushed him a step too far.
“Your problem?” He echoed bluntly, releasing a dry laugh.
“You think I planned this? Jesus Christ, I spilled a drink on you, that’s it. It’s not that deep.”
“Oh, please—”
“No, seriously,” he cut in, voice rising for the first time. “You pushed me before I could even explain, called me a pervert, and somehow I’m still standing here apologizing like I committed a felony.”
You frowned and scoffed. The words hit harder than they should have.
He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, jaw tight. “I touched your shirt because it was soaked, and my drunk brain thought I could fix it somehow. Stupid idea? Abso-frigging-lutely! But contrary to whatever dramatic narrative you’ve built in your cute little head, I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”
From the outside, it was a fifteen-second collision. But in the heat of the moment, time seemed to dilate. You didn't even realize you’d closed the gap until you found yourself inches away, caught in a high-tension loop of narrowed eyes and sharp breaths.
Curse him and his height. Even with four inches of heel-induced leverage, you were still stuck in his shadow, looking down at you with those blue eyes. You were at least trying to manifest enough menacing energy to offset the laws of physics.
Ryland exhaled sharply through his nose, looking equal parts offended and exhausted.
“And for the record,” he added, gesturing vaguely to the crowd around him, “if I wanted someone’s attention in a place like this, I assure you, publicly humiliating myself wasn’t the strategy.”
The air between you turned electric, thick with a mutual steam of pure, unadulterated loathing. For a second, the rest of the club ceased to exist. Until a loud voice shattered the tension.
"Ry!" Someone hollered over the music.
At the exact same time, you also recognized a female voice calling your name. Both Ryland and you snapped your heads toward the sound and audibly winced.
"Colt," he exhaled, the name leaving him like a prayer of thanks for the interruption.
You watched as another man, a near-perfect replica but shorter by a few inches, wove his way toward the confrontation. If you needed a sign that the night had gone off the rails, this was probably it… You were literally seeing duplicates. Before the universe could throw a third one at you, you pray to God, and you see Jody threading her way towards you with an almost apologetic face.
“Oh, my lord. I am sorry for losing you.” Your friend profusely states. “I lost track of time and got carried away. Are you– wait, what happened to your dress?”
Your shoulders sagged, and you shook your head.
“It’s okay, Jody. Could we call it a night, please? I really, really want to go home.” You offer quietly, avoiding the gaze of two piercing pairs of eyes behind your head.
Jody didn’t ask why and nodded.
“A taxi is already waiting for us outside, thought you wanted to get out. Come on.”
You exhaled a long, shaky sigh and pivoted on your heels. Jody was busy narrating her latest escapade, something about a dark alley and a stranger with good hair, but you weren't listening. Against your better judgment, you glanced over your shoulder. There he was, still standing in the glimmering blur of a haze. You could still make the outline of his face from a distance, the angled jaw, the subtlety of his well-maintained beard, the glasses perched on his sharp nose that you vehemently despised for a short period of time. The adrenaline was still humming through your nerves, but the shame was starting to settle. Since you were convinced you’d never see him again, you let the ice in your stare melt just a fraction. A truce for a ghost, essentially, before you looked away for good.
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You let out a jagged groan the moment you collapsed into the mattress. The transition from the cloying scent of gin and cheap perfume to the sterile stillness of your bedroom was absolute. You would never trade this for anything, not even a passing grade.
Oh, who were you kidding? Getting that passing grade was the top priority. You were desperate to power through your master’s and jump into your doctorate without a single day of delay.
You were home, finally, but your brain refused to follow suit. You sank into the linens, but the familiar comfort of your apartment did nothing to settle the adrenaline still clawing at your veins.
It was 4:28 AM and a Sunday. You had the whole day to recover, yet sleep felt like a distant, impossible concept. You’d been so sure that a hot shower would wash away the night, but instead, eyes fixed on the ceiling’s empty expanse, waiting for answers that weren’t coming.
God, an existential crisis at dawn was never your cup of tea, and to make matters worse, you were officially out of melatonin gummies. You cursed, rolling onto your side. The silence of the room was actually deafening, amplified by the faint, rhythmic cacophony of San Francisco traffic eight floors below. The city never slept, and apparently, neither could you.
Your phone buzzed against the nightstand, a sharp, digital strike that shattered your reverie. You rubbed your eyes, your brow knitting as the blue light fractured the darkness. Who the hell would be reaching out at 4:30 AM?
A dangerous, familiar guess flared in your chest, but you instantly choked it down. A week of silence had already stretched into a month of total radio silence before this. After four months of flickering, inconsistent conversation, you were convinced he’d finally ghosted for good. Yet, your own memory refused to cooperate. You couldn't forget him; it was unnecessarily unjustified.
How could you?
You’d met on a random interest-based chat site, matching over shared niches before migrating to Snapchat under a strict pact of total anonymity. You both agreed on two common terms: no face cards and no real names. It was part of the thrill. At first, it was innocent, late-night debates about constellations, buildings, coffee preferences, and politics, safe subjects that didn’t bleed into real life. Conversations that did not reveal too much of your private lives.
But then, something morphed in between. The turning point was a late-night text last month. He’d sounded so uncharacteristically desperate, begging to see you, that you’d laughed and decided to tease him. You sent a snapshot, a carefully angled view of your collarbones and the curve of your waist, your lips bleeding into a very sultry invitation, your face obscured by the shadows. You hadn't thought twice about hitting send. The moment he saw it, however, the intellectual stranger behind the screen completely dissolved.
He became a predator.
It quickly evolved into a late-night or early-morning ritual. Every night, if your schedule permits. An insatiable routine of letting the heat of your bodies dictate the movement of your fingers across the rectangular device. The brief chats spiraled into breathless, filthy text sessions, and if the timing was right, raspy phone calls filled with heavy panting and unhinged dirty talk.
You wouldn't call it a romance. Romance was peaceful and exhilaratingly beautiful. What the two of you had was unadulterated filth and conveniency. It was an arrangement of pure, intoxicating mutual indulgence, and you’d been perfectly fine with that.
Well, until the mystery man himself vanished. Not that you minded, you weren’t actually together. It shouldn’t bother you at all, but to say you were disappointed was an understatement. The days had bled into weeks, and the weeks into a numbing month. You had finally given up hope.
Until the screen buzzed again in your hand, threatening to drag you right back under. You unlocked your phone with the click of your tongue. The blue light flared in the darkness, casting long shadows across your walls. Your thumb hovered over the chat, the one that had rendered your nerves in the most satisfying ache.
Hot Stranger: Hey, beautiful. You still awake?
A sudden spike of adrenaline hit your chest. A whole week of absolute silence, and he decides to check in at four in the morning? What are you, a motel? Every rational part of your brain told you to put the phone away. He didn't deserve your time, and your pride was far too stubborn to let a ghost who knew exactly how to make you lose your mind over a voice call reel you back in so easily.
You braced yourself to shut the screen off, but a second notification cut you off.
Hot Stranger: Sorry for dropping off the grid. Life caught up with me for a bit. Couldn’t stop thinking about you always…
You let out a groan. That struck a nerve.
You: Oh, so you’re alive? Good to know. But I’m not your midnight stress-relief, and I’m definitely not some convenient outlet you can just pick up whenever your life gets “too loud.” ;)
The typing bubbles appeared instantly. You could practically feel the shift in the air, the silent weight of his attention locking onto you from miles away. Or cities. You didn’t really know
Hot Stranger: Is that what you think you are to me? An outlet?
You scoffed. You’ve been scoffing a lot lately. Are men finding ways to irritate you more tonight?
You: You vanished for a week. You don't get to just text me “hey, beautiful” @ 4 in the morning and expect me to drop my panties. I have standards. Find someone else to use for your comedown.
A heavy silence settled over the chat. The bubbles went away, then came back. You smirked to yourself, feeling a smug sense of control, but as quickly as it came, your smile instantly died. The words he sent were short, blunt, and stripped of all his usual playfulness.
Hot Stranger: If I just wanted an outlet, I could have found a hundred girls somewhere tonight. But I didn't want a hundred girls. I wanted you.
A wave of liquid heat rushed straight to your lower belly, turning your pride into absolute submission before you could even think to fight it.
He didn’t stop typing; the bubbles kept coming.
Hot Stranger: You think you have standards with me? Beautiful, the last time we were on the phone, you were begging me to let you come while you had two fingers shoved so deep inside yourself you could barely breathe. You belong to my voice.
A sudden, involuntary shiver wracked your spine, and your legs straightened up and locked on their own, pressing tightly together against the agonizingly familiar dampness ruining your underwear. Your nipples hardened into tight, painfully sensitive points, aching for a touch that wasn't there.
Damn that man.
He knew exactly what he was doing, and your own traitorous body was practically begging him to keep going. As if reading your situation, he sent another message.
Hot Stranger: Now stop throwing a tantrum, tell me how much you missed me, and get your pretty little ass ready for me.
The message stared back at you, the words blurring as your heart hammered against your throat. You didn't even realize you were arching your back, the friction of your nipples against the thin fabric of your camisole sending a jolt of electricity straight to your thighs.
You: You talk a big game for someone who hasn’t talked to me in a month.
The reply was almost instant, and the heat you felt intensified.
Hot Stranger: I don't need to see you to know you’re already a mess for me. I bet you’re touching yourself right now, aren't you? Shoving those pretty fingers inside just to see if you can taste me on them?
A breathy moan escaped your lips, a very, very broken, helpless sound that fractured the quiet of your room. Your hand was already there, hovering over the lace of your underwear. The moment your forefinger pressed against your clothed clit, you mewled, your hips instinctively rolling in slow, deliberate circles against your hand.
You: Maybe I am. What are you going to do about it?
You nearly dropped the phone on your face when it suddenly went off in your hand, his caller ID flashing across the screen. With shaking fingers, you slid the icon to answer and pressed the phone desperately close to your ear, your breath hitching in your throat.
“H-hello?”
You counted mentally, each millisecond dragging like heavy chains across the floor.
Then, a low, ragged exhale bled through the speaker. The voice of the man who could make your knees buckle from miles away. But it wasn't the smug, overly confident voice from his texts. No. When he spoke, his breath was coming in heavy, uneven gasps, thick and completely unhinged with a desperate, clawing need.
“I missed you, baby doll. God, I can’t stop... I can’t stop thinking ab-about you. Tell me. Tell me how wet you are right now.”
Hearing him like this, completely stripped of his cool composure, panting, and sounding so rawly, devastatingly needy, sent a violent jolt of pure heat straight to your core. His text game was hot, but the blatant desperation in his voice was ruinous. It was intoxicating to know that while you were aching in your bed, he was somewhere in the dark, entirely at his breaking point just from the thought of you.
“It feels so good... sir,” you whimpered brokenly, your hand finally slipping completely under the lace of your underwear.
“It feels so hot and… and wet. I wish it were your fingers rubbing me, sir. I want your big, strong hands on my p-pussy. I missed you so much.”
You were practically mewling by now, your mind a complete haze of lust as your bottom lip trembled and your eyes clamped shut.
A heavy, guttural groan tore from his throat on the other side of the line, vibrating right against your eardrum. You knew exactly what that honorific did to him. Just as his dirty endearments completely stole your sanity, calling him "sir" was his ultimate trigger.
“I know, baby,” he panted, his breath ragged. “Can’t believe a pretty thing like you always waits patiently for me. I’ve been neglecting you. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“I—I wore the pretty pink one,” you stammered, your knuckles brushing against your thighs as your fingers parted your slick, swollen folds. The direct skin-to-skin contact made your core throb violently, forcing a ruined gasp from your throat. “The one you liked...”
The line went dead silent for a fraction of a second, save for the sudden, sharp catch in his throat. When he spoke, his voice dropped an octave, dripping with a dark, visual hunger.
“With the ribbon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fuck.”
You heard the rustle of heavy sheets on his end, followed by a ragged inhale. He was shifting, completely undone by the mental image of you bare and waiting in that specific lace.
“I want you to do something for me, beautiful,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, commanding register that made your chest tighten.
“Yes,” you answered instantly, the word slipping out before your brain could even process a refusal. Your entire focus was completely grappled by his voice, your body wound so tight you were practically shaking.
Through the speaker, a dark, low chuckle vibrated against your ear. Your heart did somersaults, and you chastised yourself. The laugh was not mocking; it was the satisfied sound of a man who knew he owned every single one of your reactions… and you loved it.
“Ever the desperate little doll, aren't you?” he teased, his breathing still heavy.
“Let’s do something a little different tonight. I want you to grab a pillow for me.”
You hesitated, your brow knitting in a brief flash of doubt. A pillow? Your mind was too hazy with lust to figure out what he was planning, but the raw authority in his tone didn’t leave room for questions. Without breaking the connection, you reached blindly behind your head, tugging one of the plush pillows free from the headboard and holding it against your chest like a shield.
“I—I have it, sir,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“I want you to shove it right between your legs, baby.”
You followed on pure instinct, your body moving before your brain could even question him. You dragged the plush, heavy cushion down, wedging it firmly between your thighs. The soft fabric buried itself right against your aching core, pressing the thin lace of your pink underwear tight against your wet folds.
The immediate pressure was indescribable. An involuntary whimper left your throat as you instinctively clamped your thighs shut around the pillow, the friction of the fabric sending a delicious jolt straight to your lower belly. You couldn’t help it; your hips bucked up, grinding desperately against the soft cushion just to chase that agonizingly perfect relief.
Through the speaker, his breath caught, turning into a pant as he listened to the wet, friction-filled sounds of your desperation.
“Yeah?” he growled, his voice thick and entirely undone. “Feels good, doesn't it, sweetheart? God, I would love to have you right here on my leg instead. To feel your wet little pussy rubbing against my thigh while I hold you by the hips.”
You let out a broken gasp, your hands clutching the sheets as you rolled your pelvis against the pillow again, completely lost to the heat.
“It feels so, so good, sir," you whimpered, your head thrashing against the mattress as you bucked harder against the cushion. "Y-you always make me feel so good. Every time… every time we do it. You treat me so well.”
You were climbing too fast, the friction of the plush pillow bringing you right to the staggering edge of a messy orgasm. Your hips were moving in frantic, desperate thrusts, your breath coming in short bursts.
“Stop.”
The sharp, low command cut through the dark like a knife.
You froze instantly, a strangled sob caught in your throat. Your hips hovered in mid-air, trembling violently, your core throbbing with an unfulfilled ache. You wanted to cry from the sudden loss of friction, your eyes tearing up in the dark.
“S-sir... please,” you begged, your voice cracking.
“Shh, I know, baby. I know,” He panted heavily, his own voice sounding completely wrecked, his breathing rough and uneven against the microphone. He was suffering just as much as you were, desperate to hear you break.
“Don’t rush it. Do it slowly for me, baby. Drag your pussy on that pillow like it’s my own leg you’re taking pleasure from. Follow my voice.”
You let out a shaky, compliant breath, lowering your hips back down and forcing yourself to slow down, mimicking the rhythm of his voice.
“Yeah, just like that,” he groaned, a rough, desperate praise bleeding through the line. “Listen to me. I want you to circle your hips, baby. Drag them up and down. When I count to three, you circle them for me, alright? Don't you dare come until I say so.”
You nodded frantically against your sheets, your hands clutching the fabric until your knuckles turned white, entirely captivated by his lead.
“One...” Ryland rasped, a deep, shuddering inhale vibrating through the speaker. “God, you’re so good for me, sweetheart. I can practically feel how tight and soaking wet you are from here...”
You let out a ruined gasp, your pelvis twitching instinctively, desperate for the full movement.
“Two...” he continued, his tone dropping into a darker, hungrier command, though his breath was hitching in his chest, completely unhinged by his own anticipation. “Hold it right there. Keep waiting for me, baby doll. Let the heat build up. I want you completely ruined for me tonight...”
While you waited on his count, your mind began to drift, spinning dangerous fantasies in the dark. You couldn't help but picture him on the other side of the line. Was he just as disheveled as you were? Was his hair messy, his chest heaving as his knuckles white-knuckled his own cock at the mere thought of you? You imagined him looking up at you with lust-blinded eyes while you sat stranded on his lap, just like he’d described.
You had never seen his face, but in the cloud of your arousal, you mapped out the rest of him… Strong, dominant arms and a broad, powerful build that could effortlessly lift you and pin you against a wall if you ever met in person. What was he actually like? Behind the screen, he was a man who freely voiced his cravings, showered you with desperate praises, and always ensured your pleasure came first. Was he that devastatingly attentive in real life?
Curiosity was a dangerous thing when left unchecked. You had a strict pact to keep things completely anonymous, and letting yourself care about the man behind the voice was a line you couldn't cross. You had to shut it down.
You were so deeply buried in your own head that you didn't even notice the silence on the line or that he had stopped counting.
“Sweetheart?”
The low rumble of his voice caused a sharp spike of adrenaline in your chest. You blinked, shaking your head against the pillow. How long had you been gone?
“Y-yeah. Sorry, I got distracted,” you whispered sheepishly, a breathless, involuntary smile tugging at your lips.
Through the speaker, he let out an amused tsk.
“Well, I can’t have my beautiful girl getting distracted on me now, can I?”
His voice dropped lower, that amused huff of breath turning into a low, predatory rumble that sent a shiver straight down your thighs.
“Where did that pretty little mind of yours wander off to, hm? Were you thinking about me?” He panted heavily, the rustle of sheets on his end telling you he was still slowly stroking himself, waiting for you. “Were you imagining what I’d do to you if I were actually there in that bed with you?”
“I—I…” You gasped, your knuckles tightening on the sheets as the throbbing between your legs reminded you just how close you were to the edge.
“It’s okay, baby doll,” he rasped, his breathing hitching as he cut off your excuse. His tone suddenly shifted from playful to completely commanding, stripping away the brief pause.
“But you made me wait. And you know what happens when you make me wait.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“Where were we? Ah, right. I was counting. Open your legs wider for me. Press that pretty pussy down hard against the cushion. Now…”
He took a sharp, shuddering breath, completely undone.
“Three. Circle those hips for me, baby doll. Grind yourself against that pillow and don't you dare stop until you're screaming for me.”
The command hit you like an electric shock. You didn't even think. Your hips instantly tore into the mattress, rolling in deep, agonizingly perfect circles against the plush fabric.
“That’s my good girl. You’re doing so good, baby. I-I’m pumping myself for you right now. Thinking of your pretty lips around t-them. F-fuck!”
You moaned loudly, repeating the pattern of drag, push, and circle on the pillow. You envisioned his wide leg in between them, feeling the girth and the texture of the fabric of his pants…or his bare skin.
Fuck it all. It still wasn’t enough. The pillow was a tease, a cruel substitute for the real thing, and you needed more.
“Sir, p-please. I want your… your—”
“Use your words, baby,” Ryland growled, his breathing heavy, his voice dropping into a rough, low register that sent a shiver straight to your core.
“Tell me exactly what you need.”
Jesus Christ, the sheer heat in his voice alone could have pushed you over the edge. It was so raw, so devastatingly possessive that your eyes stung with a mix of embarrassment and pure, unadulterated need.
“I need your hands, sir. Please,” the words spilled from your lips in a hurried, breathless rush, your filter completely obliterated by the lust turning your brain to mush. “I want your thick fingers stretching me out. I want to feel your body heat right behind me while you push them inside me in front of a mirror... I want you to make me look at myself while I'm completely ruined, wet, and bursting for you.”
The moment the final word left your mouth, the line fell dead silent.
The only sound left in the room was the sound of your own breath. Seconds dragged like hours. A cold spike of anxiety hit your chest, your heart hammering against your ribs. Had you gone too far? Had you said something completely stupid? You braced yourself to apologize, your face burning in the dark.
Then, a dark, dangerous exhale bled through the speaker. He wasn't disgusted; unbeknownst to you, he was losing his fucking mind.
“You want me to watch you?” He grates, his voice vibrating with a sudden, feral authority that made your thighs clamp together again.
“You want to see how dirty you get for me? Strip.”
Your breath hitched.
“Take off those pretty pink panties right now, baby doll. Throw them on the floor,” he ordered, his own breathing coming in erratic hitches. “And shove two fingers as deep inside your wet little pussy as they can go. I want to hear the slickest, filthiest sounds you can make. Do it for me.”
The sheer impact of his command hit your swollen clit like an electric shock. Blindly, frantically, you hooked your fingers into the damp lace, tearing them down your legs and tossing them blindly into the dark. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you separated your slick folds and drove two fingers straight into your aching, dripping heat.
A loud, ruined wail tore from your throat, your hips instantly bucking violently off the mattress. You wanted just to release, to let the orgasm take you right then and there, but his voice cut through your haze, anchoring you.
“Don’t you dare stop,” Ryland growled, his voice a thick, guttural mess of lust. Through the line, the heavy, wet friction of his own hand white-knuckling his cock became painfully loud. He was pumping himself in perfect sync with you, his breath hitching over the microphone. “Pump it, baby doll. Just like that... drag them in and out. Let me hear how wet you are for me. God, you’re so fucking tight...”
You whimpered, tears prickling your closed eyes as you forced your hand to move, pumping your fingers deep inside your own body, over and over. The dragging sensation was agonizingly intense. Every thrust made your internal muscles clamp ruthlessly around your fingers, your core throbbing in a desperate rhythm that matched the ragged, heavy pants bleeding through the speaker.
“Fuck, I’m right there with you,” he gasped out, completely unhinged, his breathing coming in desperate, broken stutters as he visualized you writhing on the sheets. “I’m imagining exactly how it feels inside you... How hot you are. Come on, sweetheart. Ride your fingers. Ride them hard for me.”
And he said something that completely made you undone there and then.
“That’s my beautiful girl.”
The sensory overload was suffocating. With one final, desperate thrust of your hand, the dam broke. Your entire body stiffened as a blinding, white-hot heat shattered through your core, sending wave after wave of intense, crippling pleasure rippling through your veins. You sobbed into the quiet room, completely ruined, your fingers stuck deep inside your twitching, contracting walls.
Through the haze of your release, you heard his sharp, breathless groan on the other side of the line, followed by a low, shaky exhale as he came right along with you.
A long, heavy silence settled over the connection, filled only by the synchronous sound of your shared, exhausted panting in the dark.
“Shit,” He finally muttered, his voice wheezing and completely spent.
A breathless laugh bubbled up from your throat as you felt a bead of sweat roll slowly down your temple. “What a comeback, huh?”
He let out a low, soft chuckle on the other side of the line. “Yeah. It was great. Look... I’m sorry about before. I was caught up in a lot of things this past week. Hopefully, I made up for it tonight?”
You bit your bottom lip, tracing a pattern on your sheets. “Hmm, you did. You did well, don’t worry. I, uhm... I really needed this tonight. Thank you.”
“Why?” he asked softly. The shift in his tone was immediate; it was no longer the commanding, dominant, but just quiet, genuine curiosity.
You hesitated. You were acutely aware that opening up like this went completely against the strict boundaries you two had agreed on. You weren't supposed to be real people to each other. But the vulnerability of the afterglow was heavy, and before you could stop yourself, the words started to slip out.
Propping the phone up on the sink, you washed your hands and splashed cool water onto your face, all while softly spilling the things you could safely allow him to know. You told him about the suffocating pressure of your academics, the exhausting stress of nearly getting fired from your job, and touched lightly on the painful, sensitive reality of your overbearing mother practically disowning you. You were careful not to give away names or locations, keeping your secrets close, but the raw weight of your exhaustion bled through anyway.
He didn't interrupt or offer cheap advice. He just stayed on the line, listening intently, letting out soft, comforting hums to let you know he was right there with you in the quiet. It was completely different from your usual routine, which never moved past shameless dirty talk. Slipping into the mundane details of your real life with him was dangerously endearing. For a change, it felt incredibly nice.
You finally trailed off, the bathroom quiet save for the slight hum of the speaker. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, suddenly a little horrified by how much you’d just confessed to a guy you only knew through a screen.
A soft, heavy sigh bled through the phone. He didn’t sound awkward or overwhelmed by your baggage. Instead, the gravelly edge of his voice softened into a quiet, grounding calm.
“Hey. No wonder you’re exhausted,” he said quietly.
You let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh, wiping a stray drop of water from your cheek.
“Yeah. Sorry for dumping all that on you. Not exactly part of our arrangement.”
“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, and you could hear the rustle of his blankets as he rolled over, his voice dropping closer to the mic, intimate and entirely real.
“You can’t keep running on an empty tank, baby doll. Your brain is going to fry. Look... when things get this messy, you don’t try to fix the whole damn world in one night. You take it apart. One piece at a time.”
“You sound like a teacher.” You quip, and he lets out a choke of air. Your eyebrows raised in amusement at that.
You leaned your lower back against the sink, completely captivated by how steady he sounded. The dominant dirtbag from ten minutes ago was gone, replaced by someone so entirely patient it made your chest ache.
“Anyway, your classes, your boss, your mom... they can all wait until tomorrow. Tonight, they don't get to touch you,” he said, a faint, deeply affectionate chuckle vibrating over the line. “Your only homework for the rest of the night is to drink a glass of water, crawl under your sheets, and actually sleep. Think you can handle that for me?”
Your heart squeezed. It was a simple command, but it carried the comforting weight of someone who actually knew how to look after you.
“Yes, sir,” you whispered. The honorific slipped out naturally, but this time it wasn't born out of lust. Just total, grateful comfort.
“Good girl,” he replied, his voice dropping into a sleepy, content rumble that made you want to melt right into the bathroom floor. “Go get some rest.”
The logical thing to do was say goodnight and hang up. You knew the rules. You knew the boundaries. But the aftermath had left you completely raw, your defenses entirely down. Before your brain could stop your mouth, the dangerous, intoxicating thought held hostage in your chest slipped right past your lips.
“I wish I could see you.”
The silence that instantly snapped over the line was deafening.
You heard yourself let out a sharp gasp, your own words echoing back to you. Stupid, stupid, stupid! You smacked your forehead with the heel of your hand, the blunt sting of your palm against your cold skin finally shocking some sense back into your brain.
“Please, ignore that,” you rushed out, your voice climbing an octave as you paced the small bathroom. “That was stupid. It was completely just the heat of the moment, I—I didn’t mean to push a boundary—”
“I want to see you, too.”
The frantic rambling died instantly in your throat. You stopped dead in your tracks, your mouth hanging open. You stared at the phone in your hand as if it had just spoken in a foreign language. Were you hearing this right?
“R-really?” you breathed, your heart doing a violent, erratic flutter against your ribs.
“Yeah,” He confessed, and you could hear the rough, slightly nervous edge in his voice.
“Yeah, actually. I’ve wanted to for a while now. Probably since the first few weeks we started talking.”
A breathless, dizzy smile bloomed across your face, making you look like an absolute lunatic to your own reflection in the mirror. The validation was intoxicating.
“Okay,” you laughed softly, your fingers tightening around the phone. “Okay, yeah. Yeah, we can do that. We can actually do this.”
“Alright,” he murmured, the sleepy rumble returning to his voice, though it was laced with a new, sharp curiosity. “Let’s test the waters then. Broad strokes first. What state are you in?”
“California.”
“No kidding? Me too,” he said, a faint trace of surprise in his tone. “What region? NorCal or SoCal?”
“NorCal,” you replied instantly.
“Okay, getting closer,” he murmured, his tone sharpening with sudden interest. “What city?”
You took a breath, expecting him to name a town an hour or two away in the Bay Area. You said the name of your city aloud, the familiar syllables rolling off your tongue. “San Francisco.”
For three agonizing seconds, there wasn't even the sound of his breathing. Then, a sharp, ragged intake of air hissed through the speaker.
“Hey?” you prompted, your brow furrowing as you looked down at the screen. “Are you still there?”
“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a stunned, hollow whisper.
Your heart skipped a beat. “What? What is it?”
“That’s my city,” he rasped. “I’m right here. In the city. Right now.”
A cold jolt of pure adrenaline shot straight down your spine. “Oh, fuck,” you echoed, the realization hitting you like a physical blow.
He was here. He wasn't some abstract entity three states away; he was navigating the same streets, breathing the same air, entirely within your physical reach.
“Jesus,” he breathed, and you could hear him running a hand over his face on the other side. “Think about the statistical probability of that. Out of everyone... shit. This is dangerous. What if we actually know each other in real life? What if I've passed you on the street? What if we've had a conversation? God, that would be so incredibly awkward.”
A nervous laugh escaped you, though your mind was spinning at the possibility. The thought of looking at a man in your daily life, a colleague, a regular at a coffee shop, an acquaintance, and realizing he was the one who had just spent the last hour driving you to a screaming climax over the phone was terrifying. But completely thrilling.
“Hey,” He said, his voice suddenly turning serious, grounding the spiraling tension. “Let’s make a deal right now. We arranged a place to meet. Somewhere, uhm, public or safe in case one of us turns out to be a murderer or something. But if we get there, and it’s too weird, or if the reality doesn't match the fantasy... we agree to just walk the other way. We turn around, we hang up the phones, and we never bring this up again. We let it go. Deal?”
You swallowed hard, staring down at your bare feet on the bathmat. It was the logical choice. It was the safe choice. But as you thought about it, a profound wave of emotion hit your chest, tightening your throat.
“I don't think I could ever just forget this,” you whispered honestly, with a weight it hadn't carried before.
A long, heavy exhale bled through the speaker, thick with an emotion he couldn't quite mask. He felt it too. The late-night calls had ceased being just about sex a long time ago; they had become a lifeline for both of them.
“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice incredibly gentle, stripped entirely of his dominant mask. “You’re right. I couldn't forget you either, baby doll.”
He paused, taking a deep, resolving breath.
“So we don't run away,” your stranger decided, the firm, guiding tone of his character returning, but this time, he was taking a leap of faith with you. “We try. We just try, and we see where the cards fall. Whatever happens when we see each other face-to-face, we figure it out together. Deal?”
You let out a shaky, emotional breath, a genuine smile breaking through the tension.
“Deal.”
