It’s that time of year again when I asked for help (whether it’s sharing this or buying, it doesn’t matter!). This year, everything on the list is more for the entire school than just classes since I’m an instructional coach now. And I have to make bulletin boardssss
are you going to finish it will come back?? it’s so good and i keep checking for updates 😭
I am so happy you like it!!
I’ll be really honest though, the Dex fandom has sort of became very toxic? Maybe that’s not the right word; something about it became very uncomfortable and i don’t know if i want to be associated with it.
It’s not everyone, and it could just be me being sensitive. But to answer your question —no, as of right now it’s been put on hiatus.
If a fantasy world has an ancient tree of wisdom, that means it must also have young trees that are dumb as shit. Just giving terrible advice like, "the evil wizard is kinda hot"'
anyways (I say this as someone who is deeply critical of the united states government, military, unchecked capitalism, police, etc) I am SICK of people treating america as if it has no cultural value or positives so….. I love u 85 million acres (bigger than italy) of national parks. I love u harlem renaissance. I love u groundhogs day. I love u sweet tea and fried chicken and jambalaya. I love u apple cider donuts and maizes on crisp autumn days. I love u 95k miles of coastlines and new england fisherman and hand knitted sweaters. I love u halloween where millions of people dress up and give candy to strangers and carve jack o’lanterns. I love u small talk and small towns and potlucks and bringing over casseroles to your struggling neighbors. I love u cowboys and ranch hands and arizonian cactus. I love u appalachian trail and dirtbikes and divebars. I love u sparklers and fireflies. I love u mark twain and toni morrison and emily dickinson and henry david thoreau. I love u rock n roll i love u bluegrass and hippies i love u jimi hendrix and nirvana and CCR and janis joplin. I love u victorian houses and jonny appleseed and john henry and mothman and bigfoot. I love u foggy days in the pacific northwest and neon signs and roadside attractions. I love u baseball and 1950s diners and soft serve. I love u native american art and pop art and poptarts. I love u blue jeans and barbecues and jazz musicians
just so we’re clear if you’ve never actually seen a cybertruck in person and have only seen photos of them i cannot stress enough how much worse they look in real life. like i honestly don’t know how it’s possible. most things look basically the same in pictures and in real life. but as stupid and ugly as cybertrucks look in photos, every person i’ve spoken to who has seen one in real life agrees that they somehow look even worse in person. and i know you’re thinking to yourself “tah they already look so bad in photos, how can they possibly look even worse in person?” I DONT KNOW. the first time i saw one on the road i was on a phone call and i literally cut myself off in the middle of a sentence just to be like “oh my GOD.” just an incredibly, laughably, unbelievably bad vehicle. i’ve never experienced anything like it. they’re just so bad
and every photograph that's taken here is from the summer (the house that i grew up in) | Jake Seresin
SUMMARY In which, Jake Seresin refuses to have his picture taken and no one knows why.
CONTENT SECRET WIFE TROPE (I love this shit and I will not apologize), fem reader (no use of Y/N), use of pet names (lovely), reader calls Jake 'Stanley' and the book Flat Stanley is symbolism now idk, I gave Jake family problems are we surprised but nothing too in detail his family is just toxic, Javy lives with Jake and reader, back flashes are in italics, some angst, mostly fluff, barely edited
WC 4.5k
A/N another reupload from my old account, I'm actually kinda proud of this one so enjoy! (also I am just now realizing the amount of fics I title using song titles/lyrics lol)
There’s a house on a street at the end of a block with a picket white fence and one gray sedan parked in the driveway.
The lawn is kept neat, trimmed and green, with a sprinkler system that goes off once a day. Along the front of the house are bunches of flowers in various sizes and colors. Chrysanthemums and carnations. Irises and tulips. They’re well cared for, bright and vibrant, not a single weed among them.
One would think this prestigious lawn would reflect a love of gardening—perhaps a far too strict HOA. In actuality, it’s to hide the peeling light yellow paint on this house on a street at the end of the block.
If you go inside—and take off your shoes because the floors were just cleaned—you’ll see a living room with a grand fireplace. Not one, but two throw blankets on a large beige couch. The whole room smells like pine and you’ll wonder to yourself where that’s coming from because there doesn’t seem to be so much as a candle anywhere.
(It’s an air freshener plugged into the wall, hidden behind a short shelf on the left side of the room. It’s a pain to replace when it runs out, but it’s never been moved.)
If you keep walking though, past the 18 inch television and dog bed in the corner, and make a right, you’ll end up in the kitchen. There’s high oak cupboards and countertops that complement the coloring. There’s a cupboard for dishes. A cupboard for cups. A drawer for cutlery. There’s a tall wooden cabinet with glass doors that holds all the china tableware that’s only used when guests are over.
But if you look past all of that, the grandeur and slightly intimidating refurbishments of this house, you’ll see a large steel fridge. And stuck to that fridge is a photograph printed on fancy photograph paper that you don’t want to touch because you’ll get your fingerprints all over it. It’s of a younger Jake Seresin, happy and smiling, at his graduation from TOPGUN.
Jacob Seresin. TOPGUN graduate, top of his class.
And you can scale and search every square inch of this house on a street at the end of a block, but you won’t find a newer picture of Jake Seresin. You’ll find baby pictures, family portraits, a whole photo album. Jake Seresin will never get older than he was on that day of graduation, with a toothy grin and excitement in his eyes.
Because, in that photograph, he is a frozen moment of success. There he’s never been touched by failure. There he’s perfect, the kind of son you brag to the neighborhood about. But Jake Seresin is not Jake Seresin on graduation day anymore.
Now he’s the second choice. The “almost good enough but not quite”. The fight instigator. The pilot everyone trusts about as far as they can throw. So his parents love that picture on the fridge more than they love him. They don’t want him anymore. They only want that picture on the fridge.
There’s a fridge in a house on a street at the end of a block with a picket white fence and one gray sedan parked in the driveway. And it’s the reason Jake Seresin refuses to have his picture taken.
“I’ll take it.” Jake holds his hand out for the camera, the energy in the air electric as Rooster ropes Mav in for a photo.
“But,” Natasha furrows her brows. “You won’t be in it?”
Jake smiles good-naturedly, curling his fingers around the camera placed in his palm. “You’re welcome.”
“Come on! I wanna drink!”
Fanboy’s outcry breaks Natasha’s resolve and she just nods slowly, heading over to where the other pilots are gathered together and posing. Though she was waiting for him to, Coyote doesn’t voice any argument about Jake’s position behind the camera—in fact, he doesn’t even seem all that surprised.
“If you wanna go so bad, stop blinking,” Jake argues, pulling the camera away from his face as he finally takes a picture he’s happy with.
The gang disperses, the smiles captured in their picture don’t disappear, large and bright and real. Jake hands Natasha her camera back with a small smile, turning to find Coyote before they also head out.
“Hey.” Her voice stops him and he turns around questioningly.
“Do you, um, do you want a picture with Coyote?” Natasha holds up her camera awkwardly. “I can take one.”
Confusing her further, Jake laughs. Not entirely real, not entirely like he means it. But Jake laughs. He shakes his head, “Nah, save your storage.”
“Okay…” Natasha trails off, looking down at the black metallic camera in her hands. “I’ll see you around, Hangman.”
And, like she conjured him up by name, a confident vibrato overtakes him and he smirks. “If you’re lucky.”
Jake’s aware that most people don’t think the way he does. He’s aware that most people—especially if they were in his profession—would want to have as many pictures of themself as possible. Most of all, he’s aware that most people would assume he’d want as many pictures of himself as possible, permanent reminders of everything he does that makes him better than everybody else.
But Jake doesn’t. He doesn’t even keep a single high school yearbook. Because people only take pictures of the good stuff. Pictures mean they only remember the good stuff. And remembering the good stuff means that they’ll forget that Jake’s all bad stuff. That there’s nothing good about him.
A picture of Jake Seresin is worth more than Jake Seresin could ever be. And because he’s selfish, and attention-seeking, and jealous, Jake doesn’t want there to be any pictures of Jake Seresin. Nothing can replace him if it never existed in the first place. No one can remember him as better than he is, and then decide to love that version of him more.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Jake scoffs, shouldering his best friend as they both shuffle through the front door. “She’s not your honey.”
“Javy!” Bare feet pad against the hardwood floors, soft arms wrapping around the aforementioned man before they’re thrown around Jake’s neck. “Stanley!”
Jake shakes his head with a laugh, continuing his way inside as you cling to him with your legs around his waist. He kicks his shoes off, doing his best to line them up with nudges from his sock-clad toes. Moving forward to give Javy room to do the same, Jake drops his duffel bag by one of the dining room chairs.
“You planning on letting go anytime soon?” He looks down at what he can see of the top of your head with a smile.
“Not particularly,” you respond from the crook of his neck. “Do you want me to?”
“Well, I don’t know. My wife did greet my best friend before me,” Jake sighs dramatically. “Always a bridesmaid…”
You pull away with a laugh to look at him. “Fine, I’ll just go hug Javy then.”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Jake’s hands finally wrap around you, keeping you from jumping down and scampering off to his best friend who would 100% reciprocate without question, if only just to tease him.
He walks you to the living room, plopping down on the couch with a sigh. Jake’s grateful he decided to shower before he came home as there isn’t a single part of him that wants to move from this position. Not when he’s so comfortable and you’re so warm.
“Hey, lovey,” he squeezes you just a little tighter, a content smile on his face.
“Hey, Stanley,” you shift slightly, wriggling on his chest for a moment before finally stilling, and Jake allows his eyes to flutter closed. “Say ‘cheese’.”
Jake peeks his eyes open. Your cheek is almost entirely squished against his own, your mouth a giddy smile as you look at your reflection on your phone. He shifts you both so that you're not at quite such an awkward angle, pressing a kiss to your temple before posing himself.
“Ooh, I’m gonna print this one,” you bring your phone closer to check it and Jake nods against your shoulder. You go back to the camera app, holding your phone out again. “Javy get over here, we’re taking a picture!”
“Coming!”
There have only been three times in his life that Bradley Bradshaw has gotten his ass handed to him. Once, when he was twelve and fumbled his team’s win in flag football. Carter Cleveland came up to him seething, asking him where he learned “to throw like a fucking girl”. And maybe Bradley shouldn’t have responded with “Ask your sister”, but he came home to his mom with scraped up knees and a tampon the school nurse had stuck in his nose to stop the bleeding. Being pummeled by Carter tasted like turf, vulcanized rubber, and—though Bradley wouldn’t be able to actually place it until he was 16—Jennifer Cleveland’s lipgloss.
The second time was after he found out Maverick had pulled his papers. Bradley raided his dad’s old liquor cabinet, got piss drunk, and wallowed in the bullshit that was his life. His friends came to check on him after he stopped responding. Like he always does when he’s mad, Bradley said something he shouldn’t have and was drunk enough to throw a punch, but too drunk to stand a fighting chance. That time tasted like whiskey, regret, and the salt of his own tears.
And the third time is right now.
“What the fuck, Hangman? Another bullseye?”
It tastes like beer, peanuts, and mild embarrassment.
Jake grins, weirdly quiet for a man who’s just landed his 10th bullseye in a row. But Bradley realizes that he’s doing that on purpose. That Jake being a gracious winner after kicking his ass would be more embarrassing than gloating.
“Do you want me to do it with my eyes closed? Standing on one leg? I’m just trying to give you a chance here, Bradshaw.”
Okay, somewhat gracious winner.
“Oh my god, please someone take a picture of his face!” Payback cackles pointing at, what Bradley’s sure is, his disgruntled expression.
Phoenix hops up, an almost normal look on her face, though Bradley can tell she’s trying to figure something out. “Yeah, Hangman. Let’s get a picture of you with your score too.”
“Me?” Jake furrows his brows. “I thought you wanted a picture of Rooster’s ugly, fucking mug.”
Phoenix turns her phone quickly, snapping a picture of Bradley—that has him blinking slightly dazed because her flash is still on—before turning back to Jake. “There. Now, don’t you want a picture of your score?”
“Sure.” Jake steps out of the way, giving Phoenix a clear view of the whiteboard Bob had been keeping track of points on.
The group shares a glance.
“You don’t want to be in the picture, Hangman?”
Though there’s a smile on his face, Jake appears somewhat nervous. He shrugs, opening and closing his mouth a few times, and Bradley doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jake like that before. Speechless. Nervous.
“Hey, why doesn’t Rooster stand by it?” Coyote suggests suddenly. “Ya know, since he’s the one who lost and all?”
Bradley could only sigh tiredly when a somewhat blurry photo of him looking entirely bamboozled and a picture of him standing next to Jake’s embarrassingly high darts score made their way onto Mav’s wall collage.
“Hey, Stanley.”
Jake smiles. “Hey, lovey.”
You look up from your book, sticking the bookmark in and letting it fall to the bed. “How was your night?”
“Good,” Jake moves to the dresser, rifling through clothes until he finds some pajamas he’s happy with. “I kicked Rooster’s ass in darts.”
“Yeah? You real proud of yourself?”
Jake turns around, his arms resting in the gathered fabric of his shirt, to see you wiggling your brows at him. His mouth drops open in mock offense. “What happened to our wedding vows, lovey? What happened to ‘in sickness and in health, when my husband loses darts and when he kicks his co-worker’s ass’?”
You’re giggling and Jake speeds up changing his clothes. “I don’t remember that being how it went.”
“Well, I do,” Jake tosses his dirty clothes into the hamper on the far left side of the room. “That’s exactly how it went.”
Your book is entirely forgotten, not even on the backburner of your mind as Jake climbs into bed. You curl comfortably into his side, yawning as his arm wraps around you to trace shapes on the bare skin of your thigh.
“What did you vow, then? If you remember it so much better than me?”
“Hmm,” Jake pretends to think, kissing the crown of your head. “I vowed ‘in sickness and in health, when my wife is mean to me and when she is nice to me’.”
You let out a noise of protest. “I’m not mean to you!”
“Oh yes you are, lovey. You wound my right here,” he throws his hand that isn’t occupied with playing with the hem of your pajama shorts over his heart.
A yawn interrupts you before you can respond and Jake nudges you lightly. “C’mon, I know you’re tired from waiting up for me.”
You nod, wiping at one of your eyes as you reach for your phone off the nightstand.
“You have to actually smile this time, Stanley,” you say, unlocking it and going to the camera app. “Because you always smile like I’m holding you hostage.”
Jake chuckles, waiting for you to set up an angle you’re happy with. “I’ll smile,” he promises.
“Did you just lick me?!”
Bob’s shoes tap against the linoleum floors and he stuffs his hands into his pockets. He walks wordlessly through the maze-like hallway. Right. Left. Right. Right. Bob knows everything about this repurposed office building where he often meets the others for coffee. He memorized the floor plan once when he was bored.
If he goes right, right, left, he’ll end up at some insurance firm. It’s tiny, closer to the size of a cubicle than an entire office space. The people that work there look exactly how Bob imagined them to—checkered shirts buttoned all the way to the collar, little glasses with frames far too tiny to hold their prescriptions, hair slicked over flat, stringy and greasy. They talk like Bob expected too, nasally and quiet and almost purposefully confusing.
Left, right, left takes him to a small health clinic. It’s bigger than the insurance firm and Bob’s sure it goes farther than what he can see through the waiting room window. Sometimes, if he has time, Bob watches the smiling receptionist, the kids who come out with a lollipop and a sticker, the comforting hand a man puts on his partner's knee to stop it from bouncing. Mostly he just watches how no one’s sitting in that waiting room alone.
Left, left, left takes him to a woman who does massage and waxing. Bob’s met her only a few times, their arrivals to the front door coincide sometimes. Her name is Tammy. She has a dog, three kids, and thinks Bob’s holding too much tension in his shoulders. “You can always stop by, Robert. It might do you some good.” She calls him Robert. Bob likes that.
Tammy’s space is dimly lit, with yellow lamps emanating low light. She has a diffuser too, and a speaker that plays soft classical music. There’s a poster of a cat on the wall, one of its paws hooked over a tree branch. The cat looks at him. “Hang in there!” it says.
But Bob isn’t going to any of those places. He’s going right, left, right, right. Coffee.
He’s late, he knows that, which is unusual for Bob Floyd, but nobody hassles him too much when arrives. They are all far too focused on something else.
“No, because I started thinking about it,” Phoenix starts and Bob notes, as he sips his black coffee, that Jake isn’t at the table. “We don’t have any photos with him.”
Fanboy cocks his head. “You want photos with him?”
“I’m just saying it’s weird. It’s Hangman, don’t you think he’d be, like, obsessed with his own face or something?” Phoenix defends.
Bob’s slightly confused why no one is trying to bring Coyote into the conversation. On top of being his roommate and best friend, he knows Jake better than anyone. In fact, he seems to be very actively disengaging from the conversation, fiddling with something on his phone.
Bob wets his lips. “Have you ever taken Hangman’s picture, Coyote?”
“Please, the only person I’ve met who could ever get him to take a picture is his wife,” Javy freezes, his head snapping up and his eyes widening as he and the rest of the group take in his words. “Shit.”
“Wife?!”
Jake’s returning from the bathroom before Javy can say anything, his own eyes widening as the rest of the Dagger Crew pounce on him. “Wife?!”
Javy’s mouthing the words “I’m sorry” when Jake glances at him and, after a moment, Jake simply sighs.
“Well, you gave it your best shot, buddy,” he claps Javy on the shoulder. “Lasted longer than we thought you would.”
Rooster looks between the two of them. “Wait, so you’re actually married? There’s no fucking way.”
“Believe what you want, Rooster. It’s not like it’s gonna make me unmarried,” Jake shrugs and Bob’s pretty sure he just witnessed all five stages of grief overtake Rooster’s face in a little under two seconds.
“Oh my god, he’s married. He’d be fighting me about this if he wasn’t married. Phoenix—!”
“Would you shut up?” She rolls her eyes at the brunet before pointing an accusatory finger at Jake. “You mean to tell me, you’ve had a girl this whole time and you forced me to hangout with you asshats?”
Payback raises his eyebrows. “What makes you think she’s better than us?”
“If she married Hangman?” Phoenix scoffs. “She’s got to be the closest thing to an angel there is.”
Bob watches Jake carefully. Bob noticed a lot of things about his friends, he found it interesting. And helpful. He always had a better understanding of what they were thinking. Bob had seen Hangman smirk, Bob had seen Hangman grin. Bob had never seen Jake smile.
“She is.” And Jake smiles.
“Knock it off.” Jake doesn’t even have to look up from his crossword to know you’re trying to sneak a photo of him.
You hold your hands up, dropping your phone in your lap. “What? I’m not doing anything!”
That grants you a look, Jake’s eyes looking unamused from behind his reading glasses. “Right. What’s a four letter word for ‘spice cookie ingredient’?”
“...Spice?”
Though he bites his lip to fight it, a smile grows on Jake’s face and he shakes his head with a chuckle. “That’s five letters, lovey.”
“Oh,” you nod entirely unconvincingly. “I knew that.”
Jake laughs, dropping the newspaper and holding his hands out for you. “Just c’mere already.”
You frown slightly, getting up from the couch and making your way over to where Jake is resting in the living room armchair. His arms wrap around you as you sit down, loose at your hips as you get comfortable.
After a moment of silence, Jake’s own expression falters. “What?”
“How come you never let me take your picture, Jake?”
Jake freezes and, though you just sat down, you move right back to the couch again. He lets you.
“You don’t want any picture of me,” Jake shakes his head.
“Yes, I do,” your brows furrow as you try to understand. “Yes, I do.”
Jake’s jaw clenches. “No, you don’t. Believe me.”
“Jake—,”
“Why do you even want pictures of me anyway?” Jake looks up accusingly.
“Well, I don’t know,” you shrug slightly. “I just like having them to look back on.”
You’re not sure if you’ve said something wrong because Jake just nods, taking off his reading glasses and wiping a tired hand over his face. “You don’t want pictures with me.”
“And why is that, Jake? Why should I not want to have pictures of you? You take pictures of me all the time!” You stand up in frustration.
“That’s different,” Jake grunts.
“How is it—?”
“Because taking pictures of you is—It’s nice and I can look at them and think ‘wow, how did I get so lucky’ because that’s just the way you are all the time. You’re the type of picture people hang up on their bulletin boards. Taking pictures of me is just a reminder of how awful I am. That I can only be good enough in snapshot seconds. The only thing you’ll get out of a picture of me is realizing how much of a failure I am and wishing you could go back to the brief second that I wasn’t,” Jake swallows, unable to meet your eye as he continues. “So you don’t want a picture of me, they’re so heavy they’ll… they’ll just take the bulletin board down with them.”
You don’t say anything, in fact you storm out of the room, and Jake presses his palms into his eye sockets. He lets out a shaky breath. And then another. Because this was what he was waiting for, wasn't it? The moment that you finally realized that you were too good for him. The moment that you finally realized he’s the second choice. The “almost good enough but not quite”. The fight instigator. The pilot everyone trusts about as far as they can throw.
The moment you finally realized you don’t want him anymore.
You come marching back out of the hall suddenly, tossing a book at him as you cross your arms. Jake can only look surprised as he catches a copy of Flat Stanley in his hand.
“You said that the only things you offer are pictures so heavy they’ll fall off the wall. And I could tell you how I don’t think that’s true at all. How I could never look at you as anything less than the entirely vibrant and wonderful person that you are. But even if you don’t believe that, even if you think that this is all you can offer me,” you tap your finger on the cover of the Flat Stanley book in his grip. “I want it anyway. I just—God Jake, I just want you. So… so you can crush me and that’s okay because we could just do what Flat Stanley does. And I’m pretty sure they blew him back up with a bike pump so we could just get a bike pump and—,”
Jake’s arms wrap around you suddenly, Flat Stanley dropping to the floor behind you. His face is buried in your neck, his shoulders shaking, and you wrap your arms around him quickly. You don’t say anything—you don’t know if you could if you were forced—gripping on to Jake long enough for both of you to stop crying.
You clear your throat. “You gonna let me take your picture now?”
Jake nods against the nape of your neck.
“Good.” And it is. “I wanna take one every day we can, okay?”
“Okay.” Jake allows himself one last sniffle before he pulls away, keeping you in his embrace so he can look at you.
“Hey, lovey.”
You smile, a hand coming up to cup his cheek. “Hey, Stanley.”
There’s a house on a street at the end of a block with a sturdy wooden fence and two cars parked in the driveway.
No one ever really looked twice at it, maybe only seeing it when Coyote’s car was in the shop or he and Jake drank too much after a night at the Hard Deck. No one ever really notices the painted rocks that littered the small garden or the floral wreath that hangs on the front door.
When they go inside—and take off their shoes because Jake and Javy told them it was fine but they’re taking their shoes off so it would be weird if they didn’t—they see a small dining room. There’s three chairs around a table, with enough room for just a couple more and a large window that has a sweet-looking view of the beach.
On the left wall is a picture of Jake and Javy at the Grand Canyon. They’ve got big hiking backpacks on and caps secured to their head. Jake’s not quite looking at the camera, but he’s smiling anyway. The picture is framed with light wood.
They keep walking though, and make a right, and end up in the kitchen. There’s wood cupboards painted white and countertops that compliment it because everything compliments white. And there’s a cupboard for dishes. A cupboard for cups. A drawer for cutlery. But there’s a tall wooden cabinet with glass doors that holds all the china. Javy laughs that one time, he and Jake were left alone while you were on a business trip and you came back to them eating off of frisbees—which was an idea they may or may not have gotten from Parks and Rec.
But when they look past all of that, the quaint and homey refurbishments of this house, they see a large steel fridge. Or they assume it’s steel. They can’t really see from all the pictures stuck to its doors. There’s selfies of you and Jake and Javy too. Pictures from late night snack runs. Or road trips. Or picnics to the park.
There’s pictures where Jake is pulling faces the others didn’t even know he was capable of making. Like one, Bradley points out, where you’re at Disneyland beaming into the camera, but Jake can’t seem to take his eyes off you, looking completely and utterly lovesick. But as they keep looking through all of that—through Jake and Javy in face masks and a picture of you looking disgruntled after a very long plane ride—they find a photograph printed on fancy photograph paper of a younger Jake Seresin, happy and smiling, at his graduation from TOPGUN.
And they could scale and search every square inch of this house on a street at the end of a block, but they won’t find any other picture of Jake Seresin. They’ll find wedding photos, pictures you, Jake, and Javy got done professionally at Macy’s as a joke but ended up liking too much not to hang up, a whole photo album. Jake Seresin will never appear in any other photo than that day of graduation, with a toothy grin and excitement in his eyes. Because every other photo is of Stanley.
There’s a fridge in a house on a street at the end of a block with a sturdy wooden fence and two cars parked in the driveway. And Jake has never once worried it will ever make you not want him anymore.
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
i was thinking about sub!ry last night and this was born
3k words, smut, subby ry but nothing incredibly tame for what it is, oral m and f receiving
summary: it's just smut
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For all the things Ryland has noticed about you, you’ve noticed just as many about him. He clocked your kinks quickly, studied your responses to his words, his actions, logging information away to reference later. And he was good at referencing, always testing the waters slowly, giving you time to tell him if you don’t like something, but his observations were accurate, so you rarely asked him to stop.
What he didn’t expect was for you to pick up on his kinks. He thought he kept them hidden well enough, thought maybe you would miss the signs if he kept you distracted with his tongue and his cock. But you’re smart, you wouldn’t have made it to Erid without the ability to dissect information when it’s presented to you.
And the signs you’d noticed? Well, maybe they were subtle but they were enough. It was the way he would gasp just a little when you reached for his length, how he would melt into you when you pushed him against a wall for a kiss. It was how he would ask how he was doing when he was balls deep in you, like he needed the praise more than he needed air. Your favorite, though, was how he would beg so softly when you edged him. Quiet whispers of “please, can I come?” falling from his lips between whimpers and moans.
And you would never tell him no, how could you when he asked so nicely?
So you waited, timed it just right so that he would be unaware, hoping that if you caught him off guard he’d be more willing to let things slip. He was out with Rocky for the afternoon, no doubt talking science and sociology and lesson plans for his students. It was just enough time for you to make a plan, deciding that today was the day you’d ask, the worst he could say is no.
When Ryland gets back to the house, carrying a basket of goodies from Adrian, he greets you with a kiss and a squeeze to your hip. “Missed you,” he smiles, shifting so he’s leaning against the counter with you standing between his legs. You wrap your arms around his neck, laughing when he presses a sweet kiss to your jaw, “missed you too.” He pulls back just a little, squinting through his lashes, studying your face.
“You’re up to something,” he murmurs, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “What do you mean?” You’ve always been a bad liar, so you go the route of asking questions, leading him to the truth without having to say it. “I don’t know,” he chuckles, hands landing on your ass, fingers dipping into your pockets like he belongs there. “But something’s weird.”
“I’m not doing anything, Ry!” You bury your face against his neck, smiling when he tightens his grip and hums. He kisses you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, fingers tangling in your hair just enough to give him leverage. It’s easy to get lost in him, especially when he licks into your mouth so gently, like even after all this time he’s still trying to map the contours of your body.
He leans back, biting his lip to try to hide his smirk when you chase him. You pull him back to you, moaning quietly when he relents and lets you have what you want. “Mm, baby,” he groans, “what do you need?” The question makes you pause - you could just tell him, just say it outright, ask for complete control and put the ball in his court. Instead, you step back, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the bedroom.
You push him down to sit on the bed, climbing into his lap slowly, giving him a chance to catch up. “I’ve been thinking,” you start, laying your arms over his shoulders lazily, “about you,” his brows raise a little, “about what you like.” His fingers tighten on your hips, teeth worrying his lips again.
You press a tender kiss to his neck, smiling when his breath hitches. “Just been noticing things, is all,” you whisper, feeling how he swallows. “Oh yeah?” He tries to play it cool but his voice comes out strained. You hum, “you respond very well to praise,” a quick bite to his throat, “you like when I… take charge.” You whisper the last words right into his ear, placing a kiss to the skin right behind it when his hands shift to your thighs.
“Baby,” he whines, gasping when you roll your hips slowly over his, knowing you feel how he’s growing under you. “Would you like that, Ry? Want me to take over, just for tonight?” You pull back just in time to see his eyes flutter closed and his head tip back, adam’s apple bobbing. You kiss the corner of his mouth, letting him sit for a second, giving him a chance to decide what he wants.
Finally, he opens his eyes just enough to see you, his breathing picking up already. “Please,” he whispers, head falling forward in a quick nod. “Baby, please.” And who are you to deny him when he sounds so wrecked already?
You kiss him, one hand burying in his hair to hold him still, the other dropping to tease over his shirt. He follows your lead, groaning when you run your fingers over his nipple, hips shifting when you pinch just a little. You separate from him just long enough to slip his shirt off, your movements slow and teasing, tracing each inch of skin you uncover with the lightest touch. He twitches under you, his abs flexing when you ghost over them with your nails.
You stand and pull him up with you, hooking your fingers in his belt loops to grind into him with a smile. He’s slack jawed already, his eyes hooded and dazed. You cup his face, drawing his attention to you, and pop the button on his pants. He makes a desperate sound, keeping his hands on your waist, trying to behave for you. His pants hit the floor, you bite your lip and sink down in front of him, making sure he’s watching before you nuzzle against the thin fabric covering his hard length.
He drops his head forward, sighing when you mouth over him, feeling the heat from your tongue on his tip. His hands find a home in your hair, tugging gently. You push back immediately, knowing he feels the loss. “Let me take care of you,” you murmur, waiting until he nods to return your attention to where he was so desperate for you.
Slow hands pull his boxer briefs down, his cock springing free and a gasp falling from his lips again. You can’t help how quickly you’re on him, licking a stripe up the underside of his length and moaning at the taste. He’s faring much worse, chest already heaving, pink flush working its way down his torso, quiet whines slipping out at the sensations you’re giving him.
“Sit down for me, sweet boy,” you smile up at him, taking note of how his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath hitches. He drops to the bed, legs spread wide enough to for you to slide right up to him. You take him in your hand, stroking slow enough to drive him crazy. A tap to your shoulder makes you look up, a rough whisper of “here, please,” and he’s handing you a pillow. It just about makes you swoon, how sweet he is even when his only job is to listen.
You accept the pillow and slip it under your knees, smiling your thanks and running a hand up his thigh. “Always so good,” you praise, taking his tip into your mouth before he has a chance to respond. The noise he lets out is strained, a broken moan shaking through him when you circle your tongue around him and suck gently. You work him down slowly, relaxing your throat on each stroke, trying to take as much of him as you can.
He’s a mess above you, hips writhing and head falling forward. Your name flows from his lips like a prayer, his hands twisting in the sheets beside him when you bat him away from your hair. He gives you control, stays as still as he can with his cock all the way down your throat. You feel how he’s holding back a little, doubling your efforts and bobbing how you know he likes. Your hand comes up to cup his balls, it pulls a loud moan from him, spurring you on.
“Sweetheart, I- I’m gonna come,” he whimpers out, a shiver wracking through him when you pull off. “Want you to,” you grin up at him, huffing a laugh around his length when he groans as you take him back into your mouth. He nods quickly, letting his moans flow freely, panting like you’re sucking his soul right out of him. You groan around him, feeling how he tenses, listening to how his pleas change as he climbs to his peak.
He’s borderline begging as he comes, voice high and eyes rolling back. “Please, please, baby please,” he whispers, crying out when you squeeze his balls and swallow, warm spurts shooting down your throat and filling your mouth. He leans over you, his eyes shut tight and his hands flying to your head - not guiding, just seeking contact.
You pull off of him with a smile, “so hot, Ry. You sound so pretty when you come like that.” He turns red, glazed eyes finding yours, his mouth hanging open slightly. You pull him down, kissing him soundly, helping him find his way back to you before you continue. When he reaches for you, helping you stand and running sweet hands over your knees to work out any soreness, you know it’s time for the next part of your plan.
It doesn’t escape notice that you’re still fully clothed, standing over his naked form, sated and spacey on the bed. He stays where he is, looking up at you with an expectant face, like he knows you’re not done. You stroke a hand down his cheek, cupping his jaw and licking your lips. He looks incredible, so open and pliant, ready to do anything you ask.
Shaky hands reach for the bottom of your shirt, a soft please slipping out when he feels your hand tighten on his cheeks. “Use your words, Ry,” you whisper, tacking on a smile so he knows he’s allowed. He swallows hard, fingers playing with the fabric while he finds his voice. “Please, can I see you?” God, he sounds wrecked.
You nod, leaning down to kiss him softly, “of course, baby.” He helps you out of your shirt, hands skimming down your sides when you’re free. You let him undress you, whisper sweet words to him as he sheds each layer and touches your skin like he’s worshipping you. And maybe he is, who are you to complain?
Finally, he gains a little confidence and asks, “can I taste you?” It comes out meek, like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be asking, but you push him back with a hand on his chest, climbing over him when his back hits the bed. He groans when he realizes where you’re heading, helping you shift until you’re hovering just above his mouth. “Want to ride your face, you gonna let me do that?”
He closes his eyes with a whine, nodding his head when he realizes that you’re waiting for an answer. “Look at me,” you whisper, running a hand through his hair until he peeks up at you under heavy lids. “You gonna make me feel good, baby?” You smile when he nods again, your body shaking with the force of his movements.
You sit all the way down, moaning when his tongue meets you halfway and practically guides you home. He’s loud right away, whimpering into your soaked core, lapping up the evidence of your arousal. He knows your spots, knows how to make you keen in a matter of minutes. Your moans are music to his ears, the soft praise you speak over him going straight to his head.
He sucks your clit between his lips, flicking his tongue and humming against you until your head falls back. He doesn’t look away, holding eye contact with you even when you can’t see him. “God, Ryland,” you choke out, “feels so good.” He groans under you, big hands gripping your hips and helping you grind into him.
You feel the ridge of his nose against your clit, feel his tongue spearing into your core, his beard scratching the inside of your thighs. “Just like that,” you sigh, rolling your hips and tugging his hair. You take what you want, knowing that he’d let you have just about anything from him in this moment, grinding and moaning and praising him until you feel the heat pool in your lower stomach.
He moves his lips back to your clit, shaking his head and grunting when he feels you tense above him. Your cries reach a peak, waves of pleasure rolling through you with a long moan. You shake and twitch, praising him when your breath returns with soft strokes through his hair. He finally closes his eyes, breathing deeply while he laps up your slick.
You tip sideways, falling on the bed with a huff. He chases you, slotting himself between your legs, silently asking for a kiss when he gets to your face. He tastes like you, his tongue moving against yours slowly, still following your lead. You smile at him, hands cupping his face. “I still want you to fuck me, if you’re able to,” you kiss him again, laughing when he whines into it and drops his hips against yours. “Mhm,” he nods, letting you feel how his cock is hardening against your core.
“Stretch me out first,” you mumble, thumbs stroking his beard. He drops to your neck with a moan, hand slipping down to play in your slick. He presses two fingers in, sucking hickeys on your neck while you writhe. “T-two or three?” He asks quietly, tilting so he can see your face. You brush through his hair, enjoying the pace he set. “Give me three,” you murmur, head tipping back when he pushes one more finger in.
Ryland stretches you carefully, panting when you scratch down his back and tell him how good it feels. You feel how he grinds his hips into you, feel his length standing at full attention again. Somewhere in the back of your mind you realize that this is the fastest he’s ever gotten it up again, you attribute it to the praise but you’ll confirm that theory later.
You push his chest, asking him to roll over. He does, sitting up against the headboard and watching you with glassy eyes. You throw a leg over him, wasting no time and lining him up. You sink down slowly, hands finding a place on his shoulders, your lips sealing over his with a sigh. He can’t even pretend to kiss you back around the moans he’s letting out as you bounce on him.
You sit up just enough to give him an eyeful of your breasts, watching as he locks on to them and his mouth drops open. You press a hand to the back of his head, pushing him until he licks a nipple into his mouth. It shoots through you, making you clench around him and drawing moans from you both. “Fuck,” you mumble, petting through his hair, “always so perfect for me, such a good boy.”
His head tips back quickly, a whine eeking out when he looks at you. Whatever you thought was the best he’s ever looked is quickly being replaced by how he looks now. His hair is a mess, a flush warming his cheeks and chest, big eyes blown out and heavy. He’s panting, his mouth open and inviting. You lean in just a little, “stick your tongue out, baby.”
He does, eyes rolling back when you spit in his mouth and use a hand to close his jaw. “Swallow,” you tell him, your stomach flipping when he does as he’s told.
Your legs are sore, your rhythm breaking quickly. He can feel how you’re slowing down, his brows furrowing when you tip to the side a little. “Take over, Ry,” you whisper into his ear, smiling when he flips you and matches the pace you lost.
He buries his face in your neck, whining and whimpering when you wrap your legs around him and meet his thrusts. You want to praise him, tell him how good he’s doing, but he’s hitting that spot inside you so perfectly that you can’t get anything out but airy moans.
He ruts into you with abandon, quiet pleas falling on your ears. You take a deep breath, whispering, “come with me, Ryland. Wanna feel you.” He lets out a broken cry, gasping when you circle your clit and clench down on him. Your climax roars through you, legs convulsing as the heat crashes into you in waves. You pull him over the edge with you, feeling how his hips stutter, how he slams home and groans above you.
His weight lands on top of you, a shiver running through him when you run your hands up his back and through his hair. You whisper how well he did, how good he made you feel, how perfect he was for you. It makes him twitch where you’re still connected, a final aftershock shaking through him with a sweet whine into your neck.
You let him shift, feeling him pull out and slide up against your side, his head landing on your chest with a sigh. “Need you to be in charge more often,” he mumbles into your skin. You laugh, feeling how he relaxes into you. “I can make that happen,” you squeeze his bicep.
It’s quiet for a few minutes, your breathing calming down and the numbness in your legs fading. A soft snore falls from Ryland’s mouth, his arms lax around you. Pride wells up in you, he’s always been such a nurturer, being able to give him the same treatment he always gives you makes your heart swell. And he sleeps for hours, trapping you under him for so long that you have no choice but to let your eyes close too.
oooooo what a cool post my mutual just reblogged ! I think I will reblog it as well !!! oooooh who did they reblog it from ? That username seems familiar,,, hohoho it's me ! from an hour ago !
To Those Who Dream of Stranger Worlds @pagesfromthevoid - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
