author’s note: and what if i told you that i immediately started planning this out right after i finished the first part?? thank you so much for all the love on the first part of this fic. i haven't written many fanfics or smut before my phm journey, but i've been having the most fun with this blog. if there are any typos, i'm sorry. i hope you enjoy it :)
warnings: mdni 18+, smut. oral (both f & m receiving) fingering, p in v sex, no condom, (pls use protection!) ryland dirty talks like a mf because i said so and i enjoy it.
the walk to the apartment felt like ages. your body was buzzing with anticipation, and the grip ryland had on your hand as he led you home had you imagining how else he takes charge when you give him something he wants. you barely made it two steps into the elevator before ryland had you pushed up against the wall, slotting his thigh between your legs.
"you're still sure about this? cause once we start, i don't think i can stop." his forehead rests on yours, and you nod your head, rolling your hips against his thigh. your skirt is giving him easy access to your throbbing cunt. you rolled your hips again, but ryland, ever the gentleman, grabbed your hips to stop you in your tracks.
"verbal yes, baby. i need to hear you say it," you truly have never had a man look at you the way ryland does. you don't know how he manages to look at you with the full of love and lust at the same time. "yes, ryland. please," you try to wiggle, and he pushes his thigh higher up, moving your hips for you against him. "that's it baby. get yourself off on thigh," you whine at his words. god, he sounded so dirty talking to you like this. you were growing wetter by the second, ruining his pants with the growing wet spot.
"mmhm, we're gonna get- fuck- caught, ry," you said, but he dipped his head down to kiss along your neck, sucking and nipping softly onto a spot before soothing it with his tongue. and with that, the elevator dings, doors beginning to open to your floor, and ryland begrudgingly pulls his thigh away from you.
"m'gonna do this right. gonna take my time with you," he's kissing your neck, arms wrapped around you, while you guide both of you down the hall to your day. you're fumbling to pull your keys out of your jacket pocket, his hands running up your bare legs, massaging your thighs.
you finally find the right key, almost place it in the keyhole, just as ryland dips his hand between your thighs, fingers barely grazing the edge of your panties. "already too needy to function, huh?" his mouth is at your ear, and the degrading tone makes your head dizzy. the door swings open, and you both stumble in. you push ryland up against the door, your lips brush against his. "you're such a fucking tease," you try to sound tough, but you're so desperate for him. you're finally gotten a taste of him, and now you're hooked.
you bring your lips to his and its messy and hot. his licking into your mouth, his hands kneading your ass, as your hands slide down the front of his body to palm him over his pants. he moans into your mouth, and you take it as a green light to begin unbuttoning his pants, slipping your hand into them. you need to feel him, taste him. you pull away from the kiss, breathless, and ryland watches as you sink down to your knees.
"sweetheart, you don't have to-" you interrupt him, pulling his underwear down to free his cock. to say ryland has the most beautiful dick you've ever seen in your life is an understatement. he's big, thick, with a long, prominent vein running along the underside of him. his tip is red, leaking with precum, and your mouth waters.
"you have such a beautiful cock ryland," you kiss the tip of him, licking the small amount of his cream that is left on your lips. ryland feels like he could die from the sight of you, but then the next thing you do sends him over the edge. he watches your hand trail between your legs, disappearing beneath your skirt, into your panties. you let out a little moan, and he sees your hand moving in circles underneath your skirt. you pout, instinctively, as you take your hand back out, then wrap it around his cock and begin pumping him.
ryland whimpers, hips bucking into your hand, and he shuts his eyes. he needs a second to recover from the sight of you using your own slick lube up his cock. you take his tip into your mouth, tongue swirling around him. his hand finds your hair instantly, and he gently nudges your head forward. almost as if he's too scared to ask for more. "i need you to fuck my throat, ry," you look so sinful on your knees for him, looking at him with your big, innocent eyes through fluttering lashes. he nods, never realizing he wanted something so much as the idea of him using your throat.
you stare into his baby blue eyes, as open your mouth, slapping his cock against your tongue. he gently, cups your face in his hands. it feel so soft and intimate, the way his hands caress your face. but you take a deep breath through your nose, relax your jaw, and ryland slowly slips himself inside your mouth. the noises that leave him are angelic, and you can feel yourself growing wetter with every one. he feels you gag around him slightly, and a tear falls from you eye.
he gives you a second to collect yourself before he starts moving again, slowly moving his hips. your nose touches his neatly trimmed pubes, cock completely disappearing in his mouth and his cock twitches. you moan around him and it only edges him on more.
"doing so good for me, honey. such a good fucking girl for me," his eyes are shut as he chokes the words out. he knows he won't last much longer, and he's trying to prolong this experience for as long as he can. he can't fathom how he's gone this long without your lips around him, and he knows he never wants anyone else to be on their knees in front of him for the rest of his life.
he's a moaning, whimpering mess, and the fact that you're the reason he's this fucked out has absolutely ruined your panties. with one last thrust, he's spurting ropes of cum down your throat, and you swallow every last bit of it. he pulls himself out, a string of spit connecting your mouth to his cock, a reminder of the best head he's ever had in his life.
he laughs, pulling you up to your feet, and wiping away the tears that have fallen down your cheeks. he brings you into a kiss, and he can still taste himself on you. you lean in, deepening it even more. ryland steps out of his pants, leaving his jeans and briefs discarded at the door, and lifts you up. you wrap your legs around him, trying to find some friciton how he had you in the elevator. you figured he was guiding you into one of your rooms, but the walk is much shorter than expected, and you're taken by surprise when he plops you onto the couch.
'gotta return the favor," the smirk painted on his lips makes you clench around nothing, and he's the one sinking to his knees, as he settles between your legs. he spreads you apart, hiking up one of your legs up on the couch, the other thrown over his shoulder. he pulls you closer to him, and you let out a little yelp, as he manhandles you into a position for him to devour you.
he places a kiss on the inside of your thighs, and you let out the quietest little moans at each one. it isn't until he places a kiss on the wet spot of your underwear that he says something. "i've heard you before, sweetheart. i'm gonna need you to be so much louder than that." your mouth falls agape at his words. you look down at him, brows furrowed. "what do you me- fuck- ry," he drags his tongue over your covered cunt, your hips lifting slightly off the couch, hands finding his hair.
"the walls are pretty thin in this apartment, you know." his fingers slip into the waistband of your skirt, and panties, slipping them off in one go. you realize what he means. he’s heard you get yourself off at night, even though you’ve tried hard to keep quiet. you’re too needy to even be embarrassed right now, especially with him so close to you. his eyes meet the sight of your glistening pussy, and ryland moans. he brings two fingers to run through your folds, and he knows he's ruined already.
"this all for me, sweetheart?" his fingers now circling your clit, and you wine. his touch is too light, too slow, and the overwhelming feeling of need is consuming you. your try to wiggle your hips closer to him, but his other hand holds your steady on the couch. "mhm, not yet. not until you tell me what you think about when you play with this gorgeous pussy of yours."
this is how you die, you think, at the merciless hands of dr.ryland grace and his incessant teasing. you try to formulate words, but everything just turns into a needy whine. your body burns with the need to feel his lips on you. it's like he can read your mind, and in the most sinister way, begins placing gentle kisses on your clit. "c'mon, where's that fiesty girl now, hmm?"
"you ryland, i think of you!" it comes out as a cry, and he rewards you with licking a stripe up your pussy. the pressure of his tongue on you feels unreal. he buries his face deeper into your pussy, doing figure eights on your clit with his tongue. "see, that wasn't so hard was it?" and the sight of him is heavenly. his facial hair and lips, glistening from your juices, glasses fogged up and crooked on his face, his hair a mess from you pulling on it.
he slides one finger into you, and arch off the couch. your hips searching for his body, and ryland loved the feeling of goth walls constricting around his finger. he pumps in and out of you slowly, memorizing every single movement you make, and every hitch of your breath. he places a kiss on right at the top of your mound, before slipping another finger into you.
“is this what you thought about, baby, you falling apart on my fingers and my mouth?” he brings his lips around your clit again. the stimulation of everything is too much and you can feel your orgasm building. you nod your head, trying to push his head further it between your thighs. he’s captivated by slick, how it drips down his fingers, the sound of his fingers pumping in and out of you.
“anybody else ever get you this wet baby? hmm? could that stupid ex boyfriend of yours make you feel this good?” he curls his fingers inside of you, hitting the spot inside you that makes you see stars and your walls flutter again. you feel the coil tightening in your lower stomach, ready to snap at any moment. "i bet he couldn't even get you to cum with just his fingers before, huh. didn't treat my baby how she deserved."
“just you- your- mmpmh- so good,” you begin playing your nipples, pinching and twisting them to help bring you closer to your orgasm, and ryland whines into you as you he watches you fondle yourself. he speeds up his fingers, and before you know it, your thighs close around his head, your orgasm ripping through you. ryland has to hold you down with his other hand, as he laps up every ounce of cum you give him.
you hands reach for him and the stupid smug smirk on his face makes your heart flutter. you pull him down into a kiss. teeth clashing, a kiss full of need and desperation like you’ve never felt before. ryland picked you up from the couch, your legs wrapping around him as he carried you into his room.
he sits you down on his bed, pulling your shirt off before laying you down on his pillows. he’s dreamed about having you like this, naked, ready for him in his bed. you tug at the hem of his shirt, signaling him to take it off. he obliges, and you mouth falls open at hoe hit ryland is.
“may i?” his voice is soft, as he looks down at your chest and you nod. he pushes you back against his pillows, his big hands immediately begin fondling your breasts. he lowered himself, putting one of your nipples in your mouth, while the other one being teased by his hand. he took turns between your breasts giving them equal attention, and leaving a trail of hickeys all around your breasts.
he kisses up your chest, to your lips again, and you feel him smile. “ryland, baby,” you coo, tucking your finger under his chin to get him to look at you. he hmms looking into your eyes softly, “i’m gunna need you to hurry up and fuck me now,” you say, and he laughs.
“you’re so bossy,” he smiles, following you to hover over you. he leans over, opening the drawer of his nightstand digging around for what feels like an eternity. “no, no, no,” ryland cries, flipping onto his back next to you defeated.
“hey, what’s wrong?” you ask, peppering kisses on his face. “i don’t have any condoms. i’m sorry, i didn’t realize it’s been that long.” he covers his face with his hands. smiling you get up, throwing your leg over him to straddle him. "orrr you can just fuck me like this?” you pull his hands away from his face, pinning them down at the side of his head. a whimper leaving him, “are you trying to kill me?”
“no, of course not.” you say sweetly, kissing the tip of his nose. of course he want to feel you with no barriers, but he doesn’t want to pressure you into anything. you can see he’s searching your eyes to make sure you aren’t playing with him. “i’m clean, i’m on the pill…” you trail off, your lips finding his ear.
“okay but at least let me…” he trails off trying to sit up, but you gently push him back down. “mm mm, mr. grace,” you grind down on him, and you see him give up any fight. “you’re letting me ride you tonight,” you bring him into a kiss and his hands find your hips. you line yourself up with him, slowly sinking down into his cock. the stretch is unbelievably delicious, and you can feel every inch of him. “fuck ry, so big,” you cry out.
ryland eyes are shut behind his glasses, trying to summon all his strength to not cum right then and there. you’re feel so tight around him, and it’s better than anything he pictured, “such a perfect pussy, taking all of me so well.”
you squeeze around him at his words, and start picking up the pace of your hips. the room fill with the sounds of skin slapping, and the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you. and ryland is mesmerized at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you, one of hands coming over to rub your clit.
“you look so pretty falling apart on my cock, darling,” the moans and cries coming out of are like music to ryland’s ears. how good you feel around him and how perfect you two fit together is an all consuming feeling. l
“oh fuck,” you whine, and he can feel your rhythm getting sloppier. you’re thighs must be tiring as you chase your high. “want me to take over, honey?” he leans up, placing a few kisses along your chest again and you nod. he plants his feet on the mattress and begins fucking up into you. you’re a babbling mess on top of him, and he feels his cock twitch inside of you. he’s not gunna last much longer. and he’s repeatedly hit that spongy spot inside of you so he knows you’re orgasm is close behind.
“fill me up ryland please. cum inside me,” your eyes are filling with tears, begging him. and the sight of tears falling down your face has ryland cumming inside of you almost immediately. he grips your ass, as you cum around his cock, walls fluttering around him. your ride out your high, and collapse on top of ryland.
he kisses the top of your head, running up and down your back. “you okay?” he asks, in that sweet caring voice of his. “more than okay,” you wince as he slips out of you. you feel his warmth leave your side and you pout, but you sure did enjoy watching him walk into the bathroom.
he comes back out, holding a damp washcloth and begins cleaning you up. he’s gentle, and every time you wince cause you’re sensitive, he kisses your inner thigh. he crawls back into bed, pulling you close to him. you lay there chest to chest, smiling like two love sick idiots.
“does this mean i’m officially dr. ryland grace’s girl?” his whole body flushes, tucking a stand of hair behind your ear, and cupping the side of your face. “only if you want to be. but i would really like it if you were.” how could he look so shy like he wasn’t just balls deep inside of you minutes ago?
“i would love to,” you say, kissing him one last time before nuzzling next to him and drifting off to sleep.
(Part 2 of) Chubby/plus size Reader and Ryland Grace 🦋
part 1 is here.
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Summary: you were feeling insecure about your body and Ryland knows just the thing to distract you from spiraling.
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Tags: smut!! Oral sex (f receiving,) afab reader, ryland is obsessed with your belly, dry humping (but it's only ryland doing it,) ryland cums untouched, no use of y/n, fem reader, some fluff at the end?
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Notes from Jayden (me): This is my first time writing smut! (And my second fic ever) I have no clue what im doing lowkey.. so feel free to give advice!! I have been heavily inspired by others such as @ken-dom as well as many other authors. My requests are always open and you can ask me literally anything. ALSO I APOLOGISE IF THIS IS FAST PACED I GENUINELY CAN'T TELL
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You both moved into the bedroom. Ryland's hand fumbling at the clasp of your bra; he is incredibly flustered and especially hard.
Your lips are pressing against his, soft mewls falling onto soft lips from both ends. His hands slip your bra from your chest, the swell of your breasts falling free after you've sat down on the edge of the bed.
Ryland has to physically stop himself and admire you. As if he isn't always doing that.
"You're breathtaking.." He marvels.
"You say that everytime, Ry." You faintly laugh at his reaction.
"Because it's true! You're gorgeous."
And before you know it he's on his knees. Your gaze easily follows the bulge in his jeans. He's so big. Ryland leans forward to kiss a wet trail along the valley between your breasts.
Palms already gently grabbing at the soft mounds; you could never get tired of Ryland worshipping your boobs. He's (rightfully) obsessed.
"Ryland.." you whined. Impatient.
"What'd I say about rushing, hmh?" He cooed.
He allows you to lean back against the plush sheets, but not after making sure he has permission to take off your nightwear, revealing the glistening slit of your pussy, his mouth immediately watering.
"Honey, y-you're soaked.." He nearly chokes on a gasp.
"You kiss my belly a lot..." You pout.
"I didn't know you liked it this much..." He blinked bashfully, jaw hanging a little.
"You didn't?" You chuckled at his lack of awareness.
Ryland shook his head. He didn't know that him showing appreciation to your softness would cause you to get this turned on...
But Dr. Ryland Grace was not a man to complain. Mostly.
His hands held onto the roll of your belly, thumbs tracing the stretch marks dotted around. Just thinking of you like this made him twitch in his pants; you both knew he wouldn't last long, even though you hadn't even touched him. Yet.
Ryland dipped his head down, mouthing at your abdomen before trailing down, the stubble that adorned his jaw is ticklish against the delicate skin of your thighs, criss crossing with your pubes.
"Ryland.." Your breath hitched. "Mhm?" He kissed your thigh. "Stop teasing." "M'not teasing. I'm just.. appreciating."
But you could see the faint smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips all the while he peppered small kisses to your thick thighs.
You physically cannot wait any longer.
Taking matters into your own hands, you threaded your fingers through his hair and pushed his head down between your legs, his tongue eagerly lapping at your clit despite the sudden movement, whines already spilling from your throat.
Ryland was very vocal; moaning as he licked the bundle of nerves, the taste of you on his tongue making his tip leak pre beneath his jeans. As well as his hips rolling against the bed.
"Mm, tastes so good.. so sweet." He groaned while you moaned.
Within seconds his mouth had your head back against the sheets. This wasn't just him eating you out–this was him relishing in your taste, in the way your thighs clenched near the sides of his head.
"Ohh- fuck, Ry, that's so good.."
Drunk on the pleasure your eyes rolled back when his tongue dragged through your folds, only slipping inside you just enough for your hips to roll, making him whimper against you.
A pair of hands gripped at your love handles, his enthusiasm always showed under the crescent marks that'd be indented afterwards.
Everytime you made a noise his hips fucked against the bed underneath, yet he always kept that to himself, always focusing on the way you melted on his tongue.
Ryland's movements grew more desperate as he pulled you closer, moaning when you pressed his head further between your legs.
He slipped one hand down, thumb tracing the wet slit before he slowly sunk his middle finger in, up to his knuckle, feeling you clench against him.
"Oh baby, that's it.." A wet kiss to your thigh.
"R-Ryland.."
Only at this moment you noticed he was still wearing his glasses (which now had some of your arousal shining on the lenses,) the thin frames askew across his nose. That sight was enough to tie that knot within you.
Your hips grinded faster against his face, desperate for release. You whined as his free hand reached up to fondle your breast, thumb teasing your nipple.
Ryland's head dipped down again and while he curled his finger just right he started lapping at your needy cunt again, eliciting a high-pitched moan from you.
The double-stimulation was enough to pull that rope inside you tighter, thighs trembling against the sides of his head, your hands now pulling at the sheets.
"Ry, I'm gonna-" You panted, not being able to get the words out as your back arched from the precise way he pressed his finger against that spot. Over and over again.
"I know, sweetheart, let me hear it.." He purred, still sucking at your clit.
He sounded too sexy for someone who was humping the bed; Ryland's hips rutting against the sheets, jeans pressing against his cock in just the right way that made him mewl against you more than usual.
"You're so pretty, baby, I love you.." You could've sworn he almost sobbed as he babbled that sentence.
As he lightly pinched your nipple, you whined. Your back arched and your walls trapped his finger as you came with a gorgeous cry.
And because you both have so much in common–Ryland Grace has to be your soulmate–you both split that knot at the same time, his briefs definitely filled as he spilled. (Dry humping is underrated.)
Ryland slowly pulls out his middle finger, only licking you a few more times just to extend that temporary bliss that lingered after an orgasm.
Now, you're both sweaty, panting messes.
"You okay? I did good?" He shuffles onto his knees, glancing you over as he caresses your tender thighs, unfolding them and placing them back onto the bed.
"You know you did good, Ryland.. I think a different part of you also knows that." You smirked, eyes trailing down his front and to his nether region, you could even see the faint wet spot on his jeans.
"That- that was- shut up." He coughed away the embarrassment, the tips of his ears red. Nonetheless he made sure to clean you up and then himself afterwards.
And to end the night he redressed in one of his silly science shirts and a clean pair of briefs, peppering his lips against your belly yet again because he just can't get enough of it. You are his pillow afterall.
"Do you actually like my body that much?" You mumbled quietly. You then feel like you stabbed him because he genuinely took personal offence.
"W-What? How can you ask me that? Of course I do! You're body is perfect. And warm. Very warm." He smiled lazily as you laughed.
You definitely weren't feeling insecure anymore.
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Extra notes: okay so.. I feel a little self concious about this part because of all the smut I've read in my life... I feel like this doesn't compare 😖 but I'm brave enough to post it!! (Im also worried Ryland doesn't sound or act like Ryland..)
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Special mentions: @stxrrrdusttt @cosmicyeehaw @fungateshortcakes
can i pretty please ask for some comfort and something soft with ryland? i doesn't have to be long, it can even be just your thought (i love your writing style).
(i'm at the hospital and... well, it's quite lonely, just laying here in bed at ward.)
Hey - I’m sorry to hear you’re in hospital- they have a particularly isolating effect - so I’ve pulled something short and fluffy together in the hope it maybe takes your mind off things a bit. Short because it felt like your ask was time dependant a little bit. I hope things get better for you soon!
untitled soft thing (working title, will absolutely rename at 1am)
Nothing happened, exactly. Nothing you could point to. Just a day that wore you down at every edge until you ended up here, flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling like it might apologize. Ryland has decided this is a crisis requiring intervention.
"Okay," he says, arriving with the energy of a man delivering a keynote. "I've done some research.
"You Googled 'how to comfort someone' at eleven at night."
"I did some targeted research, yes." He sets a mug down on the nightstand like it's evidence. "This is tea. I don't know what kind. The box had a moon on it, so."
"Scientific."
"Extremely." He climbs onto the bed like the mattress owes him money, all elbows and bad spatial judgment, and somehow ends up with his glasses knocked sideways and one sock half off before he's even horizontal. He doesn't fix either. He never does. "Move your legs."
"They're already moved."
"Move them more."
You move them more. He settles in against the headboard and pulls you sideways until your head lands on his chest, and for a second neither of you says anything, which for Ryland is basically a geological event.
"I read," he says eventually, into your hair, "that physical contact lowers cortisol."
"You read that today."
"I read that forever ago, I just remembered it today." His hand finds your shoulder and just. Stays there. Warm and a little too firm, like he's not sure how much pressure a person is supposed to take before they dent. "Also I read that heart rates sync up. Like, physically. If you're close enough."
"Is that true?"
"I have no idea. I want it to be true so badly that I've decided it's true. That's called optimism."
"That's called making things up."
"Same thing, different marketing." You feel him smile against your head. He's quiet for a second, and then, softer, the joke mostly gone out of his voice: "You okay?"
"I'm okay. Just a long day stacked on a long week."
"Right." A pause. You can practically hear him deciding whether to make this a bit or not. He decides not to, which is rarer than he'd ever admit. "You don't have to be anything right now. Just, you know. Horizontal. Adjacent to tea."
"Adjacent to tea."
"It's a whole state of being. I invented it. There's no follow-up questions, that's the best part of the state."
You laugh, and he feels it happen against his ribs, and something in his shoulders lets go that you didn't clock was tense until it wasn't anymore.
"Did you know," he says, apropos of absolutely nothing, "that octopuses have three hearts."
"I did know that, actually."
"Okay, well." A beat. "Did you know two of them stop working when it swims. So it's basically exhausted just, existing. Constantly." He nods like this settles something. "I think about that a lot."
"Is that supposed to be comforting?"
"It's supposed to be a distraction, is what it's supposed to be, and it's working, you're not thinking about your bad day anymore, you're thinking about a tired little swimming guy.
He shifts, gets an arm properly around you instead of just sort of near you, and rests his chin on top of your head like that's a normal place for a chin to live.
"For what it's worth," he says, quieter now, "you don't have to perform being fine. Not for me. I'm not grading this."
"No rubric?"
"No rubric. Extremely ungraded. Pass/fail, and you already passed by existing, so." His thumb moves in a slow, absent line against your arm, the kind of motion that isn't going anywhere, isn't building to anything, is just there because his hands like to have a job. "I just want you to be a person near me for a while. That's the whole assignment."
You close your eyes. The tea goes cold on the nightstand and neither of you cares. Somewhere under your ear his heart is doing its ordinary, unremarkable thing, and you decide, generously, unscientifically, that it does feel a little bit like it's syncing up with yours.
"Ryland."
"Mm."
"Thank you."
"For the tea?"
"For all of it."
"Yeah," he says, like it's obvious, like it was never going to be anything else. "Yeah, of course."
My prompt idea, feel free to only use it if you like it… Neighbour Ryland who has thin walls… until one day one of you breaks and knocks on the others door late at night…😜
anon, i like this a lot, good girl (gn) - enjoy
Noise Complaint
Ryland Grace/Reader | Explicit, MDNI | ~11k words
Tags: neighbours to lovers, thin walls, slow burn, overheard masturbation, voice kink, face sitting, humour, praise adjacent
The walls in your building are thin enough to double as radio. You're cold to him in the lift and warm to him in the dark, and you've been getting away with it for weeks. Then he says your name through the wall like he means it, and you stop getting away with anything.
[ Cross posted on Ao3 ] [fic master list]
The walls in this building are not walls. They are suggestions. Polite architectural opinions about where your apartment ends and someone else's begins, offered with all the structural integrity of a paper napkin.
You learn this on your first night.
Not from traffic noise, not from plumbing. From the man next door, who is, at 11:47pm on a Tuesday, having a one-sided argument with what appears to be a stack of homework.
"No. No. Absolutely not. You cannot. You cannot just draw a picture of the sun and write 'it is hot' and act like that's a complete answer. I said explain why we have seasons, Marcus. Seasons. You've experienced them. You own a coat."
A pause. The sound of a pen tapping.
"You know what, fine. Fine. I'll give you credit for the drawing because the sun does look like that. That's a good sun. But Marcus, buddy, 'it is hot' is not science. 'It is hot' is a complaint."
More pen tapping.
"Oh, and now on the back you've drawn a snowman and written 'it is cold.' Marcus. That is the opposite of the same wrong answer."
You lie there in the dark, staring at your ceiling, and think: I'm going to have to move.
—
You don't move.
You do, however, meet him. Not on purpose. In the lift, on a Wednesday morning, because apparently his schedule overlaps with yours in the one way you'd rather it didn't.
He's taller than he sounds through the wall. That's the first stupid thing you notice. The second is the shirt, which is faded grey and reads I MAKE BAD CHEMISTRY JOKES BECAUSE ALL THE GOOD ONES ARGON.
"Hey! You're in 4B, right?" He sticks his hand out. Smiles like this is something he's been looking forward to. "Ryland. Grace. Ryland Grace. That's. One name, not two options."
You give him yours, because you were raised with manners, and then you give him about four seconds of eye contact before looking at the lift buttons.
"So listen, if you ever need anything. Sugar, eggs, someone to explain the hot water schedule because it's honestly deranged, I made a spreadsheet."
"Thanks," you say. The doors open. You leave.
You're not unfriendly. You're just not looking for a friend in this building. Especially not one who grades homework out loud at midnight.
The rants don't stop. They become furniture.
Tuesdays are grading nights. You learn this the way you learn anything about him, which is involuntarily. Tuesdays he argues with Marcus (who never spells anything right), with a girl named Priya (who is "genuinely too smart for this class, which is a me problem"), and occasionally with the textbook itself, which he seems to consider a personal enemy.
Thursdays are cooking. Or what he calls cooking. You hear a pan clang, then a long silence, then: "Okay. Okay okay okay. That's not. That's fine. Smoke doesn't always mean fire. Smoke sometimes means. A learning opportunity."
On a Friday night in your second week, you hear him explain the Drake Equation to absolutely nobody.
Not on a phone call. Not to a guest. To his empty apartment, at conversational volume, with the cadence of someone who is simply thinking out loud and does not know or does not care that the walls are made of wet tissue paper.
"So the thing about the Drake Equation is that it's not really an equation. It's supposed to tell you how many alien civilizations are out there in the galaxy. Like, actually out there, right now, sending signals. And the way it works is you take all these factors. How many stars are born every year, how many of those have planets, how many of those planets can support life, how many actually develop life, and then you multiply them all together and you get a number. Except every single term is a guess! Every single one! It's guesses multiplied by guesses and we treat the output like it means something, which, honestly? Respect. It's basically a prayer with variables. You're saying, 'God, I know you're probably not listening, but here's my estimate for how many of you there aren't.'"
You are lying in bed. It is 10:30pm. You are smiling, and you are annoyed about it.
—
The lift again, two days later.
You're carrying groceries. He's carrying what appears to be a crate of second-hand lab equipment, because of course he is.
"Hey, 4B!" He shifts the crate to one hip. Something glass clinks inside. "Quick question. Totally unrelated to anything. Do you happen to know if there's a rule about. Small controlled experiments. In residential units."
"What kind of experiments."
"Small ones. Very small. Mostly safe."
"Mostly."
"Like ninety percent safe. Ninety-two. I could get it to ninety-five if I had a fume hood, which I don't, hence the question."
"Please don't blow up the building."
He grins. It's the wrong response and he knows it, and the grin says he knows it, and the grin also says he is definitely going to do whatever he was already going to do before he asked. "Noted. Noted! That's. That's not a no, technically, but I hear you."
The lift doors close. You stand in your kitchen putting away groceries and realize you didn't tell him off. You meant to. He just talked past the place where you would have.
—
You hear him sneeze eleven times in a row on a Saturday morning. You count. Not on purpose. But the walls don't give you a choice, and after the sixth one you're committed.
Eleven sneezes. Then silence. Then, very quietly: "Ow."
A pause.
"Okay. No more. We're done. That's. The body is not designed for that. That was structural damage. I think I detached something."
You press your face into your pillow so he doesn't hear you laugh, and something in that gesture. The hiding. The fact that you don't want him to know you're listening.
That's the first time you think: oh no.
Not because of anything he's done. Just because you've started listening on purpose, and you're not sure when that happened.
—
He leaves something at your door on a Sunday afternoon.
A printout. A neatly formatted spreadsheet, actually, with the building's hot water schedule annotated in handwriting that is surprisingly legible for someone this chaotic. There's a post-it note stuck to the top: Made you a copy! The 7-7:30am window is the sweet spot. Also Tuesdays the pressure drops around 6pm, I think there's a valve thing, I'm investigating. — R
He signed it with his initial. Like you might not know which neighbour was conducting an investigation into the building's plumbing.
You run into him at the mailboxes the next morning and he looks up, hopeful. "Did you get the. The hot water thing? I slid it under your door, I wasn't sure if you."
"I got it. Thanks."
The thanks is a full stop. You hear yourself do it. The bright, closed, conversation-over thanks that leaves no room for a follow-up. You grab your mail and turn toward the stairs.
Behind you, a small pause. "Oh. Okay. Cool. Well, if you ever want to know about the valve thing, it's actually pretty interesting, there's this."
"I'm good. Thanks."
You don't look back. You take the stairs instead of the lift because the lift is a box and you can't be in a box with him right now, and you can feel him standing at the mailboxes behind you, still holding his own mail, still mid-sentence about a valve.
The spreadsheet is on your kitchen counter. It is helpful. It is accurate. The 7am window is, in fact, the sweet spot.
You use it every day and you never mention it.
—
The next time you see him in the hallway, there's a scorch mark on his door frame.
"It's cosmetic," he says, before you've said anything.
"I wasn't going to ask."
"You were looking at it."
"Because it's a scorch mark. On your door."
"Cosmetic scorch mark. Important distinction. The experiment went great, actually. The experiment itself was flawless. The experiment's proximity to a kitchen towel was the issue."
You should be angry. You should say something about lease agreements and fire safety and the fact that you live right there, eight inches of drywall away from whatever he just did to a kitchen towel.
Instead you say, "You're a disaster," and it comes out wrong. It comes out warm. Like you've said it before. Like you say it to people you like.
His face does something complicated. Surprise, maybe. Like he expected the version of you from the lift and got someone else for a second.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, that's. That's been noted. Extensively."
You go inside and close the door and stand there for a second with your keys still in your hand.
The thing about the wall is that it lets you know him without any of the risk of knowing him. You get the unperformed version. The late-night, talking-to-himself, arguing-with-homework, burning-things, sneezing-eleven-times version. And that version is.
A problem.
Because in person, you can handle him. In person, he's your annoying neighbour who does small controlled experiments and doesn't respect noise ordinances, and you can be cold to that guy. You have been. That version of you works fine.
It's the other version that's the problem. The one lying in the dark, pressing your face into a pillow so he won't hear you laugh. That version likes him. That version has been listening on purpose for days and hasn't told the daytime you, and if those two versions of you ever have to exist in the same room as him at the same time, you are in serious trouble.
—
The first time, you don't know what you're hearing.
It's late. Past midnight. You're half asleep, that loose dissolving place where sounds don't fully register as real, and through the wall there's. Something. A rhythm that doesn't belong to anything you can file. Not talking, not the TV, not him pacing the way he does sometimes when he's working through a problem.
Breathing. Uneven. A little ragged.
Then a sound. Low, caught, bitten off. Like he started to say something and stopped himself. And then a rhythm beneath it, steady, unmistakable. The soft, slick sound of a hand moving.
Your eyes open.
You lie very still. The way you'd lie still if a noise woke you up and you weren't sure if it was inside your apartment or out, except you know exactly where it's coming from. You know which room. You know which wall. You know that the headboard of his bed is probably eighteen inches from yours because you've thought about the floor plan and you wish you hadn't.
He's quiet. Controlled. Nothing like the daytime version, the one who narrates at full volume, who can't keep a thought inside his head for longer than it takes to form. This version is trying not to be heard, and that effort. The restraint of it. The idea of him biting down on every sound while his hand works himself over, steady and deliberate, because he knows the walls are thin, because he's always known the walls are thin.
Your heart is pounding and you are not moving.
It doesn't last long. A shift. The rhythm speeds up, just slightly, and then a breath that's sharper than the ones before it. A groan he almost catches in time. Then quiet. Real quiet. The kind that settles.
You stare at the ceiling. Your body is warm in a way that has nothing to do with the blankets and everything to do with the fact that you just lay there and listened and you didn't stop listening and you could have put headphones in, you could have gone to the kitchen, you could have done anything, and you didn't.
You don't sleep well.
—
In the morning he's in the hallway. Jacket, backpack, bike helmet dangling from one hand, travel mug in the other. Normal. Completely normal. He gives you the same slightly-too-friendly smile he always gives you, the one you usually return with as little warmth as possible.
"Morning, 4B."
"Morning."
He holds the stairwell door for you. You walk through it without looking at him because if you look at him you will think about the sound he made, the caught one, the one he bit off, and you are not going to do that in the stairwell at 7:45am.
You do it on the bus instead.
—
Three days later, his bike is blocking your door.
Not entirely. Not maliciously. It's leaning against the wall between your doors at an angle that means you have to step around it, and it's not the first time, and you've been pretending it doesn't bother you because picking a fight with him about a bike felt petty before and now it feels impossible, because how are you supposed to stand in front of him and be annoyed about a bicycle wheel when you know what he sounds like when he comes.
But the bike is there. And you've had a long day. And you step around it and your bag catches the handlebar and the whole thing clatters sideways into your door with a sound that probably reaches the third floor.
His door opens. Of course it does.
"Oh. Hey. Sorry, was that. Did that fall? I was going to bring it inside, I just. I got distracted by this thing about axial tilt, which. Not relevant. Sorry. I'll move it."
He's in socks. No shoes, just socks, sliding across the hallway floor to grab the bike, and his hair is doing something unsupervised and he's wearing a shirt that says GEOLOGY ROCKS and you want to be irritated. You are irritated. You are also looking at his hands on the handlebars and thinking about his hands in the dark and you need to stop that immediately.
"It's the third time this week," you say, and it comes out sharper than you planned.
His face changes. The easy smile dims by a fraction. "Right. Yeah. No, you're right, I'll. I'll keep it inside. Sorry."
He wheels it into his apartment. You go into yours. The door closes and you stand there and feel like a terrible person, because he looked sorry, genuinely sorry, the way a golden retriever looks sorry, and you were cold to him because you can't figure out how to be anything else to his face.
Through the wall, you hear him lean the bike against something. A pause. Then, quietly: "Okay. Inside bike. Inside bike from now on. We can do that. That's fine."
He's talking to himself. He doesn't know you can hear.
You press your forehead against your door and close your eyes.
—
The third time. The fourth.
You stop keeping count because counting means admitting there's something to count, and you're not ready for that arithmetic.
But it's in your head now. Daytime, nighttime, all the time. He rants about a documentary he watched ("they got the scale of the solar system completely wrong, it's like they've never even seen the solar system, and I know nobody's seen the solar system but you could at least try") and your brain serves up the memory of his breathing, unbidden, laid right over his voice like a transparency. He talks, and you hear the other thing he sounds like. You can't unhear it. The information is in you now, permanent, and every time he opens his mouth in the hallway you feel it flicker behind your sternum like a pilot light.
He holds the door for you again on a Thursday. You say thanks and he says "yeah, of course" and his voice is just his voice, normal, unremarkable, and your whole body responds to it like a tuning fork and you hate this. You specifically hate this.
—
It's a Wednesday night when you hear your name.
He's been quiet today. No rants. No cooking disasters. You almost wondered if he was out, and then you heard the door close around ten, heard him move through his apartment in the dark, heard the bed.
You're lying on your side, facing the wall. You should roll over. You should put on a podcast. You should do literally anything other than lie here in the dark and wait for it, because that's what you're doing now, you're waiting for it, and if you had any self-respect at all you would.
He starts. And tonight he's not quiet about it.
Not loud, not the way he is during the day. But less careful. Like something in him has loosened or he's stopped trying to hold it, and you can hear more than breathing, you can hear him, the sounds he makes when he's not monitoring them, rough and open and. God.
Your hand is on your stomach. Then lower. Just resting. Not yet.
He says something. Muffled. Into the pillow, maybe, or against his arm. You can't make it out and your whole body goes tight trying to, which is insane, you are straining to hear your neighbour masturbate and this is not the person you thought you were but apparently it's the person you are now.
Then he says it again. Clearer this time. Like he moved his head, like he turned toward the wall.
Your name.
Not moaned. Not gasped. Said. Like a sentence he's been thinking and finally let out. Like he's been turning it over in his mouth and decided, just this once, to stop swallowing it.
And that's it. That's the thing you were holding out against and it's gone.
Your hand moves. No more resting, no more hovering. You touch yourself with his voice still in the wall, still in your bloodstream, and it's not careful, it's not slow. It's weeks of pretending you weren't listening and you are done pretending. You're wet, you've been wet since before he said your name, probably since you heard him start, and your fingers find a rhythm and it's his rhythm, the one you can hear through the wall, the one your body has apparently memorized without your permission.
On your back like this, staring up at the dark ceiling, you can hear everything. Every breath. Every shift of his weight. And you can hear yourself too, and that's the problem. Your breathing is too loud. The small sounds you're making are too loud. Everything in this apartment is a betrayal and the ceiling is right there not absorbing any of it.
You flip over.
Face down, pillow pulled tight under your head, your hand trapped beneath you now. This is a containment strategy. This is you being sensible about the acoustics of the situation.
Except.
The angle changes everything. Your weight settles onto your hand, onto your fingers, and gravity does something that your wrist alone wasn't doing. You grind down and the pressure is different here, fuller, your whole body behind it, and the first slow roll of your hips pulls a breath out of you that you bury in the pillow. You do it again. Again. Each time the weight of you pushes your fingers harder where you need them, and the pillow is in your teeth and the wall is right there, right beside you, and every sound he makes travels through it and into the mattress and into your chest.
He's still going. You can hear his breathing shift, rougher now, less measured, and you think about what that breath would feel like. Against your hair. Against the back of your neck. What that low, caught sound would do to you if it wasn't filtered through drywall and distance but pressed directly into your skin, his mouth on your throat, the vibration of it in your pulse point. If you were the one pulling those sounds out of him. Your fingers instead of his. Your name in his mouth not said to an empty room but said into the curve of your shoulder, said against your ear, said so close you could feel the shape of it.
Your hips roll down against your hand and you bite the pillowcase and think about his hands, the ones that held the handlebars, the ones that gesture when he talks, and what they would feel like replacing yours. How he'd touch you. Whether he'd be careful at first, the way he's careful about everything else when he thinks someone's watching, or whether he'd be like this. The nighttime version. Unmonitored. Honest.
You think about the sounds he doesn't let himself make during the day. The groan he almost caught in time that first night. What that sound would be if he stopped catching it. If he let it go into your mouth. If you swallowed it.
That's when the sound comes out.
Not when you expect it. Not at the finish. You grind down and your whole body is behind it now, the full weight of you bearing down onto your hand, and the angle is too good, too much, and the moan that comes out of you is the kind that starts in your chest and doesn't care about the pillow. It goes right through the cotton and the stuffing and into the room like the pillow isn't even there. Real. Unmistakable. The kind of sound that only means one thing.
You freeze. Face down, hand still pinned beneath you, every muscle locked.
On the other side of the wall, he has gone very still.
The silence is excruciating. Five seconds. Ten. You don't breathe. He doesn't breathe. Your hand is still between your legs and your heart is in your teeth and the whole building is holding its breath with you and you are going to die, you are going to actually die right here in this bed because he said your name and you moaned and he heard you and there is no version of this that is survivable.
Then. Slowly. He starts again.
And something about the way he starts. The pace of it. Deliberate. Like he heard you and the hearing made him harder. Like the sound you made was not a problem.
You press your forehead into the pillow. Your hand moves again. And this time you don't try to be quiet.
You grind down into your own fingers and match his rhythm and his breathing is rough and yours is rough and you are face down in your pillow thinking about his mouth on your neck and his weight on your back and the wall is nothing, the wall is air, the wall is the only reason you are not in his bed right now with his hand where yours is and his voice in your ear instead of in the plaster.
He's close. You can hear it the way you always can, the catch, the tightening, the way the sounds get shorter and less controlled. You're close too. Closer than you should be this fast, but you've been thinking about this for longer than tonight and your body knows it even if you've been lying to yourself about the timeline.
You come with your teeth in the pillow and your hips stuttering against your hand and a sound in your throat that you don't fully stop. It escapes. And it happens at almost the same moment he finishes on his side, and the symmetry of that is either coincidence or something worse than coincidence, and you don't want to think about which one.
The silence afterward is different from the other silences.
It has a shape. A weight. Like something has been set down in the room that wasn't there before and neither of you are going to acknowledge it but neither of you can pretend it isn't there.
You lie in the dark with your heart hammering and your hand still between your legs and you think: he heard that. He definitely heard that.
And the thing that should terrify you, the thing that keeps you awake for another hour staring at the wall that is not a wall, is that some part of you. The part you're not speaking to right now. Is glad.
—
In the morning, you decide it didn't happen.
Not the touching. That happened. You're not delusional. But the sound. The sound was not as loud as you think it was. You were face down in a pillow. Pillows are specifically designed to absorb sound, that's basically their whole job, and the wall is thin but it's still a wall, and he was. Busy. Distracted. Focused on other things. There is absolutely no reason to believe he heard anything.
You shower. You make coffee. You eat breakfast like a person who did not, twelve hours ago, grind herself into her own hand while listening to her neighbour say her name through a shared wall. That person does not exist. You are a different person. You are the person who eats cereal and checks email and has never thought about anyone's mouth on the back of her neck.
In the hallway, his door is closed. No bike. No scorch marks. No signs of life.
You go to work. You come home. The wall is silent. He's out, maybe, or grading quietly for once, and the silence should be a relief but instead it sits in your apartment like a held breath, and you keep catching yourself listening for him, and that makes you angry at yourself, which is at least a familiar feeling.
You go to bed. Nothing happens. You sleep.
See? Fine. You're fine.
—
The next evening, he starts ranting.
Something about a planet. Not a real planet, a hypothetical one, something to do with tidal locking and how one side would be permanently frozen and the other side would be permanently on fire and how that's "not even the interesting part, the interesting part is the terminator line, which. Okay, not the movie. Although also a great movie. But the line between the hot side and the cold side, this narrow strip where the temperature is juuust right, and that's where everything lives. Everything. All of life, all of civilisation, just this thin little ribbon of habitable space between too much and not enough."
He pauses. You hear him open the fridge.
"I mean, can you imagine? Your whole world is a margin. A border. You exist in the in-between and if you go too far in either direction you just. Burn up or freeze. You stay in the narrow part or you don't stay at all."
He's talking to no one. He's talking to his fridge. He's talking to his empty apartment at 9pm on a weeknight about the habitable zone of a hypothetical tidally locked planet and he doesn't know you're listening and his voice is the same voice that said your name two nights ago and you cannot do this anymore.
You just. Can't.
You're standing up before you've decided to stand up. You're at your front door before you've decided to leave. You're in the hallway in bare feet and a t-shirt and shorts and your hair is not ready for this and you are not ready for this but your body has apparently filed a motion to override your brain and the motion carried.
You knock.
The ranting stops. Footsteps. The click of a lock, and then his door opens and he's right there, closer than the wall has ever let him be, and he's wearing a faded t-shirt that says TRUST ME, I'M A SCIENTIST and his glasses are slightly crooked and he looks exactly like himself, which is the worst possible thing he could look like right now.
"Oh. Hey." Surprise. Not unwelcome surprise, just the regular kind. "Is everything. Did the bike. No, the bike's inside now, I moved the bike. Is it the noise? I know I was talking, I do that, I just. It's this thing about tidal locking that I. Sorry. I'll keep it down."
"You're always talking," you say, and it comes out wrong. Too flat. Too honest.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry." The apologetic face. The one you've seen in the lift, in the hallway, every time he's done something that requires a sorry. Easy. Practised. "I do that. I know I do that. I'll keep it down."
"Thank you."
That should be the end of it. That's a complete interaction. You have lodged your complaint and he has accepted it and now you can go home and never think about the habitable zone of a tidally locked planet or the sound of your own name in his mouth ever again.
But he doesn't close the door. He leans against the frame, arms folded, and looks at you with an expression you can't quite read.
"Out of curiosity," he says. "What can you hear, specifically. Like is it just. Volume? Or is it. Content."
"What?"
"I'm just trying to calibrate. For future reference. So I know what I need to keep down." Reasonable. Helpful. The considerate neighbour, adjusting his behaviour based on feedback. Nothing wrong with the question at all.
"I mean. Everything," you say. "The grading. The cooking. The. Monologues."
"The monologues." He smiles. Not the hallway smile. Something a shade closer to private. "Right. And that bothers you."
"It's. Loud."
"It's loud," he repeats. Nodding. Still leaning. Still watching. "So it's a volume issue."
"Yes."
"Just volume."
Something about the way he says just makes your stomach tighten. Like he's leaving a space in the sentence for you to fill and you are not going to fill it.
"Because the thing about thin walls," he says, "is that they go both ways."
The hallway gets very quiet.
"I can hear you too," he says. Simply. Like he's giving you a weather report. Like this is information he has been sitting on for a while and has made his peace with. "I can hear you come home. I can hear you laugh at things on your phone. I can hear you sing in the kitchen when you think no one's listening, and you always sing the same song wrong and it's." He pauses. "That's not the point."
You are going to die in this hallway. You are going to die in bare feet in front of a man in a novelty science shirt and they will find your body and the cause of death will be this exact moment.
"The point is that if you can hear everything," he says, and the word is careful now, weighted, placed, "then I think we both know this isn't really about the volume."
The floor drops.
He's not embarrassed. He's not fumbling. He's standing in his doorway with his arms folded and he is looking at you the way he looks at a problem he has already solved and is waiting for you to catch up to.
"The other night," he says. And his voice doesn't go soft or nervous. It stays steady. He is looking directly at you and he is not flinching. "I said your name. And you heard me."
You can't speak. You are physically present in this hallway but your voice has left the building.
"And I heard you."
"You." Your voice comes out airless. "You heard."
"I heard you start. After I said your name." He unfolds his arms. Lets them drop. And the steadiness in his voice flickers, just once, just enough for you to see what's underneath it. "And I heard the sound you made when you. Yeah."
"On purpose," you manage. "You said it on purpose."
"Yes."
The single syllable lands like a detonation. No fumbling. No apology. Just yes. He said your name while he touched himself and he meant to and he's not pretending otherwise and you have never in your life been less prepared for a conversation.
"I was testing something," he says, and a ghost of a smile surfaces. "Which sounds clinical and I promise it wasn't. It was. I wanted to know if you were listening. I thought you might be. I hoped you might be."
You are standing in a hallway in bare feet and this man has known, this whole time, every single thing you thought you were hiding, and he has been on the other side of the wall listening to you the way you were listening to him and neither of you said anything and he's just been. Waiting.
"Do you want to come in," he says, and it's not a question. The grammar is a question but his voice has dropped the question mark somewhere on the floor and what's left is just the sentence. An opening. A door that is already open, has been open, that you've been standing on either side of for weeks.
You step through it.
He closes the door behind you, and the click of the lock is the loudest thing in the world, and then his apartment is around you and it smells like him and looks like him and there's a bike leaning against the bookshelf and papers on the kitchen table and a coffee mug with a dinosaur on it and this is the other side of the wall. This is where the sounds come from.
"So," he says, behind you.
You turn.
He's closer than he was. Not touching. Just closer. Close enough that you can see the way his breathing has changed, the way his eyes are darker than they were in the hallway, the way his hands are at his sides and very deliberately not reaching for you, not yet, like he's giving you one more second to leave, one more exit, and he will let you take it if you want it.
You don't want it.
"So," you say back.
"You're not exactly friendly to me," he says, and the way he says it is not an accusation. It's an observation. The way a scientist notes a data point. "In person. You're friendly through the wall when you don't think I know you're there. But to my face you're."
"I know."
"Is that. Was that because of the bike, or because of."
"The bike. At first."
"And then?"
"And then I didn't know how to stop."
"Being unfriendly."
"Being unfriendly when I knew what you sounded like at night. Yeah."
The sound he makes. Low, involuntary, like you've said something that landed somewhere physical. The steady composure he's been holding cracks, just for a second, and what's underneath it is not calm. His hand comes up, and this time it doesn't go to his glasses. It goes to the side of your face, and his fingers are warm, and he's shaking slightly, and there it is. Under the patience, under the confidence, under the man who opened the door already knowing why you were there. He's shaking.
"Can I," he says.
"Yes."
He kisses you.
And it's nothing like the wall. The wall was distance and imagination and the shape of a sound you couldn't see. This is his mouth, warm and real and slightly off-center because he came in too fast, and his hand on your jaw tilting you into it, and the small desperate sound he makes against your lips is the one you've been hearing through plaster for weeks except now it's yours, it's happening because of you, and it sounds completely different when there's nothing between you and the source.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe. His forehead is against yours. His thumb is tracing your cheekbone and his eyes are closed and he says, very quietly, "I've been going out of my mind."
"Yeah," you say. "Me too."
"I talk to myself," he says. "I know I talk to myself. I've always done it, it's a whole thing, and I knew the walls were thin and I just. I never thought about it until you moved in and then I couldn't stop thinking about it. About what you could hear. About whether you were listening. And then I started talking louder on purpose. Which I realize makes me sound. But I wanted. I liked knowing you were there."
"I was always listening."
His breath catches. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck and the touch lands exactly where you imagined it, exactly where you pictured it when you were face down in your pillow with your hand between your legs, and the reality is so close to the fantasy that your knees actually soften.
He feels it. Of course he does.
"That," he says. "When did that start. When did you start."
"Listening?"
"Wanting."
You close your eyes. "The Drake Equation."
He makes a sound that is almost a laugh and almost a groan. "That was. That was like the second week."
"I know."
"I was talking about aliens."
"I know."
"And you were on the other side of the wall."
"Getting into bed."
"Getting into." He doesn't finish. His hand tightens on the back of your neck and he pulls you in again, and this kiss is not off-center. This kiss knows exactly where it's going. His other hand finds your hip and pulls you against him and you can feel him, all of him, hard against your stomach, and the sound you make into his mouth is the same one from the other night, the one that went through the pillow and through the wall, except now he swallows it the way you imagined him swallowing it and the reality is better, it's so much better, because his hands are real and his mouth is real and the sound he makes back is one you've never heard through the wall before. This one is new. This one is what he sounds like when he's touching someone instead of himself.
He walks you backward. Not far. His apartment is the mirror of yours, you know the layout, you've imagined the layout, and when the back of your legs hit the edge of his bed the shock of it runs up your spine because this is the bed. This is where the sounds came from. This is where he lay in the dark and said your name and meant it.
"I should have just knocked on your door," he says. His hands are on your hips and his breathing is wrecked and his glasses are fully crooked now and he's looking at you like you're a problem he wants to solve slowly. "Like a normal person. But the wall was easier. The wall was safe. I could talk and pretend I wasn't talking to you and you could listen and pretend you weren't listening and neither of us had to be brave about it."
His thumb is drawing circles on your hip bone through the fabric of your shorts and you are losing the ability to process full sentences.
"I'm trying to be brave about it now," he says.
—
You sit back onto the bed and pull him with you.
He comes down over you and the weight of him is the first thing. The first real thing. You imagined this through the wall, his body pressing yours into the mattress, and your imagination was wrong. Your imagination didn't know about the heat of him, the solid fact of him, the way his hips settle between yours like they were always supposed to be there and the sound you make when they do is not quiet and you don't care.
"Hi," he says, looking down at you. Slightly breathless. Glasses crooked. Smiling like he can't believe he's here.
"Hi."
"This is. This is better than the wall."
You laugh. You actually laugh, and he grins at the sound, and then he dips his head and puts his mouth on your neck and the laugh dies in your throat because. Oh. Oh.
You imagined this. You imagined it face down in your pillow with your hand between your legs and you thought you knew what it would feel like. You didn't know anything. His lips are warm and his breath is hot against your skin and when he opens his mouth and drags his teeth lightly across the tendon in your neck, the sound you make is not the sound from the other night. That sound was muffled and buried and ashamed. This sound is in his ear, against his hair, and you feel him shudder when he hears it.
"God," he says into your throat. "You sound. You have no idea what you sound like."
"You've heard me before."
"Through a wall. This is." He presses his mouth to your pulse point. Stays there. You can feel him breathing you in like you're data he needs to collect. "This is different. This is. I can feel it when you."
You arch into him and he loses the sentence.
His hands find the hem of your shirt and he looks at you, a question, and you pull it off yourself because you don't have the patience for chivalry right now. His eyes drop and his expression does something that makes your stomach flip, because it's not smooth, it's not practised. It's wonder. The same wonder he has when he's explaining the Drake Equation to his empty apartment, except it's pointed at you.
"You are," he starts, and doesn't finish, and puts his mouth on your collarbone instead.
He works his way down. Slow. Tasting. His mouth on your sternum, between your breasts, along the curve of one, and when his lips close around your nipple and his tongue does something clever and unhurried, your hips jerk up against his and you feel how hard he is and the noise that comes out of both of you is graceless and perfect.
"Okay," he breathes against your skin. "Okay, that's. I need. Can I."
He's pulling at your shorts. You lift your hips and he drags them down and his fingers trail along the inside of your thigh on the way and the touch is so light it makes you shake. But he stops. Your underwear is still on and he is looking at you and his hand has gone still on your thigh and something about his expression has. Changed. Gone quiet. Focused in a way that isn't about your face anymore.
You don't understand for a second. And then you look down.
The cotton is soaked. Dark with it. The damp patch spreading through the fabric, obvious, undeniable, the evidence of what his voice and his hands and his mouth on your neck have done to you, and it's right there and he's right there and your knees start to close on instinct, some useless reflex to cover it, to take it back.
His hand catches your thigh. Gentle. But firm. He doesn't push your legs apart, he just. Holds them where they are. Doesn't let you hide it.
"Don't," he says. Low. Almost not a word.
The sound of it goes through you like a current. One syllable and your whole body decides it will do whatever he says for the rest of time. Which is a problem for future you. Present you just stops moving.
Your knees stay where they are. He looks at you, at the soaked cotton, at the shape of you through it, and his thumb traces the edge of the fabric along your inner thigh and his breathing has changed completely.
"You're. This is all." He exhales. Presses his thumb gently against the wet patch and watches the fabric darken further under the pressure. "This is all from tonight? From. From talking?"
You can't answer that honestly without dying, so you just nod.
"From talking," he repeats, and the wonder in his voice is the Drake Equation wonder, the tidal locking wonder, the same helpless fascination he has for things that exceed his models, except it's aimed at you. At what his voice does to you. At the evidence soaking through cotton.
"Ryland."
His eyes snap to yours. And the sound of his name in your mouth does something visible to him. You've never said it. Not once. Not in the hallway, not in the lift, not through the wall. It's always been hey or you or nothing. And his name in your voice in his bed is a thing he was clearly not prepared for.
"Yeah," he says. Rough. "Yeah, I'm. I'm here. Sorry. You're just. I've thought about this. I've thought about this a lot, and you're right here and I keep expecting the wall to be in the way."
"There's no wall."
"There's no wall," he repeats, and his hand moves up your thigh and between your legs and he doesn't pull the underwear aside. He presses his fingers against you through the cotton and the friction of the wet fabric on your clit makes your whole body jolt.
He feels it. Does it again. Deliberate this time, two fingers pressing flat, dragging slowly up through the soaked cotton, and the texture of it, the slight rough catch of the fabric between his skin and yours, is filthy and perfect and nothing like bare fingers would be. It's indirect. It makes you push your hips up into his hand chasing the pressure because you need more and the barrier is maddening and he knows it's maddening and he's doing it anyway.
He presses his forehead against your hip. His fingers keep moving, slow circles through the fabric, and you can feel the cotton sliding against you, slick and warm, clinging to every contour. "How long," he says. "How long have you been like this."
"Since the hallway. Since you opened the door."
"Since I." He makes a sound against your skin. Disbelief and want and something almost pained. His fingers find your clit again, bare this time, and the difference between cotton and skin makes you cry out. No fabric to blunt it. Just his fingertips, slick and precise, and he already knows where, he already learned that through the underwear, so now he just. Goes there. Directly. Confidently. Like he took notes through the fabric and is now applying them to the final draft.
He watches your face while his fingers work, and this is the teacher in him, the part that pays attention, that meets you where you are and adjusts, and when he finds the exact pressure that makes your thighs shake he doesn't speed up, he just stays there, steady, relentless, reading every sound you make like a language he's already halfway fluent in.
"Talk to me," you say, and you don't know where it comes from but it's the truest thing you've said all night, because his voice is where this started, his voice through the wall, and you need it now. You need it without the plaster in the way.
He understands. Of course he does.
"I could hear you," he says, low, against the skin of your stomach. His fingers don't stop. "Through the wall. I could hear you come home every night and I'd just. Lie there. Knowing you were right there. Knowing you were on the other side and I couldn't."
His thumb stays on your clit and two fingers press inside you and the stretch and the pressure and his voice all at once make your vision go white at the edges.
"I started talking louder," he says. "I know I did. I told myself I wasn't but I was. I wanted you to hear me. I wanted to be in your head the way you were in mine and I didn't know how to just say that so I just. Talked. About planets. About homework. About whatever I could think of because as long as I was talking I was. With you. Sort of."
His fingers curl inside you and your hand flies to his hair and grips.
"And then at night." His voice drops. "At night I'd think about you on the other side of the wall and I'd."
"I know what you'd do."
"You'd listen."
"I'd listen."
"And then you started." His breath catches. "That night. When I said your name. I heard you start and I almost. I almost knocked on the wall. I almost just put my hand on it and."
He's still talking. His fingers are still inside you and his voice is still doing what it always does to you and he is right here, not behind a wall, and you think about the last time you felt this. Face down in your bed, grinding into your own hand, wishing the wall wasn't there. Wishing his mouth was where your pillow was. Wishing you could take instead of just listen.
You can take now. There's no wall.
And the thing is. He made that possible. Not just by opening the door. By the way he looked at the wet cotton and said don't like it was something precious. By the way he said from talking? like your body's response to him was a wonder and not a mess. By the way he has not once made you feel like any part of this is something to be ashamed of.
So you're not going to be.
"Lie back," you say.
He blinks. His fingers still inside you, his brain visibly trying to catch up with the instruction. "What?"
"Lie back."
He does. He pulls his hand from between your legs and lies back on the mattress and looks up at you and you can see the moment he understands what you're doing because his lips part and his breathing changes and his hands come to your thighs as you swing one leg over him and move up his body.
"Oh," he says. "Oh, you're. Yeah. Yes. Please."
You're above him. Knees on either side of his head, your hands braced on the wall. The wall. The one that separates his apartment from yours. Your palms are flat against it and the surface is cool and thin and you can feel the hollow of it under your fingers, this stupid flimsy partition that has been the only thing between you for weeks, and now you're on the other side of it with your thighs framing his face and he's looking up at you like you're the night sky.
You hesitate. Hovering. Because this is a lot and he's looking up at you and you need to know.
"Is this okay?"
His hands tighten on your thighs. He turns his head and presses his mouth to the inside of one, open and warm and deliberate, and says against your skin, "I have wanted this since the second week. Sit down."
You lower yourself onto him and his hands are pulling your hips down and then his mouth is on you and you stop thinking entirely.
The sound you make should be illegal in a building with thin walls. It comes from somewhere deep and it fills the room and you hear it echo off the ceiling and some part of your brain registers that whoever is on the other side of his apartment can hear you right now and you do not care. You do not care even a little bit.
His tongue is slow and precise and devastating. He licks into you like he has all the time in the world, like this is the experiment he's been designing in his head for weeks, and his hands are gripping your thighs, holding you open, holding you exactly where he wants you. He moans against you and the vibration rolls through your clit and up your spine and you gasp and press harder against him and he does it again. On purpose this time. A low, deliberate groan directly into you, and your thighs clamp around his head and he doesn't stop.
This is the thing. He can't talk now. The man who never stops talking has his mouth full of you and all that's left is sound. Every reaction he has comes through vibration instead of words. When you grind down harder he groans and you feel it in your bones. When you ease off he whimpers, actually whimpers, and the frequency of it hums through your clit and makes your hips jerk. He is communicating entirely in resonance and you can feel every single thing he's feeling because it's pressed directly into the most sensitive part of you.
You roll your hips against his mouth and he pulls you tighter and you are grinding onto his face the way you ground into your own hand except his mouth is softer and wetter and smarter than your hand ever was, and every time you press down he meets you, tongue flat and firm, and the sounds he's making vibrate through you, wet and hungry and desperate, and you can feel them building, getting rougher, getting louder, and when you look down his eyes are closed and his hands are gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise and he looks like there is nowhere on earth he would rather be.
You shift your angle slightly, chasing it, and his tongue drags across your clit and he moans at the taste of you and the vibration hits at exactly the right moment and your back arches and your nails scrape against the wall and you hear yourself say his name.
"Ryland." It comes out wrecked.
His eyes open. He looks up at you from between your thighs and pulls back just enough to speak, his lips wet, his chin wet, and he says, "I'm right here. No wall. Right here."
And then he pulls your hips back down onto his mouth and starts again, and you've lost ground, you can feel it, the orgasm that was right there has retreated and he knows it and he doesn't rush. He builds you back. His tongue finds you, slow at first, relearning, and then firmer, more deliberate, settling into a rhythm that is patient and relentless and exactly, exactly right. You can feel it gathering again, tighter this time, closer to the surface, and his hands grip your thighs and pull you harder against his mouth and then he grazes his teeth against your clit, barely there, just the edge of them, and the sharp bright shock of it is the thing that tips it. You grind down hard and your hands press flat against the wall and you come so hard your vision whites out.
It's not like the other night. That was your hand and his sounds and a pillow in your teeth. This is his mouth and your weight and the noise you make is loud, open, a thing you give to him on purpose, and he takes it, takes all of it, works you through it with his tongue until you're shaking and grinding and saying his name like it's the only word you know.
You come down slowly. Your thighs are trembling. Your hands are still on the wall. You lift your weight off him and slide back, settling on his stomach, and he sucks in a breath like a man surfacing from water. His face is flushed and wet and he's grinning up at you, breathing hard, and you can feel him against the back of your thighs, so hard it must hurt.
He reaches up and pushes your hair out of your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone.
"That," he says. "That's the sound. That's what I heard through the wall and I."
"Get your clothes off."
He laughs. Breathless, startled, delighted. You climb off him, kneel back on the mattress, and he sits up and strips his shirt over his head and you watch from beside him and it's not a performance, it's him fumbling with the hem and getting his glasses caught and tossing them somewhere toward the nightstand and missing entirely, and you love it. You love the gracelessness of it. You love that he's not smooth because smooth would be someone else and you don't want someone else. You want the man who argues with homework and burns kitchen towels and talks about aliens at 10pm and said your name through a wall because he couldn't not.
He stands just long enough to shove his jeans down and his boxers with them and he's hard, flushed, and the sight of him makes your mouth go dry because you heard this, you heard this, the sounds he made while he touched himself, and now you can see what your imagination was building around and the reality is right here, in his bed, within reach.
You reach for him. Your hand wraps around him and his whole body jerks and the sound he makes is the one from that first night, the low caught groan, except with nothing to muffle it. It fills the room. Fills you.
"That sound," you say. "That's the one."
"What?"
"The first night. Through the wall. That's the sound that started this."
He drops his forehead against yours, his breath ragged, his hips pushing into your hand. "You heard that? The. The first time?"
"Every time."
"God." His voice cracks. "Every. You were just lying there and."
"Listening. Every time."
He kisses you like the sentence broke something in him. Deep, messy, his hand in your hair, and you're stroking him and he's leaking against your palm and his breathing is shot and he pulls back and says, "I need. Can I. I want to be inside you, can I."
"Yes."
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
He reaches for the nightstand. The drawer. You hear the click of it and something about that sound, the same sound you've heard through the wall from your own bed, rearranges the room. He rolls the condom on and his hands are shaking slightly and then he's over you and between your legs and the head of him presses against you and you're so wet from his mouth that there's almost no resistance.
He pushes in slow. Watching your face. His jaw is tight and his arms are braced on either side of you and the stretch of him is perfect, thick and full, and when he bottoms out you both go still.
"Oh," he says. Very quiet. Like a realisation landing.
You wrap your legs around him and pull him deeper and he makes a sound you have never heard through the wall. Not once. This one is new. This one only exists here, inside you, and it is low and broken and so good that your walls clench around him and his hips stutter.
"If you do that," he manages, "this is going to be. I've been thinking about this for. A very long time, and I'm not going to."
"Then move."
He moves.
Slow, first. Long, deep strokes that pull almost all the way out and push back in and every one of them drags against exactly the right spot and the sounds you're making are continuous now, not words, not anything, just his name and yes and the wet sound of him inside you and his breathing in your ear.
He drops his head to your neck. His mouth finds the place behind your ear and he talks against your skin, half words, half breathing, and this is it, this is the thing you imagined, his voice in your neck, his sounds pressed directly into your pulse, and the reality makes the fantasy look like a pencil sketch.
"You feel." He rolls his hips and you gasp. "I can't. You feel so."
"More."
He gives you more. His pace picks up and the angle changes and he hooks one hand under your knee and lifts and the depth of the next thrust makes both of you cry out and he does it again, again, finding the spot that makes you clench and then driving into it over and over because this is what he does, this is the problem-solver, the experimenter, the man who tests and adjusts and learns, and he is learning you and he is a very fast learner.
"Right there," you say, and it comes out begging and you don't care.
"Here?" He does it again. Precise. His hips snapping into yours.
"There. There. Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping." Low. Wrecked. Almost a growl. "I'm not. I couldn't stop if I. You're so. The sounds you make, I can feel them, I spent weeks listening through that wall and this is. God, this is so much better. You're so much better than anything I."
His hand slides between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit and presses and the noise that leaves you is feral, unhinged, because you're still sensitive from before and the combination of him inside you and his thumb on you and his voice in your ear is too many inputs, too much data, and your body can't process all of it at once so it just. Gives in.
"That's it," he says, and his voice is barely holding. "That's. I can feel you, I can feel you getting close, you're tightening around me and I."
You're not getting close. You're already there. It hits you like a wave you didn't see coming, sudden and total, and this orgasm is different from the first one. The first one was his mouth and his patience and his precision. This one is his cock buried deep and his thumb circling and his voice cracking apart against your ear and the fact that you are underneath him in the bed where he said your name and there is no wall and no pillow and nothing to bite down on so the sound just comes out of you, raw and open, his name tangled up in it, and you feel yourself clench around him in long, rhythmic pulses that make his whole body go taut.
"Oh. Oh, God. I can feel you. I can." His hips stutter. His rhythm breaks. "I'm. If you keep. I'm going to."
You pull him down and say his name against his mouth and tighten around him again and he breaks. He comes hard, driving into you, his whole body shaking, and the sound he makes is long and open and your name is in it, not said the way he said it through the wall, not careful, not half-swallowed. Your name like he can't hold it back. Your name said into your mouth while he's inside you and the wall is gone and there's nothing between you and that sound and nothing will ever be between you and that sound again.
You hold him through it. Your legs locked around his hips, your hand in his hair, his face in your neck, his breath ragged and hot against your skin. He's still shaking when he comes down. Still inside you. His hand finds yours on the mattress and his fingers thread through yours and he squeezes once, hard, like he's checking you're real.
"Hi," he says into your neck. Same thing he said at the start.
"Hi."
"So that happened."
"That happened."
He pulls back enough to look at you. His hair is destroyed. His eyes are soft and blown and slightly disbelieving, and the smile that arrives is not the hallway smile or the lift smile. This is the one the wall has been hiding.
"I have a question," he says.
"Of course you do."
"On a scale of one to ten, how do you feel about the thin walls now."
You laugh. He catches it with his mouth. And on the other side of the wall, your apartment sits empty, and quiet, and you don't go home for a very long time.
Having this idea for a Ryland x reader fic where reader is like a best friend who gets smashed and admits she thinks about Ryland when she touches herself and she doesn't remember it the next day and he drives himself crazy over it and touches himself thinking about her touching herself over him and eventually they fuck about it
But I have too many on the go at the moment already so someone else please take it 🙏
HELLOOO i saw u post asking for asks and i cannot get holland march out of my mind i love that man FUCKKKKKKKKK
thinking about playing strip poker or any stripping game with holland and it lasting so much shorter than expected because holland is a weak weak man <3
Strip Poker
(Holland March x reader)
The motel room stank of whiskey, smoke, and the faint (but definitely toxic) damp smell that came complementary with every place Holland and Healy had the budget to stay in. You had accompanied March and Healy on this case; Healy was on a stake-out and said he'd call with any updates. To pass the time, you had begun a game of poker— it was now 2am, and it had devolved into a game of strip poker.
A half-empty bottle of bourbon sat on the nightstand, and the radio played something low in the background. You were sitting cross-legged on the bed, smirking as you watched an already half-naked Holland lose yet another hand.
“Fuck me,” he groaned, staring at his terrible cards like they'd personally betrayed him. “You’re a goddamn shark.”
“You’re the one who suggested strip poker,” you said. “So... strip. Don't be such a sore loser.”
"I'll be naked before your shirt's off at this rate," he grumbled. You blinked at him unsympathetically; he let out a dramatic puff of cigarette smoke and tugged his tie off, tossing it dramatically across the room.
He was already down to his shirt, socks, and boxers; you, on the other hand, had only lost your jeans so far. He was failing miserably to get you naked. The problem wasn’t his poker skills— though those were questionable: the problem was that Holland March was a weak, weak man when it came to you.
Every time you leaned forward, every time you slowly dragged your tongue across your lower lip while thinking, every time you stretched and arched your back just a little… his eyes would glaze over and his mouth would part like he’d forgotten how to breathe, until his cigarette fell onto his leg and burned his calf.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he accused, swigging Bourbon from the plastic cups you'd picked up on the way.
“I have literally no idea how to cheat in this game,” you said, dealing the next hand.
Three minutes later, Holland lost again.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, standing up and shrugging off his shirt, once crisp, now crumpled and stained with whisky. His chest was surprisingly toned for a man who drank like a fish and exercised exclusively by running away from danger. He tossed the shirt behind him and sat back down, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.
You raised an eyebrow, his taut boxers being revealed by the lack of shirt to cover them. “Are you... hard?”
Holland didn’t even try to deny it. He just let out a pathetic groan and dragged a hand down his face.
"Christ, Holland, already? I'm still dressed!" You laughed.
“Look, I’m not proud of this, okay? You’re sitting there looking like... that, and I’m only a man! A very horny man!”
You laughed softly and dropped your cards in front of you. You crawled across the bed toward him, Holland’s eyes tracking your every movement like a starving man.
“We’ve only been playing for fifteen minutes,” you teased, straddling his lap as he sulked against the headboard. You could feel exactly how affected he was through his pants. “I thought you’d last longer than this, March."
“Yeah, well,” he hurriedly exhaled the last puff of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the nightstand, hands immediately sliding up your thighs, “I’ve wanted to fuck you since Healy stepped out the door— before then, even. I had a hard-on on the drive over just thinking about being alone with you.”
You laughed and flopped forward onto his chest, legs still pinning him either side. "You're something else, mister." You raised your head, serpentine, to brush your lips against his ear. “Why don't we do something you're good at?”
Holland made a broken sound in the back of his throat — half groan, half whimper — and flipped you onto your back so fast you actually gasped in surprise. His smoky mouth was on yours a second later, bitten lips messy and desperate against yours while his hands roamed everywhere.
“Fuck that stupid game...” he mumbled against your lips, using one arm to swipe the cards off the bed whilst grinding against you. “I forfeit. You win. I lose. Whatever. Just let me—” he groaned as you palmed him through his boxers, already damp with precome and straining dangerously.
You grinned, threading your other hand through his messy blond hair and tugging. “Can't even handle a little teasing?”
Holland groaned, burying his face in your neck as he yanked your underwear down your legs with no regard for grace.
“I am a weak man,” he admitted shamelessly, voice muffled against your skin. “And a man who’s been thinking about this for weeks. Now shut up before I come in my pants like a fucking teenager.”
You laughed again, but the sound quickly turned into a moan as Holland finally stopped talking and put his mouth to much better use.
do you guys think eridian clothes are made out of a sort of sound proof/sound muffling fabric or is it more like a fashion statement to hear the different layers. like is the point covering up their carapace in some way? i'm trying to figure out if movie rocky's penchant for being naked is more "this is a sort of social faux pas" or "if you weren't the savior of erid you would be arrested for public indecency"
ME PERSONALLY, I believe they are polite to wear but not necessary. But highly encouraged. And for partial sound muffling, so you are less likely to hear others internals/digesting/etc or possibly to muffle your own hearing, like to make yourself less overstimulated in a crowded place? with the bonus of having utility (pockets, etc).
But I say choose whatever is funnier. So please arrest that rock for public indecency.
kiss me — ryland grace x f!reader ; u and ryland and a very heated makeout session turned more while rocky is still asleep (1.0k words)
18+ !!!! mdni !!!! this is smut .. like full on !!!! well it starts as making out & dry humping but it escalates fingering, riding, kissing ur boobs
(note. idc yes i am freak. yes they are supposed to be watching rocky sleep but likeee come on they gotta make use of the time . Also this is my first time writing smut so don’t make fun of the messenger)
Ryland Grace is so kissable.
Extremely kissable with the red hue on his cheeks, and the way his blonde hair is so disheveled from the stress of pulling, and the way his glasses are falling from his face.
He makes no effort to fix it, though.
His focus is entirely on you, and how his fingers feel buried into the dip of your bare hips after he’d hiked up your shirt quite a while ago, and your swollen lips.
You’d give anything to continue pressing your lips into his for the entirety of your life. And if not for the rest of your life, then at least for a couple more hours while Rocky is still asleep.
You’re supposed to be watching him. In your defense, you still are, just with the major distraction of Ryland and his eager mouth despite his shy smiles. One thing led to another, and now here you were on his lap, making out with him for what seems like an hour while Rocky remains unaware just in the distance.
One of his hands moves to your jaw, readjusting himself so he can continue to devour your mouth. You laugh a little at his desperation.
“Been wanting to do this for so long.” He’s muttering, moaning into your mouth.
“But Rock’s always listening.” His words are slurred, and he whines when you pull at his hair, when your fingers tangle into his messy tufts. “Never get the chance to have you like this.”
Finally, he pulls back, parted mouth and glazed eyes flickering from your shirt to your face. “Can I take this off, baby?”
There’s a tug on your shirt when he asks, and Ryland is eager to throw it away when you nod your head at him. He places his hands back where they’d been on your hips, then slowly, he runs his hands over your stomach and your tits.
“So beautiful.” He says, breathy, lips parted and staring unashamed. “Couldn’t believe it when I first woke up.”
He presses his lips back on yours, quiet groans and whines leaving his lips, and he’s completely unrestrained because he can finally be loud. His lips start following a trail down from your mouth, to your neck, before latching onto your breast.
You moan out at the sudden feeling in his mouth, at how his tongue moves over your nipple, at how he sucks so well. He switches to the other, giving each breast equal attention. “Such pretty noises. Wanna hear more.”
The way he mumbles against your tit sends vibrations all over your body, makes you clench your thighs around him, makes you roll your hips against his when you feel a persistent poke on your thigh from where you are atop of him. And the more you move, the deeper and drawn out his moans start to become.
He’s hard and harsh on any skin he can latch his mouth onto, the sensation of you dragging yourself against him feeding him enough to continue pressing kisses on your collarbones, your neck, your chin, your ear.
He’s gripping your hips tighter the more you grind on him.
“Fugggg—“
His eyes are shut close, and he’s squeezing your hips to slow down your movements because he’s afraid he might come already.
He doesn’t want to yet.
“Want your fingers in me. Please.” You pull your lower lip between your teeth, and you’re ill-prepared for the way his hand slips through the fabric of your bottoms, one finger tracing over your wet cunt before moving to rub slow circles on your clit.
You squeeze your eyes shut as he slips a finger inside of you, and then two, until you’re grinding on his fingers, head lolling back and forth as his fingers continue to fuck you until you’re shaking and whining from the sensitivity. “Fuck, yeah, just like that. Ryyyyy.”
Rocky is still asleep, so unaware of the way you’re moaning and panting and fiddling with his hair with your back arched. It’s such a filthy sight.
“More, more. Want you.”
“Want me in you?”
“Mhmmm… mhmm. Please.”
He’s so obedient, so eager to fuck you. Because in less than a second, your bottoms and panties are discarded, way too close to where your friend lays motionless, and Ryland moans louder than he ever has when he slips the head of his cock inside of you.
It’s immediately overwhelming. He was already having a hard time lasting when you’d fucked with clothes on, but with his cock inching and pushing into you as you sink down on him, he doesn’t think he’ll last more than a minute. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to hold off.
As soon as his entire length is in you, Ryland feezes because fuck, he’s already so close to cumming. If he moves even just the slightest, he’s going to release. It’ll be game over for the poor man.
“Baby, ‘m not gonna last. Fuuuuuh, you feel so good. Wait, wait, wait.”
Ryland has to take his time, build a bit of confidence before he finally starts to move. Deliberately slow, for his own sake, before allowing you to take control and move at a steadier pace.
He’s moaning and chanting your name, staring at how your tits bounce as you’re progressively moving harsher and harsher, and suddenly he’s fighting a losing battle against the pleasure that’s creeping into him.
Ryland doesn’t let the overwhelming feeling of his nearing orgasm stop his hand from reaching down to finish you off, hands working hard and rubbing on your clit so he can hear you finish. So he can see the way your face clenches.
And when you do, when you moan out his name, he finally lets himself unravel.
“Baby, baby, pull out. ‘M gonna cum, uhgh. Baby.”
He’s desperately warning you, face scrunching as he whimpers. There are tears forming in his eyes from the pleasure. His legs are shaking when you remove yourself from him, and his hips stutter one final time before hot white shoots everywhere.
It’s a mess, even coating a bit of the xenonite where Rocky is still peacefully sleeping.
He will wake up a few hours later with no clue as to what had just transpired.
cw: fluff-smut, MDNI‼️, domestic fluff, established relationship, pet names(Ryland calls her Baby), explicit sexual content, soft!dom! Ryland, Ryland curses, desperate and needy reader, lots of whining, alcohol intoxication (reader), dubcon(?), drunk sex (reader initiates), unprotected sex, semi-public sex (car), voyeur, being watched on act, protective Ryland, jealous Ryland, aftercare, emotional vulnerability.
summary: very concerned boyfriend Ryland tries so hard to be responsible, but his aggressively affectionate girlfriend had other plans.
“Hey uh—Ryland?”
An unfamiliar voice comes from the phone.
“Yes? Is everything alright?” Ryland stands up immediately. “And who is this? Why do you have my girlfriend’s phone?”
On the other end, he can hear music blaring, people shouting over each other, bursts of laughter echoing through what sounds like a very packed club.
“Right! I’m Nicole, one of her friends.” The woman laughs nervously.
“It’s Maddy’s birthday and, well… everybody got a little carried away. It’s absolute chaos here, there are way too many people for me to keep track of, and she’s one of them.”
A muffled commotion follows.
“YOU KNOW, RYRY IS SOOOO PRETTY ESPECIALLY WHEN HE’S—”
“Oh my God.”
“His nose? perfect. His eyes? oh i’m gone.” You continue somewhere in the background. “The little frown he does when he’s concentrating? UGH.”
Nicole groaned. “Yeahhh, yeah whatever.”
“I am forever, looking respectfully!” You defended yourself.
Ryland buries his face in his hand.
“Anyway, you heard her,” Nicole continues, sounding exhausted, “she’s drunk and she won’t stop talking about you, so I figured I’d call the responsible adult.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
“Perfect.”
The call ends.
For a moment Ryland simply stares at the screen.
Then he moves.
He grabs the first coat hanging by the door, nearly dropping his keys in the process, and mutters a quiet curse beneath his breath. He is not panicking.
Just concern.
There is a difference.
Or at least that’s what he tells himself as he fumbles with the lock and heads for his car.
Nicole is guiding you towards the front lobby when the glass doors slid open.
Ryland steps inside.
The flashing lights and pounding music felt foreign now. It has been years since he’d willingly enter a place like this.
Then you spot him.
Your entire face lit up.
“MY RYLAND!” You point at him, shaking Nicole’s shoulder in excitement as you jump around, pulling yourself away from poor Nicole’s hold.
The moment Nicole lets you go, you stumble forward with all the coordination of a newborn baby deer.
“Oh thank God. You’re his problem now.”
You practically launch yourself at him.
Ryland barely has time to brace himself before you collide to his chest.
“Hi, Sugarpie~” You slur, grinning as you boop the tip of his nose with your perfectly manicured finger.
“S-sugarpie…?” He repeats weakly, sounding personally attacked as he visibly short circuits at the nickname, the tip of his ears flushes pink. Before he can respond any further, you cup his face between your hands and kiss his cheek.
“Mwah!”
A giggle escapes you.
Then another kiss. “Mwah!”
Another giggle.
And another.
“MWAH!”
The exaggerated kissy sound makes Nicole wheezes.
You only giggled harder.
Meanwhile, Ryland is rapidly turning red. “Okay, okay.”
“Alright.” His arms wrap securely around your waist before you can tip over, only to simply lift you off your feet altogether.
You gasp. “Oh my God.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I CAN stand.” Your legs kick uselessly through the air.
“See? Standing.”
Nicole snorted so hard she nearly doubled over.
“You’re enabling her.”
“I’m preventing a concussion.”
“Fair enough.”
While you remain occupied attempting to steal yet another kiss from his cheek, Nicole hands over your purse and helps drape your jacket over your knees.
“How did this even happen?” Ryland asks.
“A challenge happened and—”
“You should’ve come with me.” You say out of nowhere, pouting, cutting off Nicole’s explanation.
“I invited you.”
“You did.”
“You said no.”
“You told me it was girls’ night.”
“It’s just event details. Everyone else’s boyfriend is here.” You complain, giving him your best sad face as you trace little circles on his chest.
Nicole nodded solemnly.
“She’s got a point.”
“You’re supposed to be helping me.”
“I am helping. So next time, come suffer with the rest of us.”
Ryland laughs quietly despite himself.
“Yeah. I’ll come next time.”
Your eyes immediately widen.
“Really? Really? Really?”
“Really.”
“I LOVE YOUUU!” And there goes another kiss to his cheek. Nicole makes an exaggerated gagging noise at that.
“Okay, that’s enough. Take your boyfriend home.”
“Bye, Nicole!”
“Bye.”
“Love you!”
“I know.”
“Love youuuu!”
“Please leave.”
Still carrying you with ease, Ryland shook his head and headed toward the exit.
Halfway through the lobby, he looks down on you, finding you no longer paying attention to anything happening around you.
You are only staring at the chandelier overhead with complete wonder.
“Ry...”
“Yes?”
“Look, the ceiling looks beautiful.”
He follows your gaze.
“It is.”
“Not as beautiful as you though.”
Ryland nearly walked into the door, making you giggle and his cheeks burning.
With you squirming in his arms and insisting you won’t be any trouble, he finally makes his way toward the parking lot. But, the moment he reaches his car, Ryland freezes, he pats the side of his pants once, then again. Nothing.
“You have my keys.”
You blink at him. Then smile. “I have your keys!”
“Yes”
“I’m helping.”
“You stole them.”
“Borrowed.”
Ryland sighs.
After a brief negotiation involving three kisses, one attempted bribe, and you insisting his keychain is really pretty, Ryland finally manages to retrieve his keys.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.” He mumbles as he settles you into the passenger seat.
“I know.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It sounded like one.” It absolutely is.
As he reaches over to fasten your seatbelt, you immediately complain.
“I want to sit with you.”
“You are sitting with me.”
“No.” You frown. “I’m sitting next to you.”
“Yes. That’s generally how cars work.”
“NO.” You point at him accusingly. “I want to sit with you.”
A laugh escapes him despite his best efforts.
“You can’t, baby. I need to drive.”
“Hmph.” You slump back into the seat, arms crossed dramatically over your chest.
For a while, the car falls quiet.
Then your gaze fell to your side, to him. “Pretty.” You mumble.
Ryland glances over, meeting your eyes already on him, heavy-lidded beneath fluttering lashes.
“I said you’re pretty,” You insist, reaching out to cup the side of his face, your thumb brushes softly over his cheekbone, earning a faint hitch in his breath.
Then, before he can gather a response, you’re already reaching for your seatbelt, unbuckling it and scrambling to sit into his lap.
“Wait—”
Ryland catches you immediately, one arm holding you in place. “You can’t do that.”
“I can.”
“That’s not how laws work.”
You stare at him, he stares back.
Then you pout.
“Baby.”
“No.”
“Baby. It’s dangerous.”
You only wiggle out of his hold, somehow managing to settle yourself comfortably on his lap. The triumphant giggle that leaves you tells him this was your plan all along.
“Absolutely not.”
“It worked.”
“It did not work.”
“It did.” You beam, Ryland pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You need to go back to your seat. Come on, baby. This is dangerous.”
You immediately shake your head. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You can drive just fine.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Ryland realizes this is a battle he’s not going to win through reason. With a resigned sigh, he pulls over to the side of the road, stopping to return you to your seat.
Apparently it doesn’t matter.
Because the moment he tries to move you, your arms immediately lock around him. Like a koala discovering its favorite tree.
“Baby.”
“No.”
“Baby.”
“No.”
“You have to let go.” And you cling tighter.
Ryland tries again.
And again.
At one point he even gets out of the car and attempts to physically relocate you back into the passenger seat. He tries bribing you with food. He even tries shaking you off, which only has you laughing so hard that Ryland starts laughing too.
He is sure he could move you if he really tried, like actually peeling you off him. The problem is that he doesn’t want to risk the force hurting you.
So the two of you remain stranded on the side of the road.
With you straddling his lap, tracing every feature of his face as if he is the prettiest thing ever.
He is pretty, you love pretty.
Each touch is followed by a soft kiss, one after another, giggling and smiling ear to ear at just how gorgeous your boyfriend is.
Ryland is trying very hard to pretend like this is a normal situation.
It’s not.
Not when every few minutes you glance up at him fluttering your lashes before announcing an observation.
“Pretty.”
“I’ve heard.”
“So pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“The prettiest.”
A fond smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
You kiss that smile away before burying your face in the crook of his neck, earning a shaky breath from Ryland .
“B-baby…”
You begin pressing open mouthed kisses along his jaw, nipping and licking playfully down his neck, leaving marks that will definitely be visible later.
A whimper escapes him on each kiss, his hands gently trying to guide you away, but not because he dislikes it, quite the opposite actually. He’s starting to enjoy it far more than he should, he needs to get the two of you home.
“Baby, l-let’s not—Oh~” His words cut off at the roll of your hips.
Your hands drift across his chest, softly rubbing on them, you hum softly as you let your lips linger just on top of his, making him chase the kiss before finally giving it to him, moaning into his mouth as you continue grinding on his already forming bulge.
Slowly drowning in your touch, Ryland’s hands not shying away, softly caressing your waist whilst holding you steady. He is struggling to remember why he pulled over in the first place, with eyes tightly shut, his hips start bucking up helplessly, matching your movements.
Then he feels your cold hand snaking under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, clumsily trying to push on the shirt he is wearing. And he remembers.
The position you’re in.
The situation you’re in.
The reason he stopped the car.
Quickly catching your wrist, he jerks back off the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours and forcing himself to calm down.
“I-i’m sorry Baby, but let’s n-not—” It’s painfully hard for him to say that, only for his words to be cut off by your whines.
“No~” You eagerly try to lean back in for the already heated kiss, but Ryland turns his head away at the last second. Making you frown sadly at his response.
He saw that, the dejected look.
“Hey, hey,” One hand comes up to cradle your face, just holding you there, keeping a sliver of distance between the two of you as he tries to calm your increasingly distressed state.
You grab that hand and pull it down to your chest.
“Touch me…”
His fingers squeeze on them out of reflex, he can’t even stop himself, the sensation drawing a soft moan from you and Ryland instantly chokes on his own breath.
“Shit—“
His other hand shoots up and grabs his wrist, pulling it away as if it might betray him again if left unattended.
“No…no…” He squeezes his eyes shut.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? -He thought to himself.
“Baby, please…” His voice cracks slightly. “D-don’t do this to me.”
“I want you to.” You quickly reply.
His hand goes back to your face, thumb brushing gently across your cheek.
“I know Baby. I know what you want,” The words come out softer this time. “But not now. You’re drunk.”
“No~ i know what m’doing.” You nuzzle into his palm, displaying your sad sad eyes.
The gesture nearly breaks whatever resolve he has left.
“I’m not rejecting you, okay?” He murmurs. “That’s not what this is.”
Your head tilts, resting fully against his hand, eyes remain fixed on him.
Waiting.
Wanting.
“Then why not?” The question comes out small.
Honest.
Ryland lets out a heavy sigh. “Because I care about you.”
“I know. So take care of me...” You frown.
He presses a kiss to your forehead.
“I know what you mean.” A strained laugh escapes him. “And trust me, you’re not making this easy for me either.”
That earns the faintest huff from you, pulling another smile from him.
“But I need you to tell me that again, once you’ve had some sleep, some water, and yell at me for being annoying.”
You grumble under your breath, making Ryland laugh.
“If you still want me after that…” He pauses for a moment, swallowing the thought of it. “then we’ll talk about it.”
The promise hangs on you.
You are unimpressed.
Beautiful.
Ryland nearly groans again.
“Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Too beautiful, like you’re trying to kill me.”
A laugh escapes you.
“There she is.” Ryland closes his eyes in victory.
“You have nice eyelashes.”
“Thank you.”
“You should let me borrow them.”
That earns an actual laugh from him, a quiet one, the kind that makes your heart flutter.
Eventually your words become slower, the pauses between them grow longer as your head grows heavier against his shoulder.
Finally silence takes over.
Ryland looks down.
You’re asleep. Still clinging to him, one hand still holding onto his jacket. Still wearing the tiniest smile.
Ryland can’t help smiling back.
For a moment, he simply sits there, watching you. His fingers gently combing through your hair, only when he’s sure you’re sound asleep does he carefully move you back into the passenger seat.
This time, you don’t protest, you merely curl deeper into the jacket draped over your shoulders. Ryland reclines the seat and adjusts your seatbelt, making sure you are comfortable, and finally starts the car.
The rest of the drive home passes in silence.
As the car stops, you stir in your sleep, as if knowing that you’re home.
Ryland glances over, seeing your sleepy eyes slowly fluttering open.
“Hi.” He smiles, the back of his hand brushes gently against your cheek.
You push yourself upright, blinking away the remnants of sleep. For a moment, you simply stare at him, then your gaze drops to his hand resting on your thighs.
Warm.
Without a word, you climb over the center console and settle onto his lap, wrapping your arms around him before burying your face in his neck. Again.
Ryland lets out a quiet sigh, not surprised in the slightest. One arm circles your waist while the other reaches for the bottle of water.
“Here. Water first.”
Reluctantly, you allow him to help you drink a few sips, once he’s satisfied, he sets the bottle aside.
“Let’s go.”
His hand is only centimeters away from the door handle when you practically collapse onto him.
All your weight and determination, arms looping around his neck as you cling to him shamelessly, effectively pinning him back into the seat.
“What is it?”
You only hold on tighter, giving him your best puppy eyes.
Ryland studies your face for a moment.
The stubborn pout.
The way you’re clinging to him like letting go would hurt.
A smile threatens to break through his face.
“You are impossible.”
“No.”
“No?”
You shake your head, then you pull on him, capturing his lips in yours. Clearly not forgetting what you want, and this time you’re determined to make sure you’ll get exactly what you want.
Ryland bites on your lower lips, more like holding them still to not kiss any further, his action makes you pull back with a small whine of annoyance.
“Stop being annoying.”
A laugh escapes him. “I’m not. Come on, let’s get inside.”
“No.” You protest, immediately grabbing onto his face.
“I want you. Here. Now.”
“H-here?”
“Yesss, let’s do it here.” You quickly reply, then pushing on his shirt again, wanting it off him so badly.
“Wai—what are you—“
“You promised.”
“You said we could do it after I got some sleep, some water, and realized you’re annoying.” You remind him, already frowning.
“You actually said that.”
Ryland pinches the bridge of his nose. “I did.”
“But I said we could talk about it.” He did.
“No. No. No. No. No...” You shake your head frantically, horrified that he might actually deny you again.
Every attempt he makes to create distance is immediately undone as you cling to him again.
“Wait—You’re drunk—“
“I’m NOT!” Coming out louder than intended. “Not as drunk.”
“But—”
“I know…I know, I am drunk, but I…I-i’m…” The words die in your throat, frustratingly difficult to explain, because the feeling isn’t logical.
You know you can have him tomorrow.
You know there’s no rush.
You know the two of you have all the time in the world.
And yet you still want him. Now.
“I just…I really need you…”
“Baby—”
“I NEED YOU TO FUCK ME. NOW!” Clasping your mouth with both hands as soon as you realize the outburst is nearly as overwhelming as the desire behind it.
Ryland blinks at that, gulping once before parting his lips to say something but not a word comes out, clearly affected by your demand.
“Please…” You beg, voice so small now.
“I know what I’m asking for.” Your fingers tighten around his shirt, crumpling the fabric between them.
Ryland’s expression softens immediately.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke, just eyes holding each other’s gaze, romancing silently, settling into the warmth that your hearts always knew.
You trusted him completely, he would never hurt you, never take more than what you meant to give.
Ryland searched your face one last time, not for permission, he’d already heard that, but for hesitation. He refuses to become the reason you questioned that trust tomorrow.
Doubt. Confusion. Uncertainty. Anything that suggests you might not actually want this, none.
Then he lets out a slow breath, his hand comes up to cradle your cheek, you nuzzle into his palm again, immediately, eyes sparkling with silent whispers of asking him to come closer.
Inviting as it is, you land a soft kiss in his palm.
“Such a tease...”
The words come out more like a groan than a scold. He brings your face closer to his, close enough to see the detailed streaks of his beautiful blue eyes.
“Just for you.” You say, softly batting your lashes in innocence, making him bite down a smile.
The smile he gives you is helpless. “Yeah?”
Completely. Hopelessly. Fond.
And you know that look.
You know exactly what it means.
He caves in.
A subtle click of the car locking could be heard. The hand on your cheek slides to the back of your head, pressing your lips flush against his.
The movement is immediate, intense. Starved.
Hours of restraint snapping under the weight of your persistence, he’s been holding himself back all night.
Too long.
His free hand settles at your waist, kneading on them softly as he pulls you even closer.
A pleased hum escapes you at the push of his tongue, hearts pounding with anticipation at how he is kissing you like his life depends on it.
The already short dress now rides up to your hips, revealing the thin soaked fabric of your panties, letting your still clothed heat graze on his bulge at every restless squirm. You start grinding on him for more, probably leaving a wet patch on his jeans from how wet you are, gasping out his name every time he answers to your movement.
Your hands fumbling down his coat, tugging on the hem of his shirt, almost whining at him to take it off in your impatience. And he did, pulling them off before playfully tossing them into the backseat, you giggled at that, making him smile more into the kiss.
Fingertips tracing the firm lines of his body, gliding down his chest, following the contour of his stomach. “Mine~” You mumble, it almost sounds possessive.
He definitely hears them, cause you can feel the smile against your lips widens. “Mhmm? Yours.” He murmurs, sounding far too pleased with himself.
Every breath he takes brushes against your lips, colliding with your own, fanning across his skin.
The air inside the car feels warmer now,thick with warmth and unspoken wants. With the windows sealed shut, every breath exchanged trapped inside. Thin layers of fog begin to blur the glass.
Outside, the world grows more distant.
Inside, the space feels smaller.
Closer.
He reaches for the lever beside his seat, reclining them until he’s almost lying flat beneath you, his other hand smoothing over your thigh then up to your waist.
An invitation.
Come here.
Staring up at you before pulling you down to him, the look in his eyes is so tender, so lovingly mismatched with the situation both of you are currently in.
His touch feels so intoxicating in your senses.
Maybe it’s the alcohol in you.
Or maybe just because it’s Ryland.
You can’t stop your giddy fits of giggles, even when they keep dissolving into breathless moans against his mouth, all at the same time.
Not when he’s finally kissing you back.
Not when he keeps pulling you closer.
Ryland pulls off the kiss with a grunt, he guides both of your bodies up again, his hand finds the zipper running down the front of your dress, eagerly pulling them down.
The zipper slides down so easily, you silently thank yourself for choosing this one.
For a moment, Ryland simply stares and he instantly regrets staring.
Beneath the dress is a front clasp bra.
Lacy.
Of course it’s lacy.
“hnngh…” The whimper slips out under his breath, closing his eyes shut just to open them again in a second. He closes them once more, trying to convince himself that looking away is still an option.
It isn’t.
Poor Ryland is so far past saving himself.
Because unlike the zipper, the tiny clasp sitting at the center feels more dangerous. He knows exactly how the clasp works, understanding the mechanics perfectly.
One motion, that’s all it takes.
A single motion.
Pulse racing so violently as he reaches closer.
When his hand finally hovers over the clasp, he breathes so heavily, then he abruptly abandons the whole mission. He folds forward and wraps his arms around you, hiding his face on your chest.
“W-wait.” His voice cracks.
“Wait…”
Taking in a long breath, then another.
Neither helps.
“G-give me— gimme a minute.”
He is actively system failure-ing. Trying and failing to gather whatever remains of his self control.
You watch him quietly.
The bright red ears.
The disastrous breathing.
And the way he’s currently hiding his face on top of the problem rather than solving it.
A smile spreads across your face, somewhere between fondness, absolute adoration and mischiefs.
You should probably feel bad for him.
You don’t.
So while he is having his existential crisis, you unclasp them yourself with him still hiding his face on it.
“Y-you can’t just—” Cuts off, by a kiss on his cheek. “You were taking forever.”
He immediately looks away, biting back his embarrassment.
Unfortunately, he looks back at you.
“Ryland, you’ve literally touched them before.”
He had.
Countless times, actually.
“I k-know…” Of course, he’d never forget how they feel.
That was part of the problem.
He should have been used to this by now, but no amount of familiarity seemed to dull the effect you had on him. It’s the opposite.
Still overwhelming.
Still hopelessly smitten.
Still wondering how it was possible to love someone this much.
Every time you let him this close, he falls a little more in love with you.
Your hands slip between both of your bodies, fumbling with the button of his jeans before trying to tug them lower.
The movement finally pulls him out of his trance.
“O-okay. I’m not… holding back?” He seems to be asking himself as much as he’s asking you, making sure that it’s actually okay for him to.
You lean forward, biting softly on his ear. A gentle warning to stop asking for permission.
Stop thinking.
Just kiss me.
Either way, he gets the message.
Questions abandoned, and Ryland is shoving down his jeans all together with his brief, suddenly moving so quickly, too quick even.
He helps you out of your underwear before laying himself back, cock already standing tall in his hand, grunting softly as he pumps himself ready, taking his sweet time.
“Put it i-in…” You whine, running out of patience from how he is keeping you still, you’re trying to rock your hips forward, but Ryland keeps gliding his length over your entrance, lathering himself in your slick, intentionally not pushing inside, teasing you and himself.
“All pretty for m-me...”
He actually considers, on making you wait a little longer, a little charmed by how adorable you look, how you keep looking at him like every problem you’ve ever had would be solved, if only he’d just take you now.
The longer he looks at you, the harder it becomes to hold his ground.
And honestly? Who is he to deny you now?
Finally, he lets you sink down on him, letting out a strangled moan at how effortlessly he slid right in, his whole body is shuddering at how your wetness engulfs him fully.
“S-so desperate aren’t y-you?” He mutters, shaking his head.
You yelp at the intrusion, pulling up slightly to lessen the pressure, only for him to thrust right up, the movement almost knocks you over, your hands behind you pressed down on both of his thighs to hold yourself up.
His grip feels almost bruising around your hips, holding you still against him, letting you adjust for a while before he starts moving.
“Couldn’t even w-wait till you sobered up properly.”
You nod, agreeing with a stupid grin as he starts picking up the pace, you too start bouncing on him, chasing for more as your body starts remembering him.
The skin slapping sounds filling the car, followed by you moaning even louder. Completely blissed out from the way he stretches you, so full, so good.
Under the streetlights, the car rocks every now and then, swaying along with whatever is unfolding inside. Hard enough to catch the attention of anyone passing by and answer the questioning look before it’s even asked, making them walk away faster immediately.
He reaches out to grab his glasses on the dashboard, farsighted Ryland doesn’t want to miss any little detail that’s playing out in front of him.
Usually, when he works with glasses on, he looks so composed, so put together. But now? It makes him look so wrecked, all sweaty, moaning, and panting under you.
A totally irresistible full course meal, serving himself right in front of you.
“Ry…M-more~” You mewls, pressing yourself onto him harder, trying your best to push him deeper in you, but it’s just not enough.
You pull yourself off him, whining at the emptiness once he slips out.
“Baby—why are y-you—”
Before he could complete his sentence, you flip yourself back facing him, sitting on your knees between his legs before you arch down and hold on to the steering wheel.
Presenting yourself, all for him to devour.
“You—” He exhales shakily. “You’re trouble…”
If anything, he sounds impressed.
“H-hurry up,” One of your hands went across your side pulling on your cheeks apart. “Here~…put it b-back..”
Just the sight to end him, so obscenely beautiful, killing whatever coherent thoughts he has left.
“F-fuck…”
With embarrassing haste, he guides himself back to your entrance, a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan escapes him as he pushes into you again. One of his hands travels to your breast, palming on them as he pulls you up, and his other arm wraps around your waist, keeping you pressed firmly against him.
Your hands settle over his, needing something to hold on as he starts pounding into you again, and with your head resting on his shoulder, you’re making just the perfect space for him to leave trails of love marks on your neck.
As promised, he doesn’t hold back, he takes complete control of the rhythm, moving your pliant body however he wants. A rare occasion where Ryland loses himself, and you absolutely love it.
There’s something unexpectedly comforting about surrendering the moment to him.
Not because you’ve lost your voice, but because you know he’ll never stop paying attention to you. It lets you relax in a way few things ever do, and with the alcohol still warming your system, everything seems magnified.
All you can feel is the pleasure of finally getting what you’ve been asking for all night.
“hahhn—Yes…y-yes…Ry~”
Failing again and again to keep your mouth shut from all the embarrassing sounds.
How wrecked you sounded only makes him rut into you harder.
Until he catches you hissing softly.
“Hey—” His thrust falters immediately, concern flashing across his face. “What is it?” His hands are quick to check on you.
“Did I hurt you?”
“N-no…” You whine, of course it’s not him. It’s just that your knees are starting to ache from constantly rubbing against the leather seat, but you keep pushing through it.
The position is just too good to give up.
At least until it starts hurting you.
Ryland notices the source of your discomfort immediately
“Must be your knees.” The words leave him in a soft murmur, his hand is already sliding down your leg, careful and reassuring.
“Baby…” Your hesitation confirms it. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Still you don’t answer him.
Not because you don’t hear him.
But you’re too focused on finding a way to not stop any of this, eyes skimming across the cramped space around you.
There has to be one.
There simply has to be.
Then you turn halfway and place a hand against his chest, giving him a gentle push. “Lay d-down.”
“W-what?”
“Lay on the seat…hurry…hnhh—”
“But the front—” Ryland glances toward the windshield.
Unlike the rest of the windows, it isn’t as tinted and judging by the look you’re giving him, he already knows exactly what you’re suggesting.
“I d-don’t care…please~” You plea, nudging him backward with your own weight.
He lets out a strained grunt, glancing toward the windshield again, visibly unconvinced by your complete lack of concern, but the way you look at him makes whatever argument he was preparing die immediately.
With a resigned sigh, he halfheartedly complies, laying himself back with you on top of him.
Once the both of you are settled, you spread your legs open, hiking them on the dashboard.
Ryland immediately panics at your action. “NO—”
At the same time, he does know this position lets him in deeper and it angles him better.
Exactly hitting your spot.
“Fuck—Baby d-don’t—” Ryland is halfway through the protest when it abruptly falls apart at the way your walls flutter. His own body betrays him, hips jerking up into you, completely forgetting that he was trying to argue.
“There—yes y-yesss.”
You guide his hand to press just below your navel, letting him feel the outline of his own length every time he plunges in.
“So g-good…Ry—anhhh” Struggling to form any word as he fucks into you harder.
Ryland is still wary about both of your surroundings, but at the same time he can’t help the way his cock is twitching at how you’re clamping and sucking him in.
He is so close.
If only his eyes didn’t land on the shadow behind the windshield.
His bubble of pleasure bursts.
Mark.
Of course it’s Mark.
Because apparently the universe has decided Ryland has not suffered enough tonight.
Oh he knows that look.
The one that Mark has been giving you ever since you moved in with him. He’s been painfully aware of it.
Ryland hates his guts.
“No… No. NO! He saw!” He cries out, it almost sounds pained.
But you only whine in frustration at how he is stopping so suddenly.
“Ry…hnngh—don’t stop!” The words come out absentmindedly, you’re too lost in the moment.
“Baby, that jerk is ahh—”
Now you’re annoyed at that guy.
Offended, even.
“I-i don’t care...” You grab his hand, holding it against your fold, wanting his attention back to you.
“Ry! Focus on me….”
Impatient, you start writhing over him, clumsily moving his hand to circle your clit, clenching on him harder, nibbling on his ear, jaw, neck. All.
Anything for him to start moving again.
But Ryland is hopelessly stuck in his thoughts.
“hngghh—He s-saw you like this,”
“I-i hate it…” Ryland is visibly bothered by it, babbling out his thoughts as his eyes keep flicking toward the windshield, as if glaring harder at Mark might make him disappear.
He doesn’t.
Which only makes Ryland more irritated.
Mark is seeing something Ryland never wanted anyone else to see.
“They can watch or…w-whatever...hmm.” You pant out as you continue kissing the underside of his jaw.
“Only you—only you get to t-touch.”
That breaks his thread of thoughts.
Ryland forgets what he was angry about, a pleased grunt escapes him at your words.
Because that?
That he likes.
He starts thrusting into you again, harsher in a way that’s just perfect for you.
Your gaze drops down to where you both meet, there lies a sight that gets you whimpering helplessly, a creamy ring forms around the base of his cock.
“Y-yeah?…” He breathes out heavily.
“You’re mine.”
His voice drops lower, driving into you harder and harder, emphasizing his statement.
You nod obediently at him, moans pitching higher when he playfully pinches on your clit, rolling them between his fingers.
“Only you—hnnhh~” Your voice wavers.
“Only y-you can…make me f-feel this way Ry…”
It’s the last full sentence that you manage to say before you feel yourself getting closer, anything after that are just cries of his name.
“I know…I-i know Baby,” His other hand comes up to your chin, turning your face until your eyes meet his.
“Stay with me hmm...”
Eyes so hungry yet so loving, unmistakably tender.
“Let me feel you…p-please.”
That does it, you’re done for.
The look in his eyes and the way he said them.
Your thoughts scatter completely, you cum so hard that you can actually hear…not see, but hear whites, losing awareness of your surroundings for a second.
Your legs fall off the dashboard, clamping on his hand between you with him still buried inside.
He follows right after, gasping with shaky moans as he fills you up full of him, he keeps thrusting slowly, pushing his cum deeper in you as he keeps looking at you through it, savoring every contort of your pleasured face, whispering praises before kissing you again, muffling any sound from you.
He glances back toward the windshield, just in time to see Mark chuckling and raising both hands as he slowly backs away, as if to say, I get it. She’s yours.
His gaze tears away from Mark when he hears your muffled giggles, pulling away from the kiss as he sat the both of you up.
“Shit— are y-you okay?” The post nut clarity got to him all at once, whatever haze he’d been in vanishing in an instant. Hissing a little as he gently pulls out, he turns you to face him, searching your face with worried eyes.
“Hey… look at me.”
Before he can ask anything else, your hands come up to cup his cheeks. Your thumbs stroke across his skin with lazy affection.
“How are you always sooo good~” You slur with a sleepy smile.
Ryland blinks.
Your eyes are heavy, cheeks rosy, smile impossibly soft. You’re still undeniably tipsy, from all the drinks before, from the overwhelming night, and now him.
“You’re still…drunk” He whispers, the words leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
A knot of guilt settles quietly in his chest, Ryland feels like he took advantage of you in some ways.
“I really liked it…” You giggle to yourself. “We should—no.” Shaking your head with exaggerated certainty.
“We will do this again.”
Then you press a lingering kiss on his cheek.
Ryland lets out a quiet laugh, the one that sounds warm but tinged with worry.
“I shouldn’t be doing this to you…” He says quietly, almost to himself.
He pulls you closer into his embrace, resting his forehead against your shoulder as he holds you a little tighter.
He’ll talk about this later, when your head is clear.
“m’sleepy.” You mumble, curling into him with a satisfied sigh.
Ryland quickly covers you with your jacket before carefully carrying you inside.
Everything afterward is gentle.
Washing you clean.
Finding you something comfortable to sleep in.
Then tucking you in bed.
He lies down beside you, watching your peaceful sleeping face, fingers softly caressing through your hair.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers again,
He pulls you into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
The words catch in his throat.
He swallows hard.
It doesn’t help.
His eyes sting anyway, and he lets out a small, shaky sniff before resting his forehead against your hair.
He knows you won’t hear him.
He knows you asked for it.
And he isn’t sure whether he’s apologizing to you, or trying to convince himself.
The guilt lingers long after.
The morning after, you wake up sore all over and the headache doesn’t help at all. You let out a small groan before instinctively burying your face against Ryland’s chest.
Your movement stirs him awake, his eyes blink open, the moment they find you, his concerns kicking away all traces of sleepiness.
“Are you okay?” His hand is already caressing over your hair. “Wait, I’ll get you some water and—”
He quickly scrambles to get up, only for you to quickly catch on his wrist.
“No…stay here” You mumble. “Cuddle me.” You return his hand to your head, silently asking him to continue.
He smiles faintly.
Gently massaging your head, exactly the way you wanted.
For a few quiet moments, neither of you says anything.
Then Ryland’s smile fades.
“Did you…” He gulps. “Did you r-remember what happened?”
You only hum in response.
His heart sinks.
“Baby…” His voice barely comes out. “I’m sorry. I… I shouldn’t have—”
Nuzzling even closer, your muffled grumble cuts him off.
Slowly, you lift your blushing face from his chest, making him a little shocked at how flushed you look.
You are embarrassed? Shy? Or maybe warm from sleep? Ryland can’t tell.
Either way, the sight steals the rest of the apology from his lips.
“No…” You mumble, avoiding his eyes for only a second before blurting it out. “You… you do me…well, so very well.” Followed by a tiny, embarrassed noise as you hide your face against him again.
“I…” He blinks once. Twice.
Ryland has absolutely no idea how to act with that, blushing himself as he hugs you even tighter.
“Th-thank you?”
You snort at how unsure he sounded.
“I meant it, I loved it, always” You mumble softly, smiling into his chest.
“I love you.”
Whatever guilt he’d been carrying slowly subsided, replaced by a quiet warmth and fuzzy bloom in his chest, you caught him off guard all over again.
“I love you so much.” He blurts at once.
“I—I just—I...” He continues just as quickly, stumbling over his words as it refuses to come together.
His cheeks flush pink, and the corners of his brows lift ever so slightly, making him look impossibly smitten.
“I can’t believe I did all that…” You laugh, equally embarrassed and amused of yourself.
“Was I—uh…hot?”
“Are you seriously asking me that?” Ryland lets out a disbelieving laugh. “I wish you could’ve seen yourself.”
The adoration is clear in his voice.
“You’re… everything.”
Your smile, so wide your cheeks start hurting.
“We should do that again.” You bite your lower lips at the thought, mischief already sparkling in your eyes.
“No.” He blurts out.
“WHAT!? Why?”
“Just no.” His expression sours as he remembers what happened with Mark.
“Whyyy? Why? Tell me…” You whine, shaking him slightly even though he doesn’t budge.
“Not telling.”
“Oh come on.” You huff out in disappointment, pouting at him dramatically.
Unable to resist, he steals a quick kiss on your pout, quickly trying to get off the bed.
Your eyes widen as you gasp, leaping off the bed to koala cling him.
“More~ Kiss me again.” You wrap your arms around his neck tightly, making a kissy face.
He keeps on looking away teasingly, making you shake him again.
“Quick, my head is hurting.” The excuse works instantly. Ryland turns right back around, he gently puts you down the bed in worry.
Only for you to catch him by the collar and pull him into the kiss once he’s close enough.
“Bad girl.” He mumbles against your lips, before continuing to kiss you.
That got a hum of approval from you.
The rest of the morning is well spent with kisses and laughter, the kind of comfort that makes neither of you want to leave the bed.
Never does Ryland manage to get anything done that morning.
Every time he fusses over your hangover or tries to do something, you’re already tugging him back for one more kiss, one more cuddle, one more excuse to keep him there.
And Ryland doesn’t mind one bit.
afterwords: i know this might not be everyones cup of tea, but do tell me what you think about it, I WROTE THIS WITH “the more he respects me, the more i’ll let him disrespect me in bed.” IN MIND, idk bruh maybe this is far too self-indulgent, but in my defense i do think Ryland is this type of man y’know, respects you a lot, loves you too much, smitten and all AAAAA IDK BRUH I’M CRAZY, SHE’S LITERALLY ME, BLIND FATE ON RYLAND GRACE.
English isn’t my first language, so there might be a few awkward phrases or grammar mistakes here and there. If you spot any mistakes, feedback is always appreciated.
Thank You so much for reading this -actual Grace❤︎
writing bad x reader fanfics since 2012 @pensationalwriting - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
