my name is Rin (short i-sound, not "reen"); i go by plutorine on here as well, but this is just my r-18 sideblog for all the filthier stuff that i want to post/write. do not interact with this blog if you are a minor; i will block you if i see you doing otherwise.
i post a lot about Ryland Grace and maybe sometimes Lars Lindstrom + other stuff i have going on like my longfic Serpentine Tears and my yumeship (Stavreyeva). i also like gracerocky because i'm a monsterfucker freak. (i'm not) sorry. it will happen again. you can mute the tag if that's not something you like.
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#Starbound | anything related to my Ryland Grace x PHM OC fic on AO3
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My lips are sore from biting it down while reading the entirety of messy!roommate Grace.
"- praying for salvation (but do you really want to be saved?)" NO I DO NOT. I AM EXACTLY WHERE I WANT TO BE.
Me when I want to ramble to someone about this masterpiece but they aren't in the fandom:
Genuinely HAS to be one of the most exquisite reads I've had in this fandom so far. The articulation of description was an absolute delight to read, down to Ryland being the most in-character I've seen him in smut fics. Plot? Simple but immaculate. Word count? Delicious and I was surprised when I finished reading it; "wait, I'm finished?" In two literal ways.
Truly an inspiration to anyone who's given the blessing to stumble upon your glorious works, Ponti.
thank you so much for reading and for these words 🙇🏻♀️🙏🏻🫶🏻 i'm so happy it landed and was effective :)
I just wanna say, before anything else, that aside from your fluency in all things filthy, your humor and wit are astounding! These were my favorites from your newest Ryland x Reader fic:
"You weren’t just dealing with uppity rich girls who loved wasting mommy and daddy’s money and had personalities tantamount to a sheet of low-grit sandpaper."
"Sometimes you had visions about slapping a billionaire with Adam Smith’s invisible hand just to make yourself feel better."
and
"'Sorry, Adriene’ , you sighed. The light in you could no longer recognize the light in Ryland’s spirit. You were going to punch it out of him instead."
As a long-time subscriber of Yoga With Adriene, that made me laugh so hard! 😆 Seriously, I hope you never stop writing. You're clearly gifted and I can feel the love that you put into your work. Thank you for sharing your talent with us! 💝
messy roommate!Ryland Grace smut fic is up on my AO3, for those of you who are anticipating it :) i will be cross-posting it here at around noon, Philippine Standard Time. please mind the tags on the work before you proceed.
Hey y'all, if you or someone you know has been tagged in a post like this, don't click on any links, don't reply to the post, don't message the OP, or provide any personal info like your password, phone number, email address, ect. Report the post as spam, and report and block the account.
If you did click the link/provide personal information, change your password to your account as well as your email accounts. If you provided banking information, lock your cards and call your bank asap to make sure they can provide you with a new card and to prevent fraud. (I'm not sure if banking info is asked for in this post but better to be safe than sorry)
Ryland Grace x Female!Reader (in response to this ask)
Summary: You were sure that you were clear enough in your warning and recollection of what would happen to him if he drank too much again, but you’re now beginning to realize that Ryland, despite everything that had changed in his personality since working as a teacher, still had that propensity to be provoked; it only laid dormant and never truly disappeared.
Rating: E
Tags: Mentions of alcohol, Drunk Sex (only Grace is drunk though) Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Penetrative Sex, Hand Jobs, p in v s e x, Multiple Orgasms, Creampie, Riding, Sexual Overstimulation, Cross-Posted on AO3
You’ve advised Ryland against drinking past his limit before. Multiple times, actually, because you’ve seen what he’s like when he drinks a little too much — not that you complained about his heightened need to give and receive affection, but you also didn’t want him suffering in the morning when he inevitably has to run to the bathroom and heave out the contents of his digestive system. He’d always come back to bed looking like a guilty five-year-old who puked and hurriedly rinsed and cleaned his mouth of the evidence.
Before Ryland left to attend a birthday celebration (of one of his colleagues in the science department, as per the invitation he got via text), you repeated those same words of advice to him. You were sure that you were clear enough in your warning and recollection of what would happen to him if he drank too much again, but you’re now beginning to realize that Ryland, despite everything that had changed in his personality since working as a teacher, still had that propensity to be provoked; it only laid dormant and never truly disappeared.
They had playfully accused him of being a lightweight at the party, you were told when you drove to his coworker’s house to pick him up. Ryland thought it’d be a good idea to drink past his limit, feign sobriety, and silently prove to his fellow teachers that he was not a lightweight. Ultimately, his efforts were for naught, because you found him snoring away in the living room — tie loosened, glasses and jacket nowhere to be seen. His more sober friends helped you retrieve some of his dignity before letting you deal with the knocked out man on the sofa. Ryland didn’t even recognize you at first when you shook him awake, and when he did, it was only downhill from there.
You had to physically pry him off yourself so you could drive home safely — his drunken state had him convinced that you two had been separated for longer than five hours, thus prompting him to demand an onslaught of kisses from you — you were successful in this area until you made it back to your place, because Ryland was all over you again even as you were keying open the door. And god was he hard to fend off. He was hugging you, pawing at you; insisting to hold your hand even when you had to use it to close the car door. Each time you pulled away, he’d come right back to you like he had been magnetized. You had to drag him inside as he had his arms around you, nuzzling into your neck and impeding you from properly and freely using your entire body to move.
Somehow you got Ryland out of his clothes and changed into a more comfortable set; he asked for something to drink after that, and you dutifully went to the kitchen to fix him a mug. Ginger tea was your go-to fix for nights like this, and even if Ryland hated the stuff, he had accepted and learned how to drink it for his own sake. If he could down alcohol like it was water, he could handle drinking ginger tea just fine.
He didn’t let you off while you were waiting for the water to boil, either — he had himself draped over your back; his chin was resting on your shoulder as he sang a slurred and chopped version of Champagne Supernova into your ear. He kept on pausing to kiss your cheek, too. You were convinced that if Ryland was presented the option to sew himself to you, he would do it in a heartbeat. He’d be happily attached to you forever.
You didn’t let him lay down yet even when he finished his tea — you wanted to get him cleaned up, at least. So here he was, sitting at the edge of your shared bed, a dopey smile plastered on his face as he watched you wipe at his cheeks, forehead, and neck; hoping that the cold washcloth would refresh him from this stupor that he willingly dove into. You couldn’t even bring yourself to scold him; you already knew that tomorrow was going to be hell for him. Thank the heavens that it was the weekend.
“[Name],” Ryland called out for you. You had just gone back from the bathroom to rinse the cloth and change the water in the small basin. You were going to wipe down his arms next; he seemed to have rested them on some surface and had them smelling like an entire bar counter. He really stretched himself thin tonight.
“I’m here,” you replied, returning to his side and tending to his arms. He adjusted his glasses to get a clearer view of you while you had your head bowed down, focused on your work. He put out a hand to brush at your jaw. You paused and looked up at him.
“I love you,” said Ryland, taking your hand with the damp towel and pressing it to his cheek. “I love you so-o-o-o much,” he giggled, then hiccupped. You couldn’t help but smile at his attempts to sway you. You shook your head. The last thing you wanted to do was to stroke his ego by letting him witness what he was doing to you and your heart.
“I love you, too, Ry,” you replied, kissing his now-clean palm.
He took the cloth away from your hands and dropped it back into the water-filled basin by his foot, then he began pulling at you, until you were perched on his lap. He prevented you from escaping by wrapping his arms around your waist. You hesitated to sit down — Ryland was already half-hard in his boxers, and he was doing everything he could to make you acknowledge his current state. He whined when he realized that you were avoiding him. This man — this grown adult of a man who had a job and a partner — had the gall to pout at you.
“Why?” he whined. “No? You don’t want to?”
“I do, but… Ry, you’re drunk,” You reasoned. “I don’t want you moving as much, either. You’ll feel worse.”
Ryland shook his head. “No, no… I want you —” he hiccuped again, “—on me,” he nuzzled his nose into your cheek. “Wanna have you close…” He peered up at you again. “So can we?”
You pressed a kiss to his forehead, melting into his touch and whispering your affirmation into his ear. He was quick to attach his lips to yours once he knew he was allowed to, holding you in place as his hands carded through your hair; moaning softly as his hips began slowly grinding up into yours. You shared the same sound when you met him halfway. Both of you were gasping as you parted for air, though less than satiated by the friction that was only partially quelling the pooling heat between your legs. You feel the hardening curve of his cock straining against the fabric of his boxers more prominently now.
Ryland was already desperate for more. He was near tears as he asked you to undress him, as if rendered paralyzed by the intoxication from both alcohol and lust. You were no better — having been incited by Ryland himself — but you were a little more capable than him at the moment; you made quick work to free him from his shirt and carefully pulled him out of his boxers, dotting his stubbled jaw with feathery kisses as your hand stroked him.
You ended up riding Ryland thrice that night — he was significantly more eager while inebriated, you realized; and more persuasive, too. “Still wanna cum some more,” he whimpered even while he was in the middle of filling you up with his second release. “Don’t want it to end,” he added, capitalizing off the attention that he was giving your nipples as he had you in his lap, looking up at you with those blown blue eyes. You were too weak to protest; too drunk on him to even dissuade his demands. He had you hold onto him as he opted to thrust up into you next, knowing that your thighs have grown tired from the second round. You regret that you didn’t think much about his own remaining strength, and the fact that he was starting to sober up now. Ryland hissed as he gripped your hips in place, angling precisely into that spot that he knew you loved to be touched at the most. Your hands flew to the headboard for further support, mouth hanging slack as Ryland jostled you into his lap at such a rapid pace.
You came right away, keening as you rode out your orgasm and praying earnestly for him to finish soon. Your head dipped so you could kiss at his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat and the warmth of his skin to distract you from the overstimulation caused by his relentless thrusts.
Ryland cried out your name at last, spilling into you for the final time that night before lying limp beneath you, thoroughly spent and boneless from satisfying his own hunger for you. You stay there on top of him for a moment, your chests heaving as you two sought to catch your breath. You felt his hands coming up again, lovingly stroking at your arms and sides. He whispered another declaration of his love for you before closing his eyes. He wasn’t going to sleep yet — you could tell because you saw him smiling.
You sighed into his shoulder. You cleaned him off for naught. Maybe you should also heed your own advice and not let him go too far like this.
A few indulgent nights here and there wouldn’t hurt, though.
can we have a clingy needy kinda puppy like drunk ryland grace who just cant stop kissing reader or hugging reader (hugs from the back>>>) or holding reader's hand
(im on my periods and this man is not making it easy for me and plus i watched the fall guy colt seavers the man you are) basically i love ryan gosling
anyways thank you<3<3 for ur amazing AMAZING fic
here you go :) thank you so much for waiting. there were a lot of asks that came in before this one that you sent, and it took a while for me to get through them. this short and sweet oneshot is sfw, but i'm still labeling this as mature because there are themes of alcohol and inebriation. if you or any of you who's reading this want the extended r18 version, shoot me an ask and i'll put out the entire work. [EDIT: the extended version has already been posted.]
cw: alcohol and inebriation
You’ve advised Ryland against drinking past his limit before. Multiple times, actually, because you’ve seen what he’s like when he drinks a little too much — not that you complained about his heightened need to give and receive affection, but you also didn’t want him suffering in the morning when he inevitably has to run to the bathroom and heave out the contents of his digestive system. He’d always come back to bed looking like a guilty five-year-old who puked and hurriedly rinsed and cleaned his mouth of the evidence.
Before Ryland left to attend a birthday celebration (of one of his colleagues in the science department, as per the invitation he got via text), you repeated those same words of advice to him. You were sure that you were clear enough in your warning and recollection of what would happen to him if he drank too much again, but you’re now beginning to realize that Ryland, despite everything that had changed in his personality since working as a teacher, still had that propensity to be provoked; it only laid dormant and never truly disappeared.
They had playfully accused him of being a lightweight at the party — you were told when you arrived at his coworker’s house to pick him up. Ryland thought it’d be a good idea to drink past his limit, feign sobriety, and silently prove to his fellow teachers that he was not a lightweight.
Ultimately, his efforts were for naught, because you found him snoring away in the living room — tie loosened, glasses and jacket nowhere to be seen. His more sober friends helped you retrieve some of his dignity before letting you deal with the knocked out man on the sofa. Ryland didn’t even recognize you at first when you shook him awake, and when he did, it was only downhill from there.
You had to physically pry him off yourself so you could drive home safely — his drunken state had him convinced that you two had been separated for longer than five hours, thus prompting him to demand an onslaught of kisses from you — you were successful in this area until you made it back to your place, because Ryland was all over you again even as you were keying open the door. And god was he hard to fend off. He was hugging you, pawing at you; insisting to hold your hand even when you had to use it to lock the door. Each time you pulled away, he’d come right back to you like he had been magnetized. You had to drag him around as he had his arms around you, nuzzling into your neck and impeding you from properly and freely using your entire body to move.
Somehow you got Ryland out of his clothes and changed into a more comfortable set; he asked for something to drink after that, and you dutifully went to the kitchen to fix him a mug. Ginger tea was your go-to fix for nights like this, and even if Ryland hated the stuff, he had accepted and learned how to drink it for his own sake. If he could down alcohol like it was water, he could handle drinking ginger tea just fine.
He didn’t let you off while you were waiting for the water to boil, either — he had himself draped over your back; his chin was resting on your shoulder as he sang a slurred and chopped version of Champagne Supernova into your ear. He kept on pausing to kiss your cheek, too. You were convinced that if Ryland was presented the option to sew himself to you, he would do it in a heartbeat. He’d be happily attached to you forever.
You didn’t let him lay down yet even when he finished his tea — you wanted to get him cleaned up, at least. So here he was, sitting at the edge of your shared bed, a dopey smile plastered on his face as he watched you wipe at his cheeks, forehead, and neck; hoping that the cold washcloth would refresh him from this stupor that he willingly dove into. You couldn’t even bring yourself to scold him; you already knew that tomorrow was going to be hell for him. Thank the heavens that it was the weekend.
“[Name],” Ryland called out for you. You had just gone back from the bathroom to rinse the cloth and change the water in the small basin. You were going to wipe down his arms next; he seemed to have rested them on some surface and had them smelling like an entire bar counter. He really stretched himself thin tonight.
“I’m here,” you replied, returning to his side and tending to his arms. He adjusted his glasses to get a clearer view of you while you had your head bowed down, focused on your work. He put out a hand to brush at your jaw. You paused and looked up at him.
“I love you,” said Ryland, taking your hand with the damp towel and pressing it to his cheek. “I love you so-o-o-o much,” he giggled, then hiccupped. You couldn’t help but smile at his attempts to sway you. You shook your head. The last thing you wanted to do was to stroke his ego by letting him witness what he was doing to you and your heart.
“I love you, too, Ry,” you replied, kissing his now-clean palm.
thinking about messy roommate Ryland Grace who deliberately worsens his being a slob so you would pay attention to him more... <3 (i WILL write this fic)
imagine Ortiz!/human!Rocky saying "disguuuust..." even as he's got his fingers in your mouth; he's licking them clean and catching your lips in a kiss. he slips his tongue in, rubbing and caressing at your own, loving how much the texture of it just makes him even harder.
and while he's fucking you in missionary, he'll playfully cover your mouth to muffle your sounds, waiting for his palm to be drenched in your spit before bringing it to his mouth to taste. agh.
also hey. think about him exploring each of your teeth. it's a cycle of kissing you, slipping his tongue inside, pulling away then and saying the name of that tooth he just touched.
"mmmf, that's... the first molar, and..." he comes back in again; he's got a hand gripping your chin so you don't back away, "h-hah...and the second molar," he pecks on your lips as he grins. "can Rocky try to reach [name] third molar?"
Rocky doesn't wait for you to answer because he's diving right back in.
imagine Ortiz!/human!Rocky saying "disguuuust..." even as he's got his fingers in your mouth; he's licking them clean and catching your lips in a kiss. he slips his tongue in, rubbing and caressing at your own, loving how much the texture of it just makes him even harder.
and while he's fucking you in missionary, he'll playfully cover your mouth to muffle your sounds, waiting for his palm to be drenched in your spit before bringing it to his mouth to taste. agh.
