Summary: You’d spent months pining after him. Longing from a distance. He lived in your head constantly. Consuming your thoughts more than anything ever had. But you could never have him, could you? He was unreachable. Out of your league. It was insane how much our brains can get hooked onto the things it knows it can never possess. Sure, your lovesick brain did come up with a few tricks to try to woo your hopeless crush. But he never saw the signs. Professor Grace was not one of those men. He would never look at a student like that. Would he?
You’d lost count of how many times you had screamed his name into your pillow.
Both out of pleasure and frustration. You were way past pretending as if for the past few months, he wasn’t the only thing on your mind whenever your hand found itself in between your legs late at night. It was torture. The good kind. But it was also frustrating to crush on someone you knew you couldn’t have.
He was so perfect. Everyone liked him. Everyone wanted to be liked by him.
You often found yourself asking ‘Why him? You know you can’t have him. So why him?’
Never got an answer. Not from yourself, no signs from the universe, not even the tarot cards knew why.
He had become a habit. Professor Ryland lived inside your head. At first you brushed it off as just an academic crush. He was extremely intelligent, gentle, kind, and very, very handsome and passionate about his classes. Who wouldn’t have a crush on him? He was perfect.
But then, weeks later you still found yourself thinking about him. Your brain kept on creating unrealistic scenarios involving you and him and it simply wouldn’t stop. That’s when you realised oh this is a serious problem.
You were thinking of him in other classes, at the library, while you studied at the coffee shop, even when you spent the weekends with your family. All the fucking time, there he was in your thoughts. It was exhausting. It was frustrating because you had no business thinking about a man that much.
Anytime he would look your way or say your name out loud during lectures for the most ordinary stuff, your heart would skip a beat. It felt like being a teen in high school again, crushing on some popular boy who was out of your league. All that was left to do was doodle your name with his last name.
Embarrassingly enough, you also found yourself beginning to crave his attention. You would email him regarding complicated queries you had, in hopes of impressing him. You began putting some more effort in your outfits on days when you had his classes. You began taking extra good care of your skin. You began posting more online, in case he was ever lurking around and happened to stumble upon your socials. You even started taking the gym much more seriously.
All for him to not even care. To him, you were most likely just another student embarrassing herself daily almost just to get a crumb of his attention.
Until one day you decided to stop.
This weird obsession was too… weird. Of course you could never have him. In what world would he be interested in one of his students? This had to stop. So you put an end to it. You decided so over the semester break. The thoughts of him would surely gradually leave your head, but you could immediately cease with the unnecessary emails, the social media posts, the extravagant outfits to his classes, the daydreaming, etc.
Those you could stop, right? It’s not like he would notice. It’s not like he ever did to begin with.
Except he did.
And he also did notice how you started to ignore him.
—
“Would you please meet me in my office later?” Professor Ryland said to you, as he handed you one of your assignment submissions he’d corrected over the mid-semester break.
Your hand froze mid-air as you reached for your paper. “What, uh, what about?” You quickly added politely, “Professor Grace?” You quickly looked down at your grade and noted that you’d done well on the paper. So see him for what?
When you looked back up at him, he gave you a look you couldn’t decipher. And shrugged. “Just come see me later.”
That was all he said to you.
There was a time when being told to see him in his office would’ve made you pass out. There was a time when all you wanted was this – alone time with him. But over the short break, you’d decided you would put an end to all this. And now he wants to see you in his office?
The fates truly had a twisted sense of humour.
—
Late that afternoon, you walked to the other side of your campus and searched for Professor Ryland’s office. The whole time, you wondered why your heart wasn’t skipping beats like it used to around him. You were certainly nervous, but not in the lovesick way you used to be whenever it came to him. This time it was actual nervousness. Had you been lacking in your studies and didn’t notice? Was it something to do with finals? Were you failing his class?
You reached his office on the top floor, at the end of the long corridor, and knocked on the dark wooden door.
“Come in.” He called out gently.
You walked in and immediately had to remember how to make yourself breathe properly.
There he was, standing by his desk with a bunch of papers in his hands. Dark trousers, dark button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up till just below his elbows, with one of those ridiculous sweater vests that should look silly on a grown man but for some reason, it worked so well on him. He was tall, and handsome, and… fuck. Those damned glasses resting on his nose.
“You, um…” You shut the door behind you and faced him from that very spot, “You asked me to come see you, professor? Is it about the paper?”
“Ah.” He placed the stack of papers down on his desk as he spoke, “Yes, I mean no. It’s not about your paper. You did wonderfully. Come,” He gestured for you to come closer as he casually sat on the edge of his large desk.
You watched him as he crossed his arms over his chest, forcing you to eye his muscular forearms as you walked up to his desk. He wasn’t in his seat so you didn’t know if you should sit down or just stand there awkwardly with him perched on the edge of his desk like that.
As you stood before him, Professor Ryland eyed you curiously from above the frame of his absurdly cute glasses which never quite seemed to sit on his face like regular glasses should. They always added a dash of academic chaos to his overall vibe.
“Um, Professor?” You wondered why he wasn’t saying anything first. Given he asked you to come and see him and never mentioned why.
“You’re different.” He said. Suddenly his voice was somehow softer, yet it sent chills down your back. “And I can’t figure out what it is.”
“Pardon?”
“Ever since the break, I mean.” He tilted his head a little to the side as he spoke. “It’s only the second week since we’ve been back and you’ve improved so much in such little time.” He stated. “I mean you’ve always been a good student, but you seemed so… distracted earlier this semester. And since the break, well, surely you’ve noticed how different you’ve been.” He continued, still giving you that curious look. “No more silly queries, no more daydreaming in my classes, no more putting in more thought into your outfits than my weekly class tests even.”
That last one made you pause and think. Did he just–
“Oh?” He taunted, leaning forward as he whispered in a voice that was new to you, and what you could only describe as dangerous, “Did you think I didn’t notice all your little antics?”
You froze. Yet again. “What… um, what do you mean, Professor?”
He gave you a soft, almost condescending smile. “Don’t play stupid. You know exactly what I mean. Did you think I didn’t notice the way you’ve been trying to get my attention for the past few months? Hmm? All those emails at odd hours, and all your longing stares, and those tight little skirts?”
He made a face then, as if remembering those skirts in fondness. You remained quiet. You told yourself this can’t be real. This cannot be happening, right? This must be another vivid daydream–
“Was it something I did? What made you stop needing my attention?”
There was that tone again. That soft, condescending, dangerous tone which made you want to run away and run into his arms at the same time.
“Professor, I don’t know what you–,”
“Oh.” He cut you off and chuckled. “So we’re doing this then?” He uncrossed his arms and reached for you.
By the time you registered what was happening, he was already grabbing you by the wrist and gently pulling you closer into him. Until your chest was mere inches away from his. Your body tensed in between his legs. You could almost feel his body heat.
He stared deep into your eyes as he spoke. “You go away during the break, then come back and pretend as if I suddenly don’t exist.” He stated, wondering. “Something must’ve happened. What was it? Found someone else? Hmm?” He leaned closer, having to lower his face closer to yours. “Who is he? Huh? Some young man you met while you were away at some fancy resort with your family?”
How the fuck does he–
“How do you know I went to–,”
“Oh, please.” He cut you off again. “With how much time you spent on my socials, of course the algorithm would constantly suggest to me your accounts. They’re all public anyway.” He chuckled like a smug know-it-all. Then he moved his mouth over to your ear and whispered, “If you must know, I did some stalking of my own too. And I have to say, I miss those gym selfies of yours.” His voice gave you goosebumps.
Oh.
You could’ve left right there and then. You could’ve easily walked away and walked out of that office and never go back if you wished. But fuck, how could you? How could you when he was being like this? So close, so warm, so fucking intoxicating. You used to dream of this. Of interactions like this.
He continued, “But since you stopped posting all those pictures, I had to make do with your more… wholesome ones.” You didn’t miss the insinuation in his tone. “After all, you’re such a pretty girl. I couldn’t not look at your face every day, now could I? So you’ll forgive me, but I carried on spying.” He paused and pulled away to look at you properly.
Fuck. His scent was pulling you in like a moth to a flame. A hopeless moth to a forbidden flame.
“And?” You caught yourself asking. You needed to know more, didn’t you?
He let out a boyish laugh. “And?” He repeated in a mocking tone that made you want to clench your thighs together. “What do you want to know? That I jerked off looking at your pictures? Because I did. Multiple times.”
You gasped at the sudden confession. His smirk was shameless.
“What?” He rolled his eyes in that typical, playful way professors do when you annoy them. “You want me to believe you didn't do the same? Never thought of me,” He grabbed your hand and brought your fingertips to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against them, “while touching yourself?” He murmured against your fingers. “Hmm?”
“I…” You struggled to find your voice. All you could focus on was how his lips felt against your fingertips. How soft they were. How rough his stubble was. But eventually, you did find your words to confess. “I did, Professor.”
He laughed again, just as cocky as earlier. “There we go. Now back to my initial question, what made you turn so cold all of a sudden?” He insisted on knowing. “Do you even know how deeply I miss those skirts of yours?”
Oh this was so wrong. You ignored how that last bit made your heart flutter in a way it shouldn’t. “I thought, um, I mean it was obvious that you weren’t interested so I… I decided to stop embarrassing myself.”
“You thought.” He scoffed.
Was he… was he upset that you were trying to get over him? Offended maybe?
“It was unhealthy.” You stated. “I mean, at some point it became a lot more than just a hopeless crush and it got ridiculous. It was unhealthy.” You were repeating yourself because with him this close you couldn’t think straight.
“Unhealthy.” He scoffed again, just like earlier. Like he was taking offence. “You know what’s unhealthy? You messing with my head.” His grip around your wrist tightened.
You frowned in utter confusion. “I never messed with your–,”
He stood up straight, no longer leaning against the edge of his desk. Instead now he towered over you, still holding your wrist to keep you close. “Do you think I was oblivious to your tricks? Huh? You think I couldn’t tell how badly you begged for my attention? Or how badly I wanted to give it all to you but had to hold back? Do you know what that does to a man’s brain?”
You blinked, unable to look away from how gently yet firmly he held your wrist. Like he had every right to. You let him move you so you both switched places. This time it was you leaning against the edge of his desk. He pushed you onto the edge a little, just so your butt rested on the surface, causing your legs to part.
He looked down as he slid a knee in between yours, pressing his body easily against yours.
“I didn’t know.” You whispered, looking up into his ocean blue eyes.
There was the line. And here you were both crossing it.
His other hand reached up to touch your face. “I know.” And that was all he said before he kissed you ferociously. Lips and tongues and teeth. He didn’t hold back. His hands wandered, touching your neck, down your body, grabbing and touching and squeezing.
You gasped and moaned into the kiss. The bolder he got, the louder and more frequent your gasps and moans got. “Shh, I’ve got you.” He whispered, then you felt his hand sliding easily in between your legs, teasing you through the soft fabric of your casual trousers. His hand down there felt so comfortable yet exhilarating.
“Touch me.” He demanded, not breaking the kiss. He pleaded against your mouth, “Come on, I’m all yours to play with. Touch me.”
Your shaky hands found their way to his neck, tracing random shapes all over his skin as he kissed you deeper, holding you in place by the chin. Sighing in between kisses as your hands drifted downwards, easily sliding under the sweater vest, touching his warm chest through the soft fabric of button up shirt.
The noises he let out as you ran your hands up and down his torso were what dreams were made of. Especially your daydreams. You often wondered whether he’d be vocal or quiet. Turns out he was a bit of a whimperer, even when he had the upper hand here.
You struggled to even form a coherent thought as you felt him touch you, his fingers sliding along your clothed pussy slowly.
He pulled away from the kiss and clicked his tongue, disappointed. “See? It would be so much easier if you were wearing those tiny little skirts.” He looked down, loosening his grip on your chin so you could follow his movement, both of you now looking down at how his hand touched and teased you in between your legs. “Take it off. All of it.”
Those words were all it took for you to start undressing. You kept your shoes on and got out of your trousers and tshirt. Then removed your underwear and dropped all your clothes into a little pile at your feet. And not once did you feel even an ounce of shame or discomfort.
“Look at you.” Ryland was touching you before you even thought about how inappropriate this was. His hand finding itself back to where it was earlier, between your legs, this time without the annoying barrier of clothing.
You looked down and let out a moan. He was so close it was heady. It was downright dirty to just watch his fingers leisurely gliding in and out, stroking your sensitive parts. His fingers weren’t even inside you yet, but you were close to the edge already, feeling warm and tingly all over. You closed your eyes tightly and held back a moan as you whispered, “Professor, please.”
He chuckled and said, “My fingers are almost inside you, angel. You should probably call me by my name now.”
You tested it out, whispering, “Ryland.” It sounded so intimate and… familiar. Probably because it wasn’t the first time you’d moan his name out loud.
He held your stare, leaning in just so he was all you could see. The rest of the world didn’t exist here. He pulled his fingers away and brought them up to your lips, sliding his wet fingers into your open mouth like he owned it. Your lips wrapped around his fingers, gently sucking your taste off them as he watched with interest.
“Let me taste you, come here.” He pulled his fingers away and leaned in for a kiss, sliding his tongue against yours hungrily. In a way that made you even wetter than before. “I need to have you.” He whispered against your mouth. “Can I?” He added, “Please. I need you.”
You nodded quickly.
He pulled away, took a step back from you and pointed at his desk, “Bend over.”
You turned around immediately and bent over the edge of his large desk. Your face pressing against the cold surface of the polished wood as your hands laid palm down on each side of your head. Your ass pressed against the front of his pants and you whimpered, feeling his thick, hard cock beneath the fabric, rubbing against your soft folds.
You felt his hands on your body. “Look how pretty you are.” He placed his hands on each side of your waist and caressed your body, rubbing up and down along your sides, touching your ass but not touching you right where you needed him. “I can’t believe you kept yourself from me all this time. You could’ve walked in here at any time and demanded whatever you wanted from me and I would’ve given it to you, angel.”
You whimpered at his words, and bit your lip to keep yourself from moaning too loud as his touch, and words, made you feel all tingly and floaty.
He scoffed before pinching your skin to make you gasp again, “So obedient too, aren’t you?” He finally trailed his fingers down in between your legs and lazily traced along your slit. “So wet and ready for me.” He chuckled, “Tell me, how many times did you fantasize about me while you touch yourself, hmm?”
You closed your eyes and frowned in pleasure as he lazily finger-fucked you. “A lot… too many times,” You whined as he touched a sensitive spot inside you, “Please Ryland. You sounded just as desperate as you were.
“You filthy, dirty girl.”
You heard him undoing his pants, the sound of him lowering his zipper made you whimper as you pushed your ass against him even more. You felt his hands on your body again, he grabbed you on either side of your hips before spreading your legs apart and pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance.
But he didn’t slide his cock inside of you yet.
You waited, your heart racing. You tried to push back into him but he moved away, chuckling while you whined in desperation. “Ryland.” You cried out again.
“I know, I know.” He cooed. “I just like hearing you say my name, angel.” He mumbled under his breath as he pushed himself slowly inside of you, feeling your walls tighten around him. “Fuck.” He sighed.
You whimpered as he filled you up, stretching you as he went.
“So fucking good.” He struggled to talk just a little, gasping as he felt your walls clench around him. He pulled out and thrust deep into you again, making you moan and gasp under him. He reached for and grabbed your wrists, pinning them down at your lower back as he started rocking into you. Using you like a toy. Slowly at first, then gradually building up his pace.
You whined as he fucked deep into you, your front bumping against the edge of the desk each time. You whimpered as he pounded harder into you at the sound of that confession. His pelvic bone smacking against your ass each time he thrust into you.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He growled, tightening his grip on your wrists as he fucked you harder, feeling your walls getting tighter around him. He hissed again, “Like you’re just a pretty girl for me to use, huh?”
You whined, “Please…”
He slammed his cock harder into you, making your eyes water and your heart race so fast you felt like it might just escape your ribcage.
“Look at how well you take it. I could do anything I wanted and you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” He thrust so deep into you that it felt like you would simply come apart right there but then he pulled out and pulled you off the desk, turning you around so you faced him. He grabbed your chin roughly in his grip as he stared into your eyes.
You whined even louder. “Please…”
“Don’t you dare fucking come yet.” He threatened.
Your lips parted as you gasped for air. He looked like he was trying very hard to maintain his composure. He cupped your face and kissed you savagely. Hard. Lips, teeth, tongue – all of it. And for a moment it felt like you might just come from his kiss alone.
But then he pulled away from your swollen lip and spat into your mouth before he said, “Get on your knees. Now.”
Your brain was still processing it all but your body obeyed immediately, falling perfectly on your knees in front of him. You watched him with a hunger in your teary eyes.
You watched how he grabbed his cock at the base and guided his tip over to your already open, wet, warm mouth and said, “Suck.”
You did. You opened your mouth wider as he slowly pushed himself deeper into your mouth. You took him in slowly until he hit the back of your throat. “That’s it. Fuck," He hissed in pleasure, “It’s been so long.” He whispered more so to himself but you heard it. “Make it good for me. Come on.”
You looked up and met his piercing eyes as he looked down at you like you were in your rightful place, kneeling before him naked while he was fully clothed, with his cock in your mouth. Pink lips parted as he hissed in pleasure.
You gripped his thighs and worked extra hard on him, feeling his smooth skin along your tongue, tasting yourself and his precum. You whimpered when he let out an unrestrained growl as you circle his tip with your tongue before sucking on it gently.
He let out a carefree chuckle as he looked down at you, “Having fun?” He asked, knowing damn well you couldn’t respond with his cock filling your mouth.
Your eyes began tearing up and Ryland felt a rush at the sight of the hot, silent tears streaming down your face while your mouth was full of him.
He smirked. “Are you crying for me, angel?” He taunted in a dark, mocking tone before thrusting his hips forward just a little. “There we go.” His action made you tear up even more. “So pretty when you cry for me.”
You just whined, sucking on him harder simply because the sounds he made were fucking addicting. This side of his was so new and unexpected.
Then just as you were having a little too much fun making him gasp and grunt, he said, “Come on, get up.”
You listened, even though you were a little disappointed you didn’t get to make him come in your mouth but you’d take whatever he’d give you. So you followed his instructions as he had you sit on the edge of the table this time before he stepped in between your legs, still staring into your eyes.
Your arms wrapped around his neck as he leaned in to whisper against your mouth, “Still want more, don’t you? Hmm? You’re a happy girl as long as you’ve got some cock in you, huh?” He aligned his cock to your core again. “There we go…” He slipped inside you with ease, making you gasp at how good he felt as he began fucking you again.
He grabbed your thighs and pushed them further apart so he could fuck you deeper.
“Please…” You whimpered. “Ryland.” You cried out.
“Touch me.” He whispered, his tone demanding yet so subtly pleading. He’d said it before, you remembered.
So you placed your hands wherever you could feel his skin, his face and neck. You whined at his lack of nudity, but you couldn’t find the words to complain. So you focused on touching his skin, anywhere you could. Your fingers caressing his flushed face as he fucked deeper into you, pounding into you relentlessly as he moaned shamelessly.
“You feel so good… so fucking tight for me,” He whispered against your skin and you barely heard him over the sound of sex echoing in his spacious office. “Only for me though, right? You’re not gonna spread these legs for other men, are you?” He couldn’t help but say, “This is mine. You are mine.” He growled, his glasses fogging up just a little. “Am I clear?”
“Yes…” You whined as you felt yourself getting so close to the edge again as he pounded into you aggressively. You felt a tear slip out of the corner of your eye as you felt the pressure in between your legs getting too much to contain.
He felt it too, as your walls clenched violently around him. “Fuck,” He growled into your ear, “Come for me. Come all over my cock, pretty girl…”
You didn’t hear the rest of what he said because you were long gone, well fucked and lust drunk, you came with a loud cry.
He followed shortly after, pulling out and coming undone all over your trembling thighs, gripping you so tightly that his fingers would surely leave bruises behind as memory.
—
Ryland couldn’t let you leave just yet. You were trembling, and flushed, and still coming down from your high.
He had some paperwork to oversee and some emails to reply to. But he didn’t want you gone, so he helped you clean up, wrapped you up in the closest thing he could find, which was his large, soft coat – ignoring your clothes for now – then he gathered you carefully into his arms, pulling you onto his lap as he sat on one of the couches in his office to get some work done.
It should’ve been weird. The proximity, your nudity, being on his lap so casually, all of it. But it wasn’t. You were content here, wrapped in his oversized coat, surrounded by his scent, warm and with him.
He did his thing, replied to some emails, checked his schedules and lesson plans, while you straddle his lap, resting your head on his shoulder and sighing each time he petted your exposed skin, caressed your back, occasionally leaving kisses on your shoulder or forehead as if it were a habit.
You mindlessly played with the soft fabric of his sweater vest, tracing imaginary shapes on his exposed forearms, breathing in his scent, finding comfort in his body heat. “You didn’t let me see you. At all.” You complained given he hadn’t taken off his clothes to fuck you earlier.
He let out a soft chuckle. “Another time, angel.”
Oh. So there will be another time.
“Of course there will be.”
You hid your face into the crook of his neck when you realised you’d said your thoughts out loud. Ryland laughed as you got over your embarrassment.
But now that you were so close to him, naked on his lap, with the promise of an ‘another time’... you couldn’t sit still.
“What is it?” He asked, after noticing that you’d been sighing and rubbing your face against his warm neck like an agitated kitten. “Want to go?”
You shook your head quickly, “No.” You mumbled quietly.
“What is it then?” He asked, “You want more?” He pointed down at his crotch.
You just nodded.
Ryland smirked and said, “Go on then. Keep it warm for me while I finish up here.”
Somehow you knew exactly what he wanted you to do. So you reached down and into his pants to pull out his cock again. You groaned in need at the sight of it. You lifted up just until you had room to align his cock to your entrance again, and once done you sank down until he was buried deep inside you. Again.
You whimpered as you shoved your face into the crook of his neck, keeping his cock warm just like how he wanted you to.
“That’s it,” He said. “Now stay still and do a good job, and maybe I’ll fuck you one more time before I drop you back to your apartment. Okay, angel?”
a/n: super short, not proofread, probably bad but it's okay
It was about 12:37am when you woke up. You body was hot. You felt restless.
You twisted your head, looking to see where you husband was. He was not beside you.
That's when you realized the shifting underneath the sheets.. and then the heat between your legs.
A sudden lick through your cunt told you everything you needed to know. You whimpered softly, hips bucking without your consent.
"Ry-?"
"Mm..?" A hum vibrated through your skin, causing your body to tremble.
You lifted the comforter only to find your husband between your legs, staring up at you.
"Ryland what're you doing, baby?"
His cheeked flushed a little.
"I... can't figure something out.. I need to relax."
You laughed sleepily.
He had just gotten home. You were asleep then. He was helping out with the whole astrophage problem so that meant coming home late and working from home sometimes.
It was one of those nights.
He must've been exhausted. That being why he couldn't figure out whatever he needed to figure out. His outlet was always eating you out.
When he did, his brain completely relaxed. He could let go and think freely. Plus he knew you liked it.
"I'm sorry I.. I didn't want to wake you up. I just.. need to let me brain relax..."
"Baby, come here.." You said, looking down at him sympathetically.
He pulled back from your legs reluctantly and settled beside you. Lying by your side.
You pressed a hand to his cheek.
"You're working yourself too hard, baby."
"I know.. I just.. I want to help."
You nodded. "I know, honey, but you should be asleep right now... not worried about something you can figure out tomorrow."
"You're right.." He said. "This thing just.. particularly stumped me. I want to figure it out or.. I probably won't sleep at all."
You sighed. "Oh my sweet boy." You pressed a kiss to his lips. "Always so hard at work."
He nodded, humming as he pressed his lips to your temple.
The two of you were silent for a moment.
"I missed you today.." He said, brushing your hair behind your ear.
"I missed you too..." You looked up at him. "I wish you'd take just one break. I know this whole astrophage thing is serious, but.. so is your mental health."
He nodded. "I will. I already talked to Stratt about it. I need some more time with you."
You smiled. "That's good."
He nodded again and sighed.
"Hm?" You asked. The sigh sounded like it was from frustration.
"Still stuck on that problem."
You laughed softly, shaking your head.
"You're such a silly man."
He pouted. "What, for needing a little help to relax? Needing to have a little bit of a stress reliever?"
"Not the fact that you need a stress reliever, but the fact that your stress reliever can sometimes involve eating out your wife who is in a deep slumber."
He shook his head. "Don't judge me."
You giggled softly. "I'm not judging you.. just observing."
He hummed against your head. Silence settling over you two as you had your own silent thoughts.
"So..... Can I..?" He asked.
You looked up at him. "Can you what?" You asked, teasing.
"Finish what I was doing..?"
"And what was that?"
He groaned. "Babyyy."
"Hm?"
"Don't make me say it."
"You woke me from my sleep, Ry. I think it's fair."
He groaned again, but sighed. "Can I finish fucking you with my tongue? Finish this problem?"
His sudden boldness made you shiver. But you nodded, of course. "Yes, you may.."
"Mm thankyouthankyouthankyou" He mumbled, moving to lay on his back now, however.
"Please, come sit on my face." He asked.
"Ry-" You had only done this once before. You were terrified of suffocating him.
"Please." He asked, looking at you.
You sighed. You had to admit the thought aroused you. So, you sat up and sectioned yourself on top of his face.
He was quick. The second he felt your warm, wet pussy on his face, he started making out with it.
You whimpered, hips bucking into his face, causomg his nose to bump against your clit.
His glasses were beginning to fogging as he devoured you. His tounge now sliding in and out of your hole.
"Mm-" he mumbled something. It was inaudible, of course, just sending a vibration through your pussy.
You held onto the headboard in front of you as you rose his face, feeling every little thing.
"Oh my god-" You moaned.
Ryland took that as a sign and he continued doing exactly what caused the sound to spill from your lips.
He seemed to be spaced out, but in a good way. Probably pussy drunk. The one thing that helped him the most.
Even though he was very set on figuring out what he needed to, he couldn't focus tonight. The sounds you were making drove him wild. It was causing his pants to tighten.
He whined into you, it making you shiver.
Your legs began to squeeze against his face, so he wrapped his arms around your thighs and held them, continuing his relentless licking and sucking.
He mumbled again, something along the lines of "Yeah that's it baby-" and "Good girl, ride my face, use me."
You were trembling.
"Ryryry-" You whimpered. "I'm gonna cum-"
He nodded. One of his arms moved from your thigh to your surprise. He slid it down his body, only to shove his hand under his sweatpants.
He began to stroke himself. Already whimpering as if he had already reached his climax.
"Ry-!" Your hips twitched.
You came, eyes rolling back.
He didn't stop.
He kept fucking you through your orgasm, but kept going anyways.
You didn't know what he was doing behind you. Didn't know why he was whining so much.
He just kept fucking you with his tongue, sucking your clit, swiping through your folds. Everything.
He began to moan into you, and only then did you feel the soft jerking of his hand.
The fact that he got hard from simply eating you out drove you crazy.
You only reached your next orgasm after a minute or so after, him groaning into you as you slid yourself back and forth on his face. He came, making an absolute mess in his pants.
The two of you were panting softly, but he quickly switched into aftercare mode. He helped you off his face, helping you lay down before pulling you into his chest.
"R'you okay, sweetheart?" He asked.
You nodded, now more exhausted than before.
"Get some rest.." He said, brushing his hand gently through your hair.
The two of you fell asleep together, completely a mess.
NEW pornstar colt. Knows he has a big dick and stamina but he’s still a pretty fresh face on the scene. Mostly amateur stuff, has a bit of a cult following (the cult of Seavers, heh). Cue; first professional shoot with you, and fuck, you are stunning. He feels his dick get hard before you’re even out of your clothes. When the cameras are rolling he tries to keep himself calm, but you feel so goddamn warm and tight around him, and the way you’re moaning…? He can’t keep up a performance for the shoot, he finds himself just chasing that feeling of pleasure as he’s lost in you.
you sense he’s not going to last like this and call for a cut. He’s red faced and humiliated as he sits back on his haunches, cock bobbing and pre dripping down his shaft. So you grab your dressing gown and take him to his dressing room, and he thinks he’s going to be admonished, but instead you wrap your hand around his length and quickly jerk him to a far-too-soon orgasm. He comes all over your knuckles. Yeah, he’s glad that wasn’t caught on camera, it would have been humiliating.
… but the look you give him, wide-eyed and fond, that’s what wipes him out. You press a Viagra between his lips and feed him some water to wash it down with.
“you ready to go again? Gonna need you to be a big boy for me this time, okay?”
He’s immediately hard again. oh shit. He has a crush the size of a mountain on his first proper scene partner.
avo. i have been, no joke, straight up cheesing at my computer reading and rereading this. ohhhhhhhhhHHHH "gonna need you to be a big boy for me this time, okay?" well now I have a crush on reader. holy shit.
god, and I can also totally see this version of Colt also finding a way to spin this into off-camera "practice" — he needs to build up his stamina, right? he needs someone to show him the ropes (and if you end up pulling out literal ropes, he will be on his knees with his wrists pressed together before you can even order him down). and maybe he can buy you dinner beforehand? as a thank you? or he can make you dinner, really, he's a great cook, nothing like his brother. or, you know, he still has some connects in the non-adult film world, if you wanted to come to a premiere; or, hey, when's the last time someone took you shopping? or, you know, if you're ever sore after a shoot, he's got plenty of PT experience from his stunt days, he knows all the tricks for working out tight muscles...
before you know it, you have this pretty young thing panting after you with the biggest, goofiest heart eyes. he's calling you and leaving voicemails. he's begging his agent to book the two of you together again. he's having flowers delivered to shoots he isn't even a part of (it's become a bit of a running joke, amongst the crew members who overlap).
without trying very hard, you've managed to acquire a (buff, adoring, deceptively smart, incredibly eager-to-please) pet. you don't even have to pay him that much attention; he's over the moon to receive whatever glances you feel like throwing his way
No chai, in fact, let’s get back to talking about pornstar Colt.
so, the thing about pornstar Colt is that he stays hard for a long time.
like, a long time. it's part of the gig! you're shooting for long hours, in occasionally very unsexy conditions (see: in front of a camera crew)—so, if you're a pornstar with a dick, and you want to stay employed, you need to be able to get it up and keep it up more or less on demand. so Colt takes good care of himself: works out regularly, eats good food, meditates, and just generally has created an environment within himself where his body is primed and ready to go at a moment's notice.
but sometimes that also means he'll get hard at inconvenient times. in inconvenient places. it takes very little to get this guy to pop a boner. morning wood, of course. while you guys are at the gym (god forbid you're doing yoga). during movie nights, after a day so grueling that you're positive there's no way he'd have another round in him—until you try to lay your head in his lap and find something already occupying it.
and also less obvious places. the supermarket checkout line. the planetarium. dinner. on a shopping mall elevator. he is a menace and it's not even on purpose; and, when you tease him for it, he's just as likely to blame you, because how is he supposed to look at you and not want to fuck you 24/7?
hellooo thank you so much for your lovely comments for even sharks need water, i noticed you especially enjoyed the data collection therefore may i introduce you to this gem by @grilchgurt
it’s very good scientific method i’m sure you’ll agreeee
- @pygmandelions xo
Omg yes we LOVE @grilchgurt in this house 🙏
Absolutely a favourite of mine
(P.S. I love our collective fandom determination to make sure everyone else has read the good shit. We are all sat round a feast saying "you have got to try this one" and bestie you are correct, its delicious)
panties in holland march's mouth question? because he is so loud and whimpery otherwise? (or colt? because he is loud in the opposite direction??) (for driver it would mostly be decorative ig because he is so stoic and quiet) (sorry this started off as an ask and is now just genuinely me pontificating on the different reasons for panties in rygos character mouths) (hope you are having a beautiful day)
chai. let’s play a game I like to call
🩷✨Why you’re shoving your panties into that man’s mouth ✨ 🩷
Holland March: to shut him up
You’re working a case and have to hide because the person you’re investigating has walked back into their house (the house the two of you have very much just broke-and-entered into). Annoyingly, you’re now both jammed into a very compromising position in a wardrobe. Holland’s cock is grinding against you with every breath and he’s beginning to whimper (because he is, of course, pathetic) and you’re going to be heard if you don’t do something now. So you just about manage to wriggle out of your panties - which he watches you achieve with wide eyes and bated breath - and you reach up to shove them in his mouth. You think he might choke on them as he gasps but he gets the picture pretty quickly; gently moaning into the lace and revelling in the taste of you. You let him keep humping you as you listen to the target on the other side of the wardrobe. You’re not a monster, after all.
Colt Seavers: to help him brace
Colt’s come back with a pretty horrid gash on his bicep from one of his stunts. You’ve become adept at patching him up now, his own personal ER, but you think this one is gonna need stitches and he’s refusing to go to the hospital for it. “You can do it, right? It’s so much hassle with the insurance otherwise…” so you sit with your little wound kit and sterilise the cut, but he hisses so loudly that you know this is gonna be a struggle. Ah! you have an idea. He watches you take off your jeans and undies, then hold the latter up to his lips. “Bite down, baby.” His pupils blow out until you can barely see the blue of his eyes. You stuff them onto his willing tongue, stoppering his mouth; he moans at where he can feel the warmth of them, the slight heat your cunt left behind, and he’s breathing very heavily as you sew him up… but not because he’s hurting. Oh no he’s too distracted for that, now…
Lars Lindstrom: to get him ready for the real thing
Lars really wants to eat you out. He really, really does. But he’s still getting over his touch sensitivity and you’re both worried that going from 1-100 will be overwhelming for him when it comes to oral. So you have a compromise, and it’s this: you hook your fingers into your panties and wait for him to stick out his eager tongue, then carefully rub where your musk is the strongest along his tastebuds. Fucking his mouth with your fingers with an added barrier of intimate fabric. Poor Lars gives a full-body shudder as he takes it in, the raw illicit nature of the act, and sits there enjoying the taste of your panties until they’re soaking wet and any hint of you is all gone, licked away because he’s so eager… (yes he comes from it, how couldn’t he?)
Sierra Six: as a memento
The two of you gather your things the morning after a steamy, secret night together; something two government agents definitely shouldn’t be doing. He catches your arm and drags you into his embrace as you’re getting dressed, causing you to laugh as he kisses a trail down your neck. “Court, we gotta get going. You know that, baby.” He slips his thumb under the elastic of the undies you just put on, letting it snap on your skin - still tingling from being thoroughly adored by him yesterday - and you can hear his smirk with his question. “Can I keep these? To remind me of you until next time?” Ahh, you can’t say no, so you take them back off… but when he goes to grab them from your hand, you stop him. “Open up, Six.” He does, ever obedient, and when you stuff them inside he moans so deeply that you can feel the rumble of it where your fingers are splayed over his chest.
The Driver: as a reward
He’s had a long day at work, and an even longer night helping a bunch of guys getting away from the bank they held up. When he walks back into the apartment it’s past three in the morning but you’re still up, waiting, in a t-shirt and those little panties he loves. You open your arms and he walks into them, exhausted, letting his head dip into the sweet-smelling place where your neck meets your shoulder. “You’ve worked hard today. Want a reward?” His answer is given quietly, as you knew it would be, as his hand cups your mound. “These,” he whispers, dragging his gloves against the fabric. So you take them off, slowly, never breaking eye contact, and when you go to pass them over he instead brings your hand to his mouth. As you push them where he wants them most, you revel in the tiny moan he lets out, something only you get to enjoy…
Ken: because he asked
“Can I know what your panties taste like?” You splutter on your coffee at the ease of his question. He’s acting like he just asked you what the weather would be like. “Uh, why?” “Because I saw some people do it in my not-so-secret-any-more sexy videos and wanted to try it myself. I thought you’d want me to ask rather than just grab them from the washing bin.” After a moment of consideration you decide that yeah, he’s done the right thing and you reward him with a tender kiss. You don’t fetch some from the hamper though. Instead you just strip them off right there, in the kitchen, and when his jaw drops in amazement you use the opportunity to shove them between his lips. He takes in a deep, juddering breath through his nose as you see his tongue work where your pussy just sat, and they keep him totally silent for the next half hour…
Ryland Grace: you didn’t, he just took them
Ryland has been lonely since arriving on Erid, and damn, he’s done his best to be normal around the first crew that’s been sent up from Earth to join him… but you’re so enchanting. He fucks his fist to the thought of you every night, dreaming of how soft your skin would be, how welcoming your mouth to his tongue… oh, it drives him crazy. Eventually his imagination isn’t enough. He needs more. So he goes to the collective laundry area and swipes a pair - ones he recognises as yours when he accidentally caught you leaving the shower the other day - and that night he comes harder than he has in months. The tang of your cunt on his palate as he licks you up, the richness of your smell where you were sweating… it’s all far too much. He keeps the panties for weeks. Eventually you confront him, but you aren’t angry. You just offer him a new pair. “Figured the old ones weren’t getting the job done any more, Ry.” He nearly comes in his jumpsuit.
tags: @kenstimetoshine @nerd-do-well @kiffycreative @bookerdefay @pixiebuggz @regalfirebird @go-bonkers-go-foolish @inthegalaxxy@sexyleftist @julepod @cosmicyeehaw @s4turnsb3st @qardasngan@valentine-blue @wereallbrokenangels@h4rumichan@irlr0gue (lmk if you wanna be added or removed!)
"chai. let's play a game" my ears perked up like a dog hearing the word Walk from across the room. ohhohohohO my god
"to shut him up" im wheezing in addition to being wet. ofc he is so horny that he's willing to compromise the investigation. he's so pathetic #needthat
COLTTTT colt seavers bleeding and sweaty? colt seavers bleeding and sweaty and .2 seconds away from fucking you into the mattress because he is no longer thinking about the injury or the insurance or anything but your panties in his mouth?????
you are a genius you are a genius you are a GENIUS how tf did you manage to sneak a character study into the panties in mouth smut. ("yes he cums from it" STANDING OVATION)
"as a memento" hot and also? devastating. im horny and sad
horny and sad in a different way 😭 goddDDDD as a reward!!! is so correct!!! man who literally just wants to be told he's doing a good job :( and the quiet tiny moan.....oaugh
"in my not-so-secret-any-more sexy videos" Avo i need you to know that every time i read about Ken and his secret sexy videos i audibly laugh. and then also the part about him being good and honest and asking :( he is so earnest no thoughts head empty curious about the world and it's doing things to me...
"he just took them" well hey. what if i short circuited. right now. pervert ryland grace my beloved 😭 unstoppable force (my need to fuck that man Immediately) vs immovable object (my need to draw out the game and feign ignorance and let him pine and get more and more desperate). im AHHHHH
something make my chest stir, something make my head blur
pairing: college!ryland grace x gn!reader
wc: 2.6k
✮⋆˙ masterlist
✮⋆˙ cross posted to ao3!
tags: grad school ryland x reader, academic rivals, enemies to lovers (?), shotgunning, recreational drug use, alcohol, it’s a frat party and they’re all gross, slapping, slight softdom!reader and sub!ryland if you squint, phd prep is a bitch and you hate ryland grace (or do you?) ryland is a little SHIT
✮⋆˙ You reluctantly run into Ryland Grace at a frat party that you didn’t want to be at in the first place. Words are exchanged. Feelings are hurt. You think of the perfect way to put him in his place.
As you cross the threshold, your eardrums immediately pulse to the bump of the bass as music blares all around you; enveloping you and dulling your senses as you cross the dingy living room of the frat party you begrudgingly agreed to attend after the relentless begging from your friends. Lighten up, they said. College is meant for letting loose and enjoying a party every now and then. You really did need a break—grad school was not for the weak—but being at this party was definitely not high on your list of priorities for a Friday night. Warm beer, misogyny, and socialization. Perfect. Everything you had dreamed of after an endlessly overwhelming week of labs, research, and more dissertation prep. Your eyes flicked around the room, not recognizing any of the faces congregating around you. Great, you got dragged all the way out to this party and your friends aren't even here yet. Awesome. Really, the only thing you had been looking forward to all week was curling up on the sofa under a heavy blanket and marathoning some mind-numbing reality television for two days. Was that so much to ask? To have just fourty eight hours to clear your head and not have to think for another second about microscope slides or macromolecules or nucleotides or— Ryland Grace. In the midst of your internal rumination, you had somehow made it across the crowded room and collided with something—no, someone—while squeezing your eyes shut in a feeble attempt to settle the freight train you called your thoughts. Slowly forcing your eyes back open, you find that you are now standing face to face—well, face to chest—with the only person on campus you hated more than anything else. Ryland Grace.
He towered over you, flashing his trademark cocky grin as you rolled your eyes upwards to meet his. There was a subtle glint in his eyes—behind the gold frames that he always wears somewhat haphazardly—that you couldn't quite place as the arrogance that was permanently etched across his face made your blood begin to boil. Asshole. Of course he would be here of all places tonight. He clearly had the same idea as you for the weekend, just a much different approach. His plan apparently included getting inebriated beyond comprehension while playing his favorite game of being passed around the student body as the frat-party-boy-toy. His presence and sudden proximity to you was almost nauseating, paired with the stench of stale beer and sweaty partygoers prickling at your nose.
This wasn't the first time you've encountered him outside of academics during the course of your program; you've actually been witness a few times to how he chooses to blow off steam outside of preparing for his own PhD. Ryland always seemed to have the need to be the center of attention, no matter the context. It was almost as if he would suddenly keel over and die if all eyes weren't focused on him. Whether it was contradicting every statement you brought up during your shared lectures over the last few years, arguing with you over every protocol and move you make in the lab, or, God forbid, even offering unwanted criticism on what snack you chose to purchase from the Science department's vending machine. You have almost begun to believe that he has just developed a personal vendetta towards you, and you, only. He must be trying his hardest to derail your academic career before it even begins. Ass. Hole.
"You should really watch where you're going, y'know. I could have been a tray chock-full of microorganisms that you just spilled aaallll over the floor. I can't say that I'm surprised your subpar lab standards carry over to your personal life."
"If I had known it was you, I would have made a better effort to hit you harder." You bite out in retaliation. God, you couldn't stand him. "Cheap shot by the way, we both know my lab standards are golden compared to yours, Grace."
"Mm, if that were the case, maybe your paper would have been chosen for the conference and not mine." He punctautes his counterargument by crossing his arms over his broad chest, taking on a more assertive stance. His forearms flexed in your eye line as you glared up at him. Fuck, why are you looking at his chest? Why are you looking at his arms?
"Oh, fuck you, Grace." The words are bitter on your tongue as you spit them back at him, turning on your heel to leave the party.
Every conversation the two of you had always seemed to end in some sort of verbal sparring, but he had never taken it this far. He knew it was a sensitive subject, but still threw it right back in your face. Asshole. As you storm off in the opposite direction of Ryland, you angrily grab a drink off the fold out table against the wall and throw it back. Ugh. The lukewarm beer trickles down your throat and you breathe deeply a few times, closing your eyes in an attempt to center yourself and cool off. What a dick. A hand clamps down on your shoulder causing your eyes to shoot back open in a brief panic, only to be met with your friends' smiling faces. Finally.
"There you are! We've been looking all over for you near the entrance! I thought we were meeting up there?" One of your friends chirps, leaning against your arm.
"Oh. Yeah, sorry. I was distracted and just kept walking when I got here." You admitted with a shrug. "I think I'm actually gonna head out though, I'm not feeling very well all of a sudden."
Your other friend looks back at you, tight-lipped before glancing around the party. Her eyes narrow slightly as she focuses on something just over your shoulder.
"It's Ryland isn't it? Did he say something to you?" You shake your head rapidly, tears brimming your eyes and burning as you try to blink them away as quickly as they appeared. "He did! That motherfucker! What did he say to you?"
You clear your throat, thick with tears, before speaking. "It's nothing, he just said something stupid about my paper because he knew it would piss me off. It's fine, I'm just going to get out of here and try to enjoy the rest of my Friday night. I love you guys, I'll text you later!" You move to step around your group of friends, but a hand pulls you back.
"C'mon, don't let an asshole like Ryland ruin your night! Let's go grab some drinks and have a good time together away from him." Your friend now has both of your hands in hers and is shimmying and swaying in an attempt to win you over. Unfortunately, it's working. You sigh in defeat and give in as one of your other friends pushes a shot into your palm. You throw the liquor back without thinking twice and smile at them as the liquid burns down your throat. You'll be just fine.
The music thumps around you as you sway your hips to the rhythm of some nondescript pop song, another drink firmly grasped in your hand. You squeeze the plastic red cup in your hand, its shape crinkling under the pressure. How many have you had? Whatever. Who cares? It's the weekend and you're letting loose. This is what everyone wanted, right? A new song begins to blare out of the speakers and you shriek along with your friends, belting out the lyrics and jumping in time to the beat. The alcohol courses through your body and leaves you feeling feather-light and carefree, a welcomed contrast to how you were feeling just an hour ago.
"I’m glad to see you're feeling better!" Your friend shouts over the music, continuing to dance with you. "He never seemed to be too upset, though." Your eyes follow the direction of your friend's finger, pointing across the house at Ryland.
You gawk at the scene playing out in front of you; shrouded beneath the strobing, colorful lights bouncing around the room. He's sandwiched between two other students you don't recognize, taking a pill from the hands of one and chasing it with a shot from the other. After swallowing and flashing that stupid, cocky grin, he continues grinding with the two bodies to the beat of the music. You continue to watch them from afar, unable to tear your eyes away. Unbeknownst to you for reasons you can't explain, your blood begins to boil at the sight of him slipping his tongue into someone else's mouth as his hands roam all over their body, another set groping at him from behind and laving their tongue down his neck.
He is such a slut. And why are you angry? Obviously, you believe that everyone deserves the right to act on whatever impulses they please, and you would never slut-shame someone for choosing to hook up at a party. That's their business, not yours. But when it's Ryland—Wait, what the fuck? Unless… the reason you're so upset is because he isn't doing those things with you. Huh? There's no way that you have any feelings for Ryland other than the ones stemming from pure hatred, right? Right?
You continue to glare in his direction, mouth agape and dumbfounded, watching as other students slip in and out of his orbit, everyone taking a piece of him and getting a taste. Suddenly, your feet are carrying you across the floor as you hear the vague shouts of your friends behind you. You've made it halfway across the room before your mind catches up and realizes what's happening. Mindlessly, you grab a shot out of someone's hands as your feet continue to march you closer towards where Ryland and his gaggle of bodies are standing. He smirks as you approach, cockiness practically oozing out of every pore as several hands continue to roam over his body.
"Move. Now." Your voice comes out short and clipped, in a demanding tone that is typically reserved just for Ryland. The students gathered around him pull back and retreat, but not without exchanging confused glances with one another and Ryland as they step out of your path and disperse.
"That wasn't very polite, sweethear—" The words are punched out of his lungs as you push him down with one strong shove of your palm—still grasping the shot in your other hand—onto the worn couch behind where his orgy was just previously unfolding. You are almost amazed at your strength for a moment, but then again, when it comes to Ryland, you could probably lift a burning vehicle from the adrenaline that comes from having an undoubtedly condescending conversation with him.
Ryland stares up at you from where he has flopped back onto the cushions, wide eyes and bruised lips parted in surprise. God, he already looks so wrecked and the night is still so young. Boy toy. Now, it's your turn to shoot a cocky grin of your own at the man beneath you as you swing a leg over his hips, settling down onto his lap with a flourishing shimmy of your own hips. Ryland quickly glances down to where you're straddling his legs, and then back up to your face, swallowing thickly and licking his lips before meeting your burning gaze.
"What's the matter, Grace? Cat got your tongue?" Your voice drips with honey and an underlying caustic quality as you lean in closer until your lips just barely graze the shell of his ear. "Maybe you just need a little liquid courage." You feel him shudder beneath you as you pull back minutely, slamming the shot and feeling the cheap vodka burn in your mouth as you hold it there with bated breath.
You toss the glass somewhere to the side, not really caring where it ends up, to wrap that hand firmly around Ryland's strong jaw. You squeeze once, your middle finger and thumb placed on opposite cheekbones, indicating for him to open his mouth. He obeys immediately and lets his mouth go slack-jaw, staring up at you through his lashes as his tongue lolls out. You can't help but smirk slightly as you bring your lips right above his open mouth and let the mixture of warm vodka and your saliva trickle down his throat.
As he pulls his tongue back in to swallow your offering, your mouth is on his in an instant, still gripping his jaw with a bruising strength. Your lips capture his in a hungry kiss, mouths moving incessantly against each other; firm, warm, and unwavering. He gasps and lets out a small whine as your hand moves from his jaw to tangle in his hair, pulling his head back to deepen the kiss further. You greedily swallow his noises and take the opportunity to push your tongue into his mouth, the muscle grappling with his own and swirling around his teeth to taste the traces of vodka left behind. Both of your arms have now snaked up to wrap tightly around Ryland's neck, fingers dancing along the hair that gathers at his nape as you continue to devour each other on this dingy frat couch. You let out a small moan as you feel someone brush past the two of you, finding that you don't really care who is watching. The shock has seemingly worn off as you feel Ryland's hands start running up your thighs and hips, traveling to find purchase on your waist as you grind down subtly into this lap. After a few more moments, you pull back, catching his bottom lip between your teeth. A string of saliva connects your mouths under the flashing lights of the party still going on around you.
Ryland peers up at you, his pupils wide and blown with pleasure—or maybe just the effects of the pill you watched him take prior to jumping him—his chest rising and falling in time with your own panting breaths. You stare at him for a moment, taking in the rare sight of an absolutely ruined Grace. His fingers begin to dance up your sides and you give him a sweet smile before untangling your arms from around his neck. He keeps his eyes trained on you and furrows his brows slightly as you pull away from him, his body trying to chase the warmth of your contact. You lean forward and press one last, chaste kiss to his lips as his eyes flutter shut before retreating once more—coiling your arm back as if it were spring-loaded—and slapping him across the face as hard as you can manage. Ryland's eyes open the millisecond before your palm makes contact with his cheek, instantly widening at the stinging pain making its way across his face. He had no idea it was coming.
You rock back on your heels—still planted firmly in his lap—reveling in the stunned expression that has painted itself across Ryland's face. Both of his cheeks are now burning crimson, despite you only making contact with the one. Huh, that's a little strange. You shift your weight slightly on his lap and suddenly everything clicks into place in your mind. He stares up at you, chest heaving and eyes glimmering with drunkenness, as his cock begins to harden against you. His eyes are darkened with lust, only a sliver of his usual blue irises eclipsing around the dark pools. You raise an eyebrow up at him in question and his mouth upturns into a new shit-eating-grin, just a touch different from his usual cocky expression. He licks his lips and blinks up at you a few times before opening his mouth once more.
"Do it again. Please."
authors note ✮⋆˙ @sipofchai this is all for you babe!! i’m so sorry it took so long but i hope i did your silly little idea justice <3 thinking about college!ryland every second of every day,,
I saw an interview where he said he didnt like saying he was a scorpio cause of how people reacted lol. its an interview with margot robbie for w magazine if u wanna check it out
hey anon!!! thanks for the question!
i don’t usually watch interviews because i really have zero association of the character with the actor apart from the face but i enjoyed this one and it also kinda answers your question!
my guess is that he’s aware of the rep of scoprios for having huge sexual appetites, especially in the way he’s like ‘it’s not for mixed company’ about the reason why
beside that, - at their worst, scorpios can be selfish, intense, arrogant, dangerous, egotistical, stormy.
they are also somewhat associated with statistical likelihood of being serial killers (more of a november thing);
famously scorpios are the best lovers (i can attest to this), very sensual, passionate to a fault, dreamers, driven, flirtatious and incorrigible with their fixations.
I think scorpio men are stereotyped as playboys, but that might just be the pygmalion effect (treating someone a certain way until they turn out that way through negative/positive reinforcement from your assumptions). they’re more likely to be moody and fatigued, often brooding.
also i’m no expert, i’m just aware of a few things i’ve seen to be true from experience and also common (mis)conceptions because i read a lot of star charts for my romantic interests 🫣
as a fellow water sign i’ve always found scorpios very attractive and easy to fall in with and they can be incredibly playful and romantic. they can flirt incredibly well for attention and they like the way they have an effect on you.
my surprise is that in what i’ve seen of his characters, doesn’t fit the bill of a usual scorpio.
like i went through every sign for ryland and really felt there wasn’t much water there, seemed more like a tragic leo for real, same with colt seavers.
i had actually seen la la land, gray man, and the nice guys before phm and never found him conventionally attractive in the way i usually do with scorpio. he also seems incredibly professional and reserved so it’s hard to read when someone is literally an actor for a living.
you know he picked his accent as a kid and he’s had it ever since? this is on his wiki lmao, like i can’t tell if that’s neurodivergent or scorpio coded fr
like, to me, the ADHD makes more sense for the playful humour and energy that does come through on screen.
i feel like rygos probably has like a libra moon or virgo rising or something which is fixed and far more grounded than just sun scorpio (that or a lot of therapy and very good impulse control).
Tags: 18+, mdni; clothed sex; inappropriate use of classroom; f!reader (are you with Mark now?); semi-public sex; cheating; dom!reader; switch!ryland; degradation; no protection; implied past abusive relationship; dubcon?; sadism; yeah this isn't a nice one you've been warned
Word count: 3k
A/N: I have to wear one of these things to work and it kept banging into my stomach as I walked. cogito, ergo cum.
Summary: your dysfunctional ex fucks you with his school lanyard on
The PTA conference had dragged on far longer than you had expected. When you had taken your aunt’s place on the committee, you haven’t quite expected that granting her a date night would come quite so heavily at your own expense.
‘It’ll just be a bake sale again this year,’ You mocked yourself as you took a hard left away from the slow mill of people leaving out the main entrance. ‘Barbara loves baking(!)’
The thought of eating anything that woman made tasted sour, so you pulled a face, crossing the hall to take the science lab exit straight into the parking lot. It was bad enough watching her type what you said about banning AI use for kids into ChatGPA, but it had felt worse when you had to sit through her reading out ‘her’ response on the matter.
‘Stupid- oh!’
You had been so intent on storming to your car that you hadn’t noticed there was someone else in the science lab.
‘Was it something I said?’ came the dry smile as a familiar voice floated out of the darkness. You put a hand to your chest, almost comically, as you tried to bury your surprise.
‘Dr. Grace,’ you tried coolly as you watched him straighten a stack of papers.
‘C’mon,’ he snorted as he put the papers into his leather messenger bag. The one you had bought him last Christmas. ‘Like you ever respected that title.’
It felt wrong to him, to fold his words into cutting edges in a place where he always tried to put his best face forward. The darkness of his classroom existed between the fluorescents of the hallway and the orange glow of the emergency lights outside. You, somehow, still seemed to catch the moonlight on the edge of your blouse and the faintest silhouette of your hair.
If he wasn’t careful, the spectre of you would stand there in the middle of his class the next day, an after-image like the ones he introduced his kids to optics with, so he slung his bag over his shoulder and brushed past you towards the main entrance. His mistake was coming into arm’s reach.
Even as he felt his chest loosen with the impact of pushing you aside, his victory was pyrrhic as you reached out to snatch his lanyard.
The plastic card snapped against the buttons of his jacket, and Ryland’s whole body jerked towards you instinctively. The bag fell to your feet, and you kicked it aside.
‘I’m trying to be civil,’ you said through clenched teeth.
‘Really?’ Despite the hot flush from where the lanyard had chafed him, Ryland mustered the will to pull his identification from your grasp. ‘This is civil?’
You glowered at him, jaw heavy with the unspoken criticisms you wanted to level at him. Because the ones that slipped out had been enough of a sign already. You weren’t right for each other. It didn’t need repeating.
‘Fuck you.’
‘Oh-h-ho, you can’t have what you gave up, dollface,’
You hated that nickname, and he knew you did, so he was already braced for the slap that knocked his glasses askew. After a moment, he moved his hand to his jaw, tongue tasting his next regret.
‘That all you got?’
Words were funny little creatures. You knew this, so much so, that you had spent your whole life studying them. The way they shucked their own clothes and scurried for new cover in the wake of new giants, gathering and reforming on the edges of indiscretion.
The way they took up space, waiting for meaning to dress them in beautiful technicolour. The way that meaning could err and age, growing venom, long teeth, and a bite.
You grabbed his lapels, mad that he still scrunches his shoulders like some poor thing who doesn't like being hit, and you kiss him full of teeth.
He breathes, a man revived, his hands ghosting your outline because he knows he's not allowed to touch until you say so. He can still talk though.
'Ha-ah... New guy doesn't quite do it for you?'
'Shut the fuck up,' You kiss him furiously, but he's not giving anything back. It was bratty, but it also put an unfamiliar feeling in you. Like you might actually lose him.
He used to kiss you like he was starving. Now, he cups your elbows, firmly, and pulls you away from him. Ryland manages to look smug and annoyed at the same time, and you resist the urge to slap him again. Your hand still smarts from where it had caught on his stubble.
'Leave.' It's not a request.
Your heart thuds, pride not backing down. He looked good in a shirt and tie. Was it more than just show? You get angry again, jealous though you have no right to be, that he finally got his shit together, furious that he didn't do it when he was yours.
Jerking your elbows from his grasp, you grab him by the lanyard again, close to his neck, so you get a fistful of his tie and collar as well. A strangled wheeze escapes him, but he doesn't fight as you push him back to his desk, the rough scrape of metal against the safety flooring of the lab rattling with the pens and papers he pushes aside.
'You don't get to tell me what to do.' You curl the fabric around your fist, enjoying the way the blue lanyard cut into the flush of his neck. 'Not when you're so bad at listening.' You kiss him again, and despite his feigned indifference, you feel his mouth follow yours.
'I feel like this is the part where I usually point out your problems are your own fault, but you know, I think I'm starting to come around to your point of view.'
You say nothing, but an eyebrow lifts. You search his eyes, unfamiliar with emotions you don't recognise. 'What's that?'
'Oh, you know,' he sighs, his fingers finding the edge of your blouse with ease, where they had rested so many times before.
'I'm a piece of crap and you deserve better,'
An incredulous laugh forces itself from you. 'And?' The grip on his lanyard loosens, and it's all Ryland needs to turn the tables on you.
'And he doesn't know this side of you like I do.' He leans into your ear, his grip on your waist tightening. 'He can't take it like I can, and he certainly doesn't fuck you right.'
'What makes you say that?' The defiance is futile, because he's kissing you and lifting you and your legs wrap around him, pencil skirt bunching at your hips, seams threatening to snap. He carries you around the desk, your back slamming into his whiteboard. Magnetised pens clatter to the floor, and there's no purchase anywhere except Ryland.
'You're here.'
A softness in his voice, and you could scream. You don't need that from him, not now, not anymore when you had pulled yourself out from the burden of both of your failings to each other.
But you don't have to talk, because with his hands below your thighs, he's already pulled himself out and you feel only momentary regret that you don't even get to see it before he's pulling your panties aside with one hand and pushing himself into you with the other.
You bite your lip to hide the profanities against your teeth. You can still hear the squeaking of feet from the hallway from the last of the conference file out. Ryland moans in spite of himself, his glasses fallen off his face. You watch his breath fog the frames where they rest against his lips, an unspoken agreement to leave them there as a barrier between you.
It's rough, careless, but the things he's remembered about you are so ingrained, he can't help but give it to you the way you like, the squeak of your ass against that day's homework assignments. There was going to be a you-shaped gap on the board, but the thought of dry-wipe marker on your shirt was not the reason your back arches off the wall.
You thump his shoulder weakly, palms tingling with want, shame, sweat. Roughly, you try to push yourself off from the wall, fingers slipping through the faded lessons of days gone by and he moves, as he always does, to sit you on his desk, arms around you all the time. Your heart jumps as he swings you through the air, fear of being dropped in some heinous act of revenge palpable, but he doesn't even blink.
He could never do that before - lift you so effortlessly without you feeling like your torso was going to drag you both over. Another thing that fuels your rage. Now he starts working out?
The little plastic card on his lanyard bumps into your chest as he buries himself in you, and you hold onto the clasp, pissed at the picture of younger Grace wearing the same brown suit he had to your cousin's wedding. You're just holding it, but Ryland leans closer, like you have him by his leash. Which you do.
'I can't believe you're teaching middle school,' you stifle a cry as you enjoy the burn of his jeans between your legs. The soft, wet noises coming from between you isn't nearly loud enough to drown out the blood in your ears. You need to focus on something else, other than the craving he stokes inside you for a tenderness you both lost long ago.
'I can't believe you have the hots for teacher,' he smirks, that ego of his swelling as he fumbles with your blouse, remembering he's not meant to care and pulling it apart at the neck. An incriminating button pings against his coffee mug for the cleaner to find on Monday.
His lips descend on your neck as his hand slinks down to rub you roughly, like he doesn't have time for this anymore, and your core aches with the exertion of holding yourself up like this, heels slipping off your toes as they curl. He can feel you drip around him, your lace panties slick with you and pressing into him as he pulls out each time. He thinks about the smell of you seeping into the worn wood beneath him, catching him off guard next week as the heat of his body recalls it as he leans forward to take the morning register.
You always were a bad influence.
'You still think about me when you're with him?' It was thick with an barely buried hope.
'No,' you lie, and he stops moving.
'Oh.'
It was wicked, and you had to yank him to you again to stop him stepping away.
'I thought you wanted to prove a point, Ryland? Just gonna leave me here, half-fucked on your desk? You never had enough follow through. I shouldn't be surprised-'
Ryland gives up. The walls he put up to protect himself are gone. His glasses fall down his chin, dangling precariously from one ear as he kisses you, free arm holding you to him to your relief as he crushes you closer. There'll be traces of you all over the front of his jeans and inside your skirt but neither of you care.
He wants your ride back to be wet, uncomfortable, and embarrassing, just like he felt each time he still jacked off thinking about you. The thought of his cum smearing itself down the insides of your thighs made him twitch and he takes his hand away from your clit, holding you and grinding you onto his cock in a way that makes you gasp, an edge of pain as the angle catches you too deep.
The hesitation is instinctual, momentary, and anything but fleeting. Ryland takes no pleasure seeing you in pain. He knows you don't like it the same way he does, and though he knows you're trying to punish the both of you, he slows, peeling you off him.
You have have something cruel to say again, but he puts his hand over your mouth and turns you around so you can see the silhouette of the custodian walking away past the half-open blinds of the lab, switching the lights off behind him as he locks up. Your breath shudders and you grab his wrist to fling it away the second the hallway door closes with a jangle of keys.
Instead, Ryland's hand finds its way to the back of your neck, and bends you forward over his desk, pulling your panties down to your ankles and forcing his way back into you as you struggle to find purchase against his desk. The edges of the table cut into your hips, and the flood of your blood returning to your toes makes you light-headed.
'Don't,' Ryland whispers as he finds his pace again. 'Just let me pretend you think of me like this when you get on all fours for him.'
You hold back a moan, your hand reaching for your clit. You want to get off before him, kick him off you if you can-
His hand beat you there, rough pads of his broad fingers oh-so-careful, the pressure just the way you like it. He's reverent, he wants to make you cum but he can't help thinking of dragging it out, leaving you unfinished just so you would be vindicated on his lack of follow-through, his inability to deliver your needs, just to give you an excuse to come back and give him another chance, getting off on being right.
The night air fills with your breath, and Ryland feels his ears burn as tries not to look at anything else in his classroom but the swell of your ass and the way the light caught the slick of his cock.
You relax in spite of yourself, revelling in the way he was finally putting in all the work. You'd never seen him around kids before, near any semblance of responsibility, and your eyes catch a thank-you card on his desk, a small thing of a fat calico cat wearing a party hat that said Cheers, teach! and you reach out to punch it off his desk, the card scuttering on the floor.
You can't reconcile a grateful eight-grader with your memory of Ryland, who barely knew what he wanted and worked hard reluctantly, always trying to find a way to coast through life, his laundry all in the same wash regardless of the instructions he refused to read.
Ryland rips his jacket off, tossing it next to your head as he holds your sides, rhythm unrelenting.
You feel the rough spin of the wool against your forearm, and the place on your shoulder where the material falls next to you is electrified. Perspiration thins your shirt, and you can see a faint mark on the lining of the jacket where Ryland's sweat had coloured the dark red fabric.
He sniffs the air, drunk on sex, the way he can't seem to breathe through his nose, tears in his eyes from your hands dragging his hair and marking his face, and you can't help but to sink your face into his jacket, intoxicated on the hint of cologne on his collar - since when did he care about the way he smelled? - and you can't help it.
You think of him doing things lovingly, quietly, the way he used to when it wasn't enough for you, but doing them right, for himself, for his kids, the way you wanted him to and hated yourself for wanting to beg, but you beg now, desperate for this mistake to be over.
'Please,' you whisper, and Ryland can't hear you over his own grunts, his soft little whines as he gets closer.
Louder. 'Please, Ry,'
This breaks him. As his lips find the back of your neck, his hand running up your front to hold you, you feel the moisture of his face, pretend it's sweat as he sniffles, kissing you so tenderly, and your hand reaches back to clutch the hair behind his ears, his head falls on your shoulder, desperate to make you happy. You feel the ribbon of the lanyard on his neck, still rattling innocuously between you as he fills you. You trail your fingers around it, pulling it over your shoulder and tugging in a way that makes Ryland whimper.
He holds you by the stomach, grip secure on your hips, pulling you toward him and he has your whole weight now, the tips of your toes barely brush the floor and you're in the air, there's nothing else to do but give in to the pleasure that crawls up you from inside, burning against the splay of his hand against the bare skin of your neck.
'You're so good to me,' Ryland rushes, his glasses falling onto the floor. 'You feel so good, just wanna make you cum, I know you want to. Let me help.'
You feel yourself curl against him, shame burning the moisture of his sweat and tears from your neck, chasing the sound of your name as he mumbles, lost in you. Just a little more-
'O-oh fu-fr-frick,' Ryland stutters, and you know you will fall this time, harder than before, so you let go of his lanyard to brace yourself against his desk.
He orgasms first, shaking, but that's just what tips you over the edge. Feeling the way he pulses inside you with each spurt, your body reacts hungrily, drinking him in as your own pleasure follows his. He stills, head and nose clearing. Your throat is dry, your jaw squared against the wrong name that formed in your mouth. You swallow as he lingers, and pull yourself off him with a shudder.
Ryland moves quickly, tucked away and blue roll in hand, wiping down his desk with the acrid smell of whiteboard spray by the time you pull your sodden panties back on with a grimace. He pockets the spent tissue, paranoid, and picks up his glasses.
There's a half joke on his lips as he puts them back on, but by the time he can see again, the rattle of the emergency exit has already signalled your departure.
A/N: I'm sorry i guess I forgot to include ryland cries in the tags
also posted on ao3 | my masterlist
You are horrendously hungover after a night out with some of your old college friends. Ryland has lots of ideas to help alleviate it.
~3.1k words; smut; cock warming; breeding kink (whether or not it is serious or just dirty talk is up to you <3); fem!reader
a/n: ok. so i was brutally hungover today and said i wasn't going to write. but then i took a shower and felt like 50% of a human being again, so then i started writing this initially as a cute little thing. and then i was like. hm. i've been wanting to do a fic about cock warming, bc i tried it recently (probaby tmi but whatever). and now here we are. so enjoy this short and sweet (by my standards i guess) smut, and i swear i am actually going to work on requests tomorrow lol
Your mouth feels absolutely disgusting, and your head is pounding, and you’re pretty sure you’re still in your jeans from the night before. Are you—why are you on the couch? Also, could the sun possibly consider going away, just for a little bit?
There’s a blanket on top of you, at least, so that’s nice, and something smells fucking amazing, but when you try to lift your head, the motion is immediately clocked as a mistake. You try to think back to the night before, tally up how many drinks you had. There was the espresso martini, and then a shot, and then a few vodka sodas, and then another espresso martini, and that’s where your memory starts to fizzle out. You vaguely remember ordering a ride home, though coming inside is currently a blank, and then you must have sat on the couch to try and sober up a bit before getting in bed, which clearly did not end up happening.
You go to call out to Ryland, because he’s probably been awake for a while, judging by how much sunlight is coming through the window—still offensive that the sun is doing that to you, by the way—but a little wheeze comes out instead. Right. Someone had offered you a cigarette, somewhere after the second vodka soda, you’re pretty sure, and you had been drunk enough already that it had sounded like the best thing ever.
He must have heard the wheeze anyway, because then he pads into the living room. “It’s alive,” he smiles, in a fun little voice, and it feels fitting because you imagine this is probably what Frankenstein’s monster felt like upon being shocked into life. “How are you feeling?” You let out a groan. “Yeah, that sounds about right. I put a glass of water and some ibuprofen—which is better for hangovers, by the way, and definitely don’t take any Tylenol—on the table.”
Aw. You hadn’t noticed that yet, mostly because opening your eyes and moving them around to look at stuff kind of makes you want to die. “Thanks,” you croak out. He helps you sit up, then, and dear lord, your head feels like it is about to explode. You pop the ibuprofen pill in your mouth and take a very long chug of water. “What’s that smell?”
“Breakfast. I’m cooking it. Well, it’s more like a late brunch, at this point.”
Wow. “You, like, never cook.”
“I do. Sometimes.” You lift up an eyebrow as you take another gulp of water. “Okay, ouch, first of all, and second it’s just bacon and eggs, so, not that hard to screw up.”
The smoke alarm starts going off.
“Crap, okay, I’ve got this all under control—” Ryland rushes back into the kitchen. “Go take a shower—ouch, that’s hot, ow, why did I grab that—this should be done by the time you’re out.”
You slowly stand and attempt to ignore the headrush. Despite the smoke, the food smells so good, and your stomach growls. You’ll have to make it a quick shower, because you’re not sure how long you’ll even be able to stay upright while having nothing in your stomach.
The creature that stares back at you from the mirror looks ghastly. Your makeup is entirely smudged around your eyes, there’s a line of drool trailing from the side of your mouth, and it is possible that a bird snuck in during the night and tangled up your hair to make a nest. You try to take off the lingering makeup and brush your hair out as quickly as you can before hopping into the shower. In a perfect world, you would do your full routine, but the smell of the bacon is starting to make your mouth water.
Oops. You forgot to grab clothes before you went into the bathroom. Whatever, the bedroom’s right there, and it’s not anything Ryland hasn’t seen before, so you walk out stark naked. While you’re pulling some clothes on—you steal one of his shirts, and then a pair of sweatpants for good measure—he calls from the kitchen, “I saw that, by the way. Nothing gets past me.”
“You should probably focus on not setting something on fire.”
“Hey, some of the greatest scientific breakthroughs were the result of setting something on fire. Also, it’s done. So.”
You walk out into the kitchen, expecting him to still be in there, and your plate to be on the counter, but you find neither. He must have already brought it into the living room, and, wow, you would like to kiss this man senseless right about now.
The bacon is only a little bit burned, but it is still delicious, and you munch on it happily while sitting next to him on the couch. He throws on a random video, something about water volcanoes on one of Jupiter’s moons, and when you’re finished eating he takes your plate and empty glass into the kitchen and returns with more water.
You sigh contentedly. “You’re kind of the best, and I love you, like, so much.”
He smiles and presses a kiss on the top of your head. You fold yourself into his side when he sits down again, and his arm reflexively winds around your shoulders. “Love you too. Feeling any better?”
“Some. The food helped a lot. My head still hurts a little, though.” You shift so you can nuzzle into his neck, which means that you’re basically half on top of him, and you have to put his glasses back on his face so they’re not in the way. “Sorry I got back so late,” you murmur against his skin. “And fell asleep on the couch.”
“It’s—you’re fine. Fun night? With your college friends, right?”
“Yeah. And, I mean, I’m kind of regretting about half of the drinks I had right now, but I had a good time.” You’re still pressing your forehead into him, because it actually feels really nice, dulling the throbbing in your head.
The arm around your shoulders tightens a little. “I feel like we’ve been over this before. You cannot be inside my skin. It’s not possible. And I like my skin. Very important organ. I can’t just open it up for you.”
You smile and keep nuzzling. “I’m not, even though that hurts my feelings. It’s making my head hurt less.”
He hums, and you can faintly feel it buzzing in his throat. “Probably the endorphins. Physical human touch releases a ton of it, it’s why it’s so important for skin-on-skin right after a baby is born.”
“I see.” You move, then, and clamber onto his lap so you can essentially smush your entire face into the crook of his neck. His hands slip under your shirt—well, his shirt, technically—and rub soothing paths on your back. You adjust your position a little, and then: “Oh. I haven’t even done anything.”
Ryland huffs at that. “That is completely and utterly not true. You’re on top of me, first of all, and you’re wearing my clothes, and you smell like your soap. So that’s, like, three things that you’ve done right there. I’m sure I could come up with more.” You roll your hips, slowly, still pressing your face into his skin, and he clears his throat. “We don’t—you should rest. It will go away. Probably. At some point.”
“But what if I would really, really like to. Just. Maybe not too vigorously.” His fingers flex against your back. “Also, I feel like you’ve told me at some point that orgasms are great for pain management.”
“This is very true,” he chokes out, because you’re still moving your hips into him. “More happy chemicals. Like, a lot.”
“So. Really. You would be helping me out.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” His hands move, then, from your back to your breasts, so his fingers can trace lazy circles on the buds of your nipples. You sigh happily and mouth at his neck, still rutting against him. “Hm. I have an idea.”
You grin. “Uh oh. That’s, what, two just this morning?”
“Very—funny—” The exhale he lets out is a little shaky, because you’ve started lightly grazing your teeth against his pulse point. “Are you going to ask me what the idea is?”
“I feel like normally you just share them, but, alright, I’ll bite. What’s the idea?”
“It’s about maximizing skin-on-skin contact.”
“Isn’t that kind of—already what sex does?” You’ve found a good spot with your hips, where the hard length of him lines up with you perfectly, and to be honest, you’re kind of thinking that you might be fine with just doing this.
“Well, yes, but this would be even more.” He matches the rhythm of his fingers with your movement, and you whimper into his neck. “I’ll take that as a yes? To the idea?” You nod, even though he hasn’t really told you what the actual idea really is. “Great. First step is that we take off all of our clothes.”
You lean back, then, and the dull throbbing returns to your head a little, but you ignore it and lift up your (his) shirt to pull it off. “This is already shaping up to be a fantastic idea. You’re two for two today, really great record.”
Ryland doesn’t say anything, not yet, because he’s looking down at your newly-bared skin. “Okay, slight addition to the plan, this is only a small detour before the actual idea,” and then he’s dipping his head to take one of your nipples into his mouth. You moan softly and wind your hands into his hair, rocking your hips again. He lets out a groan when you tug, just a little, and then he’s reluctantly pulling away from your chest. “Sorry, I have to—I’ve gotta stay on the rails, here, or else I will just do that all day.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t complain.”
“I don’t doubt that. But we still haven’t finished step one.”
He helps you out of your (his) sweatpants, and then your underwear—there is another short detour here—before he takes off his own clothes, and he is so excited about this idea of his that he accidentally kicks the coffee table because he’s rushing. This does not deter him, and he lies down on the couch and pulls you on top of him. “Is it time for step two?” You ask, sighing as he wraps his arms around you. The feeling of your bare chest completely pressed into his is absolutely wonderful.
“This was technically step two. Sorry. I narrated it in my head. Step three is…” He shifts you down a little, moving his hands to your thighs to help you spread your legs on either side of his hips. “Can you…?” One of his hands comes up to smooth your hair before hovering, palm up, by your face. You spit into his hand. “Little more.” As you gather more saliva and let it drip onto his palm, you wonder if he actually needs this much, or if he just likes watching you do it.
Apparently you’ve given him enough, because he moves his hand away, and then he must be spreading your saliva along his length, if the way his breath catches in his chest tells you anything. Finally, he squeezes your side, and you lift your hips so he can slowly, carefully, lovingly slide inside you.
You sigh as you settle, all the way down on the base of him, and, yeah, you’re pretty sure that the skin-on-skin contact has been maximized. Your head doesn’t hurt at all, really, although in all fairness this isn’t even on your radar at the moment, because you’re too busy savoring the way his cock feels inside of you, the press of your breasts against him, his fingers digging into your hips.
“Step three,” you mumble into his neck, “has been my favorite step so far. What’s next?”
Ryland shifts a little underneath you but otherwise doesn’t move. “That’s it. We have successfully executed the idea.”
“Oh. You could have just—I know what cock warming is, Ry.”
“It’s about the suspense.”
“Sure.” His hands draw up your back, then, and he squeezes his arms around you, drawing you in even closer. “And you’re positive that you’re going to be able to just sit there and not move.”
“One hundred percent.” You grin and clench around him, and his hips twitch. “Okay, well that’s just not fair.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“…You can keep doing it, though. If you want.”
The two of you just lay like that, for a while, and he manages to stay still the whole time, even as you periodically tighten your cunt; at first, you were sort of worried that the appeal would start to wear off pretty quickly, but it hasn’t, not at all. In fact, you are fairly certain that this might be the wettest you have been in your entire life.
Then he does this—this thing, where he’s moving, but he’s also not, but somehow you can feel him moving inside of you. “What. How are you,” and you have take a second, because the sensation is kind of incredible, and scratch your earlier thought, now you are the wettest you’ve ever been. “How are you doing that.”
You can hear him smiling when he speaks. “I have pelvic floor muscles, too, you know. I think it’s the, um, the. Sorry, it’s a little difficult to—to recall detailed human anatomy, at the moment.” He falls silent, save for his heavy breathing and your quiet whimpers, and enough time passes that you think the train of thought has completely left him. “The ischiocavernosus muscle!” He blurts. “That’s it, that’s what I’m using at the moment.”
“Awesome. Tell your ischiocavernosus muscle that it’s doing a really great job. Also, I think I’m going to sit up now, because I would really like to be able to touch myself.”
“I think we can add that as a step, for sure, I’ll just—” He helps you sit up, then, and his fingers go to your chest, without you even needing to ask for it, while yours dip down to circle your clit.
It’s—there’s no resistance, your fingers simply glide smoothly over the bundle of nerves, and that combined with the sensation of the peaked buds of your nipples being rolled and circled by his fingers already has you swiftly approaching the edge. “Oh, oh, that’s—I’m already—you were right, this is an amazing idea, I would like to do this all the time, please.”
He smiles up at you, and you are struck in that moment by just how much you love him, how beautiful he looks like this, blue eyes wide and shining behind his glasses, the flush of his face spreading to his rising and falling chest. Neither of you are moving, still, except for your hands, but then he does the fucking thing again, the move-but-not-a-move, and apparently that just does it for you. Your thighs squeeze against his hips, and he steadies you while you tremble and cry out, still moving his fingers, right up until you finally collapse back down onto him.
“I think,” you whisper after a minute or so, still on top of him, still clenching around him every once in a while, “that was probably a new record. For how fast I’ve gotten there.”
“And the headache?”
“Nowhere to be found.”
He hums and presses a kiss into your temple. “You might want to take another shower.”
You raise yourself up, just a little, so you can look at him, confused. “We’re not done, though? You still haven’t—”
“Nah. This was for you. Pain management, remember?”
Yeah, that’s not happening. “Okay, but what if semen also has medicinal qualities. Like, if you come inside me, my headache definitely won’t come back.”
Ryland huffs through his nose, almost in disbelief, but you can feel him twitch inside of you. “It doesn’t, but—we can pretend that it does for the next five minutes?”
You lower yourself back down, laying your head on his shoulder and sliding your hands around his biceps as he grabs your hips. “Five minutes? That’s pretty confident of you.”
“Probably,” he groans, because now he’s moving, actually moving, and you practically mewl against his skin at the feeling. You squeeze around his cock, timing it with when he’s all the way inside of you, and a delightful little sound flies out of his mouth. “Scratch that, not probably, definitely, you are—have you been doing kegels, or something, hah, it’s honestly impressive.”
“Please,” you beg quietly into his throat. “Please come inside me, Ryland, I need it so bad, need you to—to—put a baby in me.”
He chokes at that and starts moving faster. His fingers are digging into your hips, bordering the line on being painful, but it’s not, and you are delirious at the effect that you have on him. “Oh, my gosh, you can’t—you cannot just say that to me, I’m—I’m so—”
“Yes, please, so good, you’re so good.” You’re basically chanting into his skin, now, saying whatever words occur to you in the moment without really thinking about it. “Love the way you feel, it’s so good, so fucking deep, need you to come inside me just like that.”
He does, then, with a broken whine, and you shudder against him at the sound, at the feeling of him, and neither of you move, still, even as he starts to soften and his breathing slowly evens out from its earlier heaving.
“Screw the shower,” you murmur. “I think I could fall asleep like this.”
“Same. I might have—I stayed up a little, last night. I wasn’t sure what time you’d be home.” His fingers are drawing slow lines up and down the length of your spine, until his hands settle, splayed on your back.
Your eyes slide shut as you nestle into him. “Sorry, again.”
“S’okay.” His words are already starting to slur a little. “Just sleep better when I’m with you.”
Both of you fall asleep, eventually, with the TV still playing the video at low volume, his cum slowly leaking out of you. When you wake up a few hours later, the headache is entirely gone, but he makes you come again with his mouth, just to be sure, he says, and he doesn’t even let you clean yourself up before he does it.
› summary: in an effort to get over the end of a long term relationship, you go home with a handsome stranger. unbeknownst to you, he also happens to be your new coworker.
› tags/warnings: explicit mentions of smut (minors DNI!), language, alcohol use, reader is an english teacher, not beta read, reader has female anatomy, no use of y/n, strong language, one night stand to coworkers to lovers, reader used ryland as a rebound, reader was in a bad relationship before ryland, this would be right after he's kicked from academia, lots of exposition in this one sorry y'all
› wc: 4.5k
It wasn't meant to be the beginning of anything. That had been the point. You had gone to the club because Hallie and Reagan insisted that getting over Anthony required you to remember that other men existed, that other men would be interested in you. You had spoken to the blond stranger because he was cute and because he hadn't been entirely repulsed at your terrible opening line and because, for once, you had wanted to do something for yourself without first imagining Anthony's reaction.
ᯓ★
The first thing you're aware of when you wake up is the headache.
It sits right behind your eyes, a dull pang that seems to heighten with every passing second. For several long, deep breaths, you keep them closed. It's easier this way, you think, as you're unwilling to confront anything more complicated than the dry scrape of your tongue at the roof of your mouth and the pleasant soreness in your legs. There's a faint, mechanical whir of an air conditioning unit nearby that's fighting a losing battle against the late August heat, the sounds of San Francisco coming to life outside of what must be an open window.
This is why you don't normally drink.
In your early twenties, you'd thought yourself impervious to hangovers. This was disproved shortly after your twenty-third birthday. The morning after a particularly vicious night out had been spent puking your guts up while Hallie stood behind you, pulling your hair away from your face and cooing comforting words that irritated you more than anything else.
Fuck.
Hallie. And Reagan.
You open your eyes. The room around you is both unfamiliar and startlingly intimate.
The ceiling above you is painted a nondescript white, fan rattling with every few turns. A thin blade of sunlight spills through the gap between a pair of cheap blue curtains, spreading over the rumpled sheets near your waist. There's a dresser against the opposite wall, its surface covered in trinkets, a half-empty glass of water, and a collection of books stacked horizontally. A framed print from a movie you've never seen before hangs above it.
You stare up at the ceiling for a few moments longer, trying to recollect the events from last night, but your mind is painfully blurry.
There are fragments. Lights flashing across a crowded dance floor. Reagan pressing a drink into your hand and insisting that you let loose. The sticky hardwood beneath your heels. A brunette sliding her hand down a man's arm with a grin before disappearing into the crowd. Blond hair. A crooked smile. Your own voice asking, with a confidence you certainly do not possess while sober, Tough crowd?
The mattress shifts beside you, and your whole body tenses. You wince. Slowly, carefully, you turn your head.
The man from the club is asleep on his stomach beside you, his face turned towards the window. He has one arm tucked beneath his pillow, the other sprawled out, close enough that the backs of his fingers almost brush against the bare skin of your hip. His hair is rumpled from sleep, the strands near his temple lit gold by the sun. His glasses are discarded on his nightstand, next to a few Advil laid out.
You don't remember his name.
You're not sure if this is your error or his, though. Did he ever give you his name? Had you given him yours? You can't recall.
What you do remember is giggling breathlessly into his mouth when he kissed you in the backseat of the rideshare, and laughing loudly when he dropped his keys outside the building. Heat licks up your neck, embarrassment and exhilaration replacing your stomach with butterflies.
What have you gotten yourself into? It was so irresponsible of you, going home with a stranger. What if he had kidnapped you? Or murdered you? This is exactly the kind of thing that ends with girls your age on the news.
You close your eyes again. Okay. Panicking is not helping. You're alive, you're well, not missing any vital organs or anything—at least, that you know of.
You inhale deeply. This is not a catastrophe. You are an adult (pushing thirty, to put it bluntly). A single adult, as Hallie had repeatedly emphasized on your way to the club. You're allowed to go home with an attractive stranger. You're allowed to do whatever you please, even if Anthony would have hated it.
Thinking of Anthony is the least helpful thing you can do right now, so you decide to finally get up. You peel the comforter off your body, unsurprised to find yourself naked. You'd be a little disappointed if the night had ended on the more PG-13 side of things, all things considered.
Your clothes are scattered across the room. You sit up, cringing at the wave of nausea that threatens to have you kneeled over a toilet for the next twenty minutes. Your headache blooms with fresh enthusiasm, throbbing slightly.
Your denim miniskirt and panties are discarded on your side of the bed. Slowly, you swing your legs over, wiggling back into your bottoms. You locate your black halter top on the other side of the room. You're thankful you had forgone a bra last night, as it's one less article of clothing you need to worry about. You tiptoe with such care that it's almost comical. The last thing you want is to wake this guy up and endure an embarrassing exchange that you'd really rather avoid.
A floorboard creaks under your foot, and the man behind you sighs and shifts in his sleep. You freeze, glancing over your shoulder at him. He makes a low, unintelligible sound, his hand moving across the mattress as if searching for something. As if searching for you, you realize with a sinking feeling. You don't dare exhale until his own breathing settles into an even rhythm again.
Then you tug your top on.
You find your purse on the floor by the door with a quiet sigh of relief. Your phone is inside, with less than ten percent battery left. The screen lights up when you pull it out. You have nine missed texts and three missed calls. You open the groupchat first.
Reg: Pls tell me ur alive
Halls: Tbh I wouldn't mind getting murdered by that guy
Reg: Not helping
Halls: Ur no fun
Reg: I rlly don't want to have to file a missing persons report
Halls: I think you need a break from true crime
Reg: It's called TRUE crime for a reason!!
Reg: How bad would her luck be if her first rebound after literal Satan is a psychopath murderer
Halls: Have you ever tried a more positive outlook on life
You can't help the silly grin that tugs on your mouth.
You: Alive and well
Typing bubbles pop up nearly as soon as you send your text confirming your continued existence.
Halls: Hooray!
Reg: Back at your place yet?
You: No. About to leave now
Reg: Good luck. Can I come over
You: Sure meet u there
Halls: No fair! I have work >:(
You lock the screen before Hallie can continue complaining, shoving your phone back in your purse and slinging it over your shoulder.
The bathroom is visible through the open bedroom door, directly across the narrow hallway. You slip inside, easing the door shut behind you. It's… cleaner than you'd expect from a single guy around your age.
You barely recognize yourself in the mirror. Your mascara is smudged, a few dark tear tracks running down your cheeks. Mortification coils in your gut. Had you cried in front of your hookup about Anthony? You wouldn't put it past yourself. The breakup is still fresh, tender and raw in all the wrong places.
Your lipstick has faded almost entirely, though it lingers around the edges of your mouth. Your hair is a tangled mess, and there's a darkening mark on your collarbone that has you shivering in the warm bathroom. You think of his mouth on yours, on your neck, your ear, trailing down in spite of the pathetic whimpers leaving your mouth.
"For fuck's sake," you mutter to yourself.
Cold water helps. You splash your face twice, scrubbing with your hands in hopes of getting rid of the evidence. You try to smooth your hair down, though it still looks a little rough, and try not to look around too much. As badly as your nosy self wants to snoop, peeking around feels too invasive.
When you're finished cleaning up, you spare one final glance into the bedroom. The man is dead to the world, but it does little to assuage your unease.
God, you feel guilty. What kind of asshole leaves without saying anything? You, you guess. But disappearing without a word sends the same message as explaining face-to-face that it was a one-time sort of thing, doesn't it? You can only assume so. This is your first one night stand. At least this way, you're saving both of you the time and awkward conversation.
It wasn't meant to be the beginning of anything. That had been the point. You had gone to the club because Hallie and Reagan insisted that getting over Anthony required you to remember that other men existed, that other men would be interested in you. You had spoken to the blond stranger because he was cute and because he hadn't been entirely repulsed at your terrible opening line and because, for once, you had wanted to do something for yourself without first imagining Anthony's reaction.
And you did it. You proved whatever it was you needed to prove.
There's no reason to complicate the matter now.
That's the mantra you repeat to yourself as you skulk through the apartment, finding your heels by the front door and slipping into them. You escape into the hallway and close the door quietly after you.
His apartment is only on the second floor, thank God, and before you know it you're on the street in yesterday's clothes, squinting up at the morning sun. You're dismayed to realize he only lives a few blocks away from you, but at least it makes your walk all the easier.
Reagan is waiting for you outside your apartment door. She's leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone and smacking her gum. She looks great, you realize a little petulantly. Her nearly white-blonde hair falls over her shoulder in a loose braid, makeup done and a cute pair of jeans and a tank top thrown on. You must look like you've been hit by a car in comparison.
"Hey," you sigh as you approach her, shouldering your purse as it starts slipping down your arm.
"Hey," she greets coolly in return. She gives you an appraising look before adding, "You look awful."
"Thanks," you grumble. You jam your key into the lock with a little more force than strictly necessary.
Reagan follows you inside, shucking her boots off carelessly. "So, tell me about last night."
You shrug, setting your purse on the kitchen counter. It feels so good to be back home after the morning you had, surrounded by your plants and books and fuzzy rugs. You decide you're never going to try the one night stand thing again. Too much work.
"It was good," you say, heading towards your bedroom. Reagan tails you wordlessly. "I think."
"You think?" she asks. She sits on your bed, leaning back on her hands.
"Well, I don't know." You dig around in your wardrobe for a pair of sweatpants and a nice, big t-shirt. "I don't remember a lot of it."
"I always forget you have a shit tolerance."
"Yeah, laugh it up. At least it's cheaper for me to get fucked up."
She waves a hand. "But black out? I mean, yeesh."
"I remember the important parts." You roll your eyes and step into the bathroom connected to your room. You throw a towel over the shower rack, setting your clothes by the sink, and turn the dial. You undress quickly, eager to get under the hot water, and slip into the shower.
"Did you at least get his number?" Reagan's voice is closer now. You peer around the shower curtains to confirm that she is now in your bathroom, trying to pop a pimple near her hairline in your mirror.
"No."
"What?" Reagan turns away from the mirror so quickly you hear her socks squeak against the tile. "Did you leave him yours?"
You duck your head beneath the spray, combing your fingers through your hair. The water is almost painfully hot, but it feels amazing on your tense muscles. "No."
She whistles. "So you really went for the whole hookup routine."
"I guess," you say, starting to wash your hair. "Isn't leaving in the morning the whole point?"
"Depends. Was the sex good?"
You squeeze your eyes shut. The easy answer is yes, the sex was good, and you don't think you've ever come that hard or that many times in your life. A tingle in your stomach reminds you of his fingers; a thumb swiping over your overly sensitive nipples; his middle and ring fingers fucking into you mercilessly as he pet your hair and pressed open-mouthed kisses to your skin; his big hands wrapped around your wrists while his cock brushed your cervix with every drunk, sloppy thrust.
The more difficult answer for you to swallow was that it hadn't just been good. To say it was good felt like a disservice to yourself. It was the best sex you'd ever had in your life.
You had slept with Anthony countless times. Of course you did. You'd gotten together your senior year of college, dated him for nearly three years, and you aren't a prude. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. At the time it had felt only natural to fall into bed with him. In the beginning it was passionate, maybe fueled by that infamous honeymoon phase, and towards the end…
You never hated it. Sometimes it had been nice, when he had kissed your neck in a way that made you inhale sharply, or ran his hand along your waist with a tenderness that made your heart swell.
But there had always been a set distance between your body and your mind. A sense that you were observing yourself, taking notes on your own performance. Were you moving enough? Making the right sounds? Taking too long? Not long enough? Was your face doing something weird?
Anthony never complained, but he hadn't needed to. He had a very particular way of sighing when you wanted something, a way of treating any attempt of explaining how you'd liked to be pleased: like it was a chore, a complicated set of instructions for a piece of furniture he didn't want all the much anyway. He would try, sometimes, but with a reluctant concentration that made you wish you'd kept your mouth shut.
Eventually you started doing exactly that. It was easier to let him finish and call it good; easier to smile when he asked if enjoyed yourself; eventually you began to assume that's what sex was when the novelty wore off.
Sex became something mildly pleasant that you did for the closeness of it, or because it had been a while, or because the person beside you reached for you in bed and saying no required more energy than saying yes.
Last night hadn't felt that way in the slightest.
The stranger you left the club with had paid attention to you with an intensity that was almost embarrassing. He watched and listened for your reactions to his touch, his mouth, and adjusted accordingly—as though every hitch of your breath and involuntary roll of your hips was something worth noticing for its own sake. He had asked you what you wanted, and listened.
At some point, you stopped worrying about what you looked like. That miserable, exhausting awareness of yourself had slipped away, and you were able to be present. Entirely.
Reagan picks up on your silence and treats it like an answer. "It was, wasn't it?"
"It was… fine," you say.
"You are such a bad liar," she snorts. "It's actually a little insulting."
"I didn't know." Your voice comes quieter now.
"Know what?"
You swallow. "That it could be like that."
There's a brief silence, and you worry for a moment that you've really overdone it, the whole pathetic ex-girlfriend thing, but then Reagan sighs. The sound is full of such fierce irritation that you can't help but smile.
"I hated Anthony."
"You say that about every guy Hallie and I talk about," you say, unable to hide your amusement.
"I mean it, too."
"Besides, he wasn't that bad. He just—"
You cut yourself short. You shouldn't be excusing him or his behavior. You know this. Reagan's told you so many times that you're sure she's sick of it, and for once you finally understand.
There was constantly something about you that Anthony felt needed correcting. Your skirt was a little short. Your friends are immature. Your apartment is too cluttered. You laugh too loud when you drink. You expect too much. You make things difficult.
"I don't know," you finish lamely.
Reagan doesn't answer immediately. When she responds, her voice is gentler.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I was on your ass a lot about breaking up with him, and I'm glad you did, but I know it's been hard."
You're not sure what to say to that. It has been hard, to be honest, but also freeing. Reagan has never kept a guy around for longer than three months (by her own choice, she claims men get boring and pushy after that), much less three years. How could she understand what it's like to lose such a big part of your life?
You shut the water off.
Reagan gives you some privacy to dry off and change. You pad back into your living room to find her sprawled on the couch, texting, You sit beside her with a sigh, and she shoves her feet into your lap.
"I think," she declares, "that you're due some good karma from the universe."
"Yeah?" you say absentmindedly, grabbing the remote from your coffee table and flicking through streaming services. "Does the universe have Venmo?"
"Har har." She pokes you with her foot and you smack her shin lightly. "I'm serious. You're in for something good. Restorative. Something a little slutty, but in a healing way. You might even see your mystery man again."
A knot tightens in your throat. He only lives a few blocks south. It's a possibility, as much as you wish it wasn't. "I don't think that's how karma works."
"Maybe not," Reagan says, reaching forward to snatch the remote from you. "But wouldn't it be funny if it did?"
ᯓ★
The following Monday sees you in a rush. You're late to your staff meeting, again. This is thrice now, in the last month, but you can't help it.
Or, to rephrase, you absolutely can help it, you just hate staff meetings so much that dragging your feet in protest feels mandatory.
By the time you reach Grover Cleveland Middle School, you are sweating through the back of your blouse. Your phone and coffee balance precariously in one hand while you shoulder your tote bag and shove your way through the main entrance's heavy doors with the other.
The front office smells the exact same as it always does in the summer: floor wax, printer toner, coffee, and the faint tang of hand sanitizer. You inhale deeply, cherishing it one last time before it gets tainted with middle school body odor.
"Morning!" Mrs. Moreno chirps from behind the front desk.
"Morning," you grimace, glancing up to offer a tight smile. Someone has taped a cheerful paper banner above the mailboxes that reads WELCOME BACK, GCMS STAFF! in bubble letters. It's eight in the morning and you'd be damned if you said you don't want a drink right now. Such is the life of educators.
"You're just in time. Library."
"Thanks," you say, already moving.
The library doors are propped open when you arrive. Inside, the rest of the staff have already gathered around the long study tables, clustered loosely by departments, though a few stragglers sit in different groups. History near the windows. Math and science at the back. Electives closer to the computers. You take your place with the rest of the language arts department, along the sides across from physical education.
You slip into the empty seat at the end of the table beside Marisol Alba, who teaches sixth-grade ELA and, much to your envy, appears far more composed than your flushed face and heavy breathing.
She turns, glancing at you over the rim of her glasses. "Rough start?"
"Something like that," you huff.
You're relieved to find that you didn't miss anything. At the front of the room, Principal Alvarez stands beneath a blank projector screen, messing around with something on his phone. A few murmured conversations float around the room, coworkers catching up after the summer with polite small talk and meaningless questions. The assistant principal crouches near the laptop cart, sorting through the tangle of cords.
The week before school starts always feels like being slowly lowered into a pot of boiling water while someone self-important on the board describes it as professional development. You've only been teaching for four years, and when you were fresh out of college and starting at Grover Cleveland, you were so overwhelmed you had seriously weighed the options of gritting your teeth and dealing with it, or running away.
It's times like this you wish you had chosen the latter.
There are rosters to review, bulletin boards to finish, classroom expectations to go over, and at least one required meeting in which Alvarez goes over the year's vision, goals, updated policies, and that sort of bullshit. You're starting to suspect he's more in love with the sound of his own voice than anything else.
The projector finally flickers to life. A blue slide appears on the screen, titled Building Forward Together. Beside you, Marisol inhales deeply through her nose.
You nudge her and whisper, "Be strong."
"I'm trying."
Alvarez claps his hands once, looking supremely pleased with himself. "All right, everyone. Thank you for your patience. I know you're all eager to get back into your classrooms, so we'll try to move efficiently this morning."
You snort into your coffee, and Marisol rolls her eyes. You open your planner to a blank page and write Staff Meeting at the top, but you know before the meeting is over you'll end up with a whole page of doodles, little flowers and swirls.
"Before we get into our goals and some new updates," Alvarez says, "I want to start by welcoming a few new faces to our family."
Family. Ugh, you hate when people use that word. Nonetheless, you find yourself dragging your gaze up curiously. You know there's been a few new hires this year, one of which will be taking up residence in 214, the classroom right across the hall from yours. You hate to admit it, but you're excited. Your current "family," as Alvarez likes to put it, is a little lacking.
You clap politely for new office secretary and the paraeducator joining the seventh grade team, your eyes sweeping over the crowd in an effort to catch any unfamiliar faces that might be your incoming neighbor.
Alvarez checks the paper in his hand. "And finally, we are very excited to welcome the newest member in our science department, Ryland Grace. Ryland, if you could stand up, please?"
You—and nearly the whole language arts department—crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the man that stands from somewhere in the middle of the rest of the science teachers. No wonder you hadn't seen him earlier, tucked away like that.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, and Christ, he's handsome, but—
Oh, my fucking God.
You clap a hand over your mouth, turning your head away so fast that your neck pops, but it's too late. He saw you, you know it. His embarrassed smile had faltered, his eyebrows had shot up into his hairline. He fucking saw you, and recognized you as fast as you recognized him. How could you not? You were in his bed, only two days prior.
"What is wrong with you?" Marisol mutters at your desperate attempt to hide in the shoulder of her blazer. "He's not that ugly."
"Later," you choke out. You risk a glance back at the man from the club—at Ryland fucking Grace, your coworker that you slept with—and a small whimper escapes you when you see him looking back.
For a moment, you nearly convince yourself that you're imagining it. You were so drunk on Friday night, maybe he just looks really similar. But you know that's not the truth.
His blond hair is tamed, neater than it had been against his pillow. He wears a pale blue button-down tucked into dark slacks, the sleeves rolled to his forearms to combat against the heat. And those glasses—those stupid glasses. They'd gotten all fogged up from kissing, and you had plucked them from his face, admiring the way his pretty eyes went a little fuzzy, glazed over with need.
You think you might be sick.
He sits down, disappearing again behind your other coworkers, but you can feel the heat of his gaze pinning you down.
Or maybe you're imagining it.
Maybe, if there is any mercy left in the universe, Ryland Grace has already decided to be mature and professional about this; maybe he's looking at Alvarez now, taking careful notes on the district’s new instructional priorities; maybe he is not thinking about you at all; maybe, if you're lucky, he has forgotten the exact sound you made when he kissed down the side of your throat.
You press your pen so hard against your planner that the tip punches through the paper.
Marisol leans closer. "You're making me nervous."
"I'm fine."
She makes an amused sound. "You look like you need medical attention."
Your face feels too hot, your stomach twisting and rolling in nauseating circles. There's a nonzero chance that you actually do need medical attention, but you swallow it down with some coffee. "I said I'm fine."
At the front of the library, Alvarez clears his throat. “All right, now that introductions are out of the way, I want to shift our focus to this year’s building goals.”
A slide appears behind him.
BELONGING. CONSISTENCY. GROWTH.
Fine. Wonderful. All excellent concepts. You would love to belong somewhere other than this room. You would love some consistency in the form of never again seeing a man you slept with at work. You would love to grow into a new person immediately, preferably one with amnesia.
But alas.
You stare at the presentation slide while Alvarez continues speaking, his voice smoothing into the same distant, administrative hum as the air conditioner overhead. Around you, your coworkers nod along like normal people, people who have not recently discovered that karma has a staff ID and teaches eighth grade science across the hall.
Across the hall. You sink in your seat, wishing the floor would open up under you and swallow you whole.
You'll see him during passing periods, and at the copier. You'll see him during fire drills, staff lunches, parent nights, professional development days, and every other mandatory ritual this place invents to remind you that escape is an illusion.
Hell, apparently, is room 214 at Grover Cleveland Middle School.
Who would've thought?
ᯓ★
› A/N: hi hi! baby's first tumblr post omg. sorry for any inaccuracies as i'm not a teacher :( i'll make a masterlist for the series once i have some more parts out but enjoy this for now!! and if there's any tags or warnings or anything i'm missing pls let me know
libra (co-dependent, indecisive, all about reciprocation)
sagittarius (wanderer, mischief maker, lucky)
pisces (self-doubting, intuitive, confused)
other (please tag)
Remaining time: 2 days 20 hours
these are just my first impressions based on the way he acts in the film but I really think he's a fire or earth sign and probably like a cancer rising (that's the part that's good with kids)
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
stormborns
vaporwave
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
ellievsbear
amandla
