B.

Writer / 26 / multi-fandom

[somethinginyourbones]

how Grace makes me feel 🌟

[somethinginyourbones]

(18+)

See the way that twizzler presses his bottom lip down?

That should be my strap instead.

[somethinginyourbones]

Let Go A Little

The Inevitable pt.3 | pt.1 is here | pt.2 is here

Summary: It’s been two weeks since that day in his classroom, since Grace fucked you over his desk and then asked to take you out. The plans are made. He intends to take you on a real date. The problem? Grace is feeling impatient before it can show up.

tw: m/f, (18+), professor/student relationship, needy Grace, jealous Grace, fantasizing, masturbation, sexting/phone sex, Grace is a secret freak and is ashamed but gets off to it, orgasm denial, intense bj, dirty talk, begging, probably more I’m forgetting.

Note: I am so so sorry this took so long. Pls enjoy.

—

Grace had been staring at the same page of his book for the past half hour, having read the same paragraph six times already. He still couldn’t tell you what the author had said.

He wanted to care. For goodness sake, he was one hundred and eighty pages invested, but his brain just wouldn’t work tonight. How could it?

When you flashed through his mind, behind his open eyes. It was like reels of old film. Clips and snapshots of you, repeating and rolling on a loop. Your laugh, your smile. Your mouth.

Grace groaned out loud, slumping further down into the covers of his bed. The book was tossed. It landed somewhere with a thump, the too boring pages snapping shut.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him.

He looked to the ceiling, and not that he felt like he really had a choice anymore, his mind started to drift. To you.

To this morning in the assembly hall. There was a ceremony held for the college’s debate team. Ribbons and a small carved plaque, honoring the regional win.

The memory of you grinning so wide, and waving to your friends in the audience played through his mind. Grace had watched as they placed the ribbon on your shirt, and draped the team’s banner across your shoulders. The bright flash of a high tech camera taking your picture. One Grace was sure was already published on the school’s website.

He’d done his best not to stare too intently, but not too little either. He didn’t want to seem uninterested because that was never Grace before. Before you’d slept together.

Truth is, Grace wasn’t sure how to act now, like he would have before. It was different.

Like this morning, in one of the moments Grace allowed his eyes to linger on you the team, and your eyes caught his in return. All Grace could see was you, spread out on his desk. His mouth devouring your pussy. The way you felt beneath his lips, his tongue. The way you begged him to help you come.

“Uggghh,” Grace groans, squeezing his eyes shut and flopping back onto his pillow. He feels his cock twitch. Feels the weight of it growing heavier where it’s resting against his thigh, still tucked inside his pajama pants.

This wasn’t like Grace. He was respectful, and polite. He was the guy that woman would place in the category ranked farthest away from bad boy, and he’d like to think, dog.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t a man, and didn’t have needs, but it had never felt like this. He had already done things out of order by fucking you first, in his classroom nonetheless.

He should be thinking about your future date, planning it. Imagining the flowers he’ll buy and the dish he’ll prepare.

Not you…bent over…your ass cheeks spread and his—

“Alright, okay.” Grace speaks to no one, to himself, out loud, trying to physically shake the thoughts away.

It wasn’t like jerking off was out of the question. Grace wasn’t against it by any means. It was a regular and healthy part of his routine. Something about tonight felt different though. Like something had its teeth in Grace, and wouldn’t let go.

His fingers itched for his phone. The screen lit up brightly, reflecting back into his glasses. He lazily thumbed through until he pulled up your text thread.

You’d exchanged numbers that day, obviously. There wasn’t much in the thread. A few dorky memes you shared back and forth, and a sweet message confirming the future date.

Grace lays there, staring at the screen.

How could he follow that up with what he wanted to say right now? How was Grace even considering this? Sexting you. Cheese and crackers, he’d never even sent a sorta dirty text, let alone a dick pic.

He wanted to though. He wanted to take his cock out, and stroke it. He wanted to take a video and let you hear what he sounds like when he’s alone and fucking his fist.

Grace looked to the numbers at the top of his phone. They show it’s almost eleven. He wonders if you’re still out celebrating.

After the ceremony this morning, a commingling of students, faculty and families were littered throughout the halls. Grace hadn’t planned on it. Seeing you. If anything, he was sure to miss you in the chaos of the crowd. You hadn’t.

You ended up dwindling closer and closer together, passing through groups of people who stopped to speak and give their congratulations. Eventually, the both of you had ended up in a nook by one of the auditorium doors.

“Congratulations. You guys did amazing,” Grace said, giving a little awkward dip of his head towards your trophies. It wasn’t like you were any better. He watched the blush spread to your cheeks almost instantly. The quiet shuffling of your shoes as you whispered thank you.

“I had a lot of great professors, you know. Mrs. Calloway. Professor Xavier. Dr. Elle…”

You said this with a shrug of your shoulders, your eyes cast to the floor, but there was a teasing, playful lilt to your voice. Grace narrowed his eyes and smirked as you continued with your little list. Naming every one of your professors but him.

You couldn’t hold it in any longer, your smile and giggle spilling over when your eyes finally catch his again.

“Oh, okay. I’ll just go fudge myself then,” Grace laughs.

Your laughter tapers away then, and it’s instant. That spark. Something feline and dark. Something dangerous. Your voice slips lower, just for him. “Only if I can watch.”

It catches Grace off guard, and before he can find his footing to respond, you’re not alone anymore. Another professor saddles up beside Grace, and one of your…teammates?

“Hey, ready to go soon?”

This guy steps in close, his voice light and directed to you. Grace watches as his hand settles near the small of your back. David? Devin? Grace doesn’t remember, but yeah, he’s on the debate team. He’s wearing the same ribbon.

“Going out to celebrate?” The professor to Grace’s left ask with pride and amusement, and that awe only reserved for the youth and the idea of their young antics.

David or Devin or whatever, smiles with all thirty-two of his perfect teeth, this Tom Welling looking motherfucker, and nods. “Yes, sir. Nothing crazy of course. It’s just the team and some friends going out to celebrate the season.”

He actually does slip his arm around you this time, around your shoulder. He pulls you inward, in a playful jest kind of way and you both laugh. The other professor does too. Grace realizes he hasn’t said or done anything.

It’s the last thing he remembers from this morning. The sight of you walking away into the throng of the crowd with that guy. That, and what you said before.

Grace stares at the phone and wonders if you’re still out, with what’s his name especially.

He wonders if you really would like to watch him fuck himself.

Grace finally reaches down and palms his hard dick through his pants. He lets his fingers curl and give a semi stroke.

His eyes flutter shut and he knows he’s losing control already, all the blood rushing from his brain to his cock, because Grace isn’t smart about it. No. He types out the first thing he thinks and hits send before he can think at all.

Do you still want to watch?

He groans to himself. In embarrassment and pleasure, his fingers tightening. What the fuck was he actually doing? Grace had never done this before.

Just before the panic could soak into his body, your number flashes across the screen. He sucks in a sharp, cold breath at the words you sent back.

Oh fuck. Please???

They read desperate. Insistent. Grace’s mind feels sluggish and heated. He’s trying to calculate if there’s any way you could’ve misunderstood him, what he wants.

You seem so sure.

Before he can even think of what to say next, his phone vibrates. Again, and again.

Grace???

Let me see. Can you send a picture??

Wait wait no a video

“What the fuck,” he whispers to himself. His dick throbs, bouncing and pushing against the fabric of his pjs.

They’re shoved off the sharp, lean points of his hip bones and down his thighs before Grace even realizes what he’s doing. He immediately grips his cock and picks his phone back up from where he laid it on his chest. He reads your messages again.

You’d never texted like this before. Persistent. Repeatedly. Given you hadn’t exchanged very many, maybe he was wrong, but something felt different. Your tone. The multiple punctuations. The speed, like you were firing them off.

Regardless, his cock leaks.

Grace successfully late night sexted you, like some horn-dog douchebag frat bro, but you answered, almost immediately, and those second and third messages erased any doubt that you were confused. You typed his name for cryin’ out loud.

No, you weren’t confused. Those messages, they sounded like you were begging, and that thought alone has Grace spreading the pre from his tip to the thick base. He strokes himself fully for the first time.

His other hand holds the phone as he thumbs open the camera app. Grace may have not sexted anybody else before, but he has recorded himself plenty of times. For his own pleasure. Videos of himself jerking off, using toys, fingering himself…

Getting the right angle is easy. Grace knows how and where to hold the phone, but his hand shakes anyway. With the knowledge that this going to you. That you’ll get a video of his hard dick on your screen and watch it, maybe touch yourself to it.

He hits record and focuses back on his other hand, fisting his cock a little slower than what his body is demanding. Grace keeps his grip tight, letting the camera catch the way the head pushes through and peaks out. The light from his bedside lamp is low but it’s enough to catch the shine, the sparkle of how wet he already is.

With labored breath Grace hits send, watching the bar at the top of the screen race across and then vanish. Delivered.

He waits. He teases himself in the meantime, his fingers slipping down to play with his balls. They’re so incredibly sensitive. You barely touched them last time before Grace had snapped. He thinks of your mouth on them.

The second your phone vibrates again, you don’t dare look at it until you’re standing in the bathroom stall. The latch slides closed with a metal on metal click.

There’s an unsteady stream of girls coming and going, laughing too loudly and reapplying makeup in the mirror. It’s a bar after all. If you’d been anywhere else, somewhere a little fancier, you’d second this decision for sure. Afraid of standing out and disrupting the flow of available stalls.

That wasn’t the case here. This was a dive bar and half of them were drunk. If anything, they’d assume you were too, locking yourself in here sick.

You weren’t though. Sick or drunk. That’s not to say you weren’t heavily buzzed. Beer was safe. You’d stuck to that for the majority of the night, until your group lined up the shot glasses on that sticky bar top. It was flowing through you now. Warm and gentle. The burn and the salt sitting in your belly.

You lean against one of the walls, sliding one of your headphones in, thankful they’d been left in the pocket of your jacket. Extremely thankful, as the first second of Grace’s video is filled with a soft whine.

Spit pools across your tongue, flooding your mouth at the sight of Grace stroking his cock. It’s pink and slick, and big. It’s like your body has its own physical reaction too. Your pussy clenching around nothing, whining herself, and remembering exactly what it felt like to have that buried inside.

Your entire body flushes too hot. You watch the video back once more, before flipping to your camera app and propping it up on the toilet paper dispenser.

The angle is atrocious but it works. You lift your shirt, bunching it beneath your armpits, and pulling your bra down.

When Grace’s phone goes off again, he swears he could come from the thumbnail alone. It’s blurry and full of movement, but your tits are out and you’re playing with them.

He mindlessly strokes himself as he presses play. Almost immediately, Grace’s grip is tightening as he realizes just where you are and that you’re doing that, there.

Your back is to some wall that’s decorated with numbers and names and suggestive doodles, overlapping and messy. It’s the noise surrounding you that sends a deep pulse through Grace. There’s voices. They’re muffled but ranging in volume, and completely separate from the show you’re putting on.

You’re still out.

You’re in public, and they’re completely unaware of what you’re doing on the other side of what Grace deduces is just a flimsy bathroom stall door. He chokes out a whine and uses his thumb to rewind the video, his eyes refocusing on you.

The video is at an angle, pointed upwards. You’re taller than whatever you have your phone sitting on and Grace fucking loves it. It gives the illusion of you in his lap again, your chest just slightly higher than his mouth.

He gets the most insane underside view of your tits. The shape and the weight of them and how they sit. His palms ache to feel them again. He gives himself a single tentative stroke, refusing to rush.

Grace watches as you bring your hands to your chest, groping yourself gently and then rougher. He can’t see your face. The frame cuts off just by your mouth, but good grief, he can see your neck and the way it extends back.

You’re either really into this or putting on one hell of a show, leaning back against the dirty wall without a care, thrusting your bare chest towards the camera.

Just in the way you have yourself exposed has sparks popping off in Grace’s veins. It’s haphazard and reckless and it’s exactly what Grace has wanted to do. What he would do to you if he was there.

You pinch your nipples, twisting them and tugging and Grace’s mouth waters. He imagines sucking on them again, soft and lazy, and unhurried. He thinks about waking up first and taking his time to suckle each one slowly, until you wake up that way, crying for him but letting him continue. You let him until they’re raw and puffy and you’re crying for him to fuck you.

“Oh, ffuck…” Grace whimpers, his eyes glued to his phone screen, fantasies racing wild. He barely registers that his hand is moving again. Faster than he’s let himself all night. Too fast. He’s gonna come from the first damn thing you sent him if he’s not careful.

The last thing Grace sees before he flips back to his own camera is you lifting your tits higher, and instead of wetting your fingers, he watches the spit drop from your mouth, right onto your abused nipple. You do the same to the other and start rubbing it in. They’re shiny and wet and ruined.

The next video Grace takes is far less calm and collected. His fist is a slight blur on the screen, and he’s so far from quiet. He recalls your video and the way you couldn’t say anything. In a way, it made it hotter, watching you touch yourself but hearing those other women in the background. Grace’s words start to get away from him but it’s still only a fraction of what he’s truly thinking.

His voice shakes, splintered and husky and mixing with the wet squelching of his strokes. “Are you trying to kill me? You look so pretty baby, so…so..oh fuck.”

Grace wanted to call you filthy, dirty. To call you those things because you were, half stripped and desperate for him in a public bathroom stall. He doesn’t even remember where he ends the video but he sends it and tries to slow down, to hang on until the next thing you send at least.

When Grace’s phone goes off again though, it’s not a video or a picture. It’s not a text at all. You’re calling.

His breath gets stuck in his chest but he’s answering anyway, before he’s even figured out how to breathe again. It’s why his voice comes out like a croak, throat clicking, like a panting, horny deranged frog. “Hel-clk-Hello?”

The first few seconds of the call is pure noise. There’s countless voices, the shuffling sounds of bodies and shoes moving, glasses clinking and music in the background. It’s becoming softer though.

Grace hears the squeak of hinges and the sound of what he could only assume is an incredibly heavy door slamming shut. You’ve gone outside.

Everything is instantly quieter. The background noise is still there, though muted. New sounds lingers. Tires on asphalt, the clicking of a street light changing color, and a dog barking in the distance. Grace can practically see it.

“Hey. Hi,” you breathe into the phone, right into Grace’s ear. Your voice sounds light and airy, a little raspy, like maybe you’ve lost it partly.

“Hey,” Grace says, softer this time to match, and a little awkward. He cringes at the way he’s repeated himself.

It’s chased by the sound of your laugh though, and Grace’s heart skips even in its racing, pounding state. If sounding like a dork makes you sound like that, maybe Grace is okay with it.

“Grace?”

The sound of his name in your mouth, in that hushed tone, it undoes something in him. The video of you is still playing on a loop in his mind. Grace’s hand had never fully left his cock, only coming to a gentle rest when you called. He strokes himself once again though, the feeling tenfold now that you’re on the phone. He takes a ragged breath in. “Mmngh. Y-yeah?”

“Have you…?”

Your voice is tentative. Soft. There’s a million things you could be asking him right now but Grace can imagine that to be difficult, given the topic and your location.

He can picture it. The way you’re mindlessly pacing the sidewalk, back and forth, just outside the bar. The red bricks behind you, one hand in the pocket of your jacket, phone tucked close to your face. Shoulders drawn. There’s neon string lights from the nearby restaurants and car headlights that every so often cast over you.

Grace licks his lips and plays lazily with the tip of his cock, torturing himself. “Have I…what?”

He hears the way your breath hitches. Your voice drops even lower, barely a soft mumble, your glossy lips brushing the edge of your phone because you have it pressed so close. “Have you come yet?”

Grace doesn’t even bother to hold back his whimper. He squeezes his eyes shut, shame and guilt and arousal flooding his body. His tummy burns with it. Those words coming out of your mouth should be illegal.

“N-No. No, I haven’t,” he whispers.

Your response slams into Grace like a train. “Good. Don’t.”

It takes a minute for the words to reach his brain. Even then, Grace isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders here. He barely and very caveman-like mummers half a word. “Wha—?”

You cut him off. “Give me your address. Please?”

That has Grace fully pausing, his hand falling to his sweaty thigh as he sits up a little in bed. He ask again. Clearly this time. “What?”

What Grace doesn’t expect to hear is your laugh.

Soft and sweet, and a little evil. Like a siren’s song in his ear. “Would you rather come in your own hand tonight or in me?”

Grace stops breathing. He’s choking, stuttering. “Wh—?”

“Or on me. Either one,” you cut in again, the smirk evident through your voice.

Grace finally finds his, the rare explicit dragging and scrapping over his vocal cords. “Fffuccck.”

He pants into the phone, cock temporarily forgotten, cheeks blood red. There’s a hint of shyness to his own voice now. “That’s not…you don’t…that’s not why I messaged you.”

“It wasn’t?” You snicker softy, teasingly. “You didn’t text me because you were hard for me? It was for me, wasn’t it?”

There’s a blunt edge to your voice. Grace doesn’t expect it. For you to say all that, so plainly and that forward, standing out on the street for goodness sake. It makes his head spin and his dick throb. The way you seesaw back and forth between sweetly alluring and slightly harsh, like there’s a grain of humiliation in how you accuse him of being hard and texting you in the first place.

Grace whines softly, giving into the whiplash but still feeling the need to explain himself. The guilt and the shame still burning hot. “Of course it’s for you. I just - it wasn’t my intention to get you to come over.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing?”

He shakes his head quickly even though Grace knows you can’t see him. His messy bed hair falls even more across his forehead, into his eyes. “No! No, it’s not. I just don’t want you thinking I texted just for that. To get you here.”

You laugh again. “So phone sex is excusable but an actual booty call is where you draw the line, Dr. Grace?”

His cock twitches where it lays on his belly. Hearing his name, his title, on your tongue again, and without any nerves this time. The way you’re playing a dangerous game saying it out loud in public, in a college town, where anyone could overhear. It only makes Grace feel like he’s losing more and more of his grip. “N-no. That’s not…I just don’t want you to think I’m—.”

You cut him off again. Your voice is steady and solid but with a soft plea layered beneath. “Grace? Your address.”

And Grace gives it. He leans into it. You. The feelings. He gives you his address and it’s not but a moment before he hears tires and a car door, and his address being recited to the driver. Who in return, offers simple pleasantries and a list of his uber accommodations. Water, snacks, music or no music?

The interaction, though brief, still leaves a gap of momentary silence between the two of you. Grace’s mind starts to swirl, and it hits him suddenly. You’re coming here. Here.

It hadn’t really sunken in yet, and frankly still hasn’t, and now everything suddenly feels like it’s dialed up to eleven. Rushed. Frantic. Grace has never felt this turned on this fast before, especially given the last ten minutes of cool down. His cock had never gone completely soft, but Grace wasn’t anywhere close to the edge either.

Until now.

Like the snap of two fingers, or flipping a light switch. That quick and Grace feels like he’s right there again. The thought of you on your way to his place. That all the things he was imagining, he could have again. Tonight.

Without thought or care, Grace spits into his palm and reaches for his dick. The pace he sets isn’t for teasing or drawing this out while he waits. It’s fast and desperate with the intent to make himself come before you get here. It’s audible, even through the phone. Not that that matters because Grace lets out one needy whimper after another.

There’s silence and then your voice again. That sharp edge is back, but almost inquisitive this time, rhetorical, like you can’t quite believe what you’re hearing, and that he’s disobeying what you said before. “Grace?”

A soft cry. An actual cry. Grace doesn’t stop. His cock throbs in his hand, his heels dig into the mattress. He can feel his ball sac drawing up tightly, and a sweet phantom pressure around his asshole, twitching and begging too. For a second, Grace wonders if you would touch him there as well and he cries out again. He hiccups, “I’m - I’m sorry, I can’t help it…”

“I thought I told you to stop?” Your tone is so casual, almost upbeat. Humorous but not really. It’s only for show, to not draw attention from the driver.

Grace starts begging immediately. His voice cracking. “You have to let me come first. I won’t - fuck, I’m too close. I won’t last when you get here.”

“You will, just not before I get there.”

But it’s like Grace didn’t even hear you. He’s babbling at this point, thigh muscles burning, shaking. His brain is fuzzy and warm, his mouth and words flowing free and fast. Maybe a little too free. “I can’t believe you’re on your way. I didn’t plan…I didn’t mean to…are you sure you wouldn’t rather st-stay and hang out with your friend?”

Oh. Uh oh.

Grace didn’t mean to bring that up. Truly. Honestly.

Silence follows but Grace can hear it, the leather snap of your attention, zeroing in and picking up on the cadence of how Grace said it.

Your next words are slow. Intrigued. “And who might that be?”

Fuck it, Grace thinks to himself and he lets his mouth keep moving. “David or whatever the fuck his name is.”

It lands heavy between you, but your response blows even harder. “When I get there, you’ll realize just how ridiculous that statement is. Now wait for me.”

Grace actually yells, something incomprehensible, voice ripping from his throat as he simultaneously rips his hand away from his cock.

He physically rolls over in bed in attempt to prevent himself from touching again, and regrets it instantly. The sheets are a dry rough drag against his dick. Grace’s entire body, every muscle from his head to his toes lock up. Oh no.

He feels the very start of his orgasm breaking, rising up the base of his cock. He grabs himself, squeezing until there’s tears in his eyes and his orgasm is stopped. Just barely.

As Grace’s senses reload from the denial, all he hears on the other end is your smug laugh and the words, “Good boy.”

“Oh, fuck you…”

Grace says it without thinking. He sounds half dead, throat scratchy. You laugh at him again. “Promise?”

He replies weakly, “mmhn, yeah.”

“Good, ‘m here.”

Oh fuck.

Grace gets out of bed on shaky legs, but not before he has a dilemma on how the fuck he should answer the door. Does he just pull his pjs back up and have them ridiculously tented and goofy looking? Does he forgo them all together?

No. Absolutely not. Grace might be a slut, and more kinky than he wanted to admit, but he’s not answering the door with his dick out. 

And by this point, his phone is back on the nightstand. You ended the call, promising to be up in a few minutes. You were. The elevator ride was short and finding his apartment number was easy.

Grace’s heart pounds when he hears the soft sound of your knuckles against his door. He tries to adjust himself one last time, running his fingers through his messy hair and pulling down his sleep shirt in a half attempt to look less ruined.

The door is only halfway open before you’re on him, and in his arms. No words. No hi or hello. Just your lips and your arms around his neck, and then your warm, soft tongue in his mouth. Grace sighs, sinking into it.

Only for it to be ripped away.

He groans. Your warmth evades him, snatched away faster than Grace can reach for you and pull you back. He tries but he feels sluggish and you’re moving desperately. Dropping hard. You’re falling to your knees.

Grace groans for a different reason this time. The sight of you on your knees, and the way you yank his pants down, the cool air washing over his skin. You’re pulling and pushing at him, even on your knees and Grace’s back eventually meets the wall by the front door.

It shoves the air from his body, stealing his breath, and before Grace can inhale again, you lean in, swallowing his cock completely.

It punches Grace in the gut. He gasps.

It’s not like before, like how you were in the classroom, where Grace had shallowly fucked your warm mouth two weeks ago. He couldn’t move his hips at all this time. You had them pinned to the wall, insistently pressing your body’s weight into him.

You bury your face into his pubes, the bridge of your nose digging in and poking his bladder. You stay like that. No bobbing or sucking. Just your throat. Tight and hot and constricting around his dick every time you swallow.

Purely unintelligent noises pour from Grace’s mouth. “Agggnughmf.”

And it was over before it started really. Grace had been so close before and seeing you so hungry for it now. Yeah, Grace was coming. You eventually pull back once, sucking and licking at him as he slides out of your throat. Only for you to fall right back down.

A true single thrust straight down your throat, and Grace sees white. His balls pulsing, pumping.

You pull back just enough to collect some in your mouth and Grace apparently has one last brain cell left to slur, “Don’t swallow. Don’t swallow, baby, please. C’mere.”

He’s already sliding down the wall, part his own volition, partly not. His legs are giving out. You knew what he was asking for though, pulling off and bringing your full mouth to his.

Full of his own come, still warm. You push it from your mouth into his by the sweep your tongue. Some leaks out, smearing, but you both audibly swallow, drinking it down.

The pure filth of it all sends a second wave. Grace whimpers, grabbing at his cock as he comes again. It splashes between you, painting your shirt and jeans a little and the floor too.

Which Grace falls to almost immediately. His bare ass hitting the cold floorboards. You right there with him. Both gasping and catching your breath.

When Grace finally comes back, you’re already looking at him, eyes dark and starry. Your lips are puffy and wet, his come actively drying down your chin. He reaches up and swipes his thumb through the mess, almost apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “For what?”

All of Grace’s fears come back. His voice is soft as he explains. “I don’t know…I haven’t even taken you on our date yet and here I am sexting you and now, now you’re here…”

“So? I wanna be here. I wouldn’t be if I didn’t want to.”

He nods quickly but gently, “I know. I just don’t want you to think I’m a—.”

“What? A freak, Grace?” You laugh sweetly, though your voice is wrecked, undeniably sounding like you were just deep throating cock. Sweet, Grace’s ass.

You shake your head at him and roll your eyes. “You think sexting me or us hooking up is wrong but it’s not. You are and you aren’t like every other dude on the planet. You’re just as horny and disgusting as the rest and that’s okay, because I know it’s different with you. I like the dirty stuff because I know the sweet stuff will follow.”

And just like that Grace feels lighter. He blushes almost bashfully, which is ridiculous after everything you’ve done tonight. “Y-yeah.”

You lean in close, brushing his nose with yours. You whisper against his lips, “I want everything with you. I wanna see all the sides of Dr. Ryland Grace. Especially the ones you keep so locked up. So…let go a little, yeah?”

That last part, it carries differently. Weighted. Like a challenge. A dare. You raise both eyebrows and smirk, and it moves something in Grace. His voice drops into a tone you’ve never once heard come from him, and with it, a single command.

“Strip.”

—

(GUYS, I’m so sorry again that this took so long. But we’re back baby!! One of my favorite things about writing for Grace is finding the balance. He’s really a mix of everything. Sweet and submissive but also far from innocent, and we see him grapple with that. I hope you guys like this part. Next part? Grace let’s go lmaoooo. 🫶🏼 if there’s any mistakes, I’ll catch them later. I just really wanted to post this already lol.)

Taglist note: it’s been so long since I’ve posted for this I don’t wanna tag anyone that’s not interested anymore so we’re starting over but this will be official from here on. So if you wanna forever be tagged in the Professor!Grace series, comment below and I’ll make a list.

[somethinginyourbones]

I finally watched Drive and I love him and can’t stop thinking about stuntdriver now and cartheft/carthief , or or all three of them together.

[somethinginyourbones]

(18+)

I have no excuse. I giggled the entire time making this 🤭

[somethinginyourbones]

Fuck them or be them? Both.

[somethinginyourbones]

(18+)

Rocky slowly becomes obsessed with Grace’s ass. Like obviously he sees everything already, but there is a difference when Grace wears different things like thick material vs thin, and then nothing at all.

Rocky is initially intrigued by the sound of the weight there on Grace’s body. It’s a lot more than anywhere else on him.

Diagnosis? Grace has a fat ass.

In the moments Grace wears different types of clothing, Rocky gets better or worse looks at it. Rocky is pretty good at keeping his interest to himself though, until one day.

The day Grace forgets his clothes when he went to shower and so he has to walk back in nothing but a thin towel.

Rocky drops the tools he’s holding. He can literally hear the jiggle of it with every step Grace takes, and Rocky can’t help it. He acts on instinct as Grace passes him.

He slaps his ass.

Everyone freezes. Rocky’s rebooting, both from his actions and all the new information he just received. Grace? He’s 100% sure he’s never made that sound in his life. He practically squealed, out of surprise and arousal.

The stinging/burning sensation still radiating through his cheek is filling his cock with blood. Rocky can hear that too.

That’s how Grace ends up bent over the lab table, towel around his ankles and Rocky behind him. Rocky squeezing and kneading his cheeks, spreading them apart. It’s so fucking hot to Grace. It’s the worst kinda teasing, and a little demeaning. Being played with and looked at so intensely.

He answers every question Rocky has.

“You like when hit. Question?”

Grace groans and hides his face in embarrassment, but nods desperately, his hard cock swinging between his spread legs. “Y…yes.”

Rocky proceeds to spank Grace. His cheeks red and prints of Rocky’s hand there, and that alone gets Grace so close. Rocky barely touches his cock before he’s coming onto the lab floor.

They’re holding each other afterwards, catching their breath, when Rocky speaks. “Play with hole next time? Question.”

Grace whimpers.

[somethinginyourbones]

He looks so good here 😩

[somethinginyourbones]

My comfort characters 🫶🏼

[somethinginyourbones]

The way he’s physically shaking from laughing so hard lmaoo.

I thought about Rocky being equally concerned about Ryland’s crack 🤣🤣 and that made me laugh harder.

[somethinginyourbones]

Finally watched The Gray Man. Here are some of my thoughts about Court Gentry, aka Sierra Six. These are (18+) nsfw-ish.

I like the way he stands, and how he chews gum lmaoo. He’s funny. I’ve been thinking about his personality and how he’d interact with the other r.g characters lol. Like who are we shipping him with? I don’t know why but I can see Court making Grace a flustered mess lol.

(Side note: in my universe it’s Grace and Court together, and even though I haven’t seen it yet, Driver and Colt, or oooo Driver and Luke 🤤 Colt and Grace are the twins though.)

Anywho, I just imagine Court rolling up to the parent teacher conference looking like this and Ryland can barely get two words out lmaooo.

[somethinginyourbones]

He waited 46 years. 🤍

[somethinginyourbones]

He just wanted a family.

He’s so special to me. 🥺

[somethinginyourbones]

Just a cutie and his untied shoelaces.

[somethinginyourbones]

My edits have been flopping over on TikTok for days now. Sadness. I’ll give them to you guys instead. 🩵

Grace in that white jumpsuit 😮‍💨

[somethinginyourbones]

Help Him Forget

A Bonded Pair pt.2 | pt.1 is here.

Summary: Things with March changed in ways you hadn’t expected. You were friends now, like actual friends. His rejection hadn’t changed the way you felt, but you respected it. What happens one night when March is too weak?

cw: m/f, (18+), drunk March, just drunk enough to be stupid, mentions of violence, small injuries, March got beat up at work, comfort, friends-to-it’s complicated, wound care, reckless, pain kink, begging, restraint?, sweet dirty talk, handjobs, needy March, so much guilt, big angst.

—

The soap bubbles cling to your wrist as you wash the last of the dishes. It feels kinda weird, and not in a way, to do things like cleaning up after dinner with Holly. March was nice enough to either leave cash for take out or stock the fridge with things to cook. The least you could do was wash the dirty dishes, you thought.

It also felt weird because Holly had bailed. Yeah, that’s right. You came over for dinner and were about halfway through when Jessica called, bragging about something new and so totally cool that she’d gotten from the mall. Holly proceeded to inhale the rest of her food and booked it.

So you were alone, in March’s house.

It wasn’t weird. You had to keep reminding yourself.

It had felt that way once before when Holly would crash early, and you’d come up with excuses to stick around and wait for March. You didn’t have to do that anymore.

Weeks had passed since that first night you hung out with him alone, and contrary to your fears, March kept his word. Things weren’t even the littlest bit awkward. You still hung out with Holly and now you hung out with March too. You were friends, like actual friends.

Sure, the rejection stung, but with the amount of whiskey you’d consumed that night and March’s promise, it helped. It didn’t change anything. You still felt everything you had before, and maybe even more now, but you were content to let your fantasies live in silence.

If the only way you ever got Holland March was late at night, with your eyes shut and your fingers slipping beneath your bedsheets, dipping in and stroking until you cried out his name for no one else to hear, then so be it.

Those were the thoughts you were lost in now. You couldn’t help it. The sink was almost empty as you mindlessly watched the water swirl lower and lower. It was at the same moment the drain made that awful glug-glug noise, that something outside also slammed against the front door.

You physically jump, your heart pounding. You barely make out the sound of keys in the door, a soft click, and then a softer groan. March is colliding with the wall before you can move. His shoulder hits it heavily as he stumbles, leaning his weight into it.

You’re not sure why he’s stumbling. If he’s drunk or if it’s because of the dried blood on his shirt, and around his mouth and nose. His lip is split and there’s a nasty purple bruise forming on his right cheek.

“March…what the hell happened?”

Your voice finds him first. It startles him, and something flashes in his eyes when he does see you. It’s takes a minute for him to realize you’re really here. For a second you’re afraid he’s upset, but then you see his shoulders soften, and relax. He smiles.

Boyish and flashy, even covered in blood.

“I’m alright,” March says. That smile goes quickly though, a groan ripping past his clenched teeth as he pushes off the wall. He starts in your direction, towards the kitchen, but stumbles half way. You catch him.

“Hey. No. Jesus, you’re not. Go, go sit on the couch.”

You steer him towards the living room and immediately regret not walking him over to it. You awkwardly and nervously keep an eye on him as you grab everything. You open the fridge, pulling out a few beers, and snag the first aid kit from one of the upper cabinets.

March had successfully made it to the couch without further injury. He was sunken into the cushions, his head resting against the back. He peels his eyes open slowly, and what looks like painfully, when he feels you plop down beside him.

“Here. This is for your face. I looked but you didn’t have any frozen veggies,” you explain. You hold out a cold glass bottle beer as an ice pack substitute. March takes it and places it on his cheek, letting his head fall back again.

“Open that other one for me,” he mumbles.

You do. You pop the top off a second beer and place it in his other hand. “Tell me what happened.”

“Bad day.”

You growl softly, and see a faint smile on March’s lips at your annoyance. He’s doing it on purpose. You grumble, “No shit.”

March laughs and then groans again, clutching at his ribs. He leans up to take a drink, and finally notices you rummaging through bandaids and bandages, medical tape and ointments. He looks at you, while you’re too focused or too annoyed with him to look back up, he’s not sure. He looks though.

“It was the right lead. Followed everything, all of it, down to these two guys. They found us before we found them though,” March explains quietly.

“How’s Healy?” You ask as you pull out some q-tips and a small bottle of rubbing alcohol.

March’s eyes follow your hands. “He’s fine. Got a shiner of his own but he was bigger than both of them. Lucky asshole.”

You snort, laughing. It’s March who speaks again. He nods towards the first aid kit supplies. “What’s all this?”

“I was gonna clean up your cuts.”

You say it plainly, and something about it makes March giddy.

He’s had too much to drink. He knows this. Today was shit, for a lot more than he’s letting on. He should send you home.

The very opposite comes out of his mouth. He tries to look as carefree as possible, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes again. “Knock yourself out.”

The truth is, his heart is pounding inside his chest. He can feel the couch cushion dip as you move, and hear the first aid kit rattle as your knee bumps into it. He hears you sigh.

“I…I can’t reach this way. Come here.”

Before March’s eyes are even open completely, your fingers are curled into the fabric of his ruined shirt. You’re pulling him towards you. He takes the unopened bottle of beer away from his face. “Where?”

“Here. Lay your head in my lap.”

You fall back onto your ass, sitting flat, and slipping your feet to the floor. March just stares at you, your legs.

This is such a bad idea.

He can feel the booze pumping through him, making everything feel way too sluggish. He feels the pain in his body. Everywhere he was kicked and hit and dragged today.

You’re looking at him so sweetly though, your face open and soft, like you just want to help. You look so fucking pretty, and March is too weak to do the right thing right now.

He drains the open beer before slowly swinging his feet around and throwing them over the couch’s other armrest. March leans back. The back of his head meets your thighs.

When he opens his eyes again, and looks up at you, well March realizes how truly fucked he is.

And then you smile at him.

He clears his throat, a little forcefully, awkward.

“Hurry up. I’ll fall asleep like this,” March grumbles.

You just laugh at him, sweet, syrupy. “I wouldn’t mind.”

He knows you wouldn’t. He knows how you feel, or at least he thinks. March isn’t sure which is worse. The knowledge that you want him, or if that night so many weeks ago was just a drunken lapse in your judgement.

Something that you regret.

That’s worse, March thinks.

He wants you to want him. He shouldn’t.

You’re leaning down even closer now, already carefully dragging a q-tip around the gash that’s on the bridge of his nose. March doesn’t know if he should close his eyes or not. If it’s weird not too. His eyes flicker all over your face. Your skin, your hair, your mouth.

It’s slightly open, your lips parted in concentration. March can feel your breath fan across his forehead.

“How bad is it, doc?” His voice sounds too deep, too raspy.

You let out something between a giggle and a playful groan. Your normal response when he says something ridiculous and cheesy, and dad-like.

“I don’t think anything’s broken,” you retort back, smiling.

You apply ointment with a new q-tip, and then clean around the inner edges of his nose, wiping away the blood that’s still staining his skin. It takes longer than it should because March keeps scrunching and wiggling his nose, complaining that it tickles. You both fall into laughter.

March feels like he’s fading a little. The alcohol and exhaustion tug at his bones, and he’s so so comfy here. In your lap.

He gets a little quiet, his eyes heavy as you pull out one last q-tip. Your voice has dropped to a whisper. “One last one.”

March only nods, his eyes slipping closed. He feels the wet cotton touch the split on his lip gently, but then it’s gone.

There’s silence, then your voice. “I’m sorry, I…I need to…”

March’s eyes shoot open when your thumb meets his bottom lip. His whole body goes rigid as you pull it down, following the cut to the inside of his lip.

You don’t seem to realize. March does.

One because you’re fucking touching his mouth, and two, it hurts. It stings the worst here. He can’t help it. He clenches his teeth, which only cause the muscles in his face to tighten. His bruised cheek explodes in a wave of hot pain.

He groans deeply.

“I’m sorry, almost done,” you apologize, and promise quickly.

The one on his lip was probably the worst of all. It had split, of course, but his tooth had also cut the inside. It was jagged.

March tries to control his breathing. You swirl the cotton swap and…March feels his eyes roll back a little. Heat spreads through him again. From his face, down to his toes that are still in his dress shoes…It settles low in his belly.

Oh. No.

Fuck no, March thinks.

He’s hard.

He’s lying here with his head in your lap and he’s fucking hard.

Before March can even consider sitting up and de-escalating this whole thing, you pass across the cut once more, really digging in. You needed to make sure a piece of his tooth hadn’t broken off and gotten stuck.

March lets out what he thinks is another groan of pain. It only registers to him that it wasn’t when you stop moving.

It was a moan.

He’d moaned, out loud, with your thumb still holding his lip. His cheeks burn immediately.

March’s eyes are open and staring up at you, glassy and kinda wet. His voice comes out wrecked, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

He watches as you swallow, your throat working. You seem a little stunned. The q-tip is gone. March doesn’t know if you dropped it or what. All he knows is that your thumb is still on his lip. Not really pulling anymore, but simply resting there.

March is frozen.

He should get up. He could. He could stop this whole moment, just like he did last time. He could make the right choice. March could be responsible, be smart, and careful about this.

But then your eyes flicker across his face, and down his body, and March groans again, equally embarrassed and turned on. He instinctively covers the hard outline of his cock with his hand. “Don’t…just, ignore it.”

“You’re…”

“Don’t,” March groans, but then he sees your face. It’s filled with disbelief. Your voice follows.

“I didn’t think you…”

March listens to your words as they trail off. He got the gist of what you meant and now his ears are ringing. “Didn’t think I what?”

Your eyes snap back to his. “Wanted me. Like that. You turned me down before.”

March had to have a concussion. He had to, because in what fucking world could you possibly think he didn’t want you????

March practically squeals, his voice jumping a few octaves. “Because I was trying to be responsible!”

He watches as the blush rushes across your cheeks.

You blush hard for him. It makes his dick twitch.

He lets out a deep breath, his voice lower now, softer. March whispers, “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not fucking dead, sweetheart...”

There’s silence. Just as March is getting ready to sit up, he feels you move. Your thumb. It’s slow but instant. The pain.

You slide your thumb across his lip, directly over the harsh split. You press down, and March chokes.

“Wh…agh, what are you doing?

Your thumb dips in, and then out again, smearing his spit across his lip. It burns. “Taking care of you.”

March doesn’t understand. His head spins. Everything feels so heavy. The booze in his system, the pain that seems to be directly connected to his dick. It feels like live wires. Each swipe of your finger sends a shock to his groin.

“Take your cock out.”

March’s ears start ringing again, hearing those words come out of your mouth. He whines, and hesitates for only a second before he’s ripping the fly of his slacks open. He shoves everything down just enough.

You watch as his cock bounces free, slapping up against his dress shirt. It’s bigger than any of the others you’ve seen. Above average. Your eyes zero in on the head, the slit.

Your mouth waters.

You wanna dip your tongue into it.

You imagined it so many times. Countless nights fantasizing about him fucking into you, using you.

Your own mind is swirling. After everything, you never thought you’d see it, or have Holland March at all, let alone like this.

To be the one calling the shots.

You were, weren’t you? That’s what it felt like.

A soft whine pulls your attention back to his face. There’s a look there you can’t place at first…a pout?

He’s been letting you stare, drink your fill, and now he seems almost impatient. You can’t help the laugh that slips out.

It only makes March squirm again. “Please…”

It’s a little bit of an awkward angle, and you realize you need to switch hands. So you prop one of your legs up. It doesn’t change much, but you can slip your arm behind March’s head now, bringing that hand to his face.

Your fingers take their place on his bruised cheek. The other hand slides down his chest, to his belly. March makes another noise, still laying in your lap, his head just slightly raised.

You silently wonder if he’s always like this or if it’s the alcohol, or the day he had. Maybe all three.

“You don’t have to…”

March’s voice comes out so softly you almost miss what he says. You get lost in his eyes for a moment, and then you smirk. Gentle but daring, teasing. Your voice, like silk, touches him as much as your fingers. “Have to? Like you don’t know the truth already.”

He shakes his head like he really doesn’t know.

So much happens at once for March. He feels your warm breath on the shell of his ear, and your hand finally wraps around his cock. The grip is feather light but it’s so so good.

“I want to touch you, March. Don’t lay there and act like you don’t know I’m attracted to you.”

Something about the way you say it lands softer and sweeter, more than dirty, which makes it worse. Your words aren’t empty. They mean something.

“Fffuck. Fuck,” March grunts.

You hum, tightening your grip and squeezing him as you stroke his cock. Up and down. The skin of your palm catches. Dry. Not painful but uncomfortable. Not that you think March minds much considering the sound he makes.

Something guttural, and sweet.

You press the fingertips from one hand into his warm cheeks, gripping and squishing them, forcing his mouth to open. You bring the others right before his lips. “Spit.”

March doesn’t even blink at the command. Those blue eyes have gone hazy, and glazed over. He lets the saliva pool across his tongue and practically drools it onto your hand. He’s a little messy with it. Dirty. It makes your tummy do the thing.

It makes the next words slip out before you realize, just as you slick his cock. “Good boy.”

March whimpers.

From the easier glide or the words, you’re not sure. All you know is that he’s physically shaking now.

His hips lift, chasing, fucking up into your grip.

You hum sweetly at him, your own breathing shallow, panting against his skin, mouth right by his temple. He sets a brutal pace and you meet him there. “Thereeee you go. That’s it, baby. Show me how you’d fuck me.”

“Gggh! Want…wanna fuck you so badly. I couldn’t stop…couldn’t stop thinking about you all day. All fucking day. Oh, fuck…please…”

March cries. He begs. Pleases and don’t stops falling out one after another. You don’t even know if March knows what he’s asking for, but then his head falls back.

Suddenly, his mouth is right there, aligned with yours. Something deep within you aches, recalling the brief feeling of your almost kiss. The withdraw.

You want it. Badly. More than you’ve ever wanted anything, you want to taste him. Even the lingering blood you would undoubtedly taste from the split in his lip.

You pull away though, as March arches towards your mouth. You let your fingers, all four, clasp over his. You control the angle of his head, turning it away.

You press your forehead to his temple, voice low. “When you kiss me, we’ll both be completely sober. Yeah?”

He whines and you try to ignore the slight sting in your eyes. You focus on him. His cock. You just want to make him feel good. Help him forget.

His thrust aren’t so much thrust anymore, as they are dirty little grinds. Your grip is tight, the pace slow. You focus on the tip, working the head, the underside of it. It’s so wet. Squelching audibly and mixing with March’s muffled cries.

He’s close, but you can tell he needs something else. Something March himself is far too gone to voice.

You lean down, hand still over March’s mouth, his breathing ragged against your knuckles. You bring yours to his neck, and then you lick him. He squeals.

There’s twelve hours worth of work and sweat and March coating your tongue now, and all you want is more.

You whimper too, and then whisper, “I’ve touched myself so many times thinking about this. You look so pretty, Holland…Let go…come for me, baby.”

And you take more. You bite him, sinking the sharp points of your teeth into his sensitive skin. The next strokes to his cock are just shy of too much, and all of it, everything, sends March flying off the ledge.

He comes hard. So hard you can barely keep him in your lap, with the way his body locks up and then bucks.

You don’t let go. You keep going, stroking him well past what’s comfortable, and abusing his neck. When you pull away, you’re met with the darkest, meanest looking bite mark/hickey you’ve ever seen.

March’s come is everywhere too. It’s dripped between your fingers like sticky slime, but warm. You like it.

How it’s warm because it was inside his body, and that’s how you know you’re a little odd, because that only makes you want to eat it. To put your fingers in your mouth and suck them clean.

Wow, yeah. You really need to come, you think to yourself, laughing breathlessly.

You look back to March, who’s…not moving.

His eyes are closed, and you feel it then, the weight of him now, heavier than before. His body’s gone slack in your arms.

“March…March. Baby,” you say quickly, worried.

You tap one of his cheeks, and he…he groans softly, eyebrows and nose scrunching is almost…annoyance???

He mumbles something incoherent and turns his head slightly, burying his face into your stomach. Cuddling.

You sit there. Dumbfounded. Confused.

What the…Had he been that drunk? Drunk enough to pass out that quickly, right after?

…Too drunk to know what he was doing?

Your throat starts to close. You need to get out of here.

The concoction of feelings swirling around inside you makes it hard for you to stand, but you manage. You slip from beneath March, lowering his upper body to the couch, where he simply sinks into the cushions with a soft mumble.

You’re not sure which thought is louder, and worse. It’s not like you’re pissed that this didn’t go farther, that you didn’t get to come. You didn’t need anything in return. You just wanted March to feel good, but maybe you…assumed.

That or the searing ball of lead that’s sitting in your gut right now, greased and coated with guilt. What if you were wrong? What if you were supposed to be the “responsible” one this time, when March needed you to be, and you weren’t. What if he hates you when he makes up?

You try to ignore it, the stampede of thoughts and emotions spinning too fast. You quickly wash your hands and clean yourself up in the kitchen, and then bring a warm damp rag from the linen closet to March.

As confused as you feel, there’s no way you can leave him like this. He’s still exposed and now filthier than he was when he walked in. You clean him gently, tucking him back into his boxers. You don’t bother with his belt, and there’s simply no way in hell you’re wrestling that shirt off of his dead weight.

You dap at it the best you can, getting the majority of it off. Little splash stains are the only thing that’s left.

Tossing the rag into the hall hamper, you just kinda stand there for a second. Stuck. The house is eerily quiet.

With a deep sigh you walk back to the couch, snagging a knitted blanket from the ottoman. You drape it over March’s body, and let yourself stare at him. All of it hits you at once.

That this might be the last time you get to see him, and be here, in his home.

Your fingers find his hair, running through it. Your voice cracks as you whisper, “…Goodnight, Holland.”

—

(Sorry for the wait. Classes have started again! If there’s any mistakes, I’ll fix them soon. I had so much fun writing this one though, and part three is gonna be soooooo good 😏 how do you think March is gonna react?)

Taglist: @willow-vixen @imafangirlofeverything @radiantdanvers @live-logs-and-proper

[somethinginyourbones]

you write grace so beautifully <3 i think about your prof/student fic all the time

Thank you sm!! 🥹🖤 you guys have no idea how much I love hearing your thoughts. Knowing that you guys are loving it and having just as much fun as I am, makes it 1000% better.

And don’t worry! There’s more professor Grace coming soon 🤭 This time we get to see him outside the classroom, and I’m thinking a little jealous Dr. Grace??? 😏