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.
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Xuebing Du

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if i look back, i am lost

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@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.
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.
He waited 46 years. 🤍
He just wanted a family.
He’s so special to me. 🥺
Just a cutie and his untied shoelaces.
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 😮💨
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
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??? 😏
This is the song that plays before he twist you up like a pretzel, like the soft switch he is. 🩵
(18+)
You guys don’t understand 😩 I need to look like him from this movie. This is my goal.
The hair, the clothes, the combination of pretty and grungy.
guys, how does one become a cigarette?
Watched The Place Beyond The Pines, and I fear I’ll never get over this look 😮💨
What is his problem? Omg.
A Bonded Pair
Summary: There’s always been something about Holland March. You’ve been neighbors for years, and harboring a stupid crush. What becomes of it one night, over too much whiskey and one too many cigarettes?
cw: m/f, age gap, drinking, smoking, drinking games, scars, eventual smut. (18+)
—
It was late by the time the front door opened and Holland March walked through it. Alone. Sometimes Mr. Healy crashed here, but not often. You could probably recite the pattern of their days. Him and Healy chasing whatever clues until they called it quits hours ago and hit the bar. Healy was usually just there to keep an eye on March, keep him alive.
You should've went home hours ago, could've at least. Holly crashed early tonight. She normally tried to stay awake, to hang out longer, to see her dad. You weren't like her babysitter or anything. You were twenty-two.
You just lived next door and kinda hated the way March wasn't around. Holly was alone a lot or either going off to friends. When she didn't, you kept an eye on her. Sometimes you'd come hang out, bringing magazines and nail polish. You taught Holly what it was to have a girls night.
That's what you'd done tonight. Gossiped and watched trash tv and painted your nails. You still had your bare feet propped up on the coffee table, where'd you'd been letting them dry, when March walked into the living room. He wasn't surprised to see you in the least.
Like you'd said, normally you were gone by now, but a sometimes...sometimes you found excuses to hang around until March got back.
Tonight was different though. You were feeling careless. A little frustrated. Tonight you didn't care to make up any excuse other than March had the good booze and cigarettes.
Part of you hoped he wouldn't mind. The other part was kinda curious to see what Holland March looked like pissed off.
He smiled, warm and polite, his jacket off and slung over his forearm. The house was too quiet for Holly to still be awake, so he knew even before he asked. "She out already?"
You take a long drag from the cigarette between your fingers, nodding. He sounds kinda sad. It was small and thin and buried in his voice. Then again, you don't think there was a time it wasn't there. You didn't know them before they moved in next door, but Holly had told you about her mom. You knew.
"Crashed before midnight. Surprised me," you say through the stream of smoke. He ditched his jacket on to a chair and made his way to the fridge. You could hear the condiments rattling in the door.
He popped the top off the beer he pulled out, and peered down the hall towards Holly's bedroom.
The thoughts were practically physical. You could see them, malleable and flickering outside his mind. It was brief. That sadness. Visible for barely a second.
'Thank you," he said, turning his eyes to you quickly. You could see his throat working as he swallowed. He gave you a nod, and just stood there for a moment, resting the bottle on the table, hand on his hip like dad's sometimes stand.
He wasn't drunk, yet at least, which was rare this time of night. You'd seen March in all sorts of ways coming home from the bar. Stumbling, crawling. You'd found him in a bathtub once.
You're pulled from your thoughts by the sound of his footsteps, his voice. He walks over to you, fishing for something in his pocket.
"I know you've said no before, but let me pay you. You don't have to do this, but I appreciate it."
You're already shaking your head and sitting up by the time he pulls out a wad of folded cash. He thumbs through it quickly, standing right in front of the coffee table now.
"No, Mr. March, 's alright. I don't want your money."
Wow, dumbass, you think to yourself. Great way to word that. I don't want your money? What do you want? Oh, I don't know Mr. March...your time, your attention, your cock.
You're hoping he didn't pick up on how ridiculously odd you just sounded. The look on his face isn't helping though.
March's hands are frozen, paused on the money. His eyes had drifted, and now they're on the open whiskey bottle.
"Is that my whiskey?"
He points to it, his voice quiet. You quickly slip your feet from the table, leaning forward to put out your cigarette. March's eyes follow the movement, and then lift to yours.
"And my smokes?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. March. I just -"
March's eyebrows raise comically, and then he laughs. His shoulders seem to relax, and he lets his hands fall to his sides while he just looks at you. You're not sure what he sees, but he doesn't seem mad.
He's smiling, and before you can say anything else, he's stuffing the money back into his pocket. He swipes the whiskey bottle up by the neck, his voice teasing, "Don't be. Sounds like my kinda night.”
He heads for the sliding glass door, the one that leads to the empty pool. The cooler air rushes inside as he opens it. He's already a few steps outside before he turns around and gives you a look. "You comin'?"
You're stunned, to put it mildly. This is uncharted territory. Sure, you've been alone with March before, but just long enough to say goodnight, or listen to him talk about work or Holly.
He's certainly never walked off into the shadows of his backyard, beckoning you with a bottle of booze to follow before.
You're on your feet immediately.
"Bring the smokes, and the lighter," he calls out.
You swipe both off the table, and try not to seem too eager as you step outside. The asphalt by the pool is cold beneath you bare feet. Your newly painted toes, a dark plum, stand out even under the stars.
March is already sitting on the diving board. He's sitting on it sideways, already lighting a cigarette of his own, the bottle beside him. You're unsure if that's where you're supposed to go as well until he raps his knuckles against the board.
"Careful." He reaches up, offering a hand. You take it. It was probably sixty seconds of contact, at most, long enough for you to edge closer and sit down straddling the board. You soak it up anyway. His palm was warm, and calloused.
Neither of you speak at first. There's just silence, the quiet sounds of March inhaling. You pull out another cigarette for yourself, just to give your hands something to do. The flicking of the lighter makes him look at you again.
He watches you light it and pull the first drag.
It's unnerving as hell.
Thankfully, he reaches for the bottle separating you. He pulls the top free and tosses it somewhere in the empty pool, amongst the many, many cigarette butts. It's evident March doesn't plan on there being any left.
He takes a drink. You try not to stare, but fuck, you'd really like to meet anybody who would blame you. His throat moves as he swallows, and his mouth is wet and shiny when he pulls it away from the rim.
You cast your eyes down, focusing on the cigarette in your hand, and the heavy, buzzy feeling in your limbs. March looks back to you, placing his own cigarette back between his lips.
He extends the bottle in offering.
You stutter, and then brace yourself to stand again. "Oh. I didn't bring my glass."
March scoffs, and even rolls his eyes, shaking the bottle at you. You take it.
"Are you even old enough to drink?"
You freeze. Fuck.
Huffing, you snatch the bottle from his hand and shove him in the shoulder.
"You know I'm twenty-two, asshole. I've been your neighbor for what, three years now?"
You're not actually sure he knows that. Maybe? March does forget a lot of stuff. He laughs though, slightly.
He watches you again, as you take a long drink. You embrace the burning and try to replace the embarrassment with other thoughts. Like how your mouth is touching where March's had. Like if you try hard enough, you could taste him instead of the whiskey.
His next question hits a little different. "So, why are you drinking? Tonight that is?"
Your eyebrows scrunch up in confusion. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and look at him. "Why not?"
March doesn't even bother pulling the cigarette from between his lips. He speaks around it. "Well, like you said, it's been three years. You've never drank my liquor before."
He's not even questioning if you have. He knows you haven't. That smile is still on his face but it's softer now. He lets out another plume of smoke, shrugging his shoulders.
"I don't know. You just seem different toni-"
"My boyfriend. Ex boyfriend, I guess," you blurt out, cutting March off. You don't mean to. You shake your head, cringing both internally and externally.
"Anybody I should worry about?" March actually looks serious for a second. He's just taking another drag, but his face changes. You figure this is business March. Concerned with a guy who might be bad news, hanging around the neighborhood. Why else would he care?
You raise the bottle to your mouth again. More alcohol was needed if this was going to be the conversation topic. The bottle clunks against the diving board when you set it back down. You can't keep the grimace off your face this time, groaning and coughing at the burn.
"Easy," March whispers. His eyes flicker all over you.
You shake your head. "No. He's no one to worry about. He's too busy, off at college, drowning in pussy."
You can hear the searing sound coming from March's cigarette. It burns louder and faster when he inhales a bit harder. He coughs himself, briefly, turning his head away and then back towards you.
He's shocked by your words, you can tell.
"So that's why you're drinking? Because he left?"
You watch March as he flicks the ashes down into the empty pool. You do the same and laugh sarcastically. "Oh nooo. I would be drinking because of the blonde with her tits out in his dorm room."
March gets it. Obviously. He'd be a real shit P.l if he couldn't pick up that this blonde shouldn't have been there.
You keep talking. March doesn't try to stop you.
"We said we'd do long distance. Even though it's not really that far, but he got in and I hadn't applied that year. Should've known. I mean, he's twenty something, ya know? Dude's gonna wanna get his dick wet on the regular. More than I can go up there and visit."
"Then the fucker should've ended things, the right way." March jumps in. He actually sounds annoyed, his voice a little sharper. He picks up the bottle and takes a drink himself.
Your eyes fall to his mouth. His lips are wet again from the whiskey, and even a few hairs from his mustache. God, you love his facial hair. You want to know what it feels like. Against your own lips, dragging across your skin.
"I'm sorry sweetheart," March offers, pulling you from your daydream.
The blush settles heavily across your cheeks. You're afraid he'll be able to see it, even out here in the dark. You clear your throat and shrug, like it's not a big deal. "Yeah, well."
"Well nothin'. You didn't deserve that. Guys a dumbass." March moves then, swinging one leg over so he can straddle the diving board too. You're facing one another now. It feels intimate somehow.
"You didn't see her." You laugh, even though it's not funny. March can hear the slight crack in your voice.
March just gives you a look.
You take another swig from the bottle, and look down at your own chest. The tank top you're wearing is cute. It wasn't too low cut or anything. It let just the tiniest edges of your lace bralette poke out. "Let's just say she had uh, more."
She had. She was absolutely gorgeous, and had a rack like you only see in the pornos. What does it say that you can't stop thinking about the girl's boobs your boyfriend cheated on you with, and not the boyfriend himself?
You're about to laugh again when you notice March is silent. It's only for a second but you look to him anyway, and his eyes are where yours were, on your chest.
Fuck. Holland March is staring at your tits.
Okay, staring might be an exaggeration. He looked for maybe five seconds, but he looked.
His eyes flicker back up. "I think you’re doin’ alright.”
You almost choke at his words. The tone of them. His voice dropped lower, to something deeper, smoother. You feel a different kinda warmth now, one not from the smoke or alcohol.
Whatever that was though, it was like March felt it too. The sudden change in his tone is evident. He snatches the bottle back up and laughs, it's like he's physically shaking whatever that was off.
"Alright, enough sad shit. Let's play a game."
You do. For the next forty-five minutes, you and March create your own drinking game. It's completely ridiculous and you keep getting the rules mixed up. It's loosely based on Jacks, except with no ball and no real Jacks.
You use one of those rubber poppers instead, and cigarette butts for the pick up. Looser drinks.
When the popper bounces too high and to the left though, dropping to the bottom of the pool, you both just stare at it until you start laughing.
A comfortable silence falls over the backyard. There's nothing but the sound of the bugs in the bushes, and March taking another drink. You can hear the liquor splashing inside the glass. It's almost empty.
"So if you don't want my money for watching after Holly. What do you want?"
Oh.
You'd gladly forgotten about sounding weird as hell earlier. It wasn't like you'd meant to, but just the way you said it. There were implications there, and evidently March was going to pull at the thread. To simply tease you or what, you didn't know.
You let out a deep breath, and for once your nerves don't fuel your response. Yeah, you've definitely had too much to drink.
You answer honestly. "I told you, Mr. March. I don't mind. Hell, I like hanging out with Holly. I don't need anything in return."
March quirks an eyebrow, teasing. "You like hanging out with my thirteen year old kid on a Thursday night?"
Something about the way he says that hits different, and wrong. You're not sure who to feel more offended for, you or Holly. It sounds like he's saying it's more fun to hang out a bar, and not even make it home to see his kid before she falls asleep, and that you're lame for choosing to be here.
You know he doesn't mean it that way though. March hears it too, and for another split second, that guilt and pain he wears underneath shows through the cracks. It makes you ache.
He clears his throat softly. "What I mean is...at your age, shouldn't you be somewhere doing something incredibly stupid? Making bad decisions?"
It's funny, really. The way everyone just assumes all bad decisions look the same. That everyone in their twenties are chasing the same high.
That carelessness you felt earlier tonight, the frustration, it bubbles back up. For a good moment, you just don't give a fuck. You look March dead in the eyes, your lips wrapped tight around another cigarette.
"Who says I'm not?"
It lands just as heavy as you assumed it would. March looks almost stunned. He tilts his head and just blinks at you, and then looks away.
His mind is racing, and losing terribly. Everything's starting to feel a little too slushy. There's no way you meant it like that, March thinks to himself. No. No way.
"How many you got left?"
March hears the way you thumb at the top of your pack, pulling it open. It takes him a moment but he catches up. He opens his own. There's only one left. His lucky.
The upside down cigarette stares back at him. When he looks back to you, you tilt your box down to show him the same thing. Only one left. Your lucky.
To be fair, the entire pack was March's before you stole it tonight, but he doesn't say that. The fact that you flipped one anyway just makes him smile.
He leans forward, pulling the cigarette from your pack. He puts it between his lips and offers you his. Switching luckies.
Your lucky cigarette, typically your last or if you're especially down on your luck, is special. Giving it to someone means something. March sure as hell hadn't done it before.
In all honesty, March couldn't tell you why he still flipped one. Habit. It wasn't like he was chasing happiness, let alone luck.
You're smiling as you pull it free and bring it to your mouth. March tries to focus on that instead of his ghost, his sadness.
He leans back in, flicking his lighter with ease. You lean in too, placing the end right into the tiny flame. It lights up your face.
March notices your eyelashes, the shadow of them, and the curve of your nose.
"You know l've never really had a best friend?"
Your question is random. It's kinda sad too, but you're still smiling. March rolls with it. "No?"
You shake your head, flicking away ashes. "No. I mean, I had a group of friends in high school but not a best friend, like one on one. At least not one that lasted. So, no late nights. No sleep overs. No stupid friendship bracelets or cheesy half necklaces. Nothin' like that."
March just nods, a little lost. He has no idea where you're going with this.
"That's what you can give me."
You say it plainly, like March is supposed to get it.
"You want a friendship necklace?"
You laugh, shaking your head. "No. No, but something like that. Something that represents that. A bond, or a pact."
It clicks for March now. He understands but he's still confused on how he's supposed to give you that.
He's still in his head, thinking, when he hears your sharp intake of breath. His reaction time is so delayed. It takes him too long to realize what's wrong, to notice you pressing the burning end of the cigarette into your hand.
"What the fuck," March yells. He's reaching for you with both hands, pulling at your wrist.
You're laughing, but wincing too. You look at it, taking in the damage. The small burn is on the top of your hand, placed between your thumb and your pointer finger.
"Why?" March is staring at you, and then it clicks. Fuck.
"C'mon. Don't leave me hanging," you whisper.
March doesn't know if he should be pissed or impressed, or flattered. Concerned. All of the above.
A friendship bracelet, a necklace. A matching scar.
March shakes his head, and then presses his own, no you're lucky cigarette into his skin. He picks the same spot you did.
He's stoic for a moment, before he yelps. It's so high pitched that you laugh. The spot on his hand throbs and it's all so ridiculous, March starts laughing too.
Eventually, he sighs. "Come on. We need to clean these."
Neither of you are proud of the amount of time and concentration it takes to get off the diving board. You're both wobbly, and giggling way too hard. March has a death grip on your elbow so you don't fall.
Back inside, he walks to the kitchen. The lights are on and it's a stark contrast to sitting outside in the dark. You like it though. Everything feels warm, cozy.
He beckons you over to the sink. The water runs for a moment while he grabs the soap. You can't help but fidget a little, your bare toes wiggly into the fuzzy rug you're standing on.
"Gimme." You stick out your hand like he ask, and March grabs it immediately, and it's immediately more difficult to breathe. March doesn't just squirt some soap onto the burn and hose it off. No.
Both of his hands envelope your one, gently bringing it beneath the stream of water. He leans his elbows onto the counter, making it so you have to step in again. Your elbows come to rest on the edge of the sink too.
He glances at you, voice low, "Water okay? Not too hot?"
You don't trust yourself to speak so you just shake your head no. He turns back, but you can't seem to look away. He's so close. You've never been this close to him. You can see everything. The light smattering of freckles on his nose.
The warm water washes most of the black smudges of ash away. What it doesn't get, March does. He rubs his thumb around the edges of the small circular burn, cleaning it throughly. When he grabs the soap, you try to pull away.
"Wait, it'll sting," you say.
March huffs a laugh, amused. Burn yourself with a cigarette but afraid of a little soap? He grips your hand harder, keeping it under the water. "Stop bein' a baby.”
You open your mouth to talk back, until you realize. March carefully places no more than a dollop of soap onto his thumb, and does the exact same as before, cleaning just around the edges. He was never gonna dump it right onto your burn.
It sends you spiraling a little. Everything feels slowed down, and broadened. You're staring again, at all of him. He's so focused on what he's doing, on taking care of you.
His name is past your lips before you know what you're doing.
"Mr. March," you whisper.
It's a beat before he pulls his eyes away from your hand. He's sounds so causal, and soft, as he turns his head. "Yeah?"
You're already leaning in.
You don't just kiss him though. You slowly press your forehead to his, and it feels like time stops.
His breath is so warm against your face. When March doesn't move, you crowd in a little closer, tilting your head.
It's barely a kiss. You're not even sure it counts. It's the slightest brush of your mouth against his, before March tilts his head away.
He doesn't pull away completely, his forehead still touching yours. He squeezes his eyes shut like he's in pain though, and takes a deep breath in through his nose. He whispers so softly, "Sweet thing..we can't…”
Sweet thing? Okay, you think he might be trying to kill you.
After a solid three seconds of letting yourself be frozen, cringing internally, you pull away silently, slowly standing up to your full height. You don't meet his eyes.
"Hey. Hey, look at me." March whispers, ducking to try and catch your gaze. There's a worried expression etched into his features.
A startled laugh bubbles up and out of you. You realize the waters still pouring over your hand, your wrist. You pull it away as March twist the knob to off.
"I'm sorry, I don't-"
"Don't be," he jumps in. He's already grabbing a small dish towel for you. You take it, and focus way too hard on drying your hand.
Everything that is ultimately male in March's body is screaming at him, calling him an idiot, telling him to forget the good he just did and kiss you until you go stupid in his arms.
The other parts of him are louder though. Like the ink written on top of his other hand. His reminder. He feels like those words burn just as much as the cigarette did.
March fucks up everything he touches. It's undeniable, and that's why he can't.
"You mean so much to Holly. I don't wanna do anything to.."
March watches as you figuratively beat yourself up, the realization crashing, like that thought hadn't crossed your mind. You shake your head. "No. Oh my god, no, you're right."
You sigh, and finally meet his eyes. "I am sorry, Mr. March."
He smiles. "And I meant it when I said you don't have to be. You're always welcome here. This doesn't change anything."
Silence settles between you. You nod and smile too, a little awkwardly. Shy. "I should probably go."
With the dish towel tossed onto the counter, March walks you to the front door. His voice is light, curious. "Can I ask you something?”
You shrug. Tonight can't get much more embarrassing. "Sure."
"Earlier. When you were talking about your ex. You said he'd gotten accepted to his college, but that you hadn't applied that year. Why not? I mean, not that you have to, if you don't want to. College isn't the answer to everything. I was just... wondering.”
The topic surprises you. You didn't peg March for giving a shit about something like that. You shrug again, downplaying the whole thing. "I wanted to. Things didn't line up at the time."
March leans against the wall and just looks at you for a moment, like he can see the parts of what you didn't say out loud. It's freaky, how smart he is and how much of an idiot he can be at the same time.
"Promise me you'll apply now."
His words catch you off guard. You laugh, and then you realize he's serious. You balk at him. "Why?"
He holds up his hand at you, showing off the burn mark you walked and guilted him into tonight. "Because this is what you wanted. A bond, right? A pact? You do shit for each other, and I want you to apply."
He watches you swallow and sway a little on your feet. Eventually, you nod. "Yeah. Yeah, alright. I'll look into it."
March can't stop himself from smiling. The feeling of wanting to hold you slams into him so suddenly. He knows he shouldn't do anything to blur that line he just drew in the sand himself. He does anyway.
"Can I.."
Before the words are even out, you notice the way his arms open up, and the gentle step he takes towards you.
You practically catapult yourself into his arms.
March huffs a laugh, the air knocked out of him slightly. The hug last way longer than it should. Your arms are looped around his waist, cheek pressed to his sternum. The smell of his cologne is still there. Lingering and filling your head.
March isn't any better. He's cautious of his arms, merely resting them along your upper back. His fingers find your hair though, touching it softly. It smells like coconut. He indulges, and rest his chin on the top of your head.
His voice is quiet when he speaks again. "Promise me?"
You pull away and smile up at him. "I promise."
The sight makes March swallow hard. He opened the door for you, and stands on the porch, watching you walk home.
You wave to him, and call out. "Goodnight, Mr. March.
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
He is such a fucking idiot.
—
(I’m so excited for the upcoming parts to this. Lots of angst and smut and feelings 🤭) pt. 2 is here.
Ryland Grace easily became one of my favorite characters. There’s something that feels different about Project Hail Mary, and the character Ryland all together.
He feels like a character archetype I haven’t found before.
I wish I was more like Ryland in some ways. Smarter. I was always more artistically inclined than academically. I find his intelligence beautiful. If I got to watch him work in his universe, I would number one, be confused, and number two, be in awe.
The parts of myself I do see in his character are more emotionally based. I’m awkward, and shy, but in the sense you could also call someone a staggering waste of carbon lmaoo. We share a similar sense of humor and aversion to people. Like when Grace walked into that room full of important people and turned right back around to walk out lmaoo. Me.
I think I love Grace’s sensitivity the most though, and the way he just feels like a normal guy.
It breaks my heart everytime I think about it. That he thought of himself as a coward, just because he chose himself instead, because he didn’t want to die.
He was never kind enough to himself.
For everything that he had done. All the research and work he did before, and everything he still did after to save everyone.
I wish he knew. I wish he knew how wrong he was.
I wish he knew that he was just human.
Scared. Terrified. Justified. Normal.
It’s what makes him so special. This representation of a character that feels realistic, like an everyday person.
There have been so many times that I was too scared to do something, and I’ve spent a long time beating myself up over not being “braver”.
To see a character feel the same emotions I have, to physically fight with them, it meant something.
To wish to be better, smarter, stronger. More capable. To be the one that swoops in and saves the day. Don’t we all wish for that, to be that?
We see it in media all the time. We see characters running towards the burning buildings, or the bullets, willing to sacrifice themselves….what about the character that doesn’t, that takes their foot off the gas pedal?
I love that Ryland Grace is softer, sensitive. I love that he cries. It broke my heart every time he did. I just wanted to hold him and tell him that he was good. He was a good man.
That I don’t blame him for running. I would have too. I would’ve tackled as many of them as I could just to give him a head start.
That if this story had not been this story, and Rocky wasn’t waiting on him…I would’ve let this bitch freeze over for him. For Ryland Grace. He didn’t owe the world shit.
It breaks my heart that in the end he still thought of himself as a coward.
He did everything, even if he didn’t remember at first. He did all the things on that ship that terrified him. He met Rocky. He risked his life to save their planets. He went back for Rocky, knowing what it could mean.
He sent his findings back to earth, after remembering how he was treated, and knowing he wasn’t even going back himself.
He was realistic and all the things he thought he needed to be more of. We look at Grace and ask, how do you not see how smart you are, how brave?
Ryland Grace is brave. He just couldn’t see it himself.
So maybe I’m braver than I think too.
Rewatched phm today and Grace is so pretty when he cries.
It hurts every time. I just wanna scoop him. 🥺