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made manifest, orisons thine | Ryland Grace x Female!Reader

Summary: Your supplications for a decent roommate came in the form of one Ryland Grace — a science teacher at Grover Cleveland Middle — after you moved into your new apartment. He seemed nice, you concluded. You’d find out not long after that “nice” wasn’t enough of a criterion when judging a roommate.

Rating: E

Word count: 9.1k

Tags: Roommate AU, P in V Sex, Dubcon, Cunnilingus, Masturbation, Premature Ejaculation, Vaginal Fingering, Riding, Ryland Grace is a Mess, Ryland Grace is Down Bad, Roommates to Lovers, Multiple Orgasms, Age Difference (Reader is in her late twenties and Grace is in his early thirties), Ryland Grace's Socks Stay on During Sex, Unsafe Sex (see full taglist on AO3)

Notes: This work is an homage, a yearnful love letter; and is loosely based on pantaemonium's Jungkook x reader smut fanfic entitled "threats and paybacks", the fic that inspired me to be the smut writer that I am today. It's been dubbed as a classic in the ARMY fandom, and to this day, it remains my most beautiful guilty pleasure. It's no longer available on Tumblr, as they've since deactivated their account, but it exists on the WayBack Machine if you still have the link to the original fic.

Read on AO3

Lady Luck, you believed, had favorites. You also believed that you weren’t on that list — at least not the one that guaranteed you consistent strokes of luck, because you hadn’t lived a totally unfortunate life either. You graduated on time, and with honors to boast; you got licensed for the profession that you wanted to practice, and that credential landed you a job that covered your bills and everything that you needed to survive. That sounded quite ridiculous to celebrate sometimes, since you and all the other humans that you shared oxygen with lived on a planet that could literally grow food and provide you with shelter — too bad the corporate overlords of your time were impenetrable to that line of reasoning, thus subjecting all of you to the eight-hour work week hell and the general humdrum of life that was overrun by their propaganda that money is king.

But, all things considered, you were fine. You had no reason to adopt a ‘woe-is-me’ schtick. You had a roof over your head, you were able to eat three (or even more) times a day, and you had a social life that kept you from spiraling.

That area of your life consisted of your friends from university, who were, like you, also navigating the thick, murky waters of your late twenties. Unlike before, your hangouts could no longer occur when you felt like killing time or skipping a particularly boring and uneventful class — they were, at present, constrained to happen only if everyone’s respective schedules would miraculously sync up, like a rare planetary alignment appearing on Earth’s sky, cherished and anticipated with the same enthusiasm and excitement as any astronomical event.

You loved these people dearly. Witnessing each other’s journey, now that all of you were functional (questionable, at times) and contributing members of society, was a privilege that you treasured in your heart. You’d look out for them, and you know that they’d do the same for you. You’ve come to the rescue of one of them already: he had trouble regarding his employment shortly after finishing graduate school, he said, one night when your group went out for drinks.

It was the usual series of unfortunate events; the stereotypical descent into madness encountered by those who were only just beginning their uphill battle in the job market: despite sending his CV to multiple places, he wasn’t getting accepted anywhere. His parents, too, were pressuring him, and this only exacerbated the weight of the stress under which he was already buckling. “So much for having two degrees,” he bemoaned. If only he could drown his sorrows by drinking, he wouldn’t have to think about it for at least a night.

You felt for him — you knew how hard it was to be a fresh grad and to handle parental expectations of such nature — so the next morning, you called up someone from your previous internship. It wasn't at some big-shot company in San Francisco — you could only dream about having connections that prestigious — but at Grover Cleveland Middle, where you were once an assistant to the former head counselor. You were good friends with your boss, and had stayed in touch with her even after all these years, so after all the formalities and the brief catch-up over the phone, you asked her if there was an opening for a teaching position. You thanked your stars when she confirmed your query; they were planning to hire new teachers for the social sciences department before the coming school year. You wasted no time giving her your friend’s contact information; you even put in a good word about him before you hung up, to top it all off. You really wanted him to get that opportunity.

That one fateful phone call eventually saved your friend from the nightmarish ordeal of unemployment, much to your and his happiness; and he was, in return, eternally grateful to you.

His chance to repay you for your magnanimous efforts arrived when you had to move into a new apartment — one that was closer to your job, more spacious; and had better management than your old place. You were sick of that sleazy, lazy bastard of a landlord who refused to fix the pipe under the sink and covered in paint everything and anything that he didn’t want the tenants to see. You had saved up enough to leave, and had planned ahead extensively for this big shift. After accounting for every variable — extraneous ones included — and deliberating with much care, you came to the conclusion that this move was only going to be successful and economically feasible if you had a roommate with whom you could share the expenses.

You didn’t want to share your apartment with just anyone. You’ve heard countless horror stories of people who had less-than-ideal roommates that resided on a spectrum that ranged from “mildly annoying” to “crazy and heinous”. You didn’t want to have to deal with someone whose conduct would only drive you insane after a tiring day at work, so for a while you were quite strict with your vetting process. Every time you had the faintest feeling that the prospect wouldn’t be a good fit for your own idiosyncrasies, you crossed their names off your list of candidates, and proceeded to screen the next one.

This, however, proved to be quite a tedious and difficult undertaking. Perhaps you were indeed being a little too meticulous. That was what your mother said when she called to check in on you, and you aired out your grievances to her as the topic of your move came up in the conversation.

“I think you’re way in over your head, dear,” she said after you laid everything out for her. “Allow room for at least one flaw. Just one. They’ll have to deal with your own quirks, too. It’s just a simple give-and-take.”

‘Simple give and take, my ass,’ was what you’d have said in reply if you knew then what was in store for future-you.

You often thought about that past conversation, especially since you were in this current predicament. You shouldn’t have softened your grip. You shouldn’t have let your own weakness; your fatigue to override your need for perfection — because it was possible. There was someone out there that would be the most suitable roommate for you. You knew that. You wanted that. But, as established, you weren’t always lucky. Your name, unfortunately, wasn’t on the list for people who were to be blessed by Lady Luck with the perfect roommate and were destined to live a happy, stress-free life. The latter was the stuff of daydreams for working class people like you, and the reality of the assholes up on the social pyramid who leeched off taxpayer money. Sometimes you had visions about slapping a billionaire with Adam Smith’s invisible hand just to make yourself feel better.

You wouldn’t have traded the heavier cost of living over this fuck-up that you were entangled in. It hurt your pocket so damn bad, but at least the apartment was untouched. Orderly. Pristine. God, how you wished you never prayed for a roommate.

Your supplications came in the form of one Ryland Grace — a teacher at Grover Cleveland Middle, who was a coworker of that friend of yours whom you helped land a job there. Ryland taught science to eighth graders, as per your friend’s initial briefing. He kept to himself; was polite, and wasn’t anything like the kind of man you would fear to leave your drink around unattended. That was what you were told. Your friend showed you a picture of him when you met up one night, since you were curious about the guy that you were supposed to live with. Here lay your first visual impression of Ryland: he was tall, blonde, and blue-eyed; he wore Rimway glasses and seemed to have a preference for incorporating the color gray in his work ensemble. He seemed nice, you concluded. You’d find out not long after that “nice” wasn’t enough of a criterion when judging a roommate.

Within the first few weeks of cohabitation with Ryland, you were convinced that you hit the jackpot when it came to the whole roommate-hunting business… until you weren’t, which was a surprise, because you had always prided yourself with your skills in sniffing out people’s true natures. Your teenage years sharpened this proficiency into a fine blade, one that you (thought you) could wield with much expertise. That’s why you weren’t shocked when — during a coffee date with your beloved best friend of upwards a decade — you learned that a friend group from your high school fell apart because one of them said some unsavory things about the rest of the group during their girls’ trip abroad. You only nodded after your best friend finished laying down the details of this gossip to you, because you had always been right about that girl from school. You never gave her the benefit of the doubt because she didn’t deserve such a thing from you back then.

But you weren’t in twelfth grade anymore. You weren’t just dealing with uppity rich girls who loved wasting mommy and daddy’s money and had personalities tantamount to a sheet of low-grit sandpaper. As it had been made apparent to you, your skills proved to be ineffective against a thirty-something-year-old blonde who had been hiding a very, very annoying habit underneath the respectable facade of an educator.

You fucked up. You gave Ryland the benefit of the doubt, and now he was under the impression that you're some kind of benevolent god with an infinite supply of mercy. To err is human, to forgive divine, as they would say — but you’re no god, and you were painfully aware of that fact each time you came home and were reminded of just how much of a slob Ryland was. It always did escape you how he ever survived through adulthood with the housekeeping skills of a teenage boy, and the worst part was that you were unwillingly thrusted into some kind of twisted Freudian position of having to clean up after him like you were his mother. Shit. You probably shouldn’t joke about that. He did mention that he didn’t have parents anymore.

You had no idea what it was like to be in his shoes, and you would rightfully admit to that. Not that you would ever need to wear low white Chuck 70s — your workplace didn’t allow sneakers — but as an adult yourself, you were steadfast in your belief that he should be able to balance his being a teacher and an organized roommate, despite his past or present situation. You had no other problems with him outside of this. Nothing about his punctuality when it came to the bills — he was impeccable in that area — nor his volume and ability to keep an inside voice. In fact, you would never be aware that Ryland was home until he came out of his room to refill his mug with coffee for the nth time that day. He didn’t ever bring anyone over. (So he’s single, you assumed. You couldn’t figure out why that mattered so much to you.) Even when he was in the kitchen, grading his students’ work, he was mindful enough to not hog the entire dining table and cover it with stacks of papers and notebooks in case you were going to sit down and eat or do anything in the same space with him.

Secretly he hoped you did, but you didn’t know about that yet.

What you also didn’t know was how to broach the subject to Ryland. He was always so apologetic on the off-chance that he would stumble upon your rectifying his mistakes. He once saw you rinsing his mug — the one with the atom joke that amused you for a while until it became an eyesore — that he had left out on the counter (the half-finished coffee had become a free-for-all for the ants), and he felt so bad about it that you also felt bad about interfering with the responsibility that should have been his to fulfill. You couldn’t help it. You couldn’t stand clutter, but you were also averse to conflict and difficult conversations. So, the much-needed confrontation never happened, and you were stuck in a loop of cleaning up after Ryland every time he made a mess, and he was never given the push (or shove… or slap, whatever) in the right direction to change his erroneous ways.

———

Living with Ryland was polarizing, to say the least. You absolutely despised his slovenly behavior, yet you found yourself defenseless in the face of his humor and diffidence. He was great with the kids that he handled, too — your friend mentioned that he had quite the reputation of being the cool science teacher, who had the most beautifully decorated classroom that all the eighth graders loved and preferred. No sub could ever compare to him in the children’s eyes. Internally, though, you’re scoffing; huffing and puffing as you called out his inability to apply this diligence to other pressing matters so he may succeed in more areas of his life than just one. ‘He’s good with kids because he has the temperament of one towards cleanliness,’ you thought to yourself. ‘Maybe he should try putting all that brain power he used to make a Jacob’s Ladder into picking his shit up at home, too.’

You loved and hated Ryland. That man and his dreamy, lambent blue eyes; boyish and somewhat-nasal voice, and his stupid science pun t-shirts — slowly ate at your sanity the longer you cohabited with him. You would have been more inclined to adhere to the former disposition if all you were shown were the things about him that drove you crazy. Good-crazy. Not the “why the fuck is this empty pack of Twizzlers wedged behind the TV and the console?”-crazy. The idea of determining just how far you could go if you dared to make a move on him and see if he wouldn’t reject your advances for a moment — deo volente — didn’t seem so absurd. But no. That was unwise, and you knew better than to listen to the impulses of your brain when it hadn’t gotten at least seven hours of shut-eye.

You could never tell Ryland about this. You would rather catch a whiff of surströmming than say out loud that you had developed the habit of staring at his hair every morning while you’re both getting ready for work. It would always happen while Ryland was pouring himself some coffee: his blonde tufts would be sticking up in every direction, looking oh-so fluffy and soft and you could feel your hand just itching to touch it from all the way over where you sat. You could do that, theoretically, but in practice, you wouldn’t. You remained glued to the table, eating your breakfast quietly and lifting your eyes off Ryland’s adorable bedhead right before he’d turn around and head to the shower.

Speaking of which, you had been subjected to being flashed by his half-naked form a couple of times already whenever you happened upon him emerging from the bathroom, since your bedroom was just right across. You shouted — though clipped, since you hid back inside your room — the first time it happened, and Ryland jumped at the noise. He yelled out an apology and hurried towards his own quarters to get dressed. That wasn’t the last time that it happened. In all the succeeding encounters, you had managed to avert your attention elsewhere and act like you weren’t seeing anything. New skill acquired: find the next most interesting thing in the hallway other than Ryland Grace’s ridiculously toned abdomen. If that had an Olympics event, you’d definitely be placing first. On a good day, that is. You were only human.

You were just glad that the roles were never reversed, and you wanted to keep it that way. You didn’t care if it was a hassle to get dressed in the bathroom. Preventing the same catastrophe from happening to you was your number one priority. You were not going to allow Ryland to participate in that same mental Olympics event that you’ve got going on.

There was one instance, though, where you caught him staring at you — fully clothed, of course. It was a Saturday and both of you were at home. Ryland was in the living room, checking papers as usual. You left your cave to fix yourself a snack while you were in the middle of watching a movie. You had chosen to wear a pair of shorts that hung a little low on your hips that day, because you’ve yet to do your laundry — tomorrow, you told yourself, and you planned on making good with that promise — along with an old t-shirt that you were soon going to outgrow.

You padded to the kitchen. You felt Ryland’s eyes leave his work just for a fraction of a second, but you paid it no mind; he was likely just alerted by your presence and would go back to what he was doing right away. Right?

Except Ryland didn’t. Now his attention was divided: not only did he have a full view of your legs as you stood on one of the chairs to rummage through the hanging cabinets to refill the pepper shaker, but he also caught a glimpse of your bare torso when you reached for what you needed. You saw him staring at you as you hopped down from the chair. He snapped his head back to face the notebook that he had on his lap, and when you left, you saw that his hand was gripping the red ballpen a tad tighter than before.

This couldn’t go on any further. You were being distracted by the enemy. No way in hell or on Earth were you going to be swayed by Ryland’s attempts to dissolve the pillar of your dedication in keeping him at arms’ length, and make you forget how much he sucked at keeping the apartment clean. No matter how effortlessly he made you laugh with his corny jokes or how well he filled in a graphic t-shirt (because what the actual fuck was a schoolteacher doing with a body like that?), you were not going to absolve him of his sins so easily.

One day, Ryland Grace was going to face judgment, and by then, you’ll be brave enough to deliver the verdict. It wouldn’t matter that his lashes were long enough to rival yours; how sexy and sweet his consistent greetings of “good morning” and “good night” were; or that he’d intentionally make extra coffee for you in the morning because he knows that you also need that caffeine boost. Enough was enough.

Maybe — in another universe where everything was the same, but one where Ryland didn’t possess that god-awful habit — maybe you would have been totally head-over-heels for him, but you couldn’t possibly fall for a guy who couldn’t perform the most basic chore in human history. You had standards, mind him. That was what you told yourself, and you kept reminding yourself of that each time you felt like you were slipping or wandering off course. So what if you once overheard him touching himself when you passed by his room to go do your laundry? That was a totally normal human phenomenon, and it was none of your business.

———

A miracle happened one Sunday: Ryland cleaned up the apartment that morning, because for once, it looked like somebody had pressed a reset button on its configuration. You could smell the lemon surface cleaner, too. The sun that was streaming through the curtains that you replaced last week was much brighter, now that the interior matched its brilliance. Everything was gleaming — even that fake Monstera plant that you bought to fill in the awkward spot between the side table and the corner near the couch.

You were so happy that you could kiss Ryland. You didn’t, obviously; you did greet him when you happened upon him at the breakfast bar, but that was the extent of the attention that you intended on granting him. You went about cooking your own breakfast and eating in silence as you immersed yourself in a book.

You didn’t expect that this very welcome and joyous change of heart would be nothing but an ephemeral mirage, because come Friday, you were, again, screaming and cursing Ryland’s name as you returned home after a particularly shitty day at work. Somehow you could sense that there was something wrong even before your keys slid into the doorknob — like an evil spirit holding the sliding doors of an abandoned, decrepit house and would not be shaken away unless you had a talisman to ward it off. That was only from a video game, though, because the “evil spirit” in your world manifested in the form of your apartment once more looking like a typhoon had passed through the general penetralium.

Your patience would have lasted enough for you to employ some semblance of cold civility with which to confront Ryland, had today been bearable, but alas, there was none of that. Aside from missing your alarm and getting to work late because of your own negligence, the head psychologist was livid and irritable because some idiot — that wasn’t you — had left the storage cabinet of the SB-V and Bender-Gestalt kits unlocked overnight. She blamed you first, because she supervised the test battery that you administered to the client who came in yesterday. Anger blinded her for a good few minutes, during which you had to make it very clear to her that you locked the damn cabinet before finishing up with the client, and that you weren’t going to be her punching bag just because she was so quick to point fingers in the clinic. Nobody confessed until the end of that day, and you only found out when the head psychologist awkwardly cleared you of all her earlier accusations of committing an ethical breach, and said that another psychologist had used the SB-V kit after you did.

You came home pissed, and now, surveying your trashed living room rendered you incensed.

All the lights were left on — that was the only form of courtesy present at the moment — and the fluorescent bulbs bathed the aftermath of Ryland’s masterpiece. Empty Twizzlers wrappers and pouches of sour Skittles were scattered everywhere; barren water bottles dotted the carpet, some of them uncapped; his quilt was strewn about on the couch, too — you suspected he spent the first few hours of his time at home after work lounging here, basking in his mess. Some of the candy that he didn’t finish were left out on the coffee table, sticking to the glass and being feasted upon by the freeloading pismires in your apartment. They looked like the susuwatari from Spirited Away against the white doily under the vase, except they weren’t cute, and were carrying bits of candy in their miniscule arms.

You kicked your heels off, making sure that they’d hit some furniture along the way so Ryland could hear your anger. You knew he was home. How could you not? He left his yellow raincoat and bag in a pile by the corridor leading to the bedrooms.

“Ryland Grace, I am going to fucking kill you,” you snarled through your teeth, stomping towards the sorry state of the living room as you rehearsed the tirade that you had been itching to rain down on your roommate. You picked up all the fossilized candy from the table with the wrappers and gathered them into a ball before dumping it into the nearest bin. You didn’t bother picking up the bottles yet; you were contemplating hurling one of them towards Ryland once you saw that asshole’s face.

Some lone candy packaging had even made their way behind the TV console. You noticed this when you came back from the kitchen after you disposed of the ant fodder. You stopped and stared.

Oh, you were going to murder that man tonight. No amount of guided meditations by Yoga with Adriene was going to make you calm down. You were all violence as you stared at the sneaky pieces of trash, burning them with your eyes along with the mental image of the culprit that put them there. You rushed to pick those up too, lest the ants get attracted to them next. ‘Sorry, Adriene’, you sighed. The light in you could no longer recognize the light in Ryland’s spirit. You were going to punch it out of him instead.

You left your purse on the ottoman by the TV and flew into the corridor, ready to do just that.

“Ryland!” You roared, the side of your fist banging on his door in three, harsh consecutive knocks. You had no patience to wait for him to answer you — you twisted the knob, expecting it to not budge — and then it gave. You should have known to stop yourself there. Rule number one of rooming with a man was that you do not, under any circumstance, enter his room unless absolutely necessary. And what you saw next that had you choking on your own words was not at all “absolutely necessary”.

Your mouth kept on running. “What the fuck happened to the living r—oh my fucking god—!”

His bedroom was pitch black — well, nearly pitch black, because moonlight had seeped through the opened windows on the left. The silvery, lunar beam revealed who you were looking for; Ryland, no less, but in a state that was less than appropriate for the conversation that you wanted to have.

You wished you had stayed seeing red instead of seeing this. You wished that you had allowed yourself a moment to simmer in anger and concoct the perfect mix of curses that would scare the living hell out of Ryland’s self-censoring quirk. You wished you had been better than the version of yourself that froze at the threshold of his bedroom. ‘That’s why they called it “wishful thinking”’, you mused. Nothing else followed that thought as you cast your eyes upon the figure that the Moon had presented before you.

Ryland was in bed; dead center, almost like a Greek figurine in the middle of a hedge maze. He was wearing nothing except the knitted fox cardigan that he painstakingly washes by hand every week, and the striped socks that he had multiple pairs of. The operational term “almost” was added because he wasn’t standing in contrapposto like an actual marble statue; he was bent over. Ass up, knees digging into the mattress, and his cheek bearing down on a pillow that he must have used to support himself in this pose. Poor glasses. Always dangling off one of his ears. The pair could barely persist in this angle they were in.

Your mouth hung ajar as your gaze traveled south — you shouldn’t have done that — and past the panel of the cardigan, you could see his arm curled inwards. He had a hand wrapped so tightly around his cock; he was pumping it in harsh strokes, his precum acting like lube due to how much of it he was producing. His other hand, you assumed, was playing with a nipple, as you couldn’t see it rested anywhere.

He hadn’t noticed you yet because his eyes were closed. He probably didn’t even hear you shouting, given how blissed out he was already, touching himself while he’s —

Ryland shamelessly moaned your name as his wrist sped up. You stumbled backwards upon hearing that pass through his lips, and as you did, you collided with the door. That was what had his eyelids fluttering open.

You had no way of knowing because you’ve covered your eyes with your palm now, but Ryland finally saw you standing at the doorway. He was surprised to find you there; he had only been picturing you in his head a few seconds ago, and now here you were, as if someone had pulled his fantasy right out of his mind and commanded it to materialize in the real world. He didn’t scramble to cover himself up. There was no use hiding now, anyway; you’ve already seen him like this, he might as well lean into the revelation. The tension had boiled over, finally. And Ryland didn’t want it to stop.

You, however, wanted otherwise. (Really?)

“I — I’ll just go,” you spluttered, ordering your body to turn around and leave, your hand still obstructing your view of Ryland. “I want the living room cleaned tomorrow, again.”

It was comical, how you so badly needed your words to take on the commanding tone required by this situation, yet you were failing miserably. Your voice was shaky and shrill, powerless against the sound of Ryland’s panting and the periodic squelch of his hand gliding up and down his length. The white hot anger that had been coursing through you previously, had taken to camping in the blood vessels on your face. The warmth was radiating toward the palm that you were using to shield yourself from the paragon of temptation that was Ryland.

“No, no, no-o-o,” he protested, wanton and needy. “Don’t leave, [name]. Please — ah… S-stay, please…”

A burst of anxious chuckles erupted from your throat. “No, I’m leaving. Let’s just pretend this never happened,” your hand blindly searched for the cold door knob in an effort to put a barrier between you and the blonde incubus luring you into his lair, but instead of that metallic sphere, you caught the surface of a hand.

Ryland had moved from the bed to where you were. He stood up and plodded towards you — you were merely a few feet from the edge of the bed anyway, so it didn’t take long for him to reach you. He tugged you further inside the darkness of the bedroom.

“We’ve got to have it out, [name],” Ryland pushed the door shut behind you, bathing you in midnight blue and preventing you from escaping. The warm redeeming light of the corridor was no longer present; no longer able to save you from this madness.

He continued speaking. “I like you so much, and I know you like me, too,” his hand wrapped around your wrist and forced you to reveal your face to him. You clamped your eyes shut. Ryland whined at your stubbornness. His arms encircled your waist, trapping you there. Fuck. You could feel the hard outline of his cock through the thin material of your slacks. You never anticipated the difference in height that you two had. You never stood close enough to find out in the past, nor did you expect the discrepancy to be so hot.

Ryland nosed into your cheek. “[Name], look at me, please…” His plea was velvety and decadent, exactly how you would expect a rakish scion of Satan to beckon you into falling victim to his promises. But Ryland was anything but devilish. He was tenderhearted, dedicated, and passionate about his convictions — he was a man in a thankless job that pulled more out of him that it usually poured back, yet he showed up for it every day. You might even call him angelic sometimes, having seen what lengths he’d go to for his students.

And right now, you were about to be enlightened with the knowledge of just how far he would go for you.

Your eyes acted against all better judgment. You met Ryland halfway, using the excuse that you weren’t staring right at his dick, which you were already half-tempted to touch. You steeled yourself. The hands that were supposed to push him away stayed suspended upon his chest. His lashes batted at you with inordinate fondness as he saw you heed his prayer. He took that as an invitation to kiss your neck. Oh God, he’s kissing you.

“I know you’re angry, [name],” Ryland murmured, tickling the skin into which he spoke, “and I’m sorry… I promise I won’t do it again.”

That yanked a scoff from your throat. “You really shouldn’t,” you sneered. Your statement lacked the sharpness that would have poked a hole into Ryland’s heart and made him bleed. He only smiled.

“I’ve only been misbehaving ‘cause—” he sucked in a breath, gently tucking your hair behind the curve of your ear; his finger traced the shape like he was savoring it, “—’cause it was the only way I could get you to notice me.”

Your brows pinched in towards each other. What?

Ryland kept on kissing you as he put his case forward. “You were so nice about it, too, whenever you’d tell me to clean up… but I know you were probably killing me in your head,” he peeled off your jacket and unfastened the buttons of your blouse. Your resolve was a pillar of salt, and each heavy exhalation of his that fanned over you was an enormous wave that threatened its integrity. Ryland licked at the slight dip of your collarbone before pressing an open-mouthed kiss on it. “This is the last time that I’ll provoke you, [name]. I just needed you to come to me…” He returned to you, blown blue eyes boring into the gleam of your own under the moonlight.

You’ve really done it now. You’ve drunk from the waters of Lethe, gulping down every single drop and drowning the screams of your last petering inhibitions as you looped your arms around Ryland’s neck. He let out a happy little sound as soon as his lips latched onto yours, and he hoisted you up into his grasp. Your legs crossed behind him to reinforce your union.

Unlike his hurried endeavors to pleasure himself, you recognized that caring, patient demeanor of his shining through in how his tongue blandished you open. He wanted to take his time with you; he’s got you now, finally, and he wasn’t planning on tearing his way into discovering how you liked to be loved.

Ryland was surprisingly strong — the muscles weren’t just for show, apparently. He carried you from where you stood and deposited you on his bed, nary a symptom of struggle nor strain. Lying in his tousled sheets was like resting in a field of poppies, only the scent that enveloped you was a mixture of his mild cologne and the fabric conditioner that you two shared, pulling at your heartstrings as though they were fastened to a harp. You were weak for him — you admitted to yourself, at last.

Ryland hovered over you and bent down to continue kissing you, his tongue once again slipping into the wetness of your mouth and meeting yours in a soft, shy caress. You sighed as you drank your fill of him, reveling in this long-awaited discovery of being wrapped up in everything that was him. The noise that he made when you weaved your fingers through his hair shot straight to your core. You could tell that he had been wanting for you to do that for a very long time.

Ryland didn’t waste time to confirm your suspicion. “Always… wanted you… to… do that,” he said as he pecked on your lips over and over. He captured your bottom lip as he dove back in.

You smiled, feeling your heart grow with pride. Your hands found the lapels of his cardigan and sought to rid him of it. He sensed what you were doing, and, in light of no longer wanting for you to be inconvenienced by him, he did the honor of undressing himself. He did the same to you, but you also contributed to the effort. You didn’t let him take off his glasses.

A pained expression crossed Ryland’s face as soon as you were bare beneath him; so overcome with want that he nearly sobbed into the valley of your breasts, which he decided to decorate with kisses first. Greedy hands cupped the plump flesh, kneading and squeezing them to his heart’s content. His peace fingers found their way to your nipples — already pebbled from the cold air filtering into the room — and tweaked and pulled at them.

“Gosh, [name], you’re so pretty,” he said. He laved his tongue over one of the buds; swirled and then enclosed his mouth on it. “I’ve always thought you’d be pretty like this…”

You released a sigh at that. So he had thought about you naked. This was cause for further exploitation.

“Mhm?” You goaded him on. “And how do I compare…?”

“So much better,” Ryland’s answer came instantaneously. He moved onto the unattended breast. You mewled at the feel of his teeth. “This is so much better than my imagination.”

Now able to gauge just how truthful he could be, you extrapolated that to conclude that he was, indeed, being a slob for the sole purpose of gaining your (negative) attention. Any attention was still attention, in his eyes.

Ryland, you sly, sly tod.

Ryland separated himself from your chest with an airy sough escaping his lungs. His eyes scanned where he had slobbered all over you, and he smiled. He bowed down again, this time concentrating his efforts from your sternum down to the niche of your navel. Your stomach curved inward as he jutted his tongue out to tease into the shallow cavity, irises momentarily flitting up at you to ensnare the traces of your reaction. He found it cute, thus prompting him to repeat it. He laughed when you reacted the same way, and then carried on with his work until he reached your mons. He pressed his lips upon it, lingering far too long to your liking, before he shimmied down between your legs.

You propped yourself up, this time leaning back into the cushy mount of pillows behind you. Ryland chased after you; he inched forward so he’d be right where he’d long been dreaming of burying his face. You anticipated his next move.

His hands circled around the junctures where your thighs met your hips; he hooked his arms over it as he leaned into the heat of your sex. Your eyelids could barely stay open when he flattened his tongue over your slit, expertly parting the labia so he could get a better taste.

Ryland’s initial cadence was maddening. He was lapping at your pussy with drawn out strokes of his tongue, letting the tip linger on your clit and pinning it on the nub as if to nettle you. You didn’t have any visual of him at the moment. Everything you knew was only being communicated to your brain through touch. You sensed the weight of his head anchored on your inner thigh, and from there, he resumed his loving service for you. Every drop of nectar that suffused from your cunt, he devoured like ambrosia from the gods, making sure to tease at the tight seam of your entrance each time he collected it.

Ryland was enjoying every audible feedback that he was eliciting from you. He had fantasized about this, too; how you’d sound like when he finally ate you out like this. All those days of inferring your symphony solely from the sounds that you’d let out whenever you stretched or yawned — he couldn’t help it; it was a scientist’s instinct — had led him to this very moment. Now he was surrounded by the real deal; by your skin, your taste, your everything… He never wanted to look back.

You were unable to evade Ryland as he kept you spread open for him. He had attached his mouth onto your dripping cunt, taking hold of everything that you were giving him and drinking it all up. Through your lashes, you watched him gorge upon you like you were the last meal he was ever going to have. The noises he was fashioning from this were just as obscene. Your loins prickled with desire as you selectively listened past the slick imbibing happening at the apex of your thighs. Ryland’s muffled strings of “ah, ah, ah” and the way he had his eyes closed sent your head spinning; leading you closer to that sweet, familiar zenith.

You’re suddenly yanked up that path after Ryland pushed two fingers past your entrance. Your eyes shot open at the sensation.

“Aah — mngh!” You squirmed as he reconfigured himself; he was caressing at your walls with his middle and ring finger, adopting an alternating, undulating motion that had your toes curling and your hand gripping at his hair. He found your spot before you could even tell him about it, and he knew this. He relented not; he partnered this with his teeth and tongue, nibbling and flicking at your clit in time with his digits, dead set on drawing out more delicious reactions.

“R-ryland, fuck…!” You keened, the band in your lower abdomen increasingly tightening and threatening to snap. “More, faster… Ah!”

Ryland obeyed. He fucked you with his hand, lips enclosed on your clit to suction on the nub. The vibrations of his own moans rumbled through your pussy; it rippled into that taut rope within you, prising the cord one last time to break the final strand.

You cried out a garbled version of his name as you let go, your hips quivering according to the intensity of your orgasm. Ryland, ever the bullheaded lovesick fool, attended to every variation of your movements. He refused to stray from you until you had settled back down on the mattress. You had never come that hard before. Perhaps, after this, if you asked Ryland nicely, he’d replicate the results for you.

Tired, you willed to lift your head back up to focus on Ryland. Your cum was clinging onto his lips and chin and coating the stubble that he sported. You made such a mess. Ryland didn’t seem too fazed, though. He used his fingers to collect the remaining fluids around his mouth, then licked them up so that nothing would go to waste.

He advanced towards you for a sloppy kiss, letting you taste yourself on his mouth so you’d know how good you had been to him. A string of your spit connected your lips when you parted for air.

“Ry,” you breathed out, testing his nickname on your tongue and seeing if he’d like it. You shouldn’t have doubted yourself.

Ryland nuzzled into you in response. He was suppressing a grin. “Yeah?” He said, waiting for what you had to tell him. His hands idly ran up and down the sides of your body.

“Let me help you finish,” you proposed, casting your words out into the quiet room. You waited for his response.

Ryland flushed. “You sure…?” He asked timidly. His hands stopped to rest just by your midriff. His blush only deepened when he saw you affirm your objective.

You pushed yourself up for better access to him. He sat up, half-hard cock resting between his thighs. With one last look, you wrapped your hand at the base, slinking your way up until you reached the boundary separating the head and the shaft. Ryland had generously parted his legs for you by then. Upon noticing, you smiled. You rewarded him with a kiss on the tip. He gasped.

Ryland was pretty, and even prettier was his cock. He was perfect: long enough to reach deep and thick enough to fill — blonde wisps of hair matched what he had up on top, though they were a bit darker here, in contrast. You carefully traced the gentle curve of his length, pulling back just enough so only your fingerpads were touching him. It was driving Ryland crazy, whatever this was that you were doing. Never in his entire life did he think that being toyed with and examined so closely like this, as if he were a specimen under a microscope, would have him rock hard in a snap of a finger. Rock hard and leaking with precum, to add.

You gathered the beading liquid from the tip and dressed his cock in it, taking care to cover everywhere that your hand could reach. He was just as eager as his dick, you chuckled to yourself. It wept and wept the more you touched him, just like he did earlier, when he was convincing you to stay. You couldn’t believe that you ever thought of abandoning this.

Ryland was wracked with shudders and shaky breaths. Even your hand was better than his. Smaller in span, but softer; silkier and more delicate. He was being taunted and spoiled at the same time. Just like you, he was feasting on the sight before him: the manner in which your hair framed your face, connecting with the visual of your breasts, so supple and yielding; and the crests and dips of your torso as you sat up on your legs. You were once but a dream to him; a dream that had, at last, assumed a bodily form, touching him so tenderly that he felt like he was floating up on a cloud.

Ryland let out a moan when you held him more decisively. He closed his eyes, tongue darting out to wet his lips and cling onto the taste of you. He shifted toward you so he could receive more of your warmth.

Slowly, you circled the head with your entire palm, ghosting over the flesh just enough to map its circumference, but not fully coming into contact. You swept your other hand that was resting on his thigh upwards, passing along the lean ripples of his stomach, the slight curve of his pecs, then resting on his nipple. You tapped on and drew rings using your fingertip around the hardened bud alongside this sequence of actions.

Ryland was crying out again, moaning as the pleasure was torturously building in his body. You cooed at him and quieted him down. He acquiesced. You complemented this by switching back to those feathery light swipes and brushes, and suckled on the untouched nipple.

“Don’t fight it, Ry. Just let it happen…” You told him, and he nodded, directing his gaze down between his legs. He couldn’t fathom how so soft a touch could light him on fire like this. His cock was now at full mast, red at the tip like his lips that were swollen from his own teeth biting down onto them. You were right. There was no use fending this off. Better to just —

Ryland fought for breath when he felt himself cum. He erupted right on his stomach and chest, his hips canting forward as he ran after the feeling; tingly and scorching. You didn’t even need to use your fist for that to happen.

You pulled back and giggled, amused. “Oh? Already?”

Shame took over Ryland and he couldn’t look at you anymore. You leaned in to kiss him.

“‘s okay, baby,” you whispered. “You were so cute.”

Ryland colored. The blush bled from his cheeks down to his chest, transuding like red pigment dotting a pool of pristine white. Your words served to mortify him even more — he should be mortified — but they also made his cock twitch back to life. He was helpless. He pulled you in for another kiss, reeling even in the periphery of your teasing, but now a little less sore as you joined him in hungry osculation.

“I wanna do more,” said Ryland as he pulled away for a sip of oxygen. He rubbed noses with you. “Wanna be inside you next.”

“Yeah? How do you want me?” You asked. You could barely see the blue in his eyes from how dilated they were. Ryland frowned when you responded to him with a question.

“H-however you want… I… don’t c-care, [name], I just… I just want to fuck you, or… or have you fuck me,” he pleaded. “Please, I… I can’t think anymore…”

You silenced him with another kiss. You climbed into his lap, perching yourself there like you owned him. You were probably right. Ryland was quick to grab hold of your waist. You kissed: you’ve been doing that more and more frequently, and it was only right that you did. You’ve both been thinking about it for months now, anyway.

“Didn’t know you could actually swear,” you taunted him with a jab. You painted his heaving chest with your palms. Ryland leaned in for more contact.

“Only when I really can’t help it,” he replied. God, he was so earnest and chaste.

You reached for his cock, gifting Ryland another batch of those sheer touches that he loved so much, before guiding him to your core, your hips descending to sink down inch by inch onto him. Your own arousal had primed this pleasant intrusion; he slid into you with so minimal a resistance that it had you both swiftly drawing in air to keep your heads in place.

You could feel Ryland in your stomach like this. He was stretching you out so good, and you could feel every twitch of his cock as he had himself slotted inside you. You rested your cheek on his shoulder, hands gripping either of his arms as you lifted your hips, then let them drop back down.

Ryland groaned at the first drag. His mind already couldn’t handle being enswathed by you; thoughts awash with nothing but the feel of your pussy; so tight and hot and wet, and he needed more. More until he couldn’t think of anything but you. His fingers injected themselves into your waist, but he didn’t dare overrule your will — Ryland wanted you to make use of him.

You leaned back, hands supporting yourself on his legs behind you as you began to sway your hips back and forth, grinding onto his cock just like you’ve always pictured in your head.

Staying severed from Ryland was difficult, because it hadn’t even been a while before he was reaching for you in this position, encasing you in his arms, and asking for a kiss like he was imploring to receive your blessing. You tilted your head down to grant the wish of your prodigal devotee. Against his lips, you set forth your word.

“Are you going to be good from now on?” You gripped his chin with your fingers flared along his cheek, your thumb digging into the other side. Ryland nodded.

“Won’t make a m-mess anymore,” he said. All he could stare at were your lips. He pecked on them to see how much you’d let him get away with. When no punishment came, he went in for another. He wasn’t so fortunate this time. A series of moans broke out from his throat when you quickened the pace.

You hissed, keeping the steady and shallow surges of your lower body to collide into his. “You promise to pick up your shit? Do the dishes on time?”

Ryland clung to you even more. “Y-yes, yes!” He kissed the swell of your breast as he cast his eyes up at you. “[N-name], a-ah… You feel so good…”

“Yeah?”

He nodded, eager to persuade. “Can I… Can I thrust up? Please?”

You gave him another kiss. “No,” you said, denying yourself your own pleasure, cruelly grinning down at him as you watched his fervor melting into desperation. Ryland whined.

“Why? I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll… I’ll clean every week a-and I’ll only — ah! — I’ll only ask for a kiss…”

“Oh, you’re bargaining with me?”

He pouted. “I want you so bad, [name] — want you so, so much… Don’t you want me?”

For once, Ryland actually sounded hurt. You smirked.

“I don’t like — mmf, aah — s-slobs like you.” You sprawled further into him to rut harder, quicker onto his cock. He threw his head back, mouth agape.

“I’ll be good — aangh, please, please, please…!” Ryland babbled. “Let me make you f-feel good again, please… Wanna… Wanna apologize…”

You grabbed his chin anew. “Will you mean it this time, Ry Ry?”

He was nodding right away. “Yes, oh — f-fuck — yes!”

Once Ryland felt you pause atop him, he laid you on your back and refused to cleave the connection you had, keeping his aching member buried inside your pussy. He rose up on his knees; his toes curled and dug into the mattress. He lifted your hips off the bed higher than you expected. They were leveled with his own so that your upper body sloped down onto the blanket.

You’re robbed of all air as Ryland pounded into you, angling himself just right to hit that spot that he teased with his fingers. Whatever he had been holding back was left to run wild, and you’re in no position to unbind yourself from him as he subjected you to every precise plunge of his cock into your cunt. Your hands clawed at the sheets by your sides, hoping, praying for salvation (but do you really want to be saved?) as Ryland was losing himself in you, and you, in him.

Each slick clap of your skins had you clenching around him like a vice. Ryland groaned at this. He wanted more, more, more of you; you, his deliverance and undoing; his most alluring reverie materialized in lovely flesh and bone, descended before him on that fateful day when he first met you.

That familiar coil was straining in your lower belly all over again, and Ryland, too, was nearing something himself. Nothing else existed except this: the crescendo of your joint ecstasy; a sizzling, cresting frisson that shattered your last abiding restraint.

Ryland broke apart first, arresting your hips in his grip to keep you tethered to him as he convulsed and toppled over the precipice of euphoria. You fell down with him soon after. You’re wailing his name and the amorous appellative that you had bestowed upon him, mantling his cock with your release while he filled you with copious, molten ribbons of cum.

Languor dragged you both in its clutches. Ryland collapsed beside you after he relinquished your hips, and you lay limp on the rumpled white coverlet. Even in exhaustion, Ryland welcomed you back into his arms. You fit perfectly into the shape of his body, like you were always meant to be there; bound and tangled in his influence.

You regained your regular breathing in that cocoon. Ryland stirred, seeking to gaze upon you. He kissed your forehead.

“You still have that mess to clean up,” you mumbled, heavy lidded and teetering between wakefulness and slumber.

“Tomorrow,” he said, kissing your lips this time. “I’ll cook you breakfast too.”

“You hate cooking,” you laughed. Ryland mimicked your response, then nipped at your bottom lip.

“I’ll make an exception for you, and I’m a fast learner.”

You honored his terms by finding repose in the safety of his chest. Ryland’s heartbeat, slumping into a steady succession of thumps, lulled and ushered you into the comforting cradle of sleep; expectant and well-appeased with his pledge of matutinal favors.

———

End Note: "Tod" is the term for a male fox (wink)

I enjoyed writing this so much, as you can probably tell. Do tell me what you thought about this one! Any guesses as to what Reader's occupation is? Hint: she is not a psychologist!

(Holland March x Reader smut fic next?)

#phm suggestive

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