here for whenever I actually feel like sharing something from my archives and also for reblogging any fandom content I particularly love main: fatally-incorrect ; yes, that's me raiding you.
thinking about court gentry learning how to relax into domestic life with you. at first, it terrifies him. he's sick with want. he's sick with disbelief. how could you possibly want him? how could you possibly trust him? it's the little moments that hit him hardest. the first time you shower together, and you turn around and ask him to wash your hair. so easy. so simple. he has killed more people than years the two of you have, cumulatively, been alive. he could do anything to you like this. and yet you trust him enough to tilt your head; bare your neck; let those oft-bloodied hands lather shampoo into your scalp. you turn to smile at him with bubbles on the tip of your nose. it nearly takes him out at the knees.
in which driver is pleased simply by teasing you, he enjoys hearing you tell him what you want, and he finds every part of you more than enticing.
word count: 993
content: oneshot! driver from hit movie drive (2011), fem reader (referred to as good girl, afab anatomy used and inferred), driver being a shithead to you because he loves you, he's talking??omg, teasing teasing teasing, i black screen on you right when it gets good, filthy dirty smut but not like so bad i promise, 18+ only
NOT PROOFREAD WE RAW DOG THIS.
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fingers sink into the supple flesh of thighs, teeth meeting the hot pulse that quivers under his breath. “keep your eyes on me,” he mumbles out onto the skin under his lips, feeling the way the muscles tense the closer his mouth trails. the blue of his eyes stare up into the softly clear beauty of his lover’s own, gaze lingering away from his. “ah-ah, eye contact, c’mon. that’s it.”
your pupils are blown wide, shaking under the guise of his touch and the heat of his lips as they press kisses in the sensitive skin of your legs. “s..stop,” you whimper, and he pauses, a brow quirking. the absence automatically of open-mouthed kisses makes your brain kick into overdrive, shaking your head as best as you can from your half propped position on a stack of pillows. “no.. no, keep going. just–stop teasing.”
he hums, leaving a firm yet forgiving bite on the skin he’s already sucked red and purple between his teeth. tears prickle at your eyes, burning and soothing the skin when you blearily blink them away. one of his hands moves to your own, pushing against the palm with his fingers, pushing further until you intertwines your trembling digits with his own composed ones. he relishes in the feeling of your hand squeezing his own, pulling and tugging as if to bring him closer, closer, so close that it hurts.
“you like it when i do this,” he finally replies, his remaining hand loosening the grip on your thigh and trailing across your skin. it runs across your hip, then up to your stomach where he presses down at the very bottom of your abdomen, causing you to make a depraved sound of a whine and gasp abruptly when the pressure leaves as suddenly as it came.
“irrelevant,” you whisper, pushing your hips up, stopped only by the placement of his body, his head lazing on your left hip bone. blond hair finds it starkness against your skin, messily mused, the way you like it in order to thread your fingers into and grip until it almost makes him hiss in pain. “please.”
he swallows, hard against his throat, tilting his head to kiss your hip. the waistband of your underwear brushes against his face and he realizes that he wants this more than air. it hits him like a truck, making him swallow nothing but emptiness as his knees push on the plush of the bed, moving him forward. you greet his mouth with a groan of greed, your hands pinned beside your head, laced with his, grasping for purchase and awareness.
“you’re so pretty,” he speaks into the kiss, and you opens your mouth in a pathetic sound, his tongue finding a place against your own. between gasping breaths and the obscene sounds of wetness from open mouths, his fingers dance along the final piece of your clothing, almost trembling in reverence when they slide down, the wetness and the heat a testament of your desire, your need for him.
“please, keep going–” you barely manage to breathe out, your thighs twitching when his thumb traces down to gather the slickness and bring it back up, swirling little circles delicately over the bundle of nerves that makes your whole body tremble with excitement. "please, please."
"keep going?" he questions, his mouth meeting the place where your pulse thrums with eager wings in your throat and biting, bruisingly. "keep going and do what, baby?"
you whine, pressing your hands to his shoulders, gripping onto anything that can keep you from squirming around under his touch. "don't make me say it," you mumble, and he shakes his head, sucking another hickey into your skin before pulling away.
"you gotta," he replies, softly, plain as day. there's a rhythm to the way he circles his thumb right on your clit, to the way he drags it down and pushes it against the wetness of your hole before dragging it right back to its rightful place. "say it, baby, say it f'me."
"i want you.."
"hm? not good enough."
you want to almost hit him, he can feels the way you dig your fingers further into his shoulders, the way you tense up like you're preparing for some sort of strike. he doesn't really care, though; he wants to hear it come straight from your mouth, needy and with almost drunken hums. there's a distinct trembling he can almost draw out without thinking about it, the way it shakes like a needle on a lie detector test when he asks what you want. he loves it. he'd eat it whole if he could, swallow every sound you've ever made and keep it in the back of his mind.
you finally relent, eyes moving to meet his and squeezing your thighs together, trapping his hand in its place. "inside, i want you inside."
he hums out a breathy laugh and kisses you, quietly speaking against your mouth. "there you go. good girl, knew you could do it." there's a moment where he relents from the circles he's drawing into you, and his other hand grips your knee, forcing your thighs open again and holding it down against the bed. there's no fighting it, either, with how his fingertips press deeply into you, keeping you in place.
he slips back down to his previous place, barely giving you time to react before he sinks his ring and middle finger right into the place you had requested, so sweetly, so perfectly. his thumb places itself right back where it had been, rubbing gently while he curls his fingers inside of you. he sets a steady pace, watching your face as his fingers move in and out of you, heavy lidded and nursing the heat that boils in his own stomach simply from the look and the sounds that are starting to escape you.
(possible)stepdad!Jacob who only found out you were a single mom AFTER hooking up
hehehehehe how would this dude react to this scenario? (first jacob thing, proceed with caution)
Jacob wasn’t one to hang around after a one night stand.
Usually, the lady would come to his house and after a night of fun and a couple hours of sleep, he’d usher her out of his house and never see her again.
For you though, he broke the mold.
He hadn’t met you in his usual haunts aka the bars around the area- he’d met you through your work.
You worked as a seamstress at his favorite tailor shop. A master at your trade, you were the only person he trusted to tailor and fix his suits.
It had been purely professional at first. He came in for a new suit and you helped him pick out a good color and material, running your fingers clinically over his body as you measured him.
With how often he came into the store for a quick fix, a new tie, to drop off a suit for a dry clean or various other problems, you two got to know each other pretty well.
One thing led to another, and after months of getting familiar, you invited him over late one night for a ‘date’.
He’d asked you to come to his place but you politely declined, asking him to come to yours. Since it was you, he didn’t mind and didn’t question it. He didn’t need to flaunt his nice house with you- you didn’t care about that sort of thing anyway.
Your 2-bedroom apartment was simple and perfectly you. Jacob was sure you could afford something nicer but knowing you, you probably didn’t want something nicer. The rest of the night was a lovely blur. He didn’t spend another second appreciating your quiet home besides a brief glance when he walked through the door. He was too pent up and desperate for you, he didn’t bother with his usual fling fanfare.
In hindsight, he probably should have taken an extra minute or two to look around because it would’ve saved him from a world of surprise the next morning.
You’d been so gracious to offer him breakfast and he was so smitten with you, he accepted. It was nice to share the domestic, quiet morning with you in the kitchen.
While Jacob was busy caging your body against the counter while you whisked some eggs, he froze in terror when the sound of a door opening squeaked somewhere in the house.
Someone else was here??
A roommate? Did you have a boyfriend? Were you married?
He assumed you weren’t in a relationship because you’d been so receptive to his advances. Maybe you were the kind of person who did open relationships?
Jacob stepped back from you in shock and whirled to look down the hall where soft footsteps were approaching. For some reason, be expected to see some large, burly dude that would take one look at Jacob and start swinging. Jacob wasn’t weak by any means, but he was no match for a pissed husband whose wife he’d just slept with. He knew from experience.
He didn’t expect the small frame that padded into the kitchen. It was a little girl whose head barely reached his hip. She was maybe three years old (if he had to guess, anyway. His child knowledge was slim to none) and was rubbing at her tired eyes. She had obviously just woken up, hair wild and in a pair of pajamas with some kind of unicorn printed on it.
Jacob was stunned. He didn’t know what to think. You had a kid?
You brushed passed him with a smile, scooping the tired girl into your arms and pressing a kiss to her cheek. You introduced her to Jacob and Jacob to her. The girl blinked at him curiously and innocently asked him why he didn’t have a shirt on.
Jacob considered leaving. He tried not to get involved with women with kids. There wasn’t anything wrong with having children, he just didn’t feel like it was for him. Not yet, at least. But Jacob still had a heart. And he cared about you more than anyone he’d been with. So he stayed.
He was awkward with the girl for a while, not really sure how to interact with her. You’d put her at the small dining room table and gestured for Jacob to join her while you cooked. He didn’t want to, but the girl looked so small and harmless, he sat across from her with a soft sigh (not before putting a shirt on).
To Jacob’s surprise, the girl slid down from her seat to come sit next to him. The next half hour was interesting, to say the least. Your daughter wasn’t shy, chattering about her favorite things and asking Jacob about his favorite things. Jacob realized that she was actually kind of…. fun to talk to.
By the time you brought two plates of breakfast to the table, Jacob was already smiling and completely charmed by the girl. It warmed your heart to see.
You didn’t know if Jacob would continue to talk to you after your night together. You knew his nightly habits and knew you were likely just going to be one woman out of dozens- but you couldn’t help but hope.
You hadn’t been with anyone since your daughters dad. One night stands weren’t something you did, but you’d been so lonely and Jacob was so charming, you were embarrassingly easy to bag.
Judging by the look on Jacob’s face when your daughter first walked into the kitchen, he hadn’t known you had a child. She wasn’t a secret, you had pictures of her on full display at work and you knew for a fact you’d offhandedly mentioned her in conversation, but he must’ve not noticed. You were definitely impressed he hadn’t noticed when he came over the night before. There were Barbies all over your living room floor.
But despite everything, they seemed to be getting along, which warmed your heart.
It took not 10 minutes for the man to be wrapped around her little finger.
After breakfast, you expected him to take his leave- but when your daughter asked him to stay and play dolls, he did. And your girl quickly told you that her new best friend Jacob was way better at playing dolls than you were.
You couldn’t even argue- the effortless way Jacob came up with a plot for the Barbies was impressive, and his high pitched voice he used when talking as the dolls was hilarious.
After two hours, you finally told your daughter that Jacob probably had things he needed to do so it was time to clean up. You didn’t want him to feel like he needed to stay if he didn’t want to. She whined but helped bring her dolls back to her room and walked Jacob to the front door with you.
Your heart squeezed in your chest as Jacob draped his suit coat from the night before over his arm and opened the door. It was a memorable night and a lovely morning, but it wasn’t going to last.
Your daughter squeezed a tight hug to his leg, which he responded to by patting the top of her head. She then asked Jacob when he’ll be over next. You expected him to give a foggy answer, not promising anything to save her from the heartache later, but he’d surprised you by looking at you questioningly.
“I don’t know, that’s up to your mom. Maybe next weekend?”
I know it’s dystopian future but I’m thinking of an expensive pet abandoned by a wealthy asshole. K wants to leave it behind he’s already on the run, but he sees the mud matted fur and sad eyes and can’t help but see a kindred spirit.
Bathing the cat goes middlingly well. But as soon as it’s dry it’s literally eating out of his hand and curling up on his chest.
-fanfichubcircuit
He’d be like one of those reluctant cat dads who end up treating the cat like their own child.
This cat really doesn’t want to leave after K's bathed and dried her, and he’s very unsure at first because surely he's not fit to own a pet or look after anything living for that matter — but she’s staring at him with those big round eyes and he feels something like warmth and comfort spread through him.
It all proves easier than he imagined when he begins to go with it, but still, it’s very jarring. The cat seems to really like him and he wonders if she just doesn’t realise what he is. If she did, she wouldn't still be here, he's sure. But she proves him wrong time and time again - she doesn’t care, she can sense he’s empty inside like she was, and they begin to complete each other in a very cosy, familiar way that just works.
After a few days he names her Kat (with a K!), spends his evenings with her curled up in his lap and gets her a little bed set up even though she falls asleep on him every night — he tries to tuck her in but she eventually finds her way into his bed every time. He always kisses her goodnight and she purrs in her sleep when he wraps a blanket around her. He looks forward to getting home just to see her.
K never thought this could work but ends up wondering how he spent so long without a little friend like this. And he smiles a lot more often now.
I fucking adore Ace's unstoppable big mouth. This boy decided to be a bitch and said that NO ONE will ever stop him. Housewarden Riddle the red tyran with the anti-magic powers ? Yeah who cares you're going to get called a whiny baby in front of everyone. Vice Housewarden Trey who cooked a really tasteful dessert to help you apologize? Fuck you, you cowardly submissive lettuce, if you don't have the balls to stop your so-called childhood friend's madness then I WILL. Ace doesn't even have his magic anymore but on SEVENS he's going to fight everyone with the sheer power of stubbornness. And if his words aren't enough to get through you then you can bet that you're getting slapped without hesitation. He's so fucking funny, he has exactly 0 percent of respect in his whole body so don't expect him to have any consideration for anyone's past trauma. I think we all need an unapologetically disrespectful friend like Ace. He's singlehandly keeping everyone's ego at acceptable level by constantly dismissing them.
also posted on ao3 | my masterlist
You've just started your new job as a waitress at the diner near your apartment. You meet one of the regulars. He is, unfortunately, extremely cute.
~9.9k words; fluff (it is tooth-rotting, pun intended); waitress!reader; fem!reader; reader is also a very broke grad student; so slight age gap but it is not the most relevant
a/n: so. this was meant to be. so much shorter. and there is a possible part two--we will see though
You have only been at your new job for about one hour and fifty-four minutes, and already you have spilled scalding hot coffee on your leg, been offered money by a drunk guy to go home with him, and accidentally walked in on someone in the bathroom.
Only four more hours to go.
As you walk to over to the man who just sat down in a booth by the window, you try to repeat your mantra to yourself: this is just temporary, all you need is a little extra cash while you finish your dissertation, and when it’s done you can quit. And if you can’t find a job in your field, well, at least now you have experience in the service industry.
When you reach the edge of the table, you slide an easy smile onto your face and pull your notepad and pen out of your half apron. “Welcome in! Can I get you started with anything to drink? We have coffee, iced tea, Pepsi products, milkshakes. Or do you need a few more minutes?”
The man looks up at you and blinks in surprise, like he was not expecting you to be there. There’s a moment of incredibly irrational panic, where you wonder if you have actually just hallucinated the past two hours, and you don’t actually work here, and everyone is about to laugh at what’s happening right now. (You are running on very little sleep at the moment.) But you look down at your uniform, the pen and paper in your hands, and confirm that, yes, you do work here, and he is the one who is acting weird.
He huffs out a small laugh at whatever expression must be on your face while you go through these mental gymnastics. “Sorry—I come here all the time, and normally they just start making my food when they see me locking my bike up outside, and then someone slides it onto the table without saying anything.”
Oh. Okay, that makes more sense. “They’ve probably already made it, then, and just didn’t tell me.” As if on cue, the bell in the window to the kitchen rings. “I’ll bring it over and try to remember that for next time. Oh—I’ll get you a water, too.”
The man smiles easily at you, and you take a moment to look him over. He seems a little older than you are, probably around five years, maybe a little more, you think, but he’s well-kept, despite the fact that his hair is kind of sticking up all over the place like he hadn’t bothered to brush it after rolling out of bed. Wire-frame glasses that are barely hanging onto the tip of his nose, striking blue eyes, and—okay. Right. You are at your job, and you need to be working, not giving this man the up-down. “I’ll take a coffee as well,” and then he squints down at your name tag, “uh…Gertrude?”
“Ah—yeah, that’s not my name, they just haven’t made my tag yet, but apparently I have to wear one for customer service, or whatever. Even though it’s not right.” You tell him your real name and he nods, probably because it fits a little better than Gertrude does. “I’ll be right back.”
You run over to the window and grab the plate. Pretty standard diner breakfast fare: two pieces of wheat toast, scrambled eggs, some bacon. You return with the food and a glass of water before scurrying off to grab the coffee pot and a mug. “Thank you,” he says, and it should be a little gross because his mouth is already full of food, but you find that it is actually kind of cute.
Stop that, you tell yourself. Don’t crush on this random guy at your workplace. That never ends well. And besides, you don’t have time for dating. Your current chapter was due two weeks ago, and your advisor has started sending you passive-aggressive emails checking on your progress. Sometimes she doesn’t even put anything in the body of the email, just a subject line that says ‘how many pages have you written this week’ in all lowercase. “No problem. Let me know if you need anything else, um…”
“Oh, right. Ryland.” He lifts up the lanyard around his neck, which has a little ID badge titled ‘GROVER CLEVELAND MIDDLE,’ underneath which is a picture of him and his full name, ‘Dr. Ryland Grace.’
There is a lot to comment on here. You think you live pretty close to that school, first of all, but that’s probably the least interesting thing, because you live close to the diner, too, and so he must stop here for breakfast on his way to work. You settle on the picture, because it is laughably bad: he is only sort of smiling, but mostly he looks surprised, like the flash caught him off guard.
Ryland notices you looking at that and grins sheepishly. “Not the best picture, I know. You think I would be used to the flash since I have to get my picture taken every year. But, no. And of course this is the one going in the yearbook, too.”
“That’s…unfortunate. And also amazing.” Your gaze drops to his full name. “What’s your doctorate in?”
“Molecular biology. So, as you might be able to guess, I teach science.”
“Little overqualified for middle school science, huh?”
He smiles, but it’s a little strained. Oops. You don’t know what you said that is causing this reaction, but either way, it’s not good, because you would really like him to leave a nice tip so you can buy groceries later. “You would be surprised. Teaching middle school is not for the faint of heart.” Wonderful. He’s not totally pissed at you. You might actually be able to eat dinner tonight.
You simply nod and look at him for a little longer, and then realize the coffee pot is still in your hands and is starting to tip dangerously toward the floor. “Enjoy your breakfast! And let me know if you need anything. Just call my name—or Gertrude, honestly, either works, because I’ve already started to respond to it.”
“Actually—” His voice stops you from turning around completely. The coffee sloshes in the pot, and you hold it with your other hand to stop it from spilling on your legs (again), and this is a bad idea because the glass is incredibly hot. You keep it there out of spite and embarrassment. His eyes dip down toward your hand, but he does not comment on it. “Could I get some sugar? For the—coffee. Not like that. Just normal sugar.”
Shoot. You forgot to ask him about that. “Of course. Any cream?”
“Nope, just some sugar. Coffee. Coffee sugar.”
Your eyes crinkle a little at the edges. This is very dangerous. He’s cute, and he has a job, and he is most definitely a nerd who is slightly awkward but still polite. “You’re fine. I’ve been working since four AM, and the late drunk crowd was—well, about what you expect. I got comments much worse than asking for some sugar.”
Ryland winces at that but doesn’t say anything else, so you leave to return the coffee pot and grab him one of the sugar containers from the counter. You watch as he immediately grabs it after you place it on the table and dumps an absolutely obscene amount of sugar into his mug. Like, it is so much. Enough that you wonder if the texture of the drink is now equivalent to wet sand. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” he offers, a little embarrassed.
“I might have figured that out, yeah.”
He takes a sip of the coffee and sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering shut. Oh, no. This is bad.
You clear your throat. “Let me know if there’s anything else. I’ll be around,” you gesture vaguely toward the rest of the diner, “for the next four hours or so. Not that you’ll be here that long. You know. Job. Not that I’d kick you out or anything. Okay. I’m going to go now.”
His lips pull into a smile as he raises the mug to take another drink. You turn on your heel to check in on your other table and try not to think about how much of a disaster that interaction was.
The diner starts to fill up a little more as the morning breakfast crowd comes in, mostly old couples and blue-collar workers. You do your best to turn up the charm, adjusting your lines based on the customer, hoping to maximize your tips. Your fridge has been depressingly empty for a few days. Maybe they’d let you take something home from the kitchen.
You stop by his table once to ask if he’s still doing good, and then again to refill his water and coffee. Finally, he signals for the check and already has his card out when you return with the receipt.
After you ring him up, you’re about to walk back over to give him his card and the final receipt when you see the bowl of Tootsie Rolls by the register. You grab one and place it on the table in front of him along with a pen. “Have a good day,” you say, and then after a few moments, you tack on, “and have fun with the middle school science. And that sort of stuff.” What is wrong with you?
If Ryland is wondering the same thing, he doesn’t show it, simply taking the candy and sliding it into his pocket before picking up the pen. “Thanks. We’re doing the Krebs cycle, which will be very fun for me, and possibly less fun for them.”
“That sounds…vaguely familiar? I haven’t taken a science class in—a long time. Probably over a decade.” You try to think back, but not a lot comes to you. “Isn’t that, like, really hard? Especially for middle schoolers?”
He grins and looks up at you, reflexively lowering his glasses. He must be far-sighted, you think idly. “I’m a bit of an overachiever.”
This should not affect you in the way that it does, but suddenly you are wondering if that extends to every area in his life. Like physical ones. Okay, that’s enough of that. “Well—good luck with all of that.”
When you return a little later to bus his table, you grab the receipt and look it over. Generous tip! Score! He didn’t think you were a total weirdo! You bring it a little closer to your face and realize that he’s written something on the back, so you turn it over. There’s a little diagram of the Krebs cycle, complete with little pictures and labels.
You are so screwed.
--
He’s back, two days later, when you’re working again. (Technically, he could have come in on the days you weren’t scheduled, but you don’t want to assume.)
“Welcome in,” you call behind you when the door chimes. “Be with you in just a moment.” This morning had been a little slower—no drunk crowd, just a few truck drivers stopping in for food before getting back on the road. You don’t realize that it’s him until you turn around from the coffee machine. “Oh, it’s you! Your food is probably—” The ding interrupts you. Thank you, bell.
After a few minutes, you slide the plate in front of him (two slices of wheat toast, scrambled eggs, bacon) along with a glass of water, a mug, and the sugar canister. You are very proud at how quickly you learned to carry this much stuff over the course of your first shift. “Morning, Ryland,” you smile, pouring out his coffee.
“Morning, not-Gertrude. Your name tag is right, now.” His eyes flick down. He looks about the same as he did two days ago; hair still slightly messy, the wire arms of his glasses begging to be put out of their misery, lanyard resting on top of his tie. It all creates the same fluttery feeling in your stomach that it did then, too. Whatever. Having a harmless crush makes the job more fun. “Oh, you remembered.”
Ryland is already grabbing the sugar and dumping it into his coffee. “Yeah, it’s a little hard to forget when someone pours a metric ton of sugar into their drink. I don’t know how you still have teeth.” He does the thing again, where he takes the first sip and acts like he’s seeing God. Something does a little flip in your chest. “And I have a pretty good memory. Mostly use it for dates and stuff, but it comes in handy for other things.”
He chokes a little on his coffee. That’s weird. “Er, dates? Like—dating?”
“Oh—no, no,” you laugh, “sorry, I can see how that’s confusing. I’m a grad student in history. So years and those sorts of boring things. I can’t even remember the last time I went on a date.” Hm. That was not a normal thing to say to a customer. “Uh, sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”
“It’s. You’re fine.” He takes a long sip of his water. “Grad student, huh? Masters?”
“PhD. Currently ABD, so. I’m kind of in hell.”
“Oh, gosh, I bet. I really do not miss that. How many years do you have left?”
You watch as he starts piling his eggs onto his toast before taking a giant bite. He really doesn’t do things halfway, does he? The overachiever comment from the other day pops into your mind, suddenly, as you watch him catch a stray piece of egg and pop it into his mouth. “Uh, this is supposed to be my last year.”
Ryland glances back up at you. You should probably end this conversation to go check in on the elderly couple at the counter, but you stay standing there anyway. “Supposed to?”
“I might be. Taking a little longer on my dissertation than I should be. My advisor is—she’s not very happy with me, at the moment.”
He smiles and his eyes go a little distant. You think he might be recalling some memory from his own grad student days. “Well, you know what they say. It doesn’t need to be a good dissertation, it just needs to be—”
“A finished one,” you interrupt, a little grin of your own playing on your lips. “Yeah, I think I’ve heard that line before. Once or twice.”
The two of you just stare at each other for a moment. His fingers start messing with the handle of his mug. They’re nice fingers, you think idly. Probably good at lots of things.
Like grading! That’s what you’re thinking of in that moment. You really need to go back to doing your job. “Well, I’ll leave you to your food. Holler if you need anything.”
He does a little mock salute before you walk away. Unfortunately, there are still not that many customers, which is bad both because you would really like more money and also because now you have nothing to do with yourself. You settle on watching him for a little while, promising yourself that this is not creepy. You are simply making sure he doesn’t need anything.
His water is only half empty, but you are really, really bored already, so you walk over to fill it up. “I forgot to ask earlier—how did it go with your students? The Krebs. Thing. Cycle! The Krebs cycle. And the ATP stuff.”
“Glad to see my diagram was helpful.”
“Oh, it was great. Very detailed. You must be a really good teacher.”
His ears start to turn a little pink. It is adorable. You are in so much trouble. “I don’t know about that right now. It’s—I may have overestimated the ability of pre-teens to understand cellular respiration.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” You have the sudden urge to lay a hand on his shoulder. The urge gets stomped down, because this man is a customer, and this is only the second time you have met him, and to top it all off someone has just walked in. “Welcome in! Take a seat wherever you’d like.” You turn your attention back to him. “Sorry, duty calls. Enjoy your mug of wet dirt.”
You hurry away before you can consider this last sentence over any further in your mind, because you are fairly certain it was one of your disastrous attempts at flirting. For some reason, you always default to playful insults, and—look, it’s been a while, what with the dissertation of it all looming over your head. The last time you’d dated was about four years ago, with someone a few years above you in your program. That did not go over well.
The next time you walk by, he asks for the check, and this time you bring it over with a Tootsie Roll and a mint. Those are immediately swiped off the table and stuffed into his jacket pocket.
There’s no diagram on the back of the receipt this time, but there is a drawing of a little cell guy. Next to it is a speech bubble. Apparently, the tiny cell is saying, “Thanks for the glucose!”
You take a picture in case you don’t remember to keep the receipt after you’ve cashed out your tips at the end of the shift.
(This does not happen. You think about the drawing for the next few hours, and before you leave, it gets gently folded and put in your bag. The receipt now lives taped up on your wall next to your desk.)
--
You are scheduled the next three days in a row. He comes in for two of them, Thursday and Friday, and each time you give him some candy with his receipt, and in return you get two more little drawings. One is a diagram of mitosis. The other is a mitochondria, with a very long pun about being the powerhouse of the cell. You wonder how long it took him to think of it, or if he just had that at the ready.
After your shift on Saturday, the day that you do not see him, you buy a variety pack of candy with some of your tip money. You tell yourself that this serves two purposes: one, so you can have a snack while you work. The second one is very obvious, and does not need to be acknowledged.
--
Ryland immediately notices the new candy selection.
“Wow, Skittles? I’m really getting the five-star treatment here.” This time, instead of putting the candy into his pocket like usual, he immediately opens the bag and chucks a few into his mouth. “Thanks. I didn’t even know you guys had these here.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess. I found them—in the back. Where things are stored.” If by ‘in the back’ you mean ‘in your backpack,’ then, yes, you are technically telling the truth. He doesn’t need to know all of that.
“How’s the dissertation coming?” He laughs when he sees the face you’re making. “Sorry. The dreaded question.”
You try to let the grimace slide off your face. “It’s—fine. There are. There are words. In a document.”
“Words are good.”
“When there’s enough of them, sure.” A sigh leaves your lips. “I really need to send in this chapter by the end of the week, but the AC in my shitty apartment isn’t working again, and if I go into the department I’ll just talk to everyone. It’s a problem. I’m probably, like, avoidant or something. I don’t know, I haven’t been to a therapist in a while.” What is it with you and oversharing with this man that you serve breakfast to almost every morning? “Sorry. Anyway, I’m thinking I might come here and try to power through the rest so I have something to give my advisor. At least I’ll have free coffee here.” Because your little Keurig is also broken. You are very, very broke. Hence the waitressing job.
Ryland simply nods along and doesn’t comment on the therapist thing. “A change of scenery might be good. Help the words come a little easier.”
“Here’s hoping.” You watch as he finishes the Skittles, shaking the bag so the last few fall into his mouth. His lips are a little stained from the candy. “Well, anyway. If you see me here in a few days out-of-uniform, feel free to pay your respects. Because I’ll be dying on the inside.”
The laugh that comes out of him is a little startled, as if he wasn’t expecting it to happen himself. You blink. The crush is not staying little, not remaining a tiny thing that you keep in your pocket and take out to pass the time at work.
It’s just been a while, you tell yourself. That’s all.
--
You pick a fantastic day to work in the diner, because it is currently pouring outside. While the rain helps cool things down—and therefore alleviates the AC issue—there’s a leaky roof tile in your shoebox apartment that still hasn’t been fixed despite your numerous maintenance requests. The thing drips incessantly, and the rhythmic noise of the water falling into the bin you’ve placed underneath it drives you absolutely insane.
Really, you need to find a different place to live, one that doesn’t fall apart every other day. But that requires money. Which you do not have. So, instead, you put the bucket down to catch the dripping, hoping that it won’t overflow in the time that you’re gone, and drive to the diner. Normally you just walk, but it is literally apocalyptic outside. Maybe, you decide, if you manage to finish your chapter, you’ll drive to the nearby strip mall and treat yourself to some window shopping. (Again: no money.)
The diner provides just the right amount of background noise to help you settle in. Well, it would, except you’ve been staring at the cursor in your document for about eight minutes straight, like you’re expecting it to do something on its own, but it simply blinks back at you.
The door chimes as it opens, and you reflexively glance up before returning to your staring contest. Then you look up again, because it’s Ryland, and he currently looks like a wet cat, both in terms of misery and being drenched. He sees you after a moment, and you offer him a little wave. (It’s one of those incredibly awkward ones, where you’re worried that the person you’re waving at might not see you, but obviously he’s going to see it, because he’s looking right at you, which just makes it all even more awkward.)
His shoes squeak against the tile flooring the entire time he walks over, until he plops down into the booth to sit across from you. He takes his helmet off and sets it on the table. Water drips from his hair, and one of the little rivulets slides down the bridge of his nose. That is—that’s an image to review later.
“Morning,” Ryland says cheerfully, in spite of the fact that he looked about ready to cry a few minutes ago. “It’s a little damp outside.”
“…Yeah. I think you might have brought the entire Bay in with you.”
Gertrude (whose name tag you borrowed for your first shift) comes by and slides Ryland’s breakfast and a cup of coffee in front of him without a word. Hm. He really doesn’t talk to anyone else who works here, you realize, because otherwise he probably would have made a joke about the chances of two Gertrudes working in the same diner on that first day.
You don’t know what to do with this information.
Nothing comes to you, so you chuck it away somewhere in your mind before sliding the sugar over to him. He smiles gratefully and starts concocting his cement mixture of a beverage. “So. How’s the writing coming?” You say nothing at this, simply resting your elbow on the table and smushing your face into your hand, giving him the most despairing look you can conjure. “That bad, huh?”
A frustrated noise grumbles in the back of your throat. “It’s just—I know what this section needs to do, and I’ve outlined it, but. Every time I write something, it’s shit.”
“Hey, language,” but it’s almost entirely muffled by a piece of toast (wheat) and eggs (scrambled).
“Sorry, Mr. Grace,” you scoff. You’re smiling, though. “I don’t know why I’m having such a problem with this chapter. I thought it would be my favorite one to write, but…”
Ryland swallows his current bite and looks at you for a moment before finally speaking. “Can I see it?”
“What, my dissertation? It’s not exactly easy morning reading.”
He waves his hand and starts sliding your laptop around to face him. “I’ll just look at the abstract and the intro to your current chapter.”
Then the only sounds are him clicking around the headings of your document and the bustle of the diner. This is, possibly, the worst: watching someone read your dissertation right in front of you, with nothing to do but wait for them to finish. At least when you send things off to your advisor, you don’t have to watch her angrily leave comments. Sometimes they highlight entire paragraphs and just say ‘bad.’ Super helpful.
After a little while—but not as long as you expect; he’s a shockingly fast reader—he nods and looks back up at you. “Take my advice with a grain of salt, because this is way out of my field of expertise, but I think you need to move your current section up. It makes more sense to go before the previous one, which seems to me like it’s actually the crux of the chapter.”
You blink at him a few times before slowly dragging your laptop back in front of you. You look at your chapter introduction again, and then skim the section he’s talking about. “Huh. That’s actually—I think you’re right.” You look up at him. “That’s the most helpful advice I’ve ever gotten on this thing. Genuinely. Can you be my advisor?” Ryland simply laughs at that and takes a sip of his coffee. His eyes do the thing. It’s fine. You’re fine. “Seriously, though. How come you’re not in a department somewhere with a cushy office? You’d have grad students lining up out the door.”
The coffee mug is set down gently. “I was, for a little while. Then—well. I might have. Kind of implied that someone wasn’t worth the organic materials they were made up of. At a conference. Um. The UNESCO conference. In Denmark.”
He looks at you while you take in this information. Finally, you say, “This might sound really insensitive. But that’s kind of awesome.”
This draws another laugh out of him, the startled one, and you can’t help the massive grin that grows on your face. “Really? It’s awesome that I insulted one of the most preeminent microbiologists alive and got my funding cut?”
“Well. When you put it like that, it’s less awesome. But do you know how many scholars there are in my field that I would love to call an idiot? There’s a lot,” you answer for him. “Do you miss it?”
“Honestly? No. I actually enjoy my life now.”
“There you go. That’s all any of us can hope for.”
Ryland starts fiddling with the spout of the sugar canister. “Yeah. My colleagues had a slightly different opinion, back then.”
“Fuck ‘em.” You don’t give him the time to call out your language again, even though you know he’s (mostly) joking when he does it. “I mean it. Obviously, I would kind of kill to have been in your position, because getting a tenure-track job feels less likely than winning the lottery, but if you’re happy, who cares what they think? You’re, like, preparing the next generation to be capable citizens, or whatever.”
He doesn’t say anything at that. He simply stares at you for a while with an unreadable expression. This is a new one, one that you haven’t seen on his face before—not that you spend that much time looking at his face (you do)—and you find that you would very much like to know what it means.
You do not get to, because then he’s looking down at his phone, and his eyes go wide. “Shoot. I am going to be so late.” Right after he pulls out some cash and slams it on the table, there’s a loud clap of thunder. The timing is almost comical.
“Ryland. I drove here. Do you want a ride?”
You think he might be getting ready to politely refuse, but then he glances at the window and the way the rain is pummeling the glass. “…Possibly.”
--
“I have to ask,” you say, white-knuckling the steering wheel, because it’s kind of hard to see out the windshield at the moment, and you really need new wiper blades (the reason you have not gotten them should be obvious at this point), “how exactly did you word the thing you said? At the conference?”
He clears his throat beside you. “I believe I called him a ‘staggering waste of carbon.’”
“Oof. That’s good.”
Ryland simply hums and then points out the window. “It’s the next turn, there.”
Then you’re pulling up to the school. It really isn’t that far from the diner. “Here, give me your phone.” You hold your hand out expectantly.
“Uh—why?” He looks at your hand like you’re holding a bomb.
“So I can drive you back to the diner later? Since you had to leave your bike.” It hadn’t fit in the back of your car, because the thing is really just a tiny, glorified bucket of bolts. You wiggle your fingers a little. “Give it here.”
After a few beats, he shifts in your passenger seat to pull his phone out before unlocking it and placing it in your hand. You tap your number in and set your contact as ‘Not Gertrude.’ Hopefully he gets a kick out of that. “Here. Text me when you’re done and I’ll come get you.”
He looks down at the new contact. The corners of his mouth lift up and his nostrils flare a little. “Will do. Thank you, again. Seriously.”
“Of course.” Ryland moves to open the door. “Wait!” You reach your arm back to grab your backpack and then dig around for a little while, until you finally produce a little snack-size bag of Skittles and toss it at him.
It hits his nose, and he does this little surprised squeak as he brings his hands up to catch it. He looks between you, your bag, and the Skittles a few times. “The diner doesn’t keep Skittles in the back.”
“Uh. No. You caught me?”
The new expression is back. You still really want to know what it means. He does not explain. Instead, he opens the car door and runs to the entrance of the school. Just before he vanishes inside, he turns around and gives you a little wave.
--
It is still raining out, though not the absolute downpour it was in the morning, when you get the ‘All done here!’ text from Ryland.
“Oh, thank god,” you breathe, because you think if you have to spend another second writing you will launch yourself into the sun. You quickly gather up your things and holler, “See you guys next week!” to the kitchen before leaving.
The drive to the school is less harrowing than it was earlier, since you can actually see further than five feet in front of your car. You pull up to the curb and park—hopefully you won’t get towed—and then pull out your phone to send a quick ‘here!’ back to him.
Then you wait. And wait. At one point, you realize that you haven’t added him back as a contact, so you spend a few seconds staring at the blank name line before simply putting in ‘Ryland Grace.’ You didn’t have anything funny like ‘Not Gertrude.’
After about five minutes, you start to get restless. “Fuck it,” you mutter, and you turn the car off and step outside. Your car probably won’t get towed. The rain feels kind of nice, so you walk leisurely up to the door. It’s locked, and you have to press the little intercom buzzer. “Uh, I’m here for Ryland Grace?” Nobody says anything back, but you hear the door click.
Hm. Slight wrinkle in the plan. You have no idea where his classroom is. Thankfully, the admin office is right by the front door, so you pop your head in. “Hi. I’m looking for Mr. Grace? I’m just—I’m giving him a ride home, and he didn’t respond to my text so. Now I’m here. Asking where his classroom is.” They probably didn’t need all of that information.
The directions are only slightly confusing—something about taking a left, and then another left, and then the second right, and his classroom is somewhere in that hallway—and you only make one wrong turn on your way there.
“Knock, knock,” you call into the room.
He jumps from where he’s sitting behind his desk. “Oh, crap, sorry. I got distracted—grading—you know how it is.”
You simply hum while he rushes to gather up his things. His classroom is kind of amazing. Plants, dioramas, cute posters, even a model of the solar system hanging from the ceiling. “How long did it take you to put all of this together?”
“Hm? Oh.” Ryland looks at you, then, gazing around the room in awe. “A few years. We don’t get extra money to decorate, so it all had to come out of my own pocket.”
“Damn.” You smile at him. “It’s really nice. I think this proves my point. That you’re a really good teacher.”
“…Thanks.”
It’s quiet, then, and he doesn’t move from where he’s standing. You’re about to ask him about the look, the new one, the one that is on his face again, but you don’t. Instead, you clear your throat. “Ready to go?”
--
Later that night (like, very much later), you finally send your chapter off to your advisor. Ryland had turned out to be entirely correct: moving the section up immediately made everything flow better. The relief that washes over you when you hit ‘send’ is almost indescribable.
You pull out your phone and stare at it for a few seconds before opening your messages up. It’s late, very late, and he’s probably not even awake, but you send him a picture of the email in your ‘sent’ folder anyway. The attached document in the picture reads ‘FINAL final draft 5.4.’
it is done
Then, about five seconds later, you’re picking your phone up again, because he’s already responded. The tiny workplace crush is, possibly, no longer just a crush at all.
That’s awesome!
What are you going to do to celebrate?
idk, probably put a bunch of stuff in my amazon cart and then never buy it
i have no money
in case you didn’t know that by now
I might have realized that at some point
You should actually celebrate, though.
You get up from your desk to lay on your bed. It feels a little like being a high school teenager in a movie.
i’ll probably just go to bob’s
Bob’s? On Sycamore?
yessir
That place is a crap hole.
It is adorable that his no cursing schtick extends to texting. This whole exchange is kind of adorable, actually.
yeah but it’s MY crap hole
wait
that sounds really gross
ignore that
they have cheap drinks and a pool table
what more could a girl ask for
also, sometimes the bartender gives me a free shot if i flirt with him a little
He doesn’t respond right away, and you bite your lip nervously. Was that too many texts in a row? Or maybe it was the bartender thing. You’re about to type out ‘jk but really it’s just close to my apartment’ when you finally get another text.
When do you think you’ll go?
You really, really hope this is implying what you think it is.
probably tomorrow night honestly
it IS a friday after all
tgif and all that
and i don’t work on saturday so. no need to worry about the hangover
What time?
This is silly. The excitement that you are feeling right now is just silly. The thought does not stop your cheeks from hurting at how much you’re smiling.
like 7
that way i can get drunk and still go to bed at a reasonable time
i’m not as young as i used to be
You stare and stare as the three little dots come up, and then disappear, and then reappear again. Finally:
I’m really bad at pool
Like, really bad.
Disastrously bad.
that’s ok
loser buys the winner a drink? :)
I was probably going to do that anyway
You’re broke, remember?
ouch
you wound me
Am I wrong?
…no
I’ll see you tomorrow
:)
You stare at the smiley face until your eyes start to drift shut, and you fall asleep holding the phone to your chest. It is very teen rom-com, and it is wonderful.
--
Ryland is right: Bob’s is a crap hole.
It is dark, and a little dingy, and the bar is cash only, and the door handle to the bathroom sticks a little. It is, possibly, your favorite place in this entire city, because it’s been there for you through everything: moving, getting over the breakup with that older grad student, passing your qualifying exams, birthdays, everything.
You take it all in with a small smile as you wait, sipping on your drink and guarding the pool table with your life. It’s really not necessary, because it’s only seven, and for now there’s only a few regulars sitting at the bar and a couple making googly eyes at each other in a booth.
A little bit of the condensation from your glass drips onto your jeans, and you frown and try to dab at it with a napkin. You spent way too long, probably, getting ready and trying to figure out what to wear, because it is unclear to you whether this is a date or a friends sort of thing. You know he’s single, obviously, he’s mentioned it before, but you are starting to nervously spiral a little bit. What if he doesn’t like that you’re a little younger? This thought seems a little silly, because you are swiftly closing in on thirty, but—maybe he’s just really weird about it.
All of that is to say that you settled on jeans and a somewhat cute top, because ultimately you are in a dive bar, and you are very serious about winning at pool and getting that drink. A complicated outfit will not be getting in the way.
The door finally opens again, and Ryland walks in. The place is tiny, so it does not take him long to spot you by the pool table. He is—he looks very cute, your mind supplies unhelpfully. His shirt has the periodic table on it, and underneath it reads ‘I WEAR THIS SHIRT PERIODICALLY.’ His jeans. Fit him very well. And the dirty canvas shoes are right at home in the bar.
Finally, you notice that his hair is slightly styled. Not much, and it’s still a little messy, but it seems deliberately ruffled, rather than the afterthought it usually is.
You do not have the chance to consider this any further, because he’s stopped walking to stand right in front of you. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Congrats on the chapter.”
“Thanks.”
“You already have a drink.”
You look down at the glass in your hand. You had already forgotten it was there. “I might have gotten here a little early. To scope out the pool table.”
“I see.” He glances behind you at the table, then, which you have already inserted quarters into, and the pool balls are already racked. “I’ll go grab a drink,” he nods towards the bar. But then he doesn’t move, not yet. “Is that the bartender?”
“Uh. Yeah.” You are wishing you had not shared that little tidbit with him.
Ryland nods and seems to be turning something over, very carefully. “Maybe—don’t flirt with him tonight.”
There’s no time to ask why, because he’s already walking away to order something. You already didn’t have any plans to flirt for a free shot, anyway, but now you almost want to, just to see what Ryland would do.
You watch him walk away and then lean against the bar top. You’re not—you’re not looking at anything in particular.
Okay, just one little look.
How are you supposed to—this is so unfair.
--
“You lied to me,” you say accusingly. “You are such a liar.”
He sinks another striped ball and walks around the table. “In my defense, I really thought you were going to be a lot better. You were the one who brought up pool in the first place.”
You gasp with mock offense. “I can’t believe you just said that to me. On today, of all days, when we’re celebrating my dissertation chapter.”
Another ball shoots into a pocket. “I’ll still buy you a drink.”
“Absolutely not. I need to win that drink. It’s about the principle.”
Ryland finally misses—likely only because there really weren’t any good angles—and you step up to the table. “I think you should—”
“Don’t coach me. The principle.” You line up your shot very, very carefully. “Watch. This is where the comeback starts.” If anyone were to ask you about your positioning right now, you would very tactfully answer that there is nothing purposeful about the way you lean over the table or the arch of your back.
You take a deep breath and—“Son of a bitch!” He raises his eyebrows when you stand up, a smile playing on his lips. “Don’t even, we’re in a bar.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, but you thought it.”
Your brain kind of can’t handle the look he’s giving you at the moment, so you turn your attention back to the table. Of course, you’ve given him the perfect angle, and he wastes no time to—
He misses.
You narrow your eyes at him. Ryland simply shrugs. “Lost my grip.”
“Uh-huh.”
He lifts his beer to his lips, watching you the entire time with a grin. “And I didn’t re-chalk before my shot.”
“Everyone knows that the chalk is just to look cool. It doesn’t do anything,” you scoff.
The bottle stills against his mouth, and then he slowly lowers it. “That’s not—I need you to know that that is not true. There’s a physics to it and everything.”
In your mind, there was a version of tonight where he did the incredibly cheesy move of wrapping his arms around you to show you how to use the pool stick. Apparently, the real version is him animatedly explaining the physics of pool, how factors like spin and angle affect the shot, the way to account for the friction of the table.
It is, you find, much better than the version you cooked up in your brain, because he’s looking at you the whole time, blue eyes wide with excitement, waving his hands around so much that his beer has started to slosh dangerously.
“Alright. Did all of that make sense?”
“I’m going to be so honest. I checked out for a while there. But I appreciate how enthusiastic you were.”
“What was that you were saying yesterday about me being a good teacher?”
You grin and stick your tongue out a little. You hope the way your nose is scrunching is cute and not stupid. “You are. I’m just a bad student.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “There are no bad students. It just takes patience to figure out how they learn. What’s your learning style?” His voice drops a little at the question. Your fingers tighten around the cue stick. Being asked your preferred method of learning should not be affecting you in the way that it currently is.
There are options here. Either you play it safe, crack a joke, and take a shot that you will probably miss. Or. “I’ve always been a pretty tactile learner.”
Ryland hums. “I see.” Then he walks around the table and stands behind you. “Line up your shot,” he murmurs. You think that you might explode, because actually, it turns out, you do get to have the version of the night you concocted in your mind while getting ready.
It is suddenly very difficult for you to concentrate on anything, but you step forward and lean down, aiming for the red ball in front of the back right pocket. His arms come around you, then, and his hands slide over yours. You watch his fingers curl around your left hand. Yes, you think, his fingers are good for a lot of things.
“Keep your dominant eye focused. Aim right for the center since you have a pretty dead-on angle. The friction coefficient is around—”
“Ryland,” you whisper, “that means nothing to me.”
“Right. Just—hit it really hard, so the cue ball doesn’t go into the pocket. You want all of the momentum to transfer to the red ball.” His thumb smooths over your knuckles. Something swirls in your stomach.
You nod and try to ignore the way you can feel your hair catching slightly on his stubble. “Great. Hit it hard. Actionable advice, thank you.”
You draw the pool cue back. His arm moves with you, but he’s careful not to contribute any of his own force to the motion. After a few practice slides, you hit the cue ball for real, and it rolls into the red ball with a crack and stops. The red ball shoots forward into the pocket.
“Yes!” The two of you stand up, and you turn around to give him a high five. Ryland just smiles widely as he looks down at you. That look crosses his face again, and you realize how close you’re standing, and that his cheeks have started to tinge red, but—well. You really want him to buy you a drink. And you’re having fun, a lot of fun, and you want to enjoy it for as long as you can, just in case you are reading all of this wrong and it goes south later. “You’re going down. I am the queen of pool now.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “One ball sunk and suddenly you’re trash talking. I’ve created a monster. Also, what about that whole principle thing earlier? About not being coached?”
“Fuck the principle, I want my free drink.”
You’re taking a sip of your current drink, the one you bought with your hard-earned tip money (which makes you realize that he’s kind of already bought you a drink, in a sense), when he suddenly blurts out, “Please don’t fuck my principal,” and then you’re choking and laughing, and a little bit of club soda is coming out of your nose, probably, because the joke is already pretty funny but is made that much better with the curse word. You wonder if that’s a very small reason he is so uptight about not cursing; he can wield those words with so much more effectiveness when he does use them.
He hands you a napkin so you can clean up the mess dripping from your face, and for a beat you’re a little worried that you look ridiculous, but he’s still smiling and looking at you with what you’re pretty sure is fondness.
You miss your next shot, and you find that you don’t really care.
--
Ryland does not let you win, because he is, as you have just discovered, intensely competitive. He still buys you your next drink, which you are now sipping on as you sit across from him in one of the booths along the wall.
“I still think,” you say around your straw, “that I could have pulled that off.”
“How so?” He leans his elbow on the table and rests his cheek on the heel of his palm, lifting one finger up to lower his glasses a little. Which feels unfair, but, whatever.
“It’s a feeling.”
“A feeling.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Doesn’t seem like a ‘feeling’ is based on much evidence.”
You scoff playfully and wave a dismissive hand. “You scientists and your evidence.”
His smile grows. You are pretty sure the two of you have not stopped smiling since he walked into the bar. “Aren’t historians pretty nitpicky about their evidence, too?”
“Irrelevant.”
It seems like he’s about to say something else, but whatever it was going to be is interrupted with a yawn. “Sorry, sorry.”
Right. He worked all day today. You’re surprised he’s still upright. “No, you’re fine. We can finish these and head out, you should sleep.”
It’s his turn to wave dismissively at you. “I’ll be alright.”
“It’s okay. Seriously. I had a really good time tonight. My chapter feels properly celebrated.”
“Good. I know I didn’t read the finished product, but—it was good. You’re a strong writer. Really vivid voice. And you made it really easy to follow along.”
Your face feels warm. “Well, that’s—I mean, you have a doctorate. You have lots of practice reading things like that.”
“Biology articles? Sure. History dissertations? Not so much. But I never felt confused when I was reading it.” He clinks his beer against your glass. “Take the compliment.”
“Okay.” You bring your drink to your lips at the same time he does, and the two of you simply look at each other, long after your drinks have returned to the table. There are—you have a lot of things going on in your mind, at the moment, and a question that you would really like to ask, and you’re pretty sure it’s going to go over well, but.
It pains you to admit it, but you are a little nervous, because it has been quite a while since you’ve done this, and the thing that started out as a little crush at work has turned into something so much larger, a thing that you really do not want to fuck up, and you’re realizing that it’s becoming a lot like your dissertation. It is not a thing that you do not want to do; actually, you want to do it so badly, and it is so important, and you are putting it off because there is comfort in remaining in that in-between stage, of being able to say that you’re doing it but never actually seeing it through.
“Okay,” you repeat, standing up, because this has suddenly become a lot. “I am going to go commandeer the TouchTunes now.”
“…Alright?”
The machine doesn’t like the first dollar you try to put in, which is fair, because you’re pretty sure the customer who gave it to you had used it to snort coke. The second dollar, after some smoothing, is accepted. Score. You scroll through different songs before just typing in one of your go-to’s.
A few seconds later, the song is filtering through the shitty speakers of Bob’s, and you slide back into the booth. “Tears for Fears. Nice,” he comments.
“Thanks. To be honest, this is the only song I know by them.”
“Hey, a classic’s a classic for a reason.”
The two of you go back to looking at each other. You try to steel yourself, because, just like your dissertation, this is a thing that ultimately needs to be seen through. All the way to the end. “I have a question.”
“Shoot.” Ryland makes a little finger gun. It is extremely cute and slightly soothes the nerves bunching up in your chest.
You turn your gaze down to your drink as you swirl the straw around the ice cubes. “Was this a date? Wait, I probably should have led up to that a little more. Except I don’t really know how. Okay. Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve been on one, and I think I might be a little bit rusty, and I kind of like you a lot, but I have no idea if I’ve been reading all of this wrong. You have this look, you see, and I think I know what it means, but I’ve never asked, and I also don’t know if you’re weirded out by the age gap thing, which I’ve also never asked about either. And. I’m going to stop, now.”
If there’s a God up there, you think, please let the floor open up and swallow you now, because that was probably the worst speech you think you could have given.
But then he’s saying your name, quietly, and you look up at him. “Yeah. You’ve been—your read of the signals is correct. Very correct. I don’t, uh, I don’t leave little drawings for all of my waitresses.”
“That’s good. Good to know. That would probably hurt my feelings.” You feel like you’re about to start giggling like a maniac, because all of the tension in your chest is dissolving, leaving only giddiness.
He seems to be feeling something similar, but then he looks confused for a moment. “Also, ‘age gap thing’? Aren’t you almost thirty?”
“Yeah. Don’t remind me.”
“Hey now. And I’m pretty sure that’s around when that stops mattering.” Another beat. “How old do you think I am?”
“It varies. Sometimes it gets up to sixty because you order the same thing for breakfast from a diner every day of the week. Then it lowers down to upper teens when I watch you pour the entire sugar canister into your coffee. Seriously. I am concerned you are going to develop a health condition.”
Ryland laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and you giggle right along with him, and in a burst of confidence you reach forward and put your hand on his, and you’re thrilled when it shifts to hold your fingers gently.
“Do you—would you like to go somewhere else?” You ask. “Like. A secondary location. But not the kidnapping kind.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles, just like it had when he was helping you line up your shot in pool earlier. “Your song isn’t finished.”
You shrug. “We can come back another night and I can play it again. I have lots of singles. Some of them don’t work because I think they were used for cocaine.” You pause. “I’m realizing that I sound like a stripper right now.”
Ryland snorts and squeezes your hand. “Yeah, we can go to a secondary location. I’d like that. As long as it’s not, you know, the kidnapping kind. That’s a non-negotiable.”
He keeps holding your hand as you both get up out of the booth, as you walk out the door and into the night air. Neither of you finished your drinks, you realize, but that’s fine. He’ll probably buy you another.
--
epilogue
“Welcome to my crib.”
Ryland takes in your shitty apartment. You had cleaned up a little earlier, in a spurt of confidence, although the bin that you use to catch the water leaking from the ceiling is still out, because it hadn’t finished raining until this morning. “Wow. This is. It is really a place that someone lives in.”
You punch his shoulder then, lightly, and smile while you kick off your shoes and flick the lights on. “Yeah. I really need to move out. But that requires—”
“Money,” he says at the same time you do. “If it makes you feel any better, you won’t be living on a grad student stipend forever.”
“Here’s hoping.” You walk into your tiny kitchen, then, and call over your shoulder. “You can sit wherever. And by wherever, I mean on the couch, because that’s the only seating I have. Do you want anything to drink? I have—” You peer into your depressingly empty fridge. “Well. There’s water, a half-drunk bottle of Sprite, and vodka. So. Pick your poison.”
“I’m fine. What’s up with the unfinished Sprite?”
You take a quick drink of water before padding over to the living room. “It’s a chaser. For the vodka.”
“Of course.”
Ryland is sitting on the couch, and it’s very cute, because he’s trying to be polite but is also incredibly restless, if the way his knee bounces up-and-down says anything. You climb onto his lap. “Hi.”
“Hey there.” He looks up at you at that, his hands coming up to rest on your hips, and you carefully take his glasses off and set them behind you on your thrifted coffee table. “I kind of can’t see without those.”
“That’s fine. If we do something that requires seeing, you can have them back.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Then, before you lose your nerve, you draw your hands up to cradle his face and kiss him, sweetly at first, until you open your mouth, and he groans as you lick along his bottom lip. He squeezes your hips, and his fingers mess with the hem of your shirt a little before slipping underneath it to run along your skin. Yep, your guess is still holding, his fingers are great.
You are about to start grinding down onto him when there is a loud crash, and then the two of you are jumping, and you look behind you. The leaking ceiling tile has, apparently, chosen this moment to collapse onto the floor and knock over the bin of water for good measure.
His chest is shaking with laughter when you lean your head against his shoulder and groan. “Can we just ignore that for now and go back to what we were doing, please?”
“Counteroffer,” he says, still laughing, “I help you clean that up, and then we can resume. And then in the morning you will put in a maintenance request.”
“Deal. And they don’t really respond to those. Hence the ceiling tile that just fell.”
“I probably should have guessed that.”
In the morning, you can’t cook him breakfast because there’s nothing in your fridge, but you order it for him as the next best thing—wheat toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon—and put it onto a plate in the kitchen, wearing nothing but his periodic table shirt and your underwear, as if you had actually cooked it yourself. He comes up behind you and kisses the side of your neck.
The eggs get cold. When you finally eat, you dig through one of your cabinets to produce a fistful of Splenda packets. He dumps each and every one into the mug of instant coffee that you make him.
Hey!! Saw that u were taking requests and honestly I would appreciate anything with cocky grad school ryland (maybe a twinge of jealousy?) Sorry if im being too vague lol. I love your work and im so impressed with how often u post. You deserve so much more appreciation than u get 🛐
not vague at all!! i hope you like this--i have to admit, trying to write a cockier ryland was a little bit of a challenge for me, but i hope i was able to rise to the occasion lol.
and thank you!! to be fair, i have gotten so much love here and i am so so grateful for it, beyond words. the reason i'm able to post so much is that i really have nothing going on--i passed candidacy in the spring, but i don't have to start writing my dissertation for another year because i'm going abroad on fellowship starting in september, so i'm mad chilling rn.
pride (and a little bit of prejudice) - ryland grace x reader
also posted on ao3 | my masterlist
Ryland Grace is exactly the kind of STEM grad student that you hate: insufferable, full of himself, and doesn't know how to shut up. Unfortunately for you, he seems to delight in the challenge of trying to get you to like him. You're happy to knock him down a few pegs.
~9k words; fluff and smut; grad student!ryland; grad student!reader; fem!reader; what i think is an elegant amount of pride and prejudice references; oral - f!receiving; riding; missionary; unprotected sex; creampie
“Do I have to go?”
Marissa looks at you in the mirror and rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Yes, you do. Hand me the setting spray.”
You dutifully pass the bottle over before leaning closer to your reflection to continue applying your eyeliner. “Ugh. It’s just—you know how I am about STEM people.”
“Myself excluded.”
“Obviously.” Damn. The wing looks like shit. You click your tongue and wipe it off carefully. “Look. If they were all as well-adjusted as you, I wouldn’t have a problem. But no. They all act like God’s greatest gift to the universe. And their writing is terrible.”
She says nothing at that, yet, closing her eyes and letting the setting spray mist over her face. “They’re really not so bad. And I promised Josh we would both go.”
Josh. You do not like him, not just because he’s exactly the arrogant STEM grad student you just described, but also because you think he’s terrible for her. But she’s head-over-heels, and you want to be supportive, so whatever. You give it a month.
“And,” she says lightly, fanning her face with her hands, “his roommate is really cute.”
“No.”
“And nice! He’s so nice. I think you’d like him.”
“Probably not.”
Marissa pouts, then, and after a moment she takes the eyeliner pen from your hands and motions for you to turn to face her. You close your eyes as she gently swipes the black ink at the corner of your eye. “Just give him a chance. And if he’s lame, or the party is boring, we can come back here and gorge ourselves on canned cocktails and popcorn. Open.”
You open your eyes and turn back toward your reflection. It is annoying how much better she is at makeup than you. “Thanks. And…fine. But I am holding you to that. And I make no promises about the roommate.”
“Deal. Now hurry up, we’re going to be late.”
--
You’ll give them one thing: STEM students do not do parties halfway.
The two of you had arrived only a little late, and half of the people there were already shitfaced. They must carefully calculate what alcohol to knock back in order to get drunk as quickly and efficiently as possible. Nerds.
Marissa immediately beelines to Josh, leaving you standing in the entryway awkwardly. Fine. You’ll tell her she’s a bad roommate tomorrow and make her buy you a coffee. You head to the kitchen, presumably where the alcohol is; it’s also more well-lit than the rest of the apartment. A few people are standing around, chatting, but you ignore them to survey the bottles crowding the counter.
You settle for making a simple vodka lemonade when someone sidles up beside you. “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Probably not.” You don’t look up at him from making your drink, because you’re kind of not interested in trying to go home with someone tonight. There is a metric fuck ton of grading waiting for you in the morning.
He doesn’t seem to take the hint. “I’m Ryland. One of the hosts for this evening.”
Why is he talking like that? Whatever. This must be the roommate Marissa mentioned. Even though you told her, multiple times, that you weren’t promising to put in any effort here, you sigh and turn toward him anyway to give him your name in return. “I’m Marissa’s roommate.”
“Oh, Josh’s girlfriend. Nice.”
“Sure.”
Annoyingly, Marissa was right. Ryland is cute. His blond hair is ruffled in a way that screams ‘I don’t care’ but is also most definitely styled that way on purpose. There’s a little bit of stubble coming in on his face. You think he’s recently decided to try growing it out. His blue eyes have a hint of mirth behind his wire-frame glasses as he watches you look him over. “What department are you in? Wait—don’t tell me. I have a sixth sense for these sorts of things."
You watch, then, as he takes his time looking you over. You try not to roll your eyes. He is already giving you the distinct sense that he is the kind of person who is used to getting everything that he wants, and suddenly you are hit with the urge to humble him, to knock him down a few pegs so he can have some meaningful character growth.
He snaps his fingers. “Chemistry.”
You make a buzzer sound. “Wrong.”
“Really? Hm. Okay. Not bio—I would have met you already. Earth sciences?”
“Nope. That’s strike two.”
He grins. It’s annoying. He’s annoying, you have decided, because the alternative is something that you will not allow. “I didn’t know we were going off of the strike system.”
You bring your plastic cup to your lips. Oops. You might have made your drink a little too strong. “We are now. Last guess.”
Ryland leans his hip against the countertop and looks you over again, even more intensely. “Comp sci.”
“Wow. That is…” You let it hang there for a second, so he can feel good about himself before you let him down. “Incorrect. Sorry. No prize for you.”
“There was a prize? Damn.” He’s still grinning, seemingly unfazed by being wrong. Boo. “Well, what is it?”
“English lit.”
His eyes widen. “Yeah, I never would have guessed that.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, for starters, pretty much everyone in this apartment right now is in the sciences.” He picks up his own drink, then, and takes a long sip, looking at you over the rim of the cup. “And you don’t look the type.”
You scoff and cross your arms. “The hole you’re digging yourself into is getting deeper. You know that, right?”
“I just meant—I don’t know, you seem intelligent.” Instead of deigning that comment with a response, you mime digging and throwing dirt over your shoulder. “Alright, that’s fair.”
“This usually goes a little better for you, huh?”
“A bit, yeah. Can I get a do-over?” Ryland mirrors your posture, crossing his own arms over his chest. His shirt has some kind of science pun printed on it, but you can’t see all of the joke.
“No.” You shift against the counter and uncross your arms—no body-mirroring for him—before taking another sip and then sighing. Ugh. Fine. “But you can ask me again after I’ve had a few more drinks.”
This makes him smile again, but this time it’s a little more purposeful, a little calculating. “Bottoms up, then.” He taps his cup against yours, and you both take a deep drink.
The two of you just look at each other, then, sizing up your opponents, until someone yells in the living room. “Everyone, get in here! We’re playing a game.” You’re pretty sure it’s Josh. Man, you fucking hate that guy.
“Shall we?” Ryland gestures toward the doorway.
You say nothing, simply turning around and walking out of the kitchen. You will be doing everything in your power not to sit next to this frustratingly cute and, frankly, annoying man.
--
They have been arguing over the rules for the past fifteen minutes.
Marissa is sitting on Josh’s lap next to you. You are trying not barf at the way he’s groping her thighs. On your other side is Ryland, because evidently the universe is choosing to punish you this evening.
You sigh as someone nitpicks another rule again, something about ‘well that’s not how I’ve always played it,’ and pull out your phone. Initially, you intended to just look up the rules yourself so something will actually happen, but then you see an email from your advisor. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” Ryland leans over to look at your phone, pressing into your side. Great. He’s an arrogant dick who also has no sense of personal space. “You know, it’s a little lame to be on your phone at a party.”
You ignore the last comment. “It’s an email from my advisor.”
“Short story due at eleven, or something?”
Does he think that this is effective flirting? Being an asshole? “English lit, not creative writing, remember? And she wants to meet about potential dissertation topics.”
He hums and peers at your screen a little more closely. You turn it off out of spite. “And do you have those? Ideas for your diss?”
“Victorian novels. I just need to pick a more specific lens.”
“Wow. Isn’t that stuff super uptight and prudish?”
It is actually impressive at this point. “It’s literally kind of the opposite. God, you probably don’t even know who Foucault is, do you?”
Ryland waves a hand and takes another drink. “Sure I do. History of Sexuality, right?” You blink at him in surprise, and he just smiles cheekily. “Not all STEM students are illiterate.”
“You could have fooled me,” you snipe back. You lift up your cup. Damn. Empty.
You start to stand to get another drink, because it doesn’t seem like much progress has been made on the rules, but he gets up instead. “I got it. What do you want?”
“Um. Vodka and…whatever is fine. Don’t roofie me. I watch a lot of true crime. I know how to make it look like you’ve had an accident.”
Ryland laughs, abruptly, like he wasn’t expecting it. “Good to know.”
You watch as he walks away. Marissa elbows you. “Sounds like it’s going well. I told you.”
“Uh, have you even been listening? He’s an asshole,” you scoff. She simply smiles knowingly. “Absolutely not.”
Josh pipes up. You wish he wouldn’t. “Ryland’s a great guy, actually. Probably the smartest person in the department. The faculty love him.”
There are a few things you would like to say in response, ranging from ‘who asked’ to ‘being smart doesn’t give you license to be a prick,’ but you don’t get the chance to pick, because Ryland is already returning from the kitchen and settling in beside you again on the couch. It is unclear whether he is pressing his thigh against yours on purpose. He clinks his cup against yours after he’s handed you your drink.
You sputter the second it hits your lips. “Jesus Christ, what did you put in this? Gasoline?”
“You said vodka and whatever. I might have emphasized the vodka over the whatever.” He clinks you again. “Come on, proper drink this time.”
“Are you trying to get me shitfaced?”
He sets his cup down on the table with a grin before sprawling his arm across the back of the couch behind you. “You did say I’d have to wait for a do-over until after a few drinks,” he points out.
God, it must be 80% liquor. You try not to grimace as you swallow it down. “Actually, I said you could ask for one. I never promised I’d say yes.”
The hand that isn’t behind you taps against his thigh. “Are you this pedantic with everyone you meet?”
“No. Just the annoying people.”
“Mm. I see.” The look he’s giving you is—you don’t like it, whatever it is, you don’t like the way his eyes seem to sharpen at the challenge, how he searches your face, the fact that he’s still smiling, but it’s gained that calculated edge again. “Guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”
Yeah, good luck with that, buddy, you think.
--
“That’s not even—I’m starting to think you haven’t even read volume one, you just threw out the title to try and score some points.”
Ryland is still grinning, and the two of you are still sitting on the couch, because he’d goaded you into a conversation after the game finished. You are pointedly ignoring Josh and Marissa making out next to you. You feel your hand twitch, probably because you would like to punch the look he’s giving you off his face.
“I’ve skimmed it.”
“You’ve. Skimmed it.”
“Yeah. It was kind of boring.”
The worst thing is that you kind of agree with him, because Foucault is so ubiquitous at this point that he can be kind of a chore to read, but you will not be giving him the satisfaction. “Right, sorry, I forgot—your critical thinking skills are probably a little lacking. They don’t really emphasize close reading in microbiology, do they?”
This makes him smile harder. “You remembered.”
“Oh, fuck off, Marissa probably mentioned it before. Speaking of—Marissa? I’d like to—” You turn around and immediately regret the decision, because now you’ll need to and burn the image of Josh’s tongue stuck down her throat out of your mind.
“I think she’s a little preoccupied at the moment.”
“Yeah, I see that now. Whatever, I’m going home.”
His eyebrows furrow. “Uh, it’s, like, one in the morning. Just crash on the couch.” You look at him flatly. “Right. It’s kind of in use at the moment.”
“I’ll just walk, it’s fine. It’s not that far.” You go to stand and then almost fall over. “Okay, I know that made it look like I’m too drunk to stand, but the couch is just really deep.”
“Of course.”
“Seriously. I’m just going to find my shoes and bounce.”
He stands up beside you. “I’ll walk you home.”
“Not necessary.”
“It kind of is.” Ryland finds your shoes before you can and hands them over. “This neighborhood is terrible. My bike keeps getting stolen.”
You slip your shoes on after a few attempts. “Have you tried not getting it stolen?”
“Hadn’t thought of that. Thanks.”
A laugh slips out before you can even register it. You purposefully do not look to see whatever smug expression he’s likely wearing. “Fine,” you sigh. “Just—I don’t owe you for this, or whatever. Don’t go asking for any favors like proofreading your papers, since I’m sure they’re probably riddled with grammatical errors.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
--
The walk really isn’t that long, but he sticks with you the whole way, catching your arm when you stumble over a raised crack in the concrete. He also doesn’t shut up the entire time, bouncing between commenting on the houses or pointing out the meager constellations in the sky above you.
When you finally reach your apartment complex, he turns to face you as you’re fumbling with your keys and unlocking the door. “So. About that do-over.”
You smile at him, sweetly, standing just inside the threshold, before closing the door in his face.
--
Erik Satie is drifting through the apartment from the TV—that three-hour loop of Gymnopédie no. 1, but it’s from your neighbor’s apartment, you know the one—while you skim through the final reading you need to do for next week’s seminar. You are comfortably swaddled in your favorite blanket, and a glass of wine sits untouched on the coffee table, because you are waiting to drink it until you finish the reading. As a treat.
The door to the apartment swings open. “I hope you’re decent,” Marissa calls, “we’re just stopping by to drop some stuff off before we head out again.”
You glance down. You’re only in pajama shorts and a tank top, but most of it is hidden by the blanket, so it’s probably fine. “Yeah, I’m decent. Also, who’s ‘we’?”
Marissa doesn’t need to answer, because then she’s walking in with Josh and—Ryland. Of course. Great. Wonderful. “We’ll be out of your hair in two seconds!” And then she and Josh are walking into her room, leaving you alone with Ryland.
He looks at the TV, then at your blanket cocoon. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
Then, because he’s an annoying prick, he walks over and plops down right next to you on the couch. “What are you up to?”
You shuffle over as best as you can while still wrapped up in the blanket. “Reading for class. Lacan.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Figures.”
“Can I see?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, because he’s already grabbing your laptop from your lap and skimming the text, pushing his glasses up while he does so. “Oh, psychoanalysis. That always seemed like a load of BS to me.”
Your left eyelid twitches, not because he’s snatched your laptop without actually asking or even that you disagree with him. It is, once again, because you do agree with him. “Well, it’s important for the history of literary studies, so.”
“How so?” He sets the laptop on the table instead of handing it back to you. Whatever. You were almost done with it anyway. “Also, classic video,” he says, gesturing at the TV.
“Thanks. And seriously? Psychoanalysis has been a dominant critical lens in lit for, like, decades.” Unfortunately.
Ryland simply leans back, making himself comfortable on the couch. Your couch. “I’ll take your word for it.”
The soft piano music is still playing. It feels at odds with your growing frustration. You lean forward to close your laptop, letting the blanket slip off of your shoulders. He shifts, just barely, beside you on the couch. “I feel like it’s been longer than a few minutes,” you mumble, waving your hand in the direction of Marissa’s room. “Aren’t you guys going to be late to—whatever it is that you’re going to?”
“Nah. We’re just going to a bar to meet up with some people in bio and astrophysics.” He sits up a little straighter, then, as if he’s been struck with an idea. “You should come.”
“Uh, no. I already have plans.”
“Right. I’m guessing those plans involve the glass of wine and Erik Satie.”
“Precisely.”
Ryland looks between you and the wine for a few beats, before his hand shoots out and grabs the glass. And then he’s chugging it.
“Dude, seriously?” You whine. “I was saving that.”
He brings the glass down from his lips, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry.” He does not sound even a little apologetic. “Here, there’s still some left.”
You make a disgusted face at him and push his hand away. “Ew, no, I don’t want it now. It’s probably got your disgusting backwash in it.”
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, and then downs the last swallow. “It wasn’t even very good wine. You should try a Zinfandel next time. Maybe a White. I think you'd like it.”
This man. Comes into your apartment. Chugs your wine. And then insults it. “You’re incorrigible.”
The right corner of his mouth lifts. “I get that a lot. Also, ‘incorrigible’? Very Jane Austen.”
“Don’t even. Your lips aren’t worthy to speak her name.”
He laughs, and it’s the surprised one again, and your mouth pulls into a smile without you meaning to. “Well, looks like your evening just opened up. Come with us.”
Marissa and Josh choose that moment to reemerge from her room. “Ooh, yes!” She gasps. “You should totally come. I want you to meet the new astrophysics cohort. I think you’d like them.”
Probably not, but she’s looking at you so pleadingly, and you figure you can leverage this into her paying for groceries in a couple days. “Fine, fine. I just need, like, ten minutes.”
You stand up and leave the blanket crumpled on the sofa. “What, you don’t want to go dressed like that?” Ryland says behind you.
You say nothing as you walk to your room, though there may be a middle finger thrown up somewhere along the way.
--
You are getting so tired of being subjected to science while drinking.
One of the new first-years that Marissa mentioned is chatting animatedly at you. Not to you, at you, because you can’t even remember the last time you said something in this increasingly one-sided conversation. Something about going to Harvard, you think, and it’s unbearable, because he keeps referring to it as ‘the school in Boston,’ as if that isn’t widely known as the way people who go to Harvard and need everyone to know that fact talk about it.
You’re contemplating how much it would hurt to start slamming your head against the bar top when Ryland—because of fucking course—walks up to the two of you. “Sorry—George, right? I have a burning English literature question for my friend here, so I need to steal her away for a second.”
He tugs you away, and you barely have time to grab your drink from the bar. “Not friends.”
“Sorry, what was that? ‘Thank you for saving me from that conversation’? If so, you’re welcome.”
You roll your eyes as the two of you stop and stand toward the back of the bar. “I didn’t need saving. The conversation would have stopped eventually.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “I’m pretty sure he was trying to get in your pants.”
“So? What do you want, a medal? ‘Oh Ryland,’” you fawn, overexaggerated and utterly fake, “‘thank you for saving me from someone who wanted to have sex with me! Whatever would I have done without my white knight!’ Something like that?”
He looks down at you over the rims of his glasses and leans against the wall. “I think that’s the first time you’ve actually said my name.”
“Oh, my God. Do you have to try to be this self-centered, or does it just come naturally to you?”
This, apparently, does not warrant a response in his mind, because he simply brings his beer to his lips and takes a swig before speaking again. “I did actually have a question. Do I get my do-over yet?”
You hope that the look you’re giving him right now is effectively communicating how ridiculous you think all of this is. “Are you seriously still stuck on that? That was, what, a month ago?”
“Three weeks, actually.”
A huffed laugh comes out through your nose at that. “And you called me pedantic.”
Ryland smiles, wide and brilliant, and you are choosing to define the weird flip in your chest as annoyance. “So you do remember our conversation.”
“Why are you, like, obsessed with me? Is annoying me just that much fun for you?”
“Nah.” He steps a little closer to you, then, and you have to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact. “I just like the challenge. I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t solve.”
You decide, in that moment, to be the biggest, most frustrating, and, most importantly, most unsolvable problem ever.
--
The library is packed and deadly silent, save for the periodic page-turn and the clacking of laptop keys. There’s a tinge of seriousness to the air as the undergraduates bear down for midterms: no quiet laughter, no running around, no music blasting way too loud out of someone’s ear buds.
Josh is over at the apartment, again, which is annoying, firstly because it means the relationship is lasting longer than you thought it would, and second because you cannot get any work done when they hang out. (For obvious reasons.) There’s no exam you’re prepping for like many of the students around you, but you are trying to work on one of your seminar papers. Last year you had put most of them off until the end of the semester, and that had been a disaster, so you’re trying to get into the habit of starting them early.
You can sense him before you see him. He has a knack for finding you around campus. At first, you thought he might be stalking you, but you have come to learn that he is simply not organized enough for something like that.
“Is this seat taken?” Ryland asks. He sits down, because he never bothers to wait for your response. “What are you up to?”
“Writing a paper. Hush. We’re in a library.”
“Right.” He doesn’t take anything out to work on, instead just sitting there and tapping his fingers on the table, then grabbing one of your books and flipping through it.
He’s fidgeting. “You’re fidgeting,” you whisper. “It’s annoying. Stop.”
He sighs and puts the book down. “Did you like the thing I sent you?” Someone at the next table shoots him a death glare, and he puts his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry.”
Then he pulls his phone out and types something before setting it down on the table. The screen of your own phone lights up. Ryland looks between it and you expectantly. You close your eyes, sighing, and grab it. You don’t even know who originally gave him your number. Probably Marissa.
Hey
Hi
What’s the paper about?
applying psychoanalysis to Wuthering Heights
Sounds boring.
What are you doing this weekend?
…applying psychoanalysis to Wuthering Heights
I see
Well what if
And hear me out on this
You did something else?
Something that is actually fun and interesting
like what.
also, I want you to know that I am actively choosing to ignore that you are insulting my field.
Noted.
And, coming to the observatory
Marissa is giving that public-facing presentation
And they’re doing a cool show after
You should come!
It will heal your inner child
You fight the urge to roll your eyes, because you’re worried you’re going to strain them with how much you’ve been doing it recently. You had accidentally let it slip to him a week or so ago that your dream job as a child was being an astronaut, and he simply would not let it go, no matter how many times you pointed out that most people’s dream job when they were a kindergartener was to be an astronaut.
if I say yes, will you stop talking about my ‘inner child’?
it’s especially rich coming from someone who thinks psychoanalysis is ‘a load of BS’
…I can try?
You put your phone back down and try to return to your paper. It lights up several more times, and Ryland grows more fidgety each time you ignore it. He looks about ready to explode when you finally give up and look at the little screen again.
So is that a yes?
I’m assuming that’s a yes.
Hellooooo
I know that you know that I’m still texting you
Your eyes do this thing. I don’t know if you’re aware
But it makes it obvious
And I am very perceptive. Some would say the most perceptive person ever
I want to go get a coffee. Do you want a coffee?
You should come get a coffee. You look tired
you really need to get tested for ADHD
Probably, but that sounds like a lot of effort
it’s really not. I got tested last year
Wait really?
You have ADHD?
I didn’t know that
I’m well-medicated
you should try it.
Meh.
Sooooooo
Coffee?
You are pretty tired, and it is becoming very clear that you will not be getting any work done as long as he’s sitting there, so you sigh (again) and start packing your things up. Ryland stands immediately and waits for you, impatiently tapping his foot and messing with the pockets of his jeans. You put your things in your backpack even more slowly, just to mess with him.
He exhales loudly when you finally make it outside. He had gotten stopped by an undergrad, one of his students, probably, since you’re pretty sure you heard something about office hours. The student had looked at Ryland like he hung the stars in the sky; it is actually quite annoying how good he seems to be at teaching. He even has a RateMyProfessor page, which TAs don’t often get, and it is full of glowing reviews. Not that you’ve looked at it, or anything.
“Finally. I don’t know how you get any work done in there. Way too quiet.”
“Again. ADHD. Testing. Go do it.”
“Nah. I mean, everything’s worked out for me pretty well so far without being treated for it. I am a—”
“A presidential fellow, yes, I think you’ve mentioned that before.” He falls into step beside you, shortening his strides so you don’t have to quicken your pace to keep up. “And a published scholar, and you already have a research assistantship lined up for the summer. It’s incredible, really, how much you manage to talk about yourself.”
The conversation has, evidently, grown boring for him, because he immediately changes the subject. “You never answered my question. About if you liked the thing that I sent you.”
You snort. “What, the picture of Mr. Darcy with the caption ‘literally me’? As if. You wish you were Mr. Darcy.”
“Hey. I could be. I think I could pull of the tall, dark, stoic persona.” You look at him sideways and quirk an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe not the stoic part.”
“Or the dark hair. You’ve got the insufferable pride down, though.” The whole point is that Mr. Darcy isn’t actually all that insufferably proud, not really, but whatever.
Ryland ignores the second comment. “Yeah, I don’t think I could do the dark hair. To be honest, I’ve never even seen that movie. Or read the book, but that’s probably obvious.”
You stop in your tracks. He keeps walking for a few seconds until he notices that you’re no longer beside him, and then he also stops and turns around. “You’ve. Never seen. Pride and Prejudice.”
“Uh, no?”
“Not even the BBC series?”
“Well, seeing as I didn’t even know there was one until just now, nope.”
This is. Unacceptable. You’re about to tell him as much, but then you realize that you shouldn’t care whether he’s seen the movie or not, and that, actually, it gives you something to hold over his head, so you resume walking.
He matches your pace again. “Why, should I?”
An image pops into your mind, then, unbidden: the two of you sitting together, watching Pride and Prejudice, drinking wine. That gets mentally waved away. “No. Whatever. Do what you want, I don’t care.”
Ryland is silent for a moment, which is pretty unusual for him. “Yeah. I probably wouldn’t like it, anyway.”
He’s goading you, and you know it, and you know that he knows it, so you purposefully choose to stay silent. It does not take him long to start talking again, all the way to the coffee shop, the entire time you sit there and drink your shitty cappuccino that he ordered for you without asking what you wanted. (It would have been the cappuccino.)
--
“Thank you for coming, everyone, and enjoy the observatory!”
Marissa steps away from the podium and walks toward you, Ryland, and Josh. She immediately wraps her arms around Josh’s neck and kisses him. You fight the urge to grimace.
“That was amazing,” you say, once she’s done with that revolting display.
Ryland nods next to you. “Even she managed to follow along,” and he nudges you with his elbow. You jab him back, much harder.
“Thanks, guys. I really appreciate you all coming. Now, go, go, Josh and I are going to—enjoy the observatory.” She grins and does an exaggerated wink before walking away with Josh.
You and Ryland stand next to each other, silent, watching them leave. “I think they’re going through a rough patch,” he finally remarks.
That makes you whip your head towards him. “Really?” Marissa hadn’t mentioned this to you, although you both had been so busy recently that you hadn’t had much time to hang out together, just the two of you.
“Yeah. Can I be honest?” Once again, he does not wait for an answer. “Josh is kind of a dick, and Marissa is way out of his league.”
“Oh my God, thank you!” You burst out. He looks at you with a slightly shocked smile. “Sorry. I really don’t like him. I thought they would have broken up already.”
He simply laughs and then looks away, gesturing vaguely toward the rest of the observatory. “Well. Do you want to look around?”
“Sure. As long as there is no mansplaining along the way.”
You follow him toward the first exhibition area on the way to the domed screen room. “Is it mansplaining if I know what I’m talking about and you don’t?”
“Tonight? Yeah. It is.”
The next hour or so is spent moving leisurely through the observatory. Unfortunately, you have to admit—begrudgingly—that he is quite knowledgeable about all of this, and you end up listening attentively as he comments on the various displays. It’s—he’s just a tad less insufferable like this, when he’s explaining the solar system or the speed of light, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that makes you understand why people are otherwise so drawn to him.
At one point, he stops in front of a didactic discussing the possibility of life beyond Earth. “People are so hung up on water,” he murmurs, “and they swear that it’s necessary for life.”
“I mean, isn’t it?”
Ryland looks at you then and smiles. It’s almost wistful. “That’s what the prevailing opinion has been, yeah. I’m going to prove them wrong.”
You should think that this is incredibly cocky, just like everything else about him, but he sounds so convinced, so sure of himself, that you find yourself almost believing him. Almost.
--
The ‘rough patch’ that Ryland referred to becomes apparent on the day of your birthday, when Marissa tells you that Josh isn’t coming to the party, because apparently he doesn’t want to hang out with your ‘humanities friends,’ as he called them, and her mouth twists when she says it.
“Ryland’s coming, though,” she adds, her face buried into your shoulder as you hug her. “Said he wouldn’t miss it.”
“That’s—I mean. He could if he wanted to.”
She chuckles, a little wetly, and pulls away. “I still don’t understand why you hate him so much.”
“I don’t…hate him.” The admission is probably more surprising to you than it is to Marissa. “I just think he’s insufferable, and arrogant, and incredibly self-centered.”
“I cannot wait until the two of you hate fuck. It’s going to be awesome, and I am going to tell you ‘I told you so’ every day.” There she is. Fuck Josh. It’s your birthday, and you want her to be happy.
You scoff and continue setting out the alcohol the two of you had purchased earlier that day onto the kitchen island. “As if. The universe will experience heat death before—that happens.”
“See?” Marissa smiles. “You’re even using science metaphors. He’s in there.” She presses a finger to your temple.
“Sure. If by ‘in there’ you mean it like termites in your walls. Or bed bugs.”
About thirty minutes later, people start to filter in, mostly other grad students in your department, some from Marissa’s that you can actually tolerate. Ryland is right on time, and he gives you a hug and whispers ‘happy birthday,’ but you otherwise don’t see much of him; you’re too busy flitting around and saying hello, engaging in a debate about Charles Dickens and trying to avoid the guy in the year above you—Ben—who you hooked up with for a while last year.
It’s fun. You’re having fun, you tell yourself, even though all anyone can talk about is English literature, and you are so tired of talking about it, because it’s all you think about most of the time, and Ben had cornered you at one point and given you a hug that lasted way too long.
You’re standing out on your dinky little balcony off of the living room, trying to take a breath and enjoy the cold night air, when the glass door slides open and Ryland walks out. “Having fun?”
“Yeah. Loads.” You adjust the party hat on your head that Marissa had wrestled you into.
He comes up beside you and drapes his arms on the railing. “Who was that guy you were talking to, earlier?”
“Ben, probably.”
He hums. “He seemed. Eager.”
You turn around to rest your back against the wood. “Something like that. We used to—well.”
“But not anymore?” You can tell that he’s trying to say this lightly and failing, because the words come out a little strained.
“No. It was—it was fine, for what it was. Why do you care?”
Ryland doesn’t answer the question, instead shifting so he’s facing you. “Fine? Not good?”
“I guess. He wasn’t. I don’t know.”
“Not good at giving you what you wanted?” His voice has dropped, coming out low and raspy, and he moves forward an inch. “He doesn’t seem like the type.”
Your body tilts, reflexively, and you look up at him, watching his eyes search your face, his glasses sliding down his nose a little. “What type would that be?” You whisper.
His hand reaches forward, then, and his fingers graze your upper arm, just above your elbow. “The type to know what you need and be able to give it to you.”
The streetlamp in the distance illuminates the side of his face, just barely, enough to show you the look in his eyes, the hunger there as he steps a little closer, as his hand curls around your bicep. “And you think you know what that is, I take it?” Your voice almost catches in your throat.
“I don’t think,” he murmurs. “I know.”
And then he closes the distance, his nose brushing against yours, and he’s kissing you, and it is not soft or reverent or gentle. It is desperate, and wet, and fierce, and you moan as his other arm wraps around the small of your back. He licks into your mouth, then, and you press your body against him. You are aching, aching for the friction and the taking and the wanting, and—
And then someone is fiddling with the glass door, and the two of you jump apart as Marissa finally manages to slide it open. “Cake time! Oh—sorry. Am I…was I interrupting something?”
“No,” you say, at the exact moment Ryland says, “Yeah, kind of,” and then the two of you are looking at each other, and you remember how annoying he is, how he had assumed everything about you, what you wanted and needed, and that he could give it to you; so you push past him back into your apartment.
When you blow the candles out, you can’t think of a wish.
--
Marissa and Josh break up by the end of the semester.
You spend a week comforting her, promising her that it wasn’t her fault, that Josh was a dick who didn’t deserve her—which is true, by the way—and the whole time you try not to think about how this means you would likely be seeing a lot less of Ryland.
He hadn’t texted you, not since your birthday, and he had stopped popping up randomly around campus. This is good. It means that you finish your paper, and then Marissa decides to go home a little early to spend time with her family, and then you are alone in your apartment, ignoring a text from Ben and finishing up the last of your grading for the semester.
Then you get an email from your professor, the one you had submitted the Wuthering Heights paper to, and—it wasn’t great. The feedback was mostly negative, calling it pessimistic and overdone, warning you that your dissertation would need to be better.
So now you’re bundled up on the couch, attempting to get drunk off of a bottle of White Zinfandel, while Erik Satie plays in the background. You really wish Marissa was here, so you could commiserate together, but she’s not, so you simply down the last little bit of wine in your glass, and you find that you don’t have the energy to get up and pour yourself another, even though you’re barely buzzed at this point.
There’s a knock on the door.
You have no idea who it could be, so you decide to ignore it, but then they keep knocking. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” you call out, shuffling over to the door because the blanket is still wrapped around you.
Ryland is on the other side when you open it, holding a cardboard box. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
A few beats pass, and then he holds the box up. “Some of Marissa’s stuff. Josh was—well. You know how he is.”
“Yeah. She’s not here. You can—just set it down on the counter.” You step aside so he can walk in and place it on the kitchen island.
He looks at the TV, then the empty glass on the coffee table, the wine bottle sitting out by the fridge, and finally the way that you’re currently waddling around in your cocoon. “Rough night?”
“Something like that.” You’re too exhausted to bicker, so you simply make your way back to the couch and sit down. “Bad feedback on a paper. Really bad.”
“The psychoanalysis one?” He’s still in your apartment. Whatever. You can’t find it in you to care. You nod. “Hm. I told you it was boring.”
“Ryland.” This makes him freeze, because you’ve made it a point not to call him by his name. “I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Alright.”
Then he does something you do not expect: he walks forward instead of just leaving, sitting down on the couch next to you, grabbing the remote off the table and navigating through a bunch of different menus. “What are you doing.”
“Putting on a movie.”
He has to pull his credit card out, because Pride and Prejudice isn’t on any streaming services. You have it on DVD. You do not tell him this.
The movie starts playing, and you close your eyes as the opening piano number starts playing, and he shifts a little closer and puts his arm around you. You let him.
He laughs when he should, and makes stupid little comments, about how it doesn’t make sense that they’re calling Lizzie plain because Keira Knightly is beautiful, and that Mrs. Bennett is kind of an overbearing bitch, and at one point you giggle at something he says, and his arm tightens around you.
Then he watches, raptly, as Mr. Darcy helps Lizzie into the carriage, at the shot of his hand flexing afterward. “Oh. I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“The appeal. The—he loves her. So much that the touch is enough and also not. He knows that she might not feel the same, and that it doesn’t make sense for them to be together, and he still hopes that she loves him back. And if she doesn’t, he’ll live off of that touch for the rest of his life.”
It’s—you’re not a film scholar, but he’s reading the scene quite well, and he’s looking at you in a way that you can’t place. The two of you just keep staring at each other for a while, until you finally whisper, “You’re not watching the movie.”
“Right. Sorry.”
The rest of the movie plays, and you cry a little when Mr. Darcy walks through the field at sunrise, when he calls Lizzie ‘Mrs. Darcy’ and kisses her at Pemberley, wishing that you could be seen and loved so thoroughly. “Well, what did you think?” You ask, wiping at your face and clearing your throat.
“It—I liked it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You keep staring at the TV for a little while, because you’re scared to look at him, scared to break the fragile silence that has fallen around you both, scared to admit that you have been a little bit unfair in your judgement of him.
He squeezes your shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”
You turn to face him, and you let the blanket wrapped around you fall as you do. Ryland’s eyes dip down, just for a moment, to look at the straps of your tank top, the way that the blanket pools around your waist. When he meets your gaze again, his eyes are wide and pleading, and his eyebrows are raised, pinching at the center. “Ryland,” you breathe.
“Yes?”
“I—I’m sorry. About my birthday.”
“Uh, what?” For a moment, the irrational part of your brain thinks he doesn’t remember, and he must catch the way that your face falls minutely. “No, I’m not—I just wasn’t expecting. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But I did.”
“But you didn’t,” he insists. “I was—what was that word you used—incorrigible, that’s it.” You smile, just a little, and it makes him that much bolder, bringing his hand back up to grasp your nearly bare shoulder. You shudder at the touch. “What did Mr. Darcy say? About pride?”
His fingers shift to play with the strap of your top. You turn toward him more fully so you can place a hand on his knee. “That—it’s hard to forgive someone’s offenses against him. That once his good opinion is lost, it’s lost forever.”
Ryland hums. “Have I lost your good opinion, then?”
“No,” you whisper. Because—as much as he has been utterly insufferable over the past few months, he has also been kind, and caring, and devoted, and you don’t think anyone else has been so utterly captivated by you before. “No, you haven’t.”
You lean forward, then, and this kiss is soft, and gentle, so gentle that you have to be the one to deepen it, squeezing his leg and running your tongue over his bottom lip, and the way he groans into your mouth goes straight between your thighs. “Ryland,” you mumble into his mouth, “please,” and you don’t even know what you’re asking for.
But he does—of course he does—and he leans forward until your back is resting against the couch, and he’s unraveling the blanket around you, pressing his mouth against your neck as he drags your shorts down. You think you know where he’s going, then, but he keeps surprising you; his hands slide up underneath your shirt and lift the fabric up until he’s licking at your breasts, and at the shocked gasp you let out, he smiles. “I told you I knew what you needed.”
You don’t get a chance to respond. His lips close around one of your nipples, sucking and licking, and you clutch at his shoulders and buck your hips up. “Oh,” you sigh, “that’s—just like that, you—you—”
His hips rut against the couch, but he keeps taking his time, laving his tongue against you, grasping your thigh with one of his hands and pressing the palm of the other into your cunt. You whine, and then you can feel him grinning against your breast, and that old fire flickers inside of you, the one that urges you to put him in his place. You decide to wait. For now.
Finally, he nudges your underwear aside and feels the heat, the wetness of you, just for a moment, before one of his fingers slowly slides inside of you. Your back arches, just a little, at the feeling, and he looks up at you from your chest. His glasses are crooked, and you fix them before sliding your hand into his hair. “You sound—it’s just like I imagined,” he groans around the bud of your nipple, “so needy. Just let me, I can make you feel so good, I know I can, I know I’m the only one who can do it, just the way you need.”
Your hips jerk against his hand, and he dips another finger inside of you, and the sound of it is utterly obscene. “You—you’re so fucking cocky,” you manage to get out, “always so sure that you’re right.”
His hand shifts, then, so that he can press his thumb against your clit, and it sends your head pressing against the cushion underneath you. “But I am. That’s the thing, isn’t it—I’m right, and you know that I’m right.” You simply turn your cheek into the couch instead of responding, because you think you can come like this, with his fingers inside of you and his thumb rubbing at your clit. “No,” Ryland mutters, the hand that was holding your thigh coming up to grasp your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “This isn’t—I’m not done.”
You want to ask him what he’s not done with, but then he’s shifting down the couch, pulling your underwear down and staring at your glistening cunt, pushing his glasses up to make sure he can see it. Part of you wants to feel a little embarrassed, but mostly you just want him to make you come, so you jut your hips up towards his face.
His eyes flick up to yours, just for a moment, full of amusement, and then his mouth comes up against you, and you realize in that moment that it’s not just good for talking. It’s—he actively learns your movements, gaging the way you grind against his tongue, adjusting how his tongue laps at you to drag out your pleasure, quickening when you need it and slowing when you want him to go faster. “You—you motherfucker, please,” you whimper.
“No,” he says, simply, into the slick of you.
“I—What? What do you mean, no?”
His head tilts up, then, resting against your thigh. His fingers are still dragging inside of you. “I said I know what you need, not just what you want. This is me giving it to you,” and he curls against your walls, “Don’t you want that?”
You can only gasp and clutch at his hair. “Fuck. You.”
“That’s the plan.”
Time is meaningless, then, as he licks and sucks and teeths at your clit, adding another finger inside of you, always stopping right when you’re on the edge, until you’re trembling against the couch, until the only thought on your mind is coming against his mouth. Finally, finally, he doesn’t still when he normally would, moaning into your cunt as you ride your orgasm out against his face.
When he pulls his shirt off over his head and shimmies out of his jeans, you’re able to gather yourself enough to push at his shoulders, until he’s sitting on the couch while you straddle him, and you try to commit the surprised and wanting look on his face to memory. “You think you’ve got everything figured out,” you laugh breathlessly. “But maybe I know what you need, too.”
He clutches your hips as you hover over him. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Someone to put you in your place.”
You sink down onto him, then, and relish the way his eyes flutter shut, the way his lips part and let out a moan, how his fingers dig into your skin. The pace you set is slow and exacting. You want to watch every look that crosses his face, feel every twitch of his cock inside of you, hear the way he whimpers and whines, just like you knew that he would.
“So good.” Your hand moves up to rest on his throat, and his eyes snap open, and you find that you can’t look away from the deep blue of them, even if you wanted to. “So good, just for me.”
Ryland nods feverishly as his hands draw up your back. “Wanted this—for so long. So fucking long.”
You smile and quicken your pace, clutching at the back of the couch behind him with your other hand. “I know. I know you did.”
His head lolls back as you grind down onto him, and after a few moments the hand at his throat moves up so you can grab his jaw and make him look at you. There aren’t any more words, now, save for the way he gasps your name, over and over and over again, and you know that you’ll never get tired of it, the way your name sounds when it’s cried out from his mouth.
You can tell when he’s close, even before he tells you, when he’s babbling into your throat as you press your chest against his. “I—I’m—don’t want to, not until you come again.”
“Then do something about it, if you want it so bad.”
He lifts you up, then, briefly, before laying you back against the couch again, never taking his eyes off of you, leveraging the access the position gives him to circle at your clit again with his fingers. You fight the urge to close your eyes. You want to watch him, watch as he looks at you with this expression that you cannot name; you want to be able to look down to see his hips snapping into yours, his fingers moving in frantic circles because he cannot stand the thought of not giving you what you need, just like he promised.
“Ryland,” you moan again, grasping his shoulders. His name on your lips is like some kind of command to attention for him. “Just. Just like that. It’s so—you—”
He dips his head down to bite gently at your throat. “I know, I know, I—I told you, I told you I could do it, that I knew how, just let me do it, please, please, I need you so badly,” and that makes your body draw taut and then release, the thought that he doesn’t just want you to satisfy some childish urge, but that he needs you, he needs you to feel good, needs to feel you come around him.
Somewhere in the middle of all of that you can feel him still against you, his teeth grazing against your neck and your name vibrating against the flutter of your pulse, and then he just stays there, resting inside of you, skin pressed against yours.
You let your breaths fall into pace with his for a while. Every so often, you clench around him, just so you can hear his strangled moan. Finally, you speak, your fingers brushing up the length of his spine. “Marissa is going to be so insufferable when I tell her about this.”
“Probably,” Ryland mumbles into your neck. You shudder against him at the feeling. “She was the one who told me to go up to you at the party.”
“Wait, really?” Your hand stills. “She never told me that.”
He huffs a little. “Yeah. She said that I was your type.”
You—this is worth the next month of groceries, you think, but you don’t say it out loud, instead reveling in the feeling of his skin against yours, in the way that she was, ultimately, exactly right about what you wanted.
Summary: Sebastian Wilder found out the hard way every dream comes with a cost. When you wander into his club on a cool night before opening time, he starts to think that maybe they come with second chances, too.
Tags for Part 1: post-canon, canon compliant, strangers to lovers, falling in love, second chances, flirting, eventual romance
Word Count: ~1.8k
cross posted on AO3
It was a mild, clear night, and you wanted a drink. You’d said goodbye to your friends and left the restaurant five minutes ago, but you weren't quite ready for the night to be over. Riding a light buzz, you strolled down the street, humming a little, feeling relaxed and happy. You passed a few bars, seeking somewhere with more atmosphere. Maybe live music, jazz if you were lucky.
A car passed, and as the noise from its tires faded, a more pleasant sound surfaced: someone was playing the piano. Your ears pricked up and you stopped, eager to locate the source. It was coming from ahead of you. You hurried to the entrance of the club, a smile forming as you recognized the song. The sign above the propped open door proclaimed the establishment as Seb’s. You had heard of Seb’s; it was fairly new, and you’d been wanting to visit. You hadn’t known it was in the area.
You descended the stairs, the music rising to meet you, and emerged into the club’s main space. On the stage at the far end of the room, a man sat at a piano, coaxing out of it a melody you knew quite well. Strangely, you saw no one else as you glanced around; perhaps the club wasn’t open yet. The notion gave you a small thrill.
Cautiously, you moved further into the room. The man at the piano was absorbed in his craft and failed to notice as you took a seat at the bar. You sat quietly, studying him as the music wreathed you in its spell. He was very talented. You’d been to more jazz clubs than you could count and the vast majority of pianists were great, but this one was special. He was also hurting; you could tell from the way he played without really knowing why.
The song ended and you clapped, startling him. The pianist glared at you, which for some reason struck you as funny. You grinned. He wrinkled his nose, taking objection to your amusement at his expense.
“Duke Ellington. Very nice,” you said sincerely, arranging your smile into something more appreciative.
“Club doesn't open ‘til eight,” he said flatly. He closed the piano’s fallboard.
“The door was open,” you countered lightly.
“Facinating,” came the acrid reply.
“How much for another song?”
He looked up sharply. “That’s not how- no.”
You reached into your purse, fishing for your wallet. You pulled out a hundred dollar bill and dropped it into the bar’s tip jar. You looked at him, taking care to keep your expression neutral. He looked at you, his irritation now cut with confusion. You added another hundred dollars to the first.
“What are you doing?” he asked incredulously.
“Trying to find out how much this song is gonna cost me.” You deposited two more bills into the jar. “That’s four hundred dollars,” you remarked. You normally didn’t carry so much cash on you, but you had sold your old motorcycle earlier in the week and hadn’t made it to the bank yet.
The pianist sat for a moment, frowning. Then he sighed, closing his eyes momentarily. “What do you want to hear?” he asked reluctantly, lifting the fallboard.
“How about something sentimental?” you suggested, curious to see what he’d play.
He brought up his hands and began an arrangement of another familiar song. You listened contentedly, resting your chin in your hand, enjoying the music and the view. As before, he was focused completely on his performance; it seemed at once to subsume and fortify him, burning off the dross of lesser cares. He reminded you of Icarus, searing away his salvation in exchange for grazing the divine. His pain was present here, too.
When the final chords faded, the pianist looked up, his eyes alight with creative exertion, and it was probably your imagination, but you fancied you could feel something shift between you then.
“Want a drink? I’m buying,” you offered.
He looked hard at you, wary. You wondered if he was always this standoffish. With deliberate dignity, he came down off the stage and went behind the bar, grabbing two glasses from under the counter and plunking them on the bartop. He raised an eyebrow.
“Scotch,” you requested. While he poured the drinks, you surreptitiously glanced at his hands; no wedding ring. He pushed your glass toward you and hefted his. “Thanks,” you said.
He carefully knocked the bottom edge of his glass against the rim of yours in an offhanded toast before quaffing a mouthful. You watched his throat as he swallowed and tried to disguise your ogling by taking a drink of your own. Distracted as you were, you accidentally took too large of a sip and coughed at the unexpected burn. You blushed as you cleared your throat, glad for the dim lights. Once you’d regained your composure, you grinned in spite of yourself at your companion’s unimpressed look.
“Well, that’s embarrassing,” you laughed, shaking your head. “I promise I’ve had scotch before.”
His critical scrutiny softened a bit and he snorted, the suggestion of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Where you from?” he asked, leaning his forearms on the bartop.
“Here, mostly,” you said. “I was born in Washington but grew up here. What about you?” You took a more mindful pull of your scotch.
“Iowa.”
“Really? Why the downgrade?” you quipped. He tried to hide his smirk in his glass, but you saw it.
“Thought I’d try my hand at the whole starving artist thing,” he said dryly. He glanced at the piano, and you were treated to a striking view of his profile.
“And how’s that going?” you inquired, your drink momentarily forgotten.
He shrugged and swirled his scotch. “Could be worse,” he muttered.
You nodded toward the tip jar. “Hopefully that helps.”
The pianist averted his eyes. “It’s too much. You should take it back,” he said. He seemed embarrassed.
“Absolutely not. Worth every penny,” you said resolutely. He ducked his head; he was terribly cute when he was bashful. Feeling reckless, you went on. “Do you have time for another?”
He met your eyes, and your heartbeat quickened. “A drink or a song?” he asked quietly.
After a breathless beat of silence, you answered. “I’ll take whatever you want to give me.”
His brow furrowed, and for a frightening moment you thought you’d said the wrong thing, but his gaze didn’t falter. He searched your face, and for a quiet stretch you allowed it, wanting him to find whatever it was he was looking for.
“Hey, Sebastian,” someone called, and you both looked. Someone was leaning out of a doorframe further along the wall past the bar. “You got a minute?”
“Yeah, I’ll be right there,” Sebastian answered, and something clicked. Ah. This place must be his. The person ducked back through the doorway.
You raised an eyebrow, lifting your glass to your lips. “So, when you said ‘starving artist…’”
He tilted his head apologetically. “That was true until more recently than you might think,” he divulged.
You hummed, deciding to forgive him. “I guess that song will have to wait,” you said, disappointment tugging at you. You considered your scotch, debating whether or not to down the rest of it in one go even though you knew it would be a mistake.
Sebastian put his glass down. “I’ve got five minutes.” He briskly mounted the stairs and reclaimed his seat on the bench. He skimmed his fingers over the keys, a strange look on his face. He darted a glance at you, then took a breath as if preparing to dive into deep water. He began to play.
From the first note you could tell something had changed. This piece meant something to him, its glaring significance tactile in the tender, haunted way he brought it to life. It began dreamlike and lyrical, so poignant it raised a lump in your throat; as it continued, it turned kinetic, rampantly climbing and descending the octaves before ending in a fitful spark. Sebastian lingered, as if he were afraid that by lifting his fingers off the keys he’d lose something forever. You finally understood.
“What was her name?” you asked softly, the words loud in the silent space.
“Mia,” he answered, so quickly you almost thought your question had been a coincidence and he’d been planning on saying it anyway.
You felt an inane prick of jealousy. “She must have been one of a kind,” you said, meaning it.
Sebastian seemed to sense this. He blinked at you, as if returning from somewhere far away. You suddenly felt as if you were trespassing and stood to leave.
“I’m sorry, I’ll go,” you tumbled out in a rush, grabbing your purse. He let you get halfway to the stairs.
“Wait.” You did. “Come back, please,” he said.
You turned but stayed where you were, unwilling to go back if there was nothing for you there. You couldn’t compete with a memory. You smiled sadly. “I’m not her.”
Sebastian regarded you with a pained expression. “No,” he admitted.
“Thanks for the music, Sebastian,” you said wistfully. You turned away, resolved not to return.
“Will I see you again?” he asked, an urgent note to the question, and that you did not expect.
You looked over your shoulder, surprised at how much you had wanted to hear it. The way Sebastian was looking at you now made you want to run to him and throw your arms around him, but thankfully your shock kept you stationary. Slowly, you faced him.
“Yeah, I think so.” You smiled, letting him see how much you wanted to.
The tension bled out of his frame and a relieved smile broke across Sebastian’s face. You allowed yourself the indulgence of his undivided attention a few moments longer. You took a step backward, then spun on your heel and hurried up the steps. You didn’t stop until you were a block away. Heart pounding, you put your back to a brick storefront and leaned against it heavily. You hadn’t imagined that, right? The music, the drink, Sebastian. He wanted to see you again. You were glad you hadn’t had more to drink before wandering into his club, knowing you would have made an even bigger fool of yourself.
You smiled, letting the thrill of romantic possibility take root in your heart. You pushed off the wall and started for home, humming the last song he’d played for you. Maybe it had belonged to Mia once, but as of tonight, Sebastian had given it to you. The magnitude of the gift wasn’t lost on you; you knew it signaled a tidal shift in his trajectory, and if that new bearing pointed in your direction, that was more than fine with you.
Summary: your apartment has been one of Court's safehouses for a while now, easy. Your 'no strings' situationship, however? Less easy to navigate. When lines begin to blur, will he finally let you in?
Contents: MDNI, explicit sexual content, references to canon-typical violence, implied age gap (Court is canon age, Reader can be any age you like but is implied to be over the age of 30), smut with plot, realisation of feelings, yearning, no specific warnings.
A/N: I've never written for Court before but he kind of lives rent free so... I hope I've done him justice. I do have ideas for further expansion on these two, so please let me know if that's something you'd read! xo
W/C: 5.4k
You don't know his name, and you've long since stopped asking. You know him as Six, and only because you'd argued that you needed to call him something.
In pretty much anyone else, it would have been a red flag. Enough for you to refuse to entertain the idea of anything with him, no matter how casual. But you'd believed him when he'd so gently placed one big hand on your face, brushed his callused thumb over your cheek.
"I don't want anyone coming after you. And they would."
Maybe that should have been a key indicator that you should have walked away. But every time he's come to your door, usually in the middle of the night, you always let him in.
It's been a long time since anyone's called him anything but Six, and a small part of him wishes that you could. But his birth name, or even the shorter version of it that he used to prefer, is too unusual.
And as much as you say you won't tell a soul - and as much as he believes you - it would be too easy for someone to make you talk. All it takes is a singular slip of the tongue, and then you'd be at risk of torture, capture, being held hostage to lure him out.
And as much as he thinks he doesn't care enough for that to work, he knows different.
Because he doesn't get nearly anything remotely resembling peace in his life, but the closest to it is the few hours he spends with you.
There's no pattern to when he might show up. No forewarning. He does that on purpose. Watches your place to make sure it's safe, for both of you.
You open your door to see him standing there, dressed in an unassuming pair of black jeans, an acid washed grey tee, sleeves long enough to hide the scarring that trails along his left shoulder, down his bicep.
There's a healing bruise on his cheek, fresh scars on his knuckles, but he seems relatively unhurt. You've seen him in worse states, far worse. Had nights where you think maybe he's come to you because he doesn't think he'll ever see you again.
His dirty blond hair is disheveled, as usual, but he looks... Okay. Tired, but no visible injuries.
You may not know much about him - anything, really, beyond a rough estimate on his age - but you're not an idiot. Whatever he's into, you know that it's something dangerous.
Black Ops. Paramilitary, maybe. Something that's not on the record, and would make him a lot of enemies.
He steps inside, closes the door and triple checks the locks behind him before he's turning to you, barely gets a chance to look you up and down once before you're reaching for him.
"Are you hurt?" You ask, fully prepared for him to make some stupid joke about his ego, like he had that one time he'd shown up with a dislocated shoulder.
You keep a first aid kit that wouldn't be out of place in a small medical clinic under your bed for a reason now. A six feet tall, broad wall of muscle reason.
"Not this time." His voice is a little hoarse, like he hasn't spoken for a while, but aside from that, you take him at his word. It's not unusual for him not to speak much; he told you once that he sometimes goes days without needing to speak to anyone else.
"Okay. Okay, good," you say, trying to sound casual and failing. You've not quite gotten the art of acting as though you don't worry about him perfected.
Six knows you worry about him; can see it in your expression before you try to mask it. He's trained to read body language far more subtle than yours.
Hopefully one day, you won't have to worry about him anymore. Maybe if he puts enough bad guys into the ground, they'll let him disappear into civilian life. It's probably wishful thinking, but it's something to hold onto.
Fortunately, he can think of about a dozen ways to stop either of you from thinking about anything too depressing or upsetting right now.
Starting with leaning down and stealing a kiss. It's not really stolen if it's willingly given, considering the moment his mouth touches yours, you're leaning up, practically melting into him.
"I missed you," the words fall from his lips between kisses that become increasingly needy; Six might be tall and broad and dangerous, but he's also exceptionally touch starved.
Feeling is a liability, and he knows that, but he can't help it. Lifting you effortlessly into his arms, you barely get out an ‘I missed you, too’, before he's kissing you again.
Your apartment is small, thankfully, so it's not far from the hallway to the bedroom. He carries you the entire way, sets you down and only pulls away from you so he can remove a handgun from somewhere on his person.
He's careful about it, slides the ammo clip out and sets them down on the nightstand an inch or so apart before you're pulling him in closer, tugging at his shirt.
His gaze sweeps the room, taking stock of the entry and exit; your window is locked, the new lock he'd put on it for you last time still in place.
Then you're pulling his shirt up, and he helps you tug it off, toss it aside. It sure doesn't escape his notice, the way you look him up and down, your eyes traveling slowly over the plains of muscle that make up his chest and arms.
Six still sometimes expects you to flinch away when you see the scars that litter his body, particularly the worst of them across his left shoulder and down his bicep.
You never have, and you don't start now. Instead, your fingers are careful as you touch him, trace around the old scarring.
Thankfully, the new additions to his scars and bruises seem relatively minimal this time, not that you're really able to tell.
"Gonna just keep staring?" He asks, while his big, scarred hands find your waist, gently pull you in closer so he can kiss you again.
You think he's trying to distract you, trying to ease up some of your concern for him. You don't know half of it.
Six knows that this line of work will kill him eventually; he's not expecting some cushy retirement. Guys like him don't get that sort of thing. Sooner or later, there'll be a bad guy he can't kill first, and he'll end up in the ground.
He hadn't intended to keep coming back to you, but your apartment has become an unintended safehouse. One of many, but the only one that's occupied.
It's unfair to you, and he knows it; one day, he'll die, and you won't even know who to mourn. He knows it would be easier if neither of you got attached, but he's not stupid enough to think that's still an option.
That doesn't mean he wants to watch you be afraid for him in real time, because seeing that just makes it harder and harder for him to leave you behind.
Sooner or later, something's going to give, and he isn't sure he can feasibly say he wouldn't choose you if that happened.
Especially when your soft, warm hands are running all over him, your touch so gentle as he tugs your jeans down, caresses your ass and makes you laugh softly.
Between greedy kisses that border on desperate, the pair of you get the rest of your respective clothes off. He likes the way you touch the tattoos inked into his skin, the way you look at him like maybe he's worth saving.
From the way he's built and his general demeanor, it wouldn't be a stretch to assume that Six is strictly dominant.
The assumption would be only half true; he can be a little dominant, when he wants to be, but barely. He's actually quite gentle with you, particularly when he lifts you up and lays you down in the middle of the bed, hovers over you, caging you in between his arms.
You slide your hands up his chest again, link them at the nape of his neck as you wrap one leg around his waist, encouraging him closer.
Six can feel the heat radiating from your core, groans softly when you kiss his neck gently, trail wet, open mouthed kisses along his jawline.
"I missed you so much..." You breathe as he nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the faint scent of your perfume and soap.
You know that you say it a lot, probably more often than needed, but you can’t help it. There’s a small part of you that hopes that if you say it often enough, he might realise how much you genuinely care about him. That you might give him a reason to stay.
He knows that you mean it, too, beyond something purely physical. That you missed him, his presence, his voice.
That, too, is part of why he keeps coming back. Because he misses those things about you just as much. Misses the warmth of your body against his, the softness in your voice when you whisper his call sign.
His call sign.
God, you deserve so much more than just that.
The thought strikes him mid kiss, makes him freeze for just a fraction of a second before he forces the idea out of his head. Thinking too much about that will only make him sad, which is the last thing he wants right now.
So, instead, he focuses on your hands, warm and soft as you run them up his biceps, across his shoulders, as if you’re trying to commit the feeling of him to memory. For all he knows, you might be.
Six doesn’t know how long he has with you this time; he probably needs to leave before the sun rises, you know the drill by now. Sometimes, when he thinks he has longer, he takes his time with you.
It helps him decompress, in a way, to shut his brain off and focus entirely on you. To kiss you all over until you’re sobbing and begging. If he wasn’t still running on adrenaline, hadn’t been away from you for so long, he might have done the same tonight.
“Can I make you feel good?” you ask softly, your hand ghosting across his chest, down between you.
You’ve missed this; missed him, the scent of his cologne, the faint lingering smell of gunpowder and sweat and something that’s entirely him. You can’t place that last one.
There’s no telling how long it’ll be before you see him again - if you see him again - so you want to make this last. As much as you tell yourself that it means nothing, that he’s just a good lay who uses your place as a safehouse… you can’t lie to yourself.
The truth is, you barely know anything about him, and yet you want to. You want him. Feel things that make no sense to feel for an almost-stranger.
So, you lose yourself in the fantasy, in the daydream of knowing him better.
At least when he’s in your bed, you can pretend, just for a little while, that he’s yours.
So, you run your fingertips along his hipbone, unperturbed by the scars that you can feel beneath your touch. You continue the little touches, further inwards, wrap your warm hand gently around his cock.
He’s achingly hard, groans softly when you slowly stroke him. It’s not like he’s incapable of getting himself off, and he does, but it’s always so different to when you’re touching him. The feeling of your soft, warm hand wrapped around the thick length of his shaft, your eyes hazy with lust as you look up at him.
Six isn’t a stranger to people looking at him like that; he knows he’s handsome, knows that he keeps his body in peak physical condition. But there’s a difference between strangers eye fucking him and the way you look at him.
You kiss his throat, just above his pulse point, where you know he’s sensitive. Sure enough, he makes a little purring noise in response, rolls his hips gently into your hand. There’s a little jolt of satisfaction that runs through you at this, at the feeling of inspiring such a reaction in him.
So maybe you don’t know exactly what he does, but you know for sure he’s dangerous. Strong. And yet he practically melts into your touch like he’s starved for it. That isn’t exactly far from the truth.
“You gonna let me suck your cock?” you ask, kiss down his throat, along his collarbone, nip at his skin before working your way back. You want to. Badly. It’s one of your favorite things to do when you’re together, when he lets you.
But sometimes, like tonight, he doesn’t want to draw it out. Needs to be and feel connected with you in every way possible. So while he would very much like to feel your soft lips wrapped around his cock, look down and see that pretty sight, he’d rather be inside you.
“Not tonight,” he answers, gently removes your hand from his cock, brings it up to rest on his chest again. “Need you.”
You’re used to short sentences from him, soft words and silence, actions over words, so it doesn’t surprise you this time, either. Thankfully, you’re just as needy, too, have been aching and wet since he caged you in beneath him.
“Need you, too,” you whisper back, use the hand resting at the nape of his neck to gently tug him down into another kiss.
This one's deeper, more passionate; you pour all of your inexplicable feelings into it as he adjusts his body between your thighs.
Keeping himself braced on one hand, he reaches between you, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes it slowly once or twice.
It doesn't feel as good as when you did it. He drags the thick, velvet-soft tip through your soaked folds, nudges against your clit. You make a little whimpering sound into the kiss when he does, which sends another jolt of need through him, has his cock throbbing in his hand.
Still, he's so, so careful as he lets his tip catch at your entrance. No matter how pent up he is, how badly you need one another, he never just pushes inside you in one go.
Slowly, inch by inch, he presses deeper inside, nuzzles into the side of your neck and inhales the scent of your perfume.
The warm, wet feeling of your cunt around him is addictive, has his head spinning just a little. He's one of the most dangerous men in the world, and yet you make him forget it. Perhaps that's another reason he comes back.
As if it's not you. You, you, you. Everything about you. Six wants to love you in the daylight, he realises. Be with you. Explore what you could be together, if he wasn't who he is.
His hips meet yours, the full length of him buried inside you. You slip your hands under his arms, rest them on his back. It feels intimate, like you're holding him, and he loves it, gently rolls his hips and makes you whimper.
You're so responsive to him; he loves that about you. Loves the way you cling to him as he slowly starts to move.
The urge to pound you into the bed is there; it's not like he hasn't before, after all. But the desire to take his time wins out, so instead he gives you slow, deep thrusts that have your nails digging little crescent shapes into his back.
“Yeah? That feel good?”
In spite of himself, Six has to ask. Half because he wants to hear you say it, half because he knows that you love when he talks you through it.
You adjust your legs around his waist, cling to him with your soft hands as he builds up a steady pace, spurred on by the pretty sounds you make for him.
“Ohh, god-” you gasp as he grinds against you, his cock so deep inside that his tip kisses your cervix. “Oh my god-”
He responds with a soft, filthy groan, feeling the way your cunt constricts around him with sheer desire and arousal.
“Nnhh; oh, you like that, don't you? Yeah? I can feel how much you love it, sweetheart-”
He can't get enough of your hands all over him, your breathy moans and the way your back arches up, pressing your pretty tits against his chest.
You're both so close to one another, you leaning to chase his mouth, kissing every inch of him you can reach.
“Mmhmm, right there; please, Six-” you beg him, using his call sign, the only name he's ever given you.
Once again it strikes him, the deep buried desire to have this every night. To sleep beside you, take care of you. To wake you in the morning with his face between your thighs, making out with your sweet pussy until the sheets are soaked.
He'll never be allowed out of his contract, not that he can ever foresee, anyway.
Life in service to the CIA, or life in prison. He can't see a way where he could ever give you the life you deserve.
A ring on your finger. Children, if you wanted them. A pipe dream, something that'll always be out of his reach.
What, then, is left for him to give you, beyond physical intimacy?
“Court,” he whispers finally, slowing again to that sensual pace, gives you the only other piece of himself that he can.
Your eyes widen as you look up at him.
“W-what?” You can barely register what he's just told you, having long since accepted that you would likely just be calling him Six for the rest of time.
“My name,” his lips brush your ear, press a little kiss just below, “I want to hear you say it.”
“Court.” You breathe his name softly, like it's something precious and fragile, as though even saying it too loud could shatter the moment.
It's not the name you expected, but then, you aren't sure what you thought it might be.
Immediately though, you think it suits him. The transition from him being Six to Court in your internal dialogue is seamless, instant.
Especially when he starts to move again, deep, heavy thrusts full of an unspoken longing.
You moan so beautifully for him. Pretty sounds as he holds you close, still managing to hit all those perfect spots inside you.
Court usually tries to keep a certain degree of separation between himself and his lovers, but he’s always struggled to do that with you. Even when he’s had you on all fours, he’s had his chest pressed against your back, one arm wrapped around you to keep you close.
This is different though, almost an embrace as he steadily builds up a slightly rougher, faster pace.
You wrap your arms around his neck, chase his mouth for kiss after kiss, pleased when he lets you. He’s always sweet to you, but something’s different this time. Of course it is, otherwise he would never have finally given you his name.
Something is building between you, has been for months, feels right out of your reach at almost all times. Even as distracted as you are, you understand that a line has been crossed, one you can’t come back from. That him giving you his name, even what you suspect is a shortened version, is something momentous.
Your lips part in a breathy moan as he buries his face in your shoulder, letting you hear every soft grunt and groan that escapes him each time his hips make impact against yours.
He’s so big, getting deep inside you with each steady thrust, stretching you open deliciously; all you can do is cling to him, rake your nails gently across his broad shoulders and mewl as he somehow manages to massage your g-spot on every thrust.
“Yeah? Right there? That where you need me?” His already soft voice is a silky purr into your ear, every second word punctuated by little grunts that have you tightening around him.
“Mmhmm-” you whimper, wrap your legs around his waist, your feet resting neatly at the small of his back.
Court makes a soft little tsk sound, plants an open mouthed kiss on your throat.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
The soft chastising, the kisses he leaves all over your body, the feeling of him inside you, it’s too much. The orgasm that’s been building steadily inside you for a while now ripples through your body like a tidal wave.
“Oh my fucking god, Court-” you moan as he keeps fucking you through it, erratic snaps of his hips as your cunt flutters around him, your entire body trembling in his arms.
He doesn’t expect hearing his name in your voice, moaned so sweetly at the height of the pleasure he’s giving you, to have such an effect on him.
Court has remarkable self control; had it literally beaten into him during his training. But he doesn't remember the last time anyone used his name, let alone said it with such desire and affection.
It gets to him, gets under his skin, reminds him that he's more than just a killer in plain sight. Reminds him that there's still, at least, one person in the world who cares about him.
Another filthy groan rumbles in his chest as your still fluttering walls massage his cock, threaten to send him over the edge with you.
You're through the peak now, look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, your lips parted in a soft pout as he keeps steadily fucking into you, knows that he can drag a second orgasm out of you in quick succession.
“Oh fuck, nnhh, please, cum for me, please, Court, cum with me…”
Your impassioned plea rushes straight to his cock, though your back arching up and your walls tightening almost painfully around him as you reach that second peak certainly helps.
His pace falters, becomes more erratic as he gets right to the edge, fucks you through your release, waits until that very last moment before he pulls out of you, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes the heavy shaft.
With an obscene groan, he spills his load onto the softness of your stomach, hot, thick ropes of his spend painting your skin.
Breathless, you look up at him, commit the sight of his face when he cums to memory; he looks gorgeous in the soft glow of the lamp on your nightstand.
Court catches his breath; his recovery time is still impeccable. Leaning over you as you unfold your legs from around his waist, he brushes a soft kiss across your forehead.
You stretch your legs out with a little hum, sigh contentedly; you're just considering getting up to find a washcloth to clean yourself up with, when Court’s already on his feet.
“Let me.”
Shamelessly, your gaze tracks his naked form as he heads into your small en suite bathroom, returns with a warm washcloth and gently cleans you up.
Court is fully aware of the irony of this; his hands have more blood on them than he can count, but he's so careful with you, likes the way your gaze softens with affection as he does.
Tossing the washcloth into the laundry hamper on his way, Court gets back into bed with you, letting you pull the blankets up around you both and curl into his side, rest your head on his chest.
Your fingers trace little patterns into his chest, featherlight touches across the tattoos inked into his skin.
“Will you stay the night?” You ask, voice quiet; it feels like asking too much from him, when he's already crossed one major line.
Court doesn't take it as such. It's nice to feel wanted, cared for.
“Yeah. That’d be nice.”
The few times he's stayed the night, you've woken early before he leaves, made sure he eats.
It's a somewhat domestic routine, but there's always been that degree of separation, where you were you, but he was just Six.
But now… now you know his preferred name. Now he knows what said name sounds like in your voice, whispered and moaned in the height of pleasure.
It’s far more intimacy than he should be involved in. Puts you at risk. And yet.
Court is quite possibly the most dangerous man in the world. Quite certainly the world’s deadliest covert operator.
He isn’t arrogant enough to believe that nobody would try to harm you, given the chance. But he wants to believe that he’s good enough at what he does to keep you safe. He has to believe that, because the alternative is to panic, or worse, keep you at arm’s length.
Those are his options. Trust his own abilities, do his best to keep you safe in spite of the risk… or break your heart, and arguably, his own. Court doesn’t care much for his own emotions, knows how to shut himself off when he needs to.
But you… Court isn’t willing to gamble with hurting your feelings. Of course, he’d rather not gamble with your life, either, but, well. He’s killed more scumbags than he can count, and that was just a job. Anyone who came after you? That would be personal, and Court can think of a dozen ways he’d make them pay for it.
He’s pulled out of his ruminating by you pressing a little kiss to his jaw.
“Hey,” you whisper, “you okay?”
Instinctively, he knows you aren’t prying for details about his state prior to arriving here. You know better than that. He supposes he’s probably been too quiet for too long, making you worry, even though you’re used to his silences.
But then again, you’ve never been silent together after he's given you his name before.
“Yeah, sweetheart, I'm okay.”
Court isn't lying. As far as mood goes, and physical health, he's fine. Better than fine. But he sounds tired, exhausted even, and you can hear it in his voice.
He doesn't want you worrying about him anymore than he knows you do already.
You might not be trained the way he is, but you're not an idiot. Court thinks he's difficult to read, but you're observant. Spend more time with him than pretty much anyone else that isn't Fitz.
So, he isn't surprised when you make a little humming sound, like you know he's omitting things.
But you don't seem upset. Instead, you plant more kisses all over him; chest, neck, face, finally his mouth.
Court finds your touch comforting, he realises. That's part of why he keeps coming back to you.
It's not just about having somewhere safe to crash, or about getting laid. It's about the fact that for a few short hours, he can feel like an ordinary man.
Turning his head slightly, he returns your kiss, wraps his arms around you so you can nestle yourself against his chest.
There's no rush to the kiss, and it's not the heated sort that leads to sex, either. Instead, these kisses are slow, languid. Kisses for the sake of kissing.
That's new, too, but neither of you mention that fact when you break apart, one hand resting on his cheek, your thumb brushing back and forth.
One of his tattooed hands covers yours for just a moment, before his crystal blue eyes meet your gaze.
You can see the fatigue wearing on him, flip your palm so you can gently squeeze his hand.
“Get some sleep. I'll watch over you.”
That brings a smile to Court's face; the idea of you, so fragile in comparison, watching over him while he sleeps.
“Just an hour. Then you wake me.”
You're so pleased that he agrees to sleep that you nod, even though you'd rather he gets a full night's rest.
“An hour.” You agree, extracting yourself from his arms so he can get comfortable. You end up trading places, Court resting his head on your shoulder.
“‘night, sweetheart.”
You press a kiss to the top of his head, and it's the last thing he's aware of before sleep takes over.
Court wakes slowly; you must have fallen asleep at some point, too, but he can feel you breathing, so he's not too concerned.
His mind and body still feel a little foggy, which makes him think he slept for longer than an hour.
He can also hear the sounds of light traffic, which makes him think dawn is close. That isn't enough to make him move, though. Court doesn't remember the last time he was so comfortable.
You have one arm wrapped loosely around him, your free hand gently carding through his hair. The touch is intimate, loving.
It makes him wonder about the expression on your face right now. What he might see if he opens his eyes.
So he does, slowly, crystal blue still a little hazy with sleep. It catches you off guard, so he's privy to the unmasked affection in your eyes before you startle.
“That was longer than an hour,” he murmurs, blinking sleep away as you give him an apologetic look.
“I'm sorry. You needed the rest…”
He knows you're right, of course. He also knows he can't protect you twenty four seven. Besides which, he really does feel better.
“I did.” He agrees, sitting up so he can pull you into his arms. Immediately, you curl into him.
Of course, you don't know what - or who - he is, but you clearly feel safe with him. Court doesn't know whether he's earned that privilege, but he swears he'll never give you reason not to.
“Court?”
Hearing his name still startles him; he needs to get used to it after so long, but he likes the way it sounds in your voice. The way you say it so softly, your affection for him clear in your voice.
“Yeah?”
“Can you stay a little longer? I know you’ve probably stayed too long as it is, but…”
But you’ll miss him terribly when he’s gone, not knowing when you’ll see him again - if you’ll see him again. It makes you feel selfish, makes you want to be greedy and take as much of his time as he allows.
Luckily, he feels the same. He hasn’t been briefed on a new target yet, so it’s best for him to go to ground anyway.
Besides which, he likes the idea of spending time with you. Playing house for a bit, if you’ll let him. It’s more than he ever expected, even if it’s temporary. But he’s got a moral code, isn’t a bad person.
So he feels it necessary to warn you.
“I’ll break your heart one day, I need you to understand that, then decide whether you still want me to stay.”
Even as he says it, one hand gently stroking your cheek, it hurts him; he doesn’t want to walk away from you, but he needs to give you that choice. One last chance to back away, because people like him don’t get peace. That was the deal he made.
He wouldn’t blame you if you changed your mind.
Thinking that, it surprises him when you gently cup his face in your much smaller hands, brush your thumbs across his cheeks, nuzzle your nose against his before you press a gentle kiss to his mouth.
“Stay with me,” you breathe, pulling back only so you can meet his gaze, so he can see for himself the certainty, the affection, burning in your eyes.
Slowly, he nods. Court doesn’t know how long he has - before he’s called out again, before he dies, but what he does know, is that he wants to spend whatever peaceful time he gets here, with you.
“Okay,” he says softly, immediately knows it was the right decision when your eyes light up.
He makes a soft little oof sound as you slide into his lap, straddling him, planting kisses all over his face.
Court doesn’t know how much time he has with you, but as he wraps his arms around you, returns your kisses, he knows one thing for certain: it won’t ever be enough time.
Geese men who have a giggleshit partner like the LITTLEST SILLY thing will have their knees getting slapped and belly jiggling kind of laugh
Oh I love this… I can be a little gigglybitch, I’m not gonna lie— especially after midnight. It’s like I lose my sanity.
Went a little crazy with this one— tried adding a lot of them into a single post :3
Driver:
Definitely enamored by you laughing at every little thing. Everything he does that’s meant to be make you laugh, he’s hoping beyond belief that you do. He’s just so fucking in love, it hurts his chest. He’ll feel his face start to hurt from smiling so much as he watches you bent over yourself, laughing and trying to catch your breath over something stupid.
Colt:
He is a little giggly bitch too, I mean seriously. I can just see the two of you falling down together laughing like Sal from impractical jokers. You’ll be rolling on the floor, repeating the stupid shit that made you laugh back to each other and hurting your stomachs as you wipe tears from your eyes. Colt is definitely doing anything and everything to make you laugh, even if it hurts him. He’s figures that if he can get hurt for his job and not care, why wouldn’t he mind getting hurt for you if you laugh?
Court:
So fucking confused. Genuinely. Why are you rolling on the floor, or bent in half trying to catch your breath? It wasn’t that funny… at least he thought so. He might be confused but has no choice but to smile at you all enamored. You’re just so easygoing and relaxed and he loves that. Will try to do little things to make you happy, not entirely sure what to do, but figuring it out as he goes. Court is treating your humor as a mission, figuring out what makes you laugh most so he can make it happen.
Seb:
He’s relatively serious, but not really, it’s more of a facade than anything. If you start laughing about something and he doesn’t understand, he might just laugh because you’re laughing and he likes the sound so much. If you scare him and he jumps like a little cat, you’re giggling and wheezing at him, and after his heart doesn’t jump out of his chest, he’s laughing lightly with you and asking if you can breathe when you cough. He might do things that make you laugh intentionally, but still smiles at you so lovingly when you.
Luke:
Fucking enamored. Genuinely. You’re so happy and delightful, he loves it. Could probably stare a hole through you with how hard he’s looking at you as he wonders how he got so lucky to have such a beautiful partner— mind, body and soul. Luke does shit that makes you laugh and it even makes him laugh, which didn’t happen often before you. He’s all proud of himself after he makes you even smile, and will tease you, saying you like him or find him funny. You do find funny, and you do like him, and you tell him as much, which makes him short-circuit a moment before he has to kiss you.
Grace:
He might actually be a little obsessed with your laugh. Will be telling you stupid jokes he’s heard or telling you stories about the kids in his class that made him laugh. He just needs you to be happy, he loves you. Will probably break down laughing with you, but is quieter about it. Gets worried when you don’t recover from a giggle fit quick enough, wondering if you’re getting enough air and tells you to try to breathe deeply, which makes you laugh all over again.
Julian:
This man… he’s confused by it all: You laughing, you holding onto him as you wheeze about something stupid, everything. While you’re laughing so hard you choke and wiping tears from your eyes, he’s wondering what the fuck just happened so he just can get in on the joke. Once he realizes what you’re laughing at, he turns to you and gives you a ‘seriously?’ look that makes you snort and get fake defensive, teasing him, saying he has no humor. He’s probably so happy to know and see how much different you are to him. You’re like a beacon of light to him, and he wants to always be around you, so he tries to find quiet things to make you laugh about. Anything really, even if it’s just blowing the paper wrapper off of a straw at you. So long as you laugh, he considers his mission accomplished.
K:
He actually thinks you’re adorable. You’re laughing as the world is falling apart, and he can’t help but silently smile at you. He’s not human, but you’re hanging off his arm like he is, like this is normal, using him as an anchor as you laugh at something stupid. He likes to dance, which only you know about, so he’ll spin and drop you to make you giggle before he pulls you close to him again. Just loves hearing your laugh; it’s gotten him through many things before— fights or the loneliness crushing him in his bare apartment. Loves to be with you— just spend time with you. Even if you just both sit there quietly. Loves when you have to hold onto him to keep yourself upright with how hard you’re wheezing over something. He holds onto you tightly and makes sure you’ve actually caught your breath before you two go back to whatever it was you were doing.
shout out to book!grace, who blasted himself with 29 atmospheres worth of 210c (410f) degrees hot straight ammonia, in the hopes that rocky would survive. who carried rockys whole 168kg (370lbg) down ladders in a make-shift carrier. who turned around for rocky, fully expecting to die of starvation. sigh. who was just a little bit more of a bitch than movie!grace (whats that one quote where hes like "if i had a nickel for every parent i wanted to slap during my career, id have enough to fill a sock and hit them with that instead"). who was purposefully given memory loss, so he wouldnt sabotage the mission (something he threatned many times). who wasnt "friendless", like he was depicted in the movie. i miss you so bad. you were everything.
titsay
izzy806
yousharknotpass
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
areudirty
prguitarman
