⋆ frequently kind ⋆

she/her ✶ nineteen

[wynnevee]

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my name is wynne

MDNI !! with my blog or any of my content

i will NEVER use AI to produce my content

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# 💫 : character name - my recommendations

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[wynnevee]

brendon park x mom!reader

warning: child with a broken arm, deadbeat father, fluffy

you should’ve known better than to enroll your five year old in karate classes. eloise in a skill that requires balance and coordination? almost laughable.

but she was so excited, and the program was free through the community center, and since she had started school a few months ago, it was clear that she needed some outside opportunities for socialization.

“nobody wants to play with me,” she whispered one night, little frown dragging her whole face down with it. “they don’t like my games.”

in the children’s defense, her games were mostly trivia based, or playing pretend animals, as long as everyone agrees to abide by realistic animal behavior.

she really likes nature documentaries.

still, though, you couldn’t just leave your daughter friendless because some little shitheads can’t appreciate animal facts. so, when she saw a flyer for karate—entranced the figure on the graphic balancing on one foot—she was jumping for joy.

she made it through half of a lesson before tripping on a balance beam and falling right on her wrist.

“hello, my name is doctor park, i’m the pediatric orthopedic specialist and am gonna examine your daught—”

“why was that nurse calling you a shark?” eloise interrupted, tilting her head curiously. her voice was squeaky and loud, making the big man (the handsome, brooding, very big man) to jump in surprise.

you shoot her a begging glance. “eloise—”

“sharks don’t have bones,” eloise continues, the pain medicine in her IV clearly pumping through her. “their skeletons are made of cart-it-age. are you the bone doctor?”

embarrassment crippled you, but before you could offer an apology, doctor park snapped his gloves on. “yes ma’am, that’s what orthopedic means. also, it’s cartilage. would you care to tell me—”

“then why are you a shark?” she repeats.

“because i’m scary.”

eloise giggles. “that’s silly.”

“i’m so sorry, she’s not used to… drugs,” you whisper.

‘the shark’ smiles at you softly, nodding, then turns back to eloise, squatting down beside her. “alright, miss eloise. if you tell me everything you know about sharks, i’ll take a look at your arm and we will send you on your way.”

eloise beams—so do you.

as your being discharged that evening, you manage to catch the doctor, stomach tightening when he smiles softly at you.

“i just wanted to thank you, so much,” you say, tears brimming in your eyes. “she doesn’t really… fit in? at school? and sharks are like her favorite animal and nobody—well, except for me—engages with her like that. so thank you.”

his silent, stoic stare stirs shame in your chest. this was stupid. you were too emotional, too forward, overexcited—just bad, bad, bad. you take a shakey breath and a short stride backwards when a stocky hand reaches out to steady you.

“of course,” he responds. “she’s a very nice, very informed little girl. if you don’t mind me asking, is her father—or your partner— still in the picture?”

you swallow, shaking your head. “he left when she was three.”

brendon nods. “i’m sorry to hear that.” he reaches into the pocket of his scrubs, pulling out a small, cardstock business card with a doctors scrawl on the back. he hands it to you, expression faltering for a moment—he almost looks nervous. “i hope this isn’t too forward but i would love to make her, and you, feel heard again.”

[dancing-writes]

“i’m so sorry, she’s not used to… drugs,” made me laugh out loud. It's past midnight, and I'm supposed to be asleep.

[wynnevee]

i show zero remorse

[wynnevee]

Would you ever take requests for Ryland?🥰

YES YES IF YOU SEND ME REQUESTS I WILL KISS YOU DIRECTLY ON THE MOUTH AND LOVE YOU FOREVER

[kpopgirlbtssvt]

OKI YAYY I SENT ONE IF IT’S ALL RIGHT! @wynnevee

[wynnevee]

ALREADY WORKING ON IT POOKIE DONT YOU WORRY

[wynnevee]

Would you ever take requests for Ryland?🥰

YES YES IF YOU SEND ME REQUESTS I WILL KISS YOU DIRECTLY ON THE MOUTH AND LOVE YOU FOREVER

[saturnsuv]

being mutuals is like we’ve never talked but i saw your vent post and do you want me to kill that person for you. still won’t talk to you tho bc that is scary sorry. love you

[nothxbb]

thinking about ryland pushing you into subspace on purpose because he loves how sleepy and happy it makes you. he edges you for hours, denying you over and over while you writhe on the bed, begging for him to let you come. he'll have you in every position, using his cock, his fingers, his mouth, toys, anything he wants as he works you up again and again while telling you how good you're doing, how well you take him, how perfect you feel around him, how much more he's going to do to you before he's done.

and when he finally lets you come, he doesn't stop. he makes you come so many times that you lose count, just riding the waves as they come, letting him take what he wants. you're boneless when he's done with you, so spacey and floaty, you can't even look at him when you're like this, vision too blurry to focus. he cleans you up so gently, hands never leaving your body, making sure you feel safe and secure, grounding you if there are any tears.

he holds you against him so tenderly, hands stroking over your skin, kisses landing anywhere he can reach. he can see how out of it you are, whispering quietly about how proud he is, how he's there for you, however you need him. and even if you can't make out the words he's saying you recognize the care in his tone, can feel how he radiates love and safety.

he never rushes you back to him, just lets you float for as long as you need to, knowing that you'll blink the fog away and kiss him senseless as soon as your body and mind can sync up again. and you sleep better than ever on those nights, wrapped in his arms, his breath on your neck, big hands holding you tightly

[wynnevee]

reader scratching ryland’s back and arms to shreds and then rocky rolls in on him changing the next day and freaks out.

“GRACE DIE? GRACE DIE? BAD, BAD, BAD! DANGER, WHERE DANGER, QUESTION?”

[c4llisto-io]

Retrace My Steps ☆*.

(Ryland Grace x reader)

W/C: 1.4k

Contains: Angst, probably one or two suggestive references, reader and Ryland have kids, RYLAND IS A GIRL DAD

Summary: After being in a relationship with Ryland for so long, your kids and respective jobs got in the way of you and ryland ever being able to spend quality time together

A/N: Hey guys... I posted this thought here a week or so ago and yall ate that shit up so I finally wrote it. This is going to be multiple parts so lmk if you guys want part 2...

Silence was a privilege. Something having kids and a very talkative husband had taught you. But nights like this felt too quiet, restraining almost. As if the warmth had been torn away though it was only upstairs fast asleep.

A creak behind you snaps you out of your train of thought. Ryland carefully tip-toes toward you, carefully trying not to wake the kids up upstairs whom he had just spent a whopping hour-and-a-half trying to put to bed. His eyes find yours and he lets himself lean against the doorframe of the kitchen, letting out a long, profound sigh and resting his palm on his forehead.

The two of you sit in silence for a beat, taking in the chaos of the day, which—for the past nine years—has now become every day. Rylands eyes find yours once more and he shifts in his place.

“We really gotta get the kids melatonin gummies or something,” he starts, “It feels like I'm facing one of heracles's great challenges every night.”

He chuckles lightly to himself and you echo him as he pushes off the doorway to sit next to you at the kitchen table. After getting comfortable in his seat he rests his chin on his palm and draws circles on the dining table.

“Well, to be fair, they are your daughters,” you joke, giving him a glance and noticing the smile creeping back on his face. His eyes wander around your face for a moment—a beat too long, almost leaning in slightly to take a closer look as if the face he's been in love with for years has somehow changed. He catches himself and leans back in his chair, playing with his hands in his lap.

“Welp,” he announced, “I should probably go uh…grade some papers.”

He mumbles the last part, practically a whisper as he shuffles out of the kitchen as quickly as possible, trying to avoid the conversation he's dreading. Your eyebrows furrow and you shoot up from your seat.

“Honey!” You whisper-yell, scooting your chair back and following after him. He only rubs the back of his neck and continues on his journey to his desk, “you told me you had those papers graded already! You literally promised we could watch our show together tonight!”

“I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's just- the girls needed help with their homework last night and… y'know,” he shrugs, sitting down in the plush chair and sliding over to his desk. The grunt you let out in response makes him flinch.

“Ryland.” You put your hands on the back of the chair, turning it so he can look you in the eyes. “We haven't spent any actual quality time together in months. Please, just tonight, let loose a little.”

It's hard to not completely fold at the look in your eyes. But he is dedicated. Only, how dedicated. He glances at the papers and runs a hand over his face.

“Honey…” by the disappointed tone in his voice you can already tell what his next line is gonna be. Your shoulders drop and you sigh, “I promise after this quarter I will spend as much time with you as I can. Its just, parent teacher conferences and all-”

“You've been saying the same thing for months, Ryland!” Your voice raises, only to be followed up by a loud thump upstairs. Before either of you can even throw up another defense at each other, a voice from upstairs cries out.

“Daaaaaaaad!!”

Ryland groans and pulls his glasses off, leaving them on his desk and shuffling up the stairs and calling back to the, seemingly, arguing kids upstairs, trying to sort out whatever mess they've gotten themselves into now.

【☆*.】

He crawls into bed that night awkwardly, desperately trying to slide under the covers unnoticed. He tries his damn best to completely forget about the conversation between you and him.

When you turn your head around to look at him he practically jumps up, his mouth agape as the two of you stare at each other in complete darkness for what feels like hours.

“M’ sorry,” he whispers, shaking his head in defeat and huffing. “It's just, with parent-teacher conferences coming up and everything, I-”

“It's fine.” You turn back over, cutting him off completely and shifting to pull the comforter further over yourself. He follows in your steps, laying his head on his pillow.

He scoots forward slightly and places a gentle kiss on the back of your neck, muttering a few more apologies, mostly to himself, as he drifts off to sleep with one last thing on his mind. He has to bring the spark back.

The next day is… a lot. A whole lot. The morning starts with your two daughters jumping onto your bed and pulling on your and Rylands hair, begging for one of you to turn something on the TV because the morning is just unbearable without a screen in front of their face.

Ryland lets out a low, annoyed grumble and groggily shuffles out of bed and down the stairs. You emerge from the bedroom not much longer to make the girls breakfast before they're off to school.

The tension between you and Ryland is still thick. Very thick. So thick that you're almost certain you could cut right through it with the knife in your very hand as you slice up apples and place the portions on two plates.

You sigh when you hear a set of feet pad over to you from behind, pretending not to hear it. Even though you could never really be upset with him, you pretend so as Ryland leans against the counter next to you.

“Look, honey, I'm sorry,” he starts, running a hand through his hair and letting his glasses fall down to his chin. “I miss when we were… y'know.”

He makes a hand gesture, waving his hand back and forth between you and him. The look on your face when you turn to look at him almost makes him jump back. He only whines. Your face softens and turns to a look of disappointment in both yourself and him. “I just wish you would still be my Ryland.”

Ouch, he thought to himself. He bites his cheek and pushes off the counter, wandering off to get the girls at the kitchen table.

Your Ryland. Had he really strayed that far away? Are the two of you even a loving couple anymore or just roommates who get intimate every once in a while just to keep the relationship somewhat still there? When was the last time you and him almost passed out from laughing so hard? The last time he felt his heart skip a beat when you leaned in and peppered his face with kisses?

He had been using adulthood as an easy excuse for this whole situation when there really isn't an excuse for this. He simply had lost himself in the labor, his work and having children.

He will bring the spark back between you and him. He will become your Ryland again and he depends on it.

【☆*.】

Work went by fast.

So fast, in fact, that by the time the seventh period bell had rung he hadn't even fully comprehended what the heck he had been rambling about to his class all day. He would just get their attention and… ramble. He normally is very particular about what he says, spending forever in his head to craft the perfect response. But today he had just word vomited everywhere. He even forgot to take attendance for multiple periods and got yelled at over the phone for it.

As his final class all files out of the class, he takes a step back, falling into his chair and sliding backward into the wall behind him. He only stares at the ceiling for a while, scratching his chin in deep thought.

How can he bring back the spark, anyway? You're already married to him with kids for god sake.

Maybe he can retrace his steps… Yes, that's it! He already wooed you once, he can surely do it again! Why act his age when he can act like the idiot college student he was back when he first fell in love with you.

He quickly wrangles his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through his contacts and stopping on the desired component.

[ Ryland: Hey there! I apologize for the short notice but are you available to babysit the girls for us tonight? ]

[ Babysitter: Sure thing! ]

[wynnevee]

ugh i love angst

[cloudytimelapse]

You bought a variety pack of flavoured lip balms.

Ryland was getting ready to leave for school. “I'll see you later, baby” he said, adjusting his tie and leaning down to press a kiss to your lips like he did every day.

The moment his lips touched yours, the thick, slick product transferred to his lips. The warm scent of vanilla filled his senses, making him pull back slightly.

“Is this a new lip balm?” he asked, his eyes dropping from your eyes to your mouth. You hummed in response, “Yeah, I bought it recently”

While he was used to kissing you with lip balm on, you had never used a flavoured one before.

“M’kay” he muttered. He dipped back down to kiss you properly, his grip on your face tightening as he tasted the vanilla. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip. Usually, your morning parting kisses were quick because he had to rush out on his bike to reach school on time. Today, however, he lingered. He kept moving his lips against yours, lost in the feel of your mouth as the vanilla mixed with the lingering taste of coffee on his tongue.

For the rest of the day, he couldn't stop kissing you. He kept finding excuses to steal a quick peck, or better yet, pull you into a proper kiss. You were literally just existing, and the man was all over you, constantly leaning in with a quick, “Lemme just...” before pulling you into a smooch. You had to reapply the lip balm dozens of times because half of what you applied ended up on his lips, or directly into his system because he kept licking it off.

A few days later, he kissed you expecting that familiar vanilla flavour he had grown to love. Instead, a sweet, fruity scent hit him just before his lips landed on yours. He made a muffled noise against your mouth before pulling back, his tongue darting out to taste his own lips.

“It’s different” he whispered.

“What?” you asked.

“The flavour” he replied, “It’s not vanilla”

“It’s peach” you informed him.

His gaze dropped to your lips, noticing the sheer, light nude tint.

“‘S nice” he murmured. He leaned in to kiss you again, his tongue brushing the corner of your mouth. A tiny amount of the balm transferred to his tongue before it entered your mouth and he deepened the kiss. When he finally pulled back, you raised your hand to his face, your fingers gently wiping away the excess product smeared below his lips.

“If this keeps up, I'm going to run out of this balm way too soon” you teased.

“You have more than one, so it's fine” he said softly with a small smile.

The next few days went exactly the same way, with Ryland kissing you insistently as if he had absolutely no control over himself.

Then came the day you chose a new flavour - cherry, which left a sheer, slight red tint on your lips. Ryland noticed the difference immediately. The day went on as usual, except Ryland kept cutting you off in the middle of your sentences just to kiss you. Sometimes, his tongue would brush your lips before his actual mouth even touched yours, making you gasp into the kiss.

You were looking at your phone, “Hey, Ry, about dinner, I was thinking-”

He suddenly stepped into your space, and captured your lips in a deep, needy kiss, devouring your mouth like he was trying to taste every drop of it. When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, he murmured against your lips, “Sorry for interrupting you, babe”

You blinked, breathless, a little flush spreading across your cheeks, “It’s fine, but as I was saying-”

He leaned right back down, cutting you off again. His hands found your waist to pull you against him. Yeah, he’s not sorry in the slightest.

Another day brought another flavour - caramel. It amused him because he wasn't eating any toffee, yet he kept getting the sugary taste of it directly from your mouth. This flavour made him nip at your bottom lip a lot as if he were eating actual toffee.

One morning, you were getting ready for the day and reached out to grab whichever tube your fingers landed on first. Ryland, who was tucking his shirt into his jeans, suddenly stopped you.

“Baby, can you...” he trailed off. His eyes were trained on the peach lip balm in your hand, “Can you use the cherry one today?”

You paused, processing his words, before a slow smile spread across your face, “Oh, do you like the cherry one, Ry?” you teased.

A light blush spread across his cheeks, and he finally forced himself to look into your eyes, "Uh, n-no, nothing like that. It just...” He stumbled over his words, trying to find an excuse, “It just tastes the best out of all of them” he managed to say.

You laughed softly, switching the peach tube for the cherry one, “You know, you could just use it on yourself, right?”

He stepped closer to you the second you finished applying it, wrapping his arms around you, “Won't taste as good as it does from you” he murmured, before leaning down to kiss you.

—

Inspired by @rockylandphm 💕

[doctor-ryland-grace]

Ryland picking you up for your 'first date' on Erid.

Ryland who can't keep his mouth shut because what better thing to do when nervous than talk? And says, "You know, my dating profile never said anything about long walks on the beach but uh..." He looked over his shoulder and with a shy smile, turned back towards you and chuckled under his breath, "There's not much else to do here, honestly."

You giggled softly and followed his blue eyes to the pebbly beach with a small nod, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear as Ryland's face turns a cute shade of pink. You take this moment to sneak past him and shut the door, your scent wafting into his nostrils as you pass. Ryland feels like he's about to pass out. "I think it's the perfect date."

"Oh, thank goodness." He puffed his cheeks out and rubed the back of his head, fingers tangling into his blonde hair for a moment as another uncouth joke sliped out, "It was between this and going to the Eridian Theology lecture on the 'Digital Age'. I think the topic was Wikipedia. That didn't strike me as all too romantic, unless you're into that sort of thing, at which point we can just ditch the beach and go---" "Ryland." He shut his mouth slowly and looked at you with a sheepish smile.

"I really want to walk on the beach."

"Good, because going to that lecture was totally going to throw off everything I had planned." He smiled softly and looked down at his feet.

"What do you have planned, Ry?"

The way he was staring at the small pebbles underfoot made them seem like the most fascinating thing on all of Erid as his mouth got away from him as it so often did, "Oh you know..." His broad shoulders rose slightly, "I t-thought maybe would could take a walk... Along the beach..." "Yeah, I got that." You grinned, feeling your shoulder bump against his as you began trailing along the coastline. "What else?" "And I thought that if the conversation... never got awkward," He sucked a deep breath in, "And I resisted my urge to explain to you the tidal mechanics of the Biodome, I'd see if you maybe uh... wanted to hold my... hand."

A beat.

"Are you asking me if I want to hold your hand---?" Your entire body felt hot at the unintentional flirtation that the man next to you had offered. "No---" Your question overlapped with Ryland's response as his feet came to a slow stop, his weight shifting against the pebbles, the shine of the dim, foggy light bouncing off his golden frames as he glanced down at you over the rims, the blush on his face so rampant it was overpowering his facial hair. "I figured that was sort of... ambitious in the itenerary for a first date..."

The smile that slid along your expression almost goofy. "I dunno about that." You slipped your hand into his, feeling the sweat hit yours immediately, but that wasn't a bother as your fingers seemed to fit perfectly with his with incedible ease. "I think you've already checked the hardest thing off your itinerary."

Oh goodness gracious. Ryland was sure that his ears were pink at this point as he slowly locked his gaze onto your entwining hands. "Th... That uh... really throws off my plans."

"We can make new plans."

"New plans." Ryland echoed softly as you began walking again, tugging him along with your hand. He seemed almost superglued to the ground before feeling the warmth of your hand in his and quickly, he was moving alongside you, hands dangling between your bodies. "I think I can work with some new plans."

[wynnevee]

he’s such a fucking nerd i love it

[fernstyx]

cuddling with ryland, and you banter back and forth a bit, which turns into giggly playfighting. he's leaning over you, trying to pin you under him, and you try to bat him away. somehow, your fingers end up tangled in his hair and give it a slight, mostly accidental tug.

he moans. not like he's in pain — you've heard him stub his toe enough times to know what that sounds like. no, this kind of moan is familiar for a different reason entirely. being a proud menace, you do it again, of course. he whimpers and looks at you pleadingly, eyes half-lidded through his crooked glasses. you feel something hard press against you where his hips meet your thigh.

"again? please?" he whines, and you've never been happier to oblige.

[josieisadeadgirl]

dennis whitaker x javdisbsf!reader pt. 2

what dat mean....?

@beths-shoelaces @neenieweenie @americanadolls @mythology-dragon @uhmmjayla @laitifly @morrissysbassment

[sleeplessdreamer14]

Ryland Grace who breathes in deep through his nose when he kisses you on the mouth because his heart’s beating so fast he needs to catch his breath but cannot bring himself to pull away.

Ryland Grace who once he has a taste of you, wraps his arms around you to try and hold you as close as possible because stupid physics says he can’t be under your skin no matter how badly he wants to be.

Ryland Grace who feels his knees go weak when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss AND card your fingers through his hair.

Ryland Grace who swears you can hear how fast and loud his heartbeat is when you kiss him because it’s clear as a bell to him.

Ryland Grace who is right where he wants to be, wrapped around your finger.

[grilchgurt]

filling (ryland grace x reader)

also posted on ao3 | my masterlist There is still a hole in your ceiling, but your dissertation is almost finished, and things are going great with Ryland, and everything is starting to look up. Right? ~8.7k words; fluff; smut; light angst; continuation of sweet tooth (please read that first); waitress!reader; grad student!reader; oral - f!receiving; missionary (though only alluded to at the end) a/n: this. was almost much, much longer, with an extra scene at the end, but i decided not to do it. i have a lot of thoughts on this, which i have more fully expounded upon in the endnote on ao3. finally: i am still very much open for requests! i have nothing in my inbox at the moment, and i welcome any thoughts you might have for what i write next :3

“I think I’m starting to have second thoughts.”

Ryland freezes, which means that the eggs (still scrambled) that he’s piled onto his piece of toast (again, still wheat) slide back down onto his plate with a plop. He slowly sets the bread down on top of them after a beat. “About—do you mean about us?”

Your eyes widen with panic. “Oh my God, no, no, that is literally like, the only thing in my life right now that doesn’t totally suck.” This is not even a little bit of an overexaggeration: there’s been a hole in your ceiling for four months, haphazardly covered with a piece of plastic sheeting, and your car broke down a few weeks ago, and you are currently in the hell that is editing your dissertation. At least it’s finished. Mostly. “No, I mean—this,” you say, gesturing at your laptop.

“Oh.” He does a little phew and starts shoveling the eggs back onto the toast. “I thought it was pretty good the last time I read it. Did you see the comments I left?”

“Yeah. I particularly liked the one at the very start which highlighted my name and said ‘baddie.’”

He grins, looking extremely pleased with himself. “One of my students taught me that the other day. I thought you might appreciate it.”

It’s adorable, really, how much effort he’s been putting into learning recent internet culture—his references are otherwise a little dated—because when you’re not writing, or grading, or working, or hanging out with him, you are rotting in your bed and scrolling on your phone. “I did. But I don’t mean my diss, either. It’s—I’m starting to get a little, I don’t know, disillusioned with the job market.” One of the application portals (because of course, not every institution uses the same one) is currently staring at you from your screen, listing the dozens of postings that you’ve applied to. Their statuses are…not promising.

He nods thoughtfully at that, still shoving his breakfast into his mouth. “I thought you had that offer to adjunct at City?” Yep, still cute when he talks with food in his mouth, not disgusting, and you are in so, so deeply at this point.

“That’s kind of my point. I haven’t heard back from anywhere else, and everyone knows that adjuncting sucks, like, so badly, and I just. I thought that it would be fine that I missed the window to apply to tenure-track jobs, that I would just get a postdoc or a VAP somewhere and apply for those next cycle, but…I think I might not be cut out for this.”

“Hey. Look at me,” and he nudges your arm, because you had smushed your face into the table partway through your rambling. “Just because you haven’t landed something yet, doesn’t mean you won’t.”

You sigh and lift your head up to rest on your hand instead. “I don’t—this is going to sound super bitter and petty. But sometimes it’s hard to actually feel better when you say stuff like that, because it wasn’t like this for you. At all. You got a job, like, so quickly.”

“Yeah. And it sucked, and then I blew up my career, very publicly, and now I have a different job that I actually like.”

“That’s. Also true.”

“So. Maybe it works out, maybe it doesn’t. You’ll figure it out.” He smiles, then, and reaches over to grab the hand that isn’t holding up your head, running his fingers over your knuckles gently. “Okay?”

“…Alright.” You close your laptop, then, and squeeze his hand. “You should get going.”

Ryland glances down at his watch—he’s had to start wearing one, because he gets so distracted talking with you in the morning that he’s been late to work an alarming number of times—and mutters shoot before sticking the last piece of bacon in his mouth. The check’s already been paid, also something that started because of the being late thing, so he slides out of the booth and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

He turns around, and then he stops after half a second and spins back to face you, holding out his hand. You place a snack-sized pouch of sour Skittles on his waiting palm.

--

Hm. That’s not good, you think, looking at the alert for a severe blizzard warning.

You glance between your phone and the hole in your ceiling a few times before looking up some news articles about this alleged blizzard. Okay, scratch that, immediately;it is not alleged, there are apparently going to be record low temperatures this weekend, and an amount of snow that you know the city’s infrastructure is not prepared to deal with.

This is really not good.

You groan and lean back in your desk chair, but not too far, because otherwise the entire seat will fall off the chair’s legs. This is—you really needed to hunker down this weekend, because you are so close to finishing your conclusion, and once that’s done, you can send the whole thing off to your committee and the external reader, and then you can start wrangling them all into giving you their availability to schedule your defense. And then you’re free. (Well. Not really. You’ll have to grade for the rest of the semester. But still.)

Your landlord hasn’t responded to your weekly email asking about when the hole is going to be fixed. You probably should get a lawyer at this point, but that requires money, and you know how the rest of that statement goes. Couldn’t climate change have waited until your dissertation was done?

You send another email to your landlord, one that threatens legal action—you’re pretty sure you both know that that’s not going to happen—before standing up to see how many blankets you have laying around. The plastic will keep out most of the cold, right? Or maybe you could, like, keep the oven on and hope the place doesn’t blow up. Honestly, that would probably be a kinder fate to the building than what it’s going through now under its current management.

There’s a large pile of blankets collected on your sofa when you unlock your phone again, planning to text Ryland and bemoan the current situation, but you see that he’s already sent you a screenshot of the same alert you looked at earlier.

Did you see this?

yeah.

currently taking stock of all my blankets

hey, you’re a smart science guy, you probably know the answer to this

is it safe for me to like leave my oven on

for multiple days

with the door opened

DO NOT DO THAT.

I’m serious

I would say that even if I didn’t have a PhD.

okay jeez

i was joking

mostly

…what about the stove? that’s basically like a little campfire

You are actually kidding in that last text. You mostly just sent it so you could imagine what his face must look like while reading it. The three little dots pop up a few times, and your smile grows. He likely cannot even find the words to tell you how bad of an idea that would be.

It is not. It is not like a campfire

Still nothing from your landlord about Fra Mauro?

Right. He had started calling it that about a month in, when it was becoming increasingly clear that the hole was going to be a more permanent fixture in your apartment. According to him, it was in the stage between Apollo 13 and 14, because he still believed that they were going to actually send someone to fix it.

nope

i sent him another email and said i would sue

i’m sure he got a good laugh out of that

the plastic will probably be enough

that’s a thing right?

plastic is good at. temperature things

Sure.

Or. You could just pack a bag and stay with me for a few days.

And not freeze to death

Oh. You probably should have thought of that. You stay at his place half the time anyway, especially because he has a more consistently filled fridge. (It is not for this reason. It is because you really, really like him. Also, he doesn’t even keep a lot of fresh ingredients in his kitchen, because he hates cooking. Hence the diner breakfast every day.) But—

i really need to finish my conclusion this weekend

and.

we are not very good at being productive when i stay over

Really? I would say that we are very, very good at being productive

Just. In a very specific way.

Look at it this way: you will probably still be more productive here than at your place

Because it will be pretty difficult to type when your fingers fall off from frostbite

You bite your lip and look at the hole in the ceiling again. The plastic rustles, just a little, as if it were speaking to you. Yeah. You really need to get out of here.

okay :D

i’ll head over after you’re done at work on friday?

:)

--

“You have your faucet dripping?”

“Yep.” You kick off your shoes and let him take your duffel bag from you. It seems like he’s cleaned a little, and his apartment looks nice; it’s not crazy nicer than yours—he is a teacher, after all, and he doesn’t actually make that much more money than you do—but it is certainly an improvement from the crap hole, as Ryland would put it, that you live in.

He sets the bag down by his couch. “And your oven is off.”

“I swear I really was mostly kidding about that. I’m not that stupid.” He just gives you a look and then smiles, walking back over to you and wrapping you up in his arms. “I only seriously considered it for, like, two seconds.”

His hands rub your back idly. The temperature had already started to drop considerably, and the walk to his place had been less than pleasant. “Okay. Just making sure. That would have been—really bad. Believe me.”

You hum and then still once you consider the tone of his voice more carefully, and then you’re slowly pulling back to look at him. “You. You’re making it sound like this comes from experience.”

“It’s, well—alright, stop looking at me like that. I was once a very stupid college student. A long time ago.”

“Oh, I never doubted that for a second. Well, maybe the ‘long time ago’ part—” He kisses you, then, slow and sweet, and you can tell that it’s meant as a distraction. “I want that story,” you mumble against his lips, “and I am very persistent.”

“I know.” He pulls back reluctantly. “Okay. You can set up shop on the couch. And I will be in the bedroom. Not distracting you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously. It’ll be like I’m not even here.”

“Sure.”

Ryland slowly walks backward down the hallway, moving his arms like he’s actually walking forward, so it looks (sort of) like someone has taken a video and then put it in reverse. He keeps doing this until he’s out of sight, and even then, you’re pretty sure he keeps doing it right up until the point that he runs into a wall. “I’m fine,” he calls out. “Not here, I’m a ghost, start writing.” You simply shake your head at all of this, smiling, trying to fight the urge to follow him to his room.

He keeps his promise for about thirty minutes.

You’re making some headway, though you keep having to flip back to your previous chapters in order to meaningfully reference them in your conclusion, when he slowly meanders in and then just—stands in the kitchen. He opens a cabinet, closes it, then opens the fridge, looks around for a little while, and then closes that, too.

You don’t look up from your laptop as a small smile starts playing on your lips. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing.” He opens the fridge again. “What do you want for dinner later? I just stocked up.” By ‘stocked up,’ he likely means that he bought a ton of frozen meals and maybe some bread.

“Did you get any frozen pizzas?”

“Uh, duh.”

“We can just do one of those.”

Silence falls again, save for the sound of your fingers periodically typing away or clicking through the billion different documents and tabs that you have open. He does not return to his bedroom. Instead, he stands in the kitchen for a moment before slowing padding over and sitting next to you.

You attempt to shift over, but he pats your thigh in a way that says no, it’s okay, don’t move. “What was that about being a ghost?”

“I am. I’m just a very friendly and curious ghost. Like Casper.” He rests his head on your shoulder, sprawling his legs out to rest next to yours on his coffee table. “That’s a good sentence,” he murmurs. “Very punchy.”

“Thanks.” You scroll back up to read through what you have so far, because he is unfairly distracting, and it makes writing anything very difficult.

He grabs your legs, then. “Here.” There’s some maneuvering until your back is against the arm rest of the couch, and your legs are resting over the tops of his thighs. “How much more do you have?”

“You’re like a dog, you know that? Or, like, and extremely cuddly and needy cat.” Ryland says nothing at that, simply grinning and running his fingers idly over your shins. You’re wearing sweatpants, which apparently is bothering him, because he slides them up a little so he can feel your bare skin. Goosebumps are already starting to form. “I—there’s not too much more, I think. It feels really weird, being so close to finishing this thing that I’ve been spending literal years working on.”

He hums. “I remember feeling a little like that, too, but I was also so eager to move on to the next thing.”

“That sounds like you.”

It’s quiet again as he continues tracing idle patterns into your skin. You have been rereading the same sentence for the past five minutes, and finally, you sigh and go to close your laptop, but he stops you from doing so. “No, keep working.”

You huff at that. “And how do you suggest I go about doing that? You—you’re very distracting. I have dropped so many mugs at work because of you.” (You also drop mugs sometimes even when he’s not there, but that’s beside the point.)

“I’m developing your concentration.”

He lifts up your legs and shifts over, turning to lay on his stomach between your thighs. You slide down a little so only your shoulders and head are resting against the arm rest. One of your legs is now dangling off the side of the couch, and you have to pull your laptop up to rest on your stomach. “What are you doing.”

It’s not that you’re frustrated with this new development, because this is, frankly, so much better than working on your dissertation, but he still won’t let you set your laptop to the side, and you can’t really see him with the screen in the way. “Nothing.” He starts pulling your sweatpants down, then, and you let him. “Read it out loud. It’s a good way to catch mistakes you normally wouldn’t when you’re just reading it in your head.”

He is a menace. An absolute menace. “This is. You’re evil.”

A kiss is pressed against your knee once your pants have been discarded. “I’m actually so nice. Start reading.”

You sigh contentedly as his fingers grasp your thighs and pull them apart even more so he can inch closer to you, gently mouthing against the soft skin he finds there. “Alright. Okay. I’m starting. ‘The,’ um, hah,” you breathe, because he’s just nipped at your inner thigh, “Starting over. You are. Okay. ‘The genre of hagiography can be traced back to the—the—the late antique lives of the philosophers, but the medieval period sees the genuine formation of, of.’”

“Of what?” He murmurs, his nose pressing into you, just above the crease of your hip. The cool metal of his wire frames makes your hips shift a fraction.

You swallow. “‘Of the standard tropes and formulae which would come to dominate the public perception of the lives of the saints.’ Will you just—”

The laptop is still blocking him from your line of sight, but you can feel the shit-eating grin that spreads on his face. “I don’t remember ‘will you just’ being anywhere in there.”

Screw the frostbite you might have gotten if you had stayed at your apartment. This man is going to be the death of you. He doesn’t do anything else, simply waiting for you to continue, because of course this is one of the few circumstances in which he suddenly has an endless amount of patience. You close your eyes for a beat and try to take a deep breath. “‘Scholars have argued that—’”

His teeth graze against your underwear. “Which scholars?”

“It’s—there’s a lot of them, I have a footnote.”

“You should call them out by name.”

This draws an airy chuckle from your throat. “What, like a certain someone called out the top scholars in his field?”

“Exactly. Continue.” He grasps your thighs firmly when you try to wriggle your hips into his face. “Nope, not happening. Now read.”

You bite down an exasperated whine and blink, trying to refocus on your screen. It’s so close to your face at this point that the light is starting to strain your eyes. “‘Scholars have argued that these texts drew upon a static bank of stock characters, settings, and plots, with medieval authors merely cannibalizing upon their predecessors to deliver moral lessons or entertaining stories.’”

And then you gasp, because he’s dragging your underwear aside with his teeth. “Good word choice. ‘Cannibalizing.’ It’s very evocative.” One of his arms wraps tightly around your thigh so he can hold the thin strip of fabric out of the way. His warm breath curls out, providing just the barest stimulation, and you twitch.

Then he stills, again, and you clutch your laptop. He isn’t going to make you do this the whole time, is he? Surely not. “Should I—do I have to keep going?” Silence. You try to slide your laptop over so you can see his face, but his free hand comes up to push it back before it returns to holding your thigh. “Fine. ‘However, upon closer examination, medieval hagiography was a diverse and dynamic genre, where both authors and audiences could reflect upon contemporary issues by utilizing and transforming’—Jesus, Ryland,” you break off, because the flat of his tongue has just licked a long, slow, dragging line up your cunt.

“Too many ‘ands,’” he mumbles into you. It is impressive how well he is able to talk while doing this, and you know that he can, because he does it every time. “You’re—doing too much—in one sentence.”

It’s—he’s probably right, but you’re having a little trouble concentrating at the moment, so you highlight the sentence with a shaky hand and leave a comment to fix it later. “Alright, great, I’ll change it, can I please—fuck—be done now, please?”

His fingers curl around your underwear as he juts his face deeper into your wetness, sucking at your clit, and you would very much like to see him doing this, not just hear the sounds of him devouring you like it’s his last meal. His tongue dips down and then he shakes his head, so the tip of his nose rubs against the little bud, and you cry out.

“You are, fuck you, first of all, how am I supposed to—” Ryland stops, completely, and both of his arms tighten around you to stop you from rutting into him. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, please don’t stop—I’ll start again, here, ‘by utilizing and transforming the conventions of the genre.’”

He lets go of your underwear, then, merely letting his face keep it out of the way, and he draws his arm back so he can slowly push his index finger inside of you. Your head thuds back against the arm rest. “You used ‘genre’ twice in that sentence.”

How he is able to keep track of that is beyond you, but you don’t say this, because you don’t want him to stop, not when he’s adding another finger and drawing careful circles into you with the tip of his tongue, so you simply add another comment in the document and keep going. “‘The case studies examined here have demonstrated how the lives of the saints provided a convenient medium to explore issues such as church doctrine, the changing landscape of medieval law, and the social realities of feudalism.’”

Ryland nods against you, and it means that his teeth brush up ever-so-slightly against your clit. “Good.”

The words are basically swimming off of the screen at this point. “I’m sorry, I really don’t think I can do anymore, please, please let me be done, it’s just—it’s so—you’re so good, you’re always so fucking good at this, and it is so unfair,” you babble, and evidently he decides to have a little mercy on you, because then the hand that isn’t at your cunt is reaching forward to close your laptop. Finally, finally you can see him, and he looks so perfect like this, face buried between your thighs, staring up at you with such intense fondness that you’re reaching forward to slide your fingers into his hair before you can even fully register the movement.

Your other hand slips underneath your shirt to clutch at your breast, to roll the peak of it with your fingers. Ryland tracks the movement closely and then groans, eyes fluttering behind his glasses, and the vibration of it and the intensity with which he presses his mouth against you causes your back to arch. “So, so sweet,” he sighs, “sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

It’s—you would like to comment on this, because you have tasted yourself on his mouth enough times at this point to know that ‘sweet’ isn’t quitethe adjective you would use, but the sentiment behind it is so, well, sweet, that it makes you melt into the couch and clutch his hair a little tighter.

Then he does this thing with his fingers, crooking them just right, and your hips jerk. He doesn’t stop you this time, instead nodding so vigorously that his glasses start to slide down the bridge of his nose, and you move the hand that’s under your shirt to join the one in his hair to start grinding yourself against his face.

He honest-to-God whimpers at that, at the feeling of you using him to get off, at the way your thighs tremble and clench around his head. “That’s—please, please,” because if words weren’t coming to you before, they certainly aren’t now. “Just like that,” you manage to choke out.

You look down, then, and his eyes open to watch you while he presses his tongue flat against you so you can grind on it, focusing on gliding his fingers inside of you at the same pace, finding that perfect little spot over and over again. You’re a little worried you’re going to rip out some of his hair at this point, but it’s too good, you can’t stop chasing it—

And then the tension swelling at the apex of your thighs finally breaks, and you can’t help but close your eyes as your hips quiver against his face. Ryland doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t withdraw his fingers from your cunt, not until you collapse against the cushions. He presses a gentle kiss to your clit and can’t seem to help himself from lapping up your slickness, even as you twitch from the overstimulation.

When he finally pulls his hand back, there’s a beat before he’s licking them clean. “You are,” you breath heavily, “such a little freak.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He grabs your laptop and sets it on the coffee table before helping you pull your sweatpants back on. “See? I told you that we’re very productive here.”

You snort. “I got through, like, three sentences.”

“Three is more than zero. And three’s a good number. Makes some of the most stable shapes,” he says as he stands, walking to the kitchen to get you a glass of water. You take it gratefully. “And can you blame me? I only get you here for two nights.”

“…Three. I brought my work uniform so I could just go straight to the diner Monday morning.”

Ryland breaks out into a smile. “Okay, I know I just said that three is a good number, but it’s also barely more than two, so I still feel justified. And you can’t argue with me because I am objectively better at math than you.”

“Hey.” (He’s right, and you also find that you agree with his assessment of the numbers anyway.)

--

You do not, as it turns out, go to work on Monday, or the day after that, because the city is blanketed in deep snow, so much that everything is essentially brought to a halt while they attempt to clear the streets.

Ryland’s school is closed, too, and so is your campus; your advisor even emails you to say that you can take extra time on your conclusion, which is surprising because, honestly, she’s just kind of mean. This news goes about how you would expect with Ryland, particularly because you have to start wearing his clothes after day three.

The days pass in domestic bliss. It makes you think more intensely about the doubts you were having surrounding the job market. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, you muse, watching him in the kitchen as he tries to make eggs (and fails, which is genuinely impressive, because scrambled eggs are really not that difficult to cook), if you took that adjunct job at City. The hours would suck, and the pay would be terrible, but—then you would have this. And that might be enough.

You’re pretty sure something is starting to burn when you pull out your phone to check your email. It’s probably your advisor, or maybe a reply from your external reviewer, or—

“Ryland.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s burning, but I have everything under control here.”

“No, it’s—” You decide to just get up and show him your phone. Your hand is shaking. “I got an interview. I’m. I got an interview,” you repeat.

He fumbles for his glasses, which are laying on the counter, and jams them on his face so he can read, ‘We are pleased to inform you that,’  and he doesn’t get much further than that before he’s hugging you and spinning you around in his kitchen while the eggs burn. “I told you,” he laughs into your shoulder, “I told you it would work out. I am so—I’m so proud of you. Which one is it for?”

You pull away to read the email again. “It’s a postdoc, on the.” You bite your lip. “The one on the east coast.”

He’s still smiling, but—there’s a little less light in his eyes. “That’s. That’s awesome. When is it?”

“Next week.” You are suddenly feeling slightly less excited. “I know we haven’t. Well. There hasn’t been a discussion on what would happen, what we would do if—”

“Hey.” He grabs your shoulders, then, and looks at you intently. “We can. We’ll figure it out. Let’s just be excited right now. Okay?”

“Okay.” You nod. There’s a slight burning in your eyes, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re about to cry or if it’s from the smoke curling out of the frying pan. “The eggs are on fire.”

“Oh—crap—”

--

The streets are finally cleared, and you go back to your shitty apartment, and you are trying to pretend that everything is still normal.

Your advisor is surprised when you tell her about the interview, which a few years ago might have stung, but now you’ve just accepted that she’s a little bit of a bitch. She tells you that she’ll do a mock interview with you over the weekend and emails you a list of common interview questions to prep.

You finish your conclusion. Ryland’s suggestions were helpful.

It should feel like there’s a weight off of your shoulders, because your dissertation is finished—actually finished—and you have an interview, and your landlord sent you an email late last night saying someone would be coming by next week to fix the hole in your ceiling. It is, of course, scheduled exactly during your interview.

But.

The weight is still there. It is worse now, actually, because you don’t know how to have this conversation with him, because you’ve only really been dating for four months, and you are realizing that a tiny part of you had assumed that he would just move with you, or something, and now the thought seems absolutely ridiculous. Would you move across the country for someone you’ve only been with for a handful of months? Are you the sort of person worth doing that for?

Okay, that’s enough of that, because you are at work, and you are currently staring at the coffee dripping into the pot like it’s a countdown to your death sentence. The door opens. You don’t even need to look. The bell chimes next to you.

“Morning,” you say as you slide his breakfast in front of him. The coffee’s next, and you pour his sugar in for him and mix it in with a spoon, and it is still an absolutely disgusting amount of sweetener to have in one’s drink.

“Hey.” Ryland takes the coffee with a smile, but it’s still not quite reaching his eyes, and you think you might be dying on the inside. “Everything okay?”

You sigh and slide into the booth across from him. Whatever. They’re probably not going to fire you for it. And if they do, then, oh no! You’ll be slightly more broke than you already are. “My landlord emailed me last night. They’re fixing the hole.”

“Nice. Apollo 14. Told you it would happen.”

“Yeah. It’s during my interview.”

He snorts and sets the mug down. “Of course.”

“I’ll probably just have to go into the department and do it. The bus will be annoying, but I still haven’t fixed my car, for obvious reasons.”

“Just do it at my apartment.” He doesn’t look up from his plate as he says it, casually scooping his eggs onto the toast. (Yes, they are still the same as they are every morning.)

You blink at him. “Are—are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says around the food in his mouth, “of course. I mean, I am very pro public transportation, but the buses are terrible.”

This is very true. “Alright. As long as it’s okay.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? I’ll be at school, anyway.”

You fidget a little. “It’s just. We still haven’t really talked about. You know. The thing.”

“The thing.”

He really can’t throw you a bone here, can he? “The whole, ‘possibly getting a job across the country thing’?”

“Oh. That thing.” Part of you wants to scream, ‘what other thing would there be,’ but you do not, because in spite of what you just thought to yourself earlier, you would actually like to keep your job. “It’s just—I need some time. To think. About the thing.”

“I see.”

You should not be mad about this, because it is a perfectly reasonable thing to ask for, to have time to think about such a major decision like this, because he has a job and a life that you only walked into four months ago. It’s just—well, you thought that he would have seen this coming, that you’ve been pretty clear this entire time while you were applying to jobs, and maybe if the two of you were younger it would be less clearcut, but you’re not. You are almost thirty, and you’re not really sure you want to do long-distance, and you really, really like him.

He sets his fork down, gently, as if it were about to explode. “Is that…okay?”

“It’s fine, Ryland. Why wouldn’t it be?” You throw his line from earlier in the conversation back at him. Okay, you can admit, you are being a little petty and possibly immature, but you are getting mad about this. Dating sucks. This sucks. The door opens, then—thank you, universe, for that timing—and you get up from the booth. “I have to go. I’ll text you later, okay?”

You think he says your name, but you walk away too fast to be sure.

You still give him a mini Reese’s cup on his way out, because you’re not that cruel, and he’s left you a drawing on his napkin: it’s two little atoms, copper and titanium, holding up signs that have their elements on them and spelling ‘CuTi.’ There’s a small ‘e’ added at the end, and you wonder how long he spent debating whether or not to put it there and fix the spelling or leave it off to keep the pun intact.

--

You are staring at your laptop in shock, sitting at Ryland’s desk, because you are fairly certain that you just killed it.

Apparently, it’s really working out for you that your advisor is one of the most wicked and evil people you have ever met, because the mock interview with her had been so brutal that the real thing had felt like chatting with a friend over a coffee. The interviewers had said you’d be hearing from them very soon, because you were one of the last candidates they were meeting with, and they had all been wearing wide smiles when you thanked them and logged off.

You look at your reflection in the screen for a little while before slowly closing it. The apartment is quiet, because Ryland’s at work. You haven’t seen him in a few days. You’ve just been so busy, coordinating with your committee to schedule your defense—it was looking increasingly like it wouldn’t happen until next month—and prepping for the interview, and normally you would have just spent the night last night, but you had wanted to wait at your apartment to actually see if the maintenance guy would show up. He did, thankfully, and then you had needed to practically sprint to Ryland’s place and use the spare key to let yourself in.

And. You are trying to give him the time that he asked for. To think about the thing. Even though you are starting to get increasingly frustrated that he needs it in the first place, which just makes you annoyed with yourself that you aren’t being more understanding about this.

Whatever. It’s time to be happy and excited. No more of this mopey bullshit. You send a quick email to your advisor letting her know that it went well. She will either simply react with a thumbs up or reply with nothing other than ‘ok.’ Then you open up your text thread with Ryland, even though he is most definitely in the middle of teaching.

so

not to brag or anything

but i’m pretty sure i just fucking killed that

*freaking

sorry, you’re on school grounds right now

It is immediately marked as read. You send another text before he has the chance to reply.

dude

i thought you had a strict no phones policy in your classroom

…That’s for the students. I get special privileges

And that’s awesome!! I knew that you would.

:)

Thank you for correcting yourself

Even though there is still a curse word on my screen right now.

We should celebrate!

you and your positive reinforcement lol

not everything needs a party

This is not true. Parties are always necessary.

There’s science about it. Just trust me on this

Friday? At Bob’s?

careful

i have been getting much better at pool

i even beat you that one time

Yeah, because I scratched on the eight ball.

ok, and?

a win is a win

don’t take this from me

Fiiiiine.

7?

it’s a date

:)

:)

--

Well, you don’t win at pool, again, but it’s fine, because both of you are pretending that there isn’t a giant, terrifying conversation looming over you, and he’s smiling and doing stupid dance moves with the pool cue like it’s a cane, just to make you laugh.

You buy him his victory drink, and he protests just like he does every time. You explain, again, that it’s basically like he’s buying the drink himself anyway, because he still leaves you a tip at the diner, which is very weird, by the way. He says it’s just easier, because he’s memorized how much his breakfast costs with the tip included, and this way he doesn’t have to do the math every morning. You point out that this shouldn’t be a problem, because he’s a nerd who likes doing math. He throws a balled-up straw wrapper at you and misses.

“So. The date’s final, then?”

“Yup.” You watch as Ryland starts peeling off the label of his beer across from you in your booth. They should put a plaque with your names on it at this point. “It took the stars aligning to figure out a time when my entire committee was available, but it’s officially scheduled now.”

He hums. “What date?” You tell him, and he whips out his phone to plunk it in his calendar. “Oh, sweet, it’s on a Friday.”

“Yeah. I was a little pissed at first—don’t even—because it had to be so far out, but I’m pretty happy with that.”

It’s quiet, then, outside of the shitty song playing—the only singles in your wallet are coke singles, unfortunately, so no TouchTunes for you tonight—until he reaches forward to start messing with your fingers instead of his bottle. “Heard anything about the postdoc yet?”

You shake your head. “Not yet. They said by Monday, though, so.”

“Gotcha.” His hand finally settles around yours. “I am still thinking about it,” he says quietly. “I’m always thinking about it. I promise.”

You say nothing, instead squeezing his hand and giving him a small smile. It’s. You’re still a little frustrated, if you’re being honest with yourself. You had spent such a long time letting yourself rest in the comfort of being in the middle of things without seeing them through, but recently that has changed, and you’re finding it much harder not to push and finish this yourself. But he has to be the one to do this. So you’ll wait, even though it’s kind of killing you, because you haven’t quite gotten the patience thing down yet.

--

You get the second-round interview. You have to go into the diner on your day off to ask Gertrude to cover your shifts, and then you show her where you keep the candy.

Two weeks later, you fly out to the east coast. The campus is beautiful, and all of your potential colleagues are great, and your job talk goes swimmingly. The morning you fly back, you have two pieces of wheat toast, scrambled eggs, and some bacon for breakfast.

--

Your dissertation defense starts in five minutes, and you think you might be about to throw up.

This is fine, you tell yourself. You know the thing inside-and-out by this point. You had spent all of last night rereading it, and then Ryland had asked you mock questions, and he hadn’t pulled any punches, but he also gave you a kiss after every answer. He still hasn’t told you whether he’s reached a decision or not. You think he might be waiting until after you find out if you’ve gotten the job, and you are trying to ignore the rotten taste that the thought puts in your mouth.

You look at his ‘Good luck!!!’ text for the fourteenth time. Obviously, the defense was scheduled during normal work hours, which meant that he was stuck teaching, but he reassured you that he had something ‘very special’ planned. No amount of goading and pleading had gotten him to fess up about what this was.

The elevator dings in the hallway as you flip through your notes again. Probably some other grad student in your department coming in at the last second, although you’re pretty sure everyone you’re friends with is already here, along with the rest of your committee. Whatever. You are too busy trying not to hurl all over the table to wonder about it.

There are two minutes until the end of your graduate career begins, and then Ryland is walking into the room, squeezing past the people sitting against the wall and muttering apologies while he does so, and screw the throwing up, you think you are about to burst into tears. It is unclear whether this would be better or worse than spewing your lunch everywhere. He’s still wearing his bike helmet, even when he sits down and finally looks at you, when he smiles and gives you a thumbs up.

You mime taking the helmet off, even though you look absolutely ridiculous doing so in front of your entire department. He mouths oh, right, and unclips the strap under his chin before setting it on the floor.

The public portion of your defense finally begins, and you give a small presentation, detailing how you came to the idea, your general argument, the specific theories and scholarship that you drew on, your plans for turning it into your first book. You finish with your acknowledgments: thanking your fellow grad students, your committee, and, finally, Ryland, although you don’t call him out by name, simply addressing him as your partner who ‘made finishing it that much sweeter.’

It is incredibly cheesy, and you’re pretty sure that he’s starting to cry.

Then your advisor directs the audience to leave, and the real defense begins.

It takes an hour. It is grueling, and exhausting, and kind of the worst, but then it’s over, and you’re stepping out into the hallway so your committee can deliberate.

You think the other grad students are congratulating you, or something, but to be honest, you kind of can’t hear them, because you are laser-focused on walking up to Ryland.

“You came.”

“Of course, I did.” He pulls a pack of Skittles out of his pocket and hands it to you. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You don’t eat the Skittles, because you’re fairly certain the sugar might actually be the thing that upsets your stomach enough to make you barf, but you slide it into your pocket for safe keeping. Then he just holds you, for a while, since you don’t think there are any words left in your brain, until the door opens and your advisor is smiling, possibly for the first time in her life.

“The committee is ready for you, doctor,” she says, and then everyone’s cheering, and it feels just like a movie, to be completely honest, particularly when you turn around and kiss him in front of your entire department. It should be embarrassing. It is so, so not.

--

You get the email while you’re waiting in your apartment for Ryland to take you to the ‘very special’ thing he has planned. He had told you to wear something ‘nice, but not too nice.’ Super helpful, thank you, Ryland.

You make it as far as ‘The department loved getting the opportunity to learn more about you and your research, however,’ before you look up at your ceiling, where the hole used to be but where there is now a tile that does not match the others, trying to blink away tears.

Okay. Alright. This is fine. Your first thought is that you should text Ryland, even though he is presumably on his way over, because this feels like the kind of thing you should tell him about immediately.

And then you still. No, don’t do that, that’s a really bad idea, you tell yourself, because you are suddenly considering not saying anything to him, because he never told you what he’s been thinking about all of this, and you would really like to know, even though it is no longer a reality.

You stare at the mismatched ceiling tile, waging war with yourself, until he’s knocking at your door, and you’re carefully dabbing at your eyes so it doesn’t smudge your makeup.

--

“Is this—really necessary,” you say, as you stumble for the fifth time in the past three minutes. His hands are over your eyes as he guides you along. He also made you close them just in case you tried peaking. You are being very good about not trying to do so anyway.

“Yes. We’re almost there.”

You huff but keep walking. “I feel like you can just tell me, then, if we’re almost there.”

“Nope.”

“Please?”

“Still no.”

The two of you are walking for a few more minutes. You only trip twice.

Then, finally, his hands move from your face. “Okay, you can open now.”

You blink a few times. It’s—“This is. The diner. My place of employment.” You turn toward him. “Okay, this might sound incredibly bitchy, but are we seriously—”

“Just—open the door.”

You give him a confused look before following his instruction, and you’re about to tell him that, look, it’s cute and all that you’re having dinner where you first met, but like, it is the place that you work at, and it’s a diner, in case he’s forgotten, which is not really the best way to celebrate finally becoming a doctor, but then you step inside. And all of your fellow grad students are there, and some of your professors are there, even your advisor is there, wearing her second-ever smile, and Gertrude is making milkshakes.

“This—what?” You whip around to face him. “How. What? The diner is open twenty-four hours. They don’t do special events.”

He simply grins sheepishly and rubs the back of head. “Yeah, I know. But I kind of give them, like, half of their yearly income, so it didn’t take that much convincing. I did have to promise we’d clean up after, though. Sorry.”

You kiss him in front of your department for the second time that day. “That’s—I don’t even care, I think I could clean this place in my sleep at this point. Thank you.”

Ryland just smiles softly and wipes a tear from the corner of your eye. “Go. There’s lots of people waiting to congratulate you.” Then he adds, “Doctor,” and you kiss him again.

--

When all is said and done, it is probably the most fun that you have had inside this establishment, minus all of the time you have spent with Ryland at the booth next to the window.

It’s almost one in the morning by the time everyone filters out, and you stay behind with him to run the milkshake glasses through the dishwasher. You’re wiping down the counter, turning over how to break the news to him that you didn’t get the job, when he comes up behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn around to face him. “Hi.”

The two of you look at each other for a few moments. “I’ve finished—”

“There’s something I—”

He starts to motion for you to go first, but then he stops. “No, actually, sorry, I need to—I’ve finished thinking about it. The thing.”

“Ryland.”

“No, no, I really have to say this, so just—I’ll go with you.” He blinks, as if he is surprised at how this is going, even though he’s the one driving the bus at this point. “Wait. There was more lead up. I had a whole thing. I’m just. Okay. I have been thinking about this every single day, to the point where my students can tell, and at first I thought it was about them. That I didn’t want to leave them. But. There are students everywhere. But—you’re not everywhere. This is not making any sense.”

“Ryland,” you try again, but he’s not having any of it.

“Please let me finish. I realized that I have been stuck, so stuck. I mean, I order the same thing for breakfast every day. You know this. I know this. And. I thought it was fine. It was fine. And then it wasn’t, and I’m not—gosh, this is not going the way I wanted it to.”

“Ryland,” you say for the third time, and three is still the magic number, apparently, because then he stops, simply looking at you, his blue eyes shining behind his glasses. “I didn’t get it. The job. I didn’t get the postdoc.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Well, that’s.” He pauses for a moment. “This is going to sound totally messed up, but that’s making this a lot less romantic than I thought this whole thing would be.”

You just look at him for a moment, then, incredulously, until you start laughing, and you can’t stop, and then he’s wheezing right along with you. “You can—you can try the whole speech again,” you say between gasps, “if you want to.”

“That’s really not necessary, it’s fine.” He wraps you up in a hug and presses a kiss into your temple. “I’m sorry. About the postdoc.”

“It’s fine.” You pull back and look at him, really look at him, searching his face and mindlessly pushing up his glasses for him. “You mean that? You’re actually sorry? Not just, you know, relieved that it’s not an actual thing.”

“Actually sorry,” he affirms, moving his hand to smooth your hair back. “I started. I was looking at apartments. Researching how to transfer my teaching license.”

That’s. It’s very sweet, is all you can think, but you don’t say it, instead bringing your hand to rest on his cheek, and then he kisses you, again, but it’s not the chaste kind, the kind that they’ve been all day; it is desperate, like he’s trying to give you the speech he’s been planning in this one moment.

When his hands move underneath his shirt, you pull back. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I don’t really know if I want to have sex in the place where I work.”

He rests his head on your shoulder and nods. “Fra Mauro has been filled in?”

“Yeah,” you giggle. “It has. The new tile is, like, several shades lighter than the rest of my ceiling, but there is no longer a hole. And it hasn’t rained recently, so. There should be no interruptions.”

“That’s. Really good. Great, even.”

The two of you don’t leave, not yet, because he’s fiddling with his phone, then, and playing a song through the speaker he brought, the Tears for Fears song that you always play on the TouchTunes at Bob’s when the machine will accept your dollars, and he dances with you in the aisle of the diner and sings along, even though he’s really not that great at singing.

--

epilogue pt. 2

You don’t even have to worry about the ceiling tile, because the two of you actually make it to your bedroom this time.

“I meant it,” he gasps, rolling his hips into you, his fingers intertwined with yours beside your head. “I think—I’d follow you anywhere.”

There is nothing to say, nothing that could tell him what those words do to you, so you simply angle your hips upward, gasping at the feeling of him inside of you, at the way that this man, who puts way too much sugar in his coffee, and leaves you little drawings every day, and biked all the way to your department to sit in a room for twenty minutes, makes you feel like you are someone worth following.

[wynnevee]

ryland grace and you

ryland grace x reader

synopsis: ANGSTY RAMBLINGS !!

warnings: oh BROTHER, cheating (drunk kiss), crying, divorce, self-doubt, head trauma, PHM anesthesia, amnesia, mentions of death, vomit, alcohol, and matted hair, the fuel leak and rocky’s injuries, i think that’s it?

ryland grace, drowning in insecurity and doubt after being disgraced in his field, starts distancing himself from his wife. he berates himself about her deserving someone smarter, someone stronger, someone braver.

you, struggling to keep your husbands head above water, feeling helpless in the face of his self destruction. he comes home every night reeking of booze, and he’s not mean—no, never—but he’s painfully indifferent. he’s hardly home anymore, and when he is, he doesn’t speak to you. you can’t handle it much longer.

ryland grace, drunk and rambling one night to the off duty bartender at his usual spot. suddenly, she kisses him. they’re drunk, absolutely wasted, so it goes on for a minute or two before sense hits him square in the face and he pulls away. after puking his guts out in the dingy bathroom, he washes his face in cold water and stumbles home.

you, exhausted and confused when your husband comes back at midnight and falls to his knees before you. he confesses, tears streaming down his face, begging for forgiveness through slurred speech. for his indiscretions, for his neglect, for everything. he’s still so drunk, and you’re still so fucking tired, so you smile through your tears and crawl under the covers with him. he buries his face in your neck and cries himself to sleep, holding you tightly. you wait for morning to break and wriggle out of his arms, place your wedding rings on the nightstand, and pull your duffle from the back of the closet—it’s been packed for a month.

ryland grace, signing divorce papers with tears in his eyes, letting years pass him by without taking off his ring, picking up a bottle, or looking at another woman again. when his students ask about the band on his finger, he pretends you’re still married. it’s pathetic, he knows, but it makes him feel whole again.

you, going on dates that always fall flat. compared to ryland, they’re just too boring, or dumb, or terrible in the bedroom. when eva stratt recruits you as a medical consultant for an ongoing government project, you agree without question—maybe you need another fresh start.

ryland grace, seeing you for the first time in years when eva stratt tells him the sun is dying, and you’re standing a few paces behind her. obviously, he wants to save the earth, but a small part of him goes along just for the chance to breathe your air again.

you, refusing to acknowledge him beyond necessity, lest you realize that the years have just made him more handsome, and that he still fiddles with his ring when he’s thinking. you’ve almost called his number a thousand times, almost caved and knocked on his door, but you haven’t. you’ve stayed strong and you couldn’t ruin that now.

ryland grace, rushing out of the room as decreetly as possible to hide his tears when he hears you haven’t changed your name after all this time. he eavesdrops on your conversations more than he’d like to admit, but it’s out of concern! is your living situation adequate? are you living alone? are you taking care of yourself? is someone else taking care of you now? like he couldn’t? are you happy? are you happier?

you, after the explosion, protesting stratt’s new approach—you understand her desperation but shoving an unconscious science teacher on a space craft is crazy, right? you stand between her and ryland, so impassioned in your argument that it doesn’t occur to you that her calmness is so disturbing. you barely register ryland shouting behind you, struggling with one you stratt’s men, barely feel the prick on your neck, before your head hits the ground.

ryland grace, in awe of you defending him, and suddenly, he’s trying and failing, but trying nonetheless to fight off a man twice his size when he approaches you from behind. he knows they don’t really want to hurt you but anger and terror seizes him. he screams your name when you fall, and suddenly, he doesn’t want to flee anymore. he just kneels beside you, shaking you gently, until he loses consciousness too.

you, still in a coma, unmoving and ashen, when ryland wakes.

ryland grace, waking and remembering nothing from the past year but everything from before, in heartbreaking clarity.

you, waking, remembering your husband—and nothing else.

ryland grace, forgetting to breathe when you throw yourself into his arms, utterly confused but unwilling to question it. burying his face in your neck, collapsing with you onto the ground. he holds you as tight as his atrophied muscles allow.

you, assuming he’s just as scared as you, but really, he’s just so desperate to hold you again. you cling to him like a life raft, hiding your face in his chest to avoid catching a glimpse of the vast emptiness surrounding you outside. you’re a doctor, you remember that much, so why are you in space? you just thank the powers that be that ryland is with you.

ryland grace, aware that you aren’t in your right mind, aware that you deserve to remember everything that happened between you, yet unable to bring himself to tell you. at first, it’s because you’re in a dizzy panic, which is objectively a terrible time to break the news. but then, once you’ve calmed down a little, it’s because you’re asking him to comb and cut the matts out of your hair from the light years of rest, and he’s compelled to make you feel like yourself again. and then after that’s done, when you turn around and kiss him gently, murmuring ‘i love you’ against his mouth—well, the joy is simply paralyzing. the guilt of enjoying your affection so much devours him but in a way, he’s doing it for you.

you, having recovered a handful of your memories by the time you meet rocky. you remember a woman asking you about your experience in the medical field, even though it sounded like she knew the answers to her questions already. you know as much as ryland tells you about the mission, but you feel like he’s holding out on you at times. a hesitant hum and then “sorry, sweetheart, i don’t know.”

ryland grace, telling himself every night that in the ‘morning’, he’ll tell you. he won’t chicken out this time, he’ll tell you. sometimes, he doesn’t even fall asleep—he just watches your body rise and fall, plays with your hair as you rest on his chest. if this is the last time, he wants to remember it. but it’s never the last time, because every morning, like clockwork, his heart jumps to his throat and the words evade him.

you, befriending rocky, asking him about his mate and his life on erid. you smile, and tell him adrian sounds lovely, and you answer all his questions about earth, because “that’s what friends are for”. he calls you “friend” from there on out.

ryland, confessing to rocky one night when the eridian finds him crying in the mental health room. you’d remembered something that day, asked ryland what happened to your rings. he said they must’ve fallen off at some point before departure, and comforted you as you cried about it, all while knowing they were buried somewhere in his belongings.

“friend said humans mate for life,” rocky chirped, confused. “why would grace mate with different human?”

ryland shook his head, sniffling. “we didn’t mate, we—”

“yes, yes, the kissing, rocky sees it frequently. disgust.”

that pulls a chuckle from grace, though its dark. “well, don’t worry, cause i don’t think you’re going to see much of that anymore.”

rocky scuttles closer. “rocky think friend understand better than rocky. grace makes mistake—dumb, dumb, dumb— grace repents, friend forgives.”

“who taught you ‘repents’?”

“friend knows more words than grace, friend is smart, smart, smart. grace—”

“dumb, yeah… i know,” he swallows, nodding. “for the record, i am hoping she forgives me, i just… if she doesn’t, i have to watch her walk away again, and i’m really scared for that.”

“friend can’t walk in space, statement.”

grace rolls his eyes. “i know that, but she won’t want me to hold her, or kiss her anymore. i don’t even think she’ll want to speak to me, she won’t…” he swallows thickly, tears choking him again. “she won’t want me anymore.”

rocky, shockingly, doesn’t question that one—sometimes, he just needs to accept human emotions are too complex to easily comprehend. instead, he shuffles closer, bumping grace gently. “grace want hug, question?”

ryland doesn’t answer, but he accepts the offer gratefully.

you, staring at your hands to avoid ryland’s gaze as he explains it to you the next morning—all of it, every piece you’d felt was missing.

ryland sniffled, ducking his head to press against your knees, his hands still grasping yours—it looked like he was in prayer. “i’m so sorry. i should’ve told you sooner, but i was selfish and that was wrong, just like everything else. i’m so sorry.”

it’s odd, because though you’re hurting, somewhere inside, you’re not feeling it like you’ve felt it before. it’s not like you remember it that well though—ryland’s account had jogged some memories but it all felt like lifetimes had past since then. it’s all very distant and dull.

you swallow. “what… why… are you still in love with me?”

ryland lifted his head, stared at you with hurt in his eyes, as if your question deeply offended him—it felt pretty reasonable to ask of your ex husband though. “of course i’m still in love with you. i’ll love you for the rest of my life and the next.”

you nod thoughtfully, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “and am i still in love with you? or was i?”

ryland’s gaze dropped back to the ground, his mop of blond waves falling down over his forehead. “i don’t think so.”

you nod again.

ryland grace, losing his fucking mind as his nightmare comes true: you don’t talk to him anymore. you exist in silence for god knows how long actually, rocky knows, but the last time he reminded grace, he was told to “shush”.

you, being the first to fall during the fuel leak spin out, already struggling to stay upright from your lack of sleep (you now remember that you don’t sleep well without ryland). you hit your head on the ground and a dreadful sense of déjà vu overcomes you when ryland screams your name.

ryland grace, coming to once again but this time, you’re not next to him. he drags himself down the corridors in search of you, finding you at the end of the path of wreckage rocky left in his wake. you’re hunched by him, cheeks streaked in dried tears, sporting matching burns with grace.

“i’ve just been watching him sleep,” you whisper after ryland sits beside you. you feel him inspecting you, searching for extensive injuries.

“he’s… sleeping?” ryland asks, the words sour in his mouth.

“yeah,” you rasp. “he told me once that eridian healing is like hibernation. he’s just sleeping.”

you sit in silence for so long that your head starts to feel heavy. almost instinctively, you curl into ryland, tucking your head against his chest. he tenses for a moment, but pulls you closer after a moment, turning you so that you’re still facing the xenonite enclosure.

“i’m really glad you’re okay,” he murmurs against your head.

you nod. “me too.”

another stretch of quiet passes, and you focus on ryland’s heart beating in your ear, on rocky’s figure, undoubtedly healing in his own atmosphere. “y’know, you were wrong.”

ryland looked down, surprised. “about what?”

you don’t take your eyes off rocky, but you trace your finger against ryland’s chest as you speak. “before, on earth? i was still in love with you.” you listen to his heart rate increase. “stupidly so.”

“you remember?”

you nod. “maybe the second concussion was a reset, or i just needed to actually rest, but it all came back.”

ryland squeezed you a little tighter, scared you’d shrink away from him again. “how’re you… feeling now?”

you sigh. “i know you hurt me. like a lot, and i remember that… betrayal much clearer now. it doesn’t feel so distant.”

nausea overcame him, but he simply hummed.

“i’m still in love with you though.”

you feel his head jerk down to look at you, hear it crack in protest and then the clogged sound of tears in his voice. “what? you… honey—”

“you were a terrible husband for a while there,” you state plainly. “and there isn’t an excuse for that behavior, but… ryland, we are light years away from earth and when we thought we wouldn’t make it home, i didn’t really mind! cause i was with you.”

AND THEN YOU KISS AND LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER WITH ROCKY ON ERID just kidding i’ll write more parts, this one was just getting too freaking LONG

[wynnevee]

who wants angsty, groveling ryland grace x reader ramblings?? its lowkey long as hell but it’s locked and loaded in my drafts 🫡 edit: i did it

[wynnevee]

GIRL YOU NEED TO MAKE

"IDEA: ryland grace x wife!reader, a power couple in the field, sent on the mission together, not bothering with contraceptives because after years of failed attempts to conceive, you were told you were infertile…"

INTO A FIC ASAP!!!

I MADE A CONTINUATION

and i think i’m gonna make it an ongoing series 🥰