Bobby's been a shit boyfriend for months. When you disappear through a wall in the basement of Clark's furniture store, you wake up in the Backrooms, where a better version of Bobby is waiting. One who actually shows up, one who loves you, one who never, ever wants to let you go.
sometimes i will reread a fic after its been up for a bit and finally find an obvious error i made and then it’s like oh... it’s too late.. everyone has noticed this one thing and now i’m the town idiot 🧍♀️
ryland grace who loves spooning sex first thing in the morning :(( he just feels so close to you, your back pressed to his chest as he fucks you all slow and lazily, sleep still clinging to your bones. one hand is splayed on your stomach while his other arm is under you, his hand reaching up to hold your throat. there’s no pressure behind his grasp, just the need to hold you close and steady as he ruts up into you. pressing his nose into your hair and breathing in that fruity shampoo that drives him absolutely crazy. he’ll nip at your bare shoulder with his teeth before soothing the irritated skin with soft kisses. sliding his hand from your stomach to in between your thighs, using his fingers to rub precise circles against your clit when he knows you’re about to cum. he groans as he cums with you, his warm breath fanning out against the shell of your ear as he spills inside of you. the two of you go still, neither of you moving for a few moments before he finally makes the first move, his hand traveling from between your thighs to your hip, giving the flesh a light squeeze. “let’s go get cleaned up, yeah?” he’ll hum, his voice all deep and gravelly from disuse. then he’ll take you to the shower, the water running all hot over your bodies as he uses a washcloth to gently clean your skin for you :((
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
summary — an unexpected layoff forces you to move in with a random man you meet on the internet—who just so happens to be ryland grace. a blind date forces the two of you to finally acknowledge your true feelings for one another—and just how deeply they run.
pairing — ryland grace x f!roommate!reader
content — fluff, slight angst, smut (mdni), oral f!receiving, subby!ryland, dirty talk, they (try to) ignore their feelings for each other, confessions of feelings, reader works at a library, ryland works at grover cleveland middle school
word count — 8.3k (it just kept growing!! my longest fic ever)
a/n — i want to preface this by saying that this is my first time writing for ryland and i have not yet fully read the book so if any of my writing for ryland seems out of character, i apologize! if there are any mistakes, please let me know & i hope you enjoy the fic! feedback is always appreciated <3
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A year ago, you never would have imagined needing to live with a roommate just to get by at nearly thirty years old, but life had other plans.
A layoff from your corporate job and taking a new position at the local library with a drastic pay cut had changed that, which is how you found yourself becoming roommates with Ryland Grace.
It was by chance, choosing your roommate. An online search that yielded only two results.
The first—a man in his fifties who was, exclusively, looking for women in their twenties to share an apartment with. That one was easy to ignore, which left you with only a single other result that you had no hope for after reading the description of your first choice.
To your surprise, the description of your second option for a roommate was exponentially better.
Male, thirties, no pets, open to males or females. I occupy one bedroom in a two bedroom apartment and am looking for someone to occupy the other. You will have your own room, but a shared living room, kitchen and bathroom. My occupation is a middle school science teacher, so my schedule is set. I would prefer someone with a similar work schedule, but am open to other options as well. Rent and utilities will be split equally. If you are interested, my contact information is listed.
A year later, you can’t help but be grateful for giving your second option a chance.
If you hadn't, you never would have met Ryland Grace.
You and Ryland had clicked almost instantly. He was kind and accommodating, even taking a whole entire Saturday to help you move all of your boxes and furniture in when you made the big move. The two of you also built your new dresser together that first weekend, which is the first big test of any relationship, platonic or romantic. It didn't end in arguing about who was right and wrong, instead the time was spent laughing together and getting to know how each others brains ticked. Admittedly, though, it did take the two of you entirely too long to build that dresser.
The two of you fell into an easy rhythm of living together. It helped that your schedules were similar, giving you more time to spend together after your workdays to get to know one another past just the surface level details. You had expected your roommate to be someone you were cordial with, spoke to in passing, but never went out of your way to get to know on a deeper level, but with Ryland it was different.
You found yourself looking forward to coming home and being able to debrief about your days together, which quickly became a habit. Ryland always speaking of the students in his classroom and you, always the kids that came into the library. Sometimes they overlapped, his students coming into the library after school to work on projects. You had heard stories about their fantastic science teacher, which you later learned was Mr. Grace. On one occasion, you let it slip that you knew Mr. Grace, which didn't seem like a big deal at the time, but you later realized was a mistake.
Ryland came home the very next day with a story about the huge rumor that had dropped that day about Mr. Grace’s secret girlfriend who worked at the library. The two of you spent the rest of the evening laughing about it, and it turned into one of your favorite inside jokes that you shared.
You did find yourself becoming attracted to the scientist-turned-science-teacher, but that was something you would never confess to, at least not to Ryland. It was too nice of a living situation to risk things turning sour, so you bit your feelings back and swallowed them down the best that you could. There had been hints of reciprocal feelings, small gestures and comments that never went any further—nothing physical or concrete to really go off of.
Which is why you found yourself hooked up on a blind date—someone a friend had said you might like. You didn’t have high hopes, but you still agreed.
You just hadn’t told Ryland yet.
You make your way towards the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed, but still stifling a yawn against the back of your hand as you cross the threshold into the kitchen.
“Good morning, sleepyhead. Did you snooze your alarms again?” The familiar cheery voice of Ryland greets you. He has his back turned towards you, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He's already dressed, wearing his knitted fox cardigan that you love, and had, admittedly, stolen a few times to wear to work. You received lots of compliments on it, too. It also was more ammunition to feed the secret girlfriend rumor at school.
“It’s not even seven yet, Ry.” You argue, pulling the chair out from the kitchen table and taking a seat. You did snooze your alarm, but you wouldn't dare to tell him that. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right this early in the morning.
“You’re usually showering by six, I didn’t hear the faucet turn on until quarter after six this morning.” He states matter-of-factly, finally turning to face you. He’s holding two cups of coffee, you notice one of the mugs as his—a mug you bought him for his birthday that says I make horrible science puns, but only periodically.
The other is yours—a mug he bought you for Christmas that’s speckled with stars, and in the center it says you’re the star of this story. He places the mug in front of you without a word before bringing his own mug to his lips and taking a large sip of his coffee, drowning almost half the mug in one go. You're positive it's probably already his second cup this morning.
“Wow, Ry, that’s a bit creepy, don't ya think? I think I might need a new roommate who hasn’t memorized my shower schedule.” You tease with a smile, wrapping your fingers around the mug and letting the hot porcelain warm your palms. Truthfully, you liked that he had memorized your schedule. Knowing that you take up space not only in his apartment, but in his mind too makes your stomach flip with what you can only describe as butterflies.
“C’mon, after a year of living together I know your routine and our rhythms. You’re trying to paint me unfairly as some freak and I do not appreciate that, thank you very much. Especially this early in the morning.” His eyes crinkle behind his glasses as he laughs, watching as you take a sip of your coffee. You hold it in your mouth, the sweetness of the creamer mixed with the bitterness of the coffee coating your tongue deliciously before you swallow with a content sigh.
He has your coffee preferences down, too. He used to tease you about how much creamer you consumed, saying that you liked the sugary taste more than the coffee itself, which while it was definitely true, you always argued that that just wasn't the case.
Though, recently, you’ve noticed that there's always an extra unopened container of your favorite creamer sitting in the fridge, waiting specifically for you. He doesn't acknowledge this new habit, doesn't hold it over your head. It's just Ryland being Ryland, doing something for you and expecting absolutely nothing in return. Just one of the many reasons why you've found yourself holding a certain fondness for him—a crush? That sounds utterly ridiculous for your age, so you'll stick with fondness.
“Good?” He raises his eyebrow expectantly, his glasses have slipped down his nose, so he's staring at you over the lenses rather than through them, waiting for your response.
“Perfect.” You answer, placing the mug back down, a soft clink rings out as it hits the table. He smiles and nods, already knowing what your response would be.
"It's Friday, so you're off at four today, right?" He asks casually, bringing his mug back to his lips and finishing off his coffee before turning and placing the empty cup in the sink basin.
"That would be correct." You nod even though he can't see you. "You know, you're really not helping those freak accusations we talked about. First my shower schedule and now my work schedule? It just keeps piling up." Your voice is light, your smile shining through the words.
"Can't a guy just have a good memory?" He teases, spinning back around to face you. That slanted smile you've grown attached to is plastered on his lips.
"Maybe." You return with a shrug of your shoulders, smile still on your face. Everything pauses as the two of you just look at one another, taking each other in. The moment is soft and fleeting, but it still makes your heart clench. Before you know it, he's pushing himself away from the counter and coming to pass you, reaching his hand up and ruffling your hair as he passes by.
"Hey!" You protest, swatting your hand at him and missing, which earns you a childish laugh from him as he carries himself to the living room, entirely too pleased with himself.
The conversation lulls as the two of you go about your morning, existing side by side, but not exactly together. His presence is always near, but never overbearing. It’s nice, comfortable even. You finish your coffee off before standing and making your way to the sink to set your empty mug beside his in the basin. His footsteps sound in the hallway, old floorboards groaning under his weight as he makes his way back to the kitchen where you still are, grabbing your lunch from the fridge to pack it away.
When he reaches the kitchen, he has his bike helmet in his hand and his backpack on his back, signifying that he’s getting ready to leave. “Did you want to get food from that new Thai place tonight? I’ve heard good things this week in the break room about it. I can grab it on my ride home if you do.” He offers, pausing by the table as you zip up your lunchbox. Your movements still as you take in his words.
Your date is tonight.
You know you're not doing anything wrong by going on a date, but your stomach still flips with a weird sense of guilt for Ryland and the fact that you haven't told him yet.
“Actually, I won’t be home tonight,” you start, and you can see the confusion wash over his features in real time. “I have a date tonight.”
Your heart just dropped to your stomach.
You're sure of it.
It takes a few seconds, but he responds. “A date?” He echoes the word, voice slightly frayed at the edges. He tilts his head, shifting his weight between his feet uncomfortably as he waits for your response.
“Yeah,” you laugh nervously, picking at the zipper of your lunchbox. “A blind date. One of my friends set it up, it’s silly really.” Your cheeks start to warm as you finish your sentence. That guilt that started in your stomach is working its way up to your chest, and it's moving rapidly.
Ryland recovers swiftly, nodding his head and giving you a small smile, but you're not really sure it reaches his eyes.
Are you making things up? Seeing things that aren't there?
You have to be.
“It’s not silly. Is he picking you up?” He questions, but you think you know what he’s really asking. Am I going to meet him?
“No,” you shake your head quickly, “I’m taking the bus. Meeting him at the restaurant. I didn’t want him to know where I live just yet. I know my friend knows him, but I just didn't really think that was a good idea. You never know." You know you were rambling, but you just couldn't stop yourself. It's something you do when you're nervous—a trait you've found out you share with Ryland.
“Yeah, you never know really. That’s smart. Definitely very smart. I'm proud of you. Well—uh, I’ve got to head out. I'm going to be late if I don’t get going now. I’ll see you after work? Will I see you? Before your date?” He's rambling too, the both of you just word-vomiting all over the place from nerves. It could be funny if these weren't the circumstances.
“Yeah, I’ll be here. I’ll see you before I leave. I hope you have a good day.” He's walking past you and to the door as you speak, planning his exit as quickly as he can. With his hand on the knob, he pauses and turns his head over his shoulder to look at you once more.
“Yeah, you too. Sounds good. I'll see you tonight.” Then he’s out the door, leaving you standing alone in the middle of your shared kitchen with the feeling that you're doing something entirely wrong.
───
Your shift at the library seems to drag on and fly by simultaneously. It’s probably the nerves. At this point you don't know if they're from your date, or seeing Ryland when you get home.
Probably both.
───
Before you know it, you’re home and changing into your dress for the date that you're not even entirely sure you want to go on anymore. You don’t feel the need to make any drastic changes to your makeup, so you just do a small touch up on your makeup from work. Taking a final look in the mirror, you exhale a deep breath and work up the courage to make your way to the kitchen where you know Ryland will be waiting.
When you reach the end of the hallway, you see him sitting at the table, a pen in his hand and his focus on the stack of students’ tests that sit in front of him as he works through grading each of them thoroughly.
“You know you really shouldn’t be bringing work home, Mr. Grace.” You tease him like normal, because it's the only thing you know to do. Smoothing the skirt of your dress out, you close the distance to the kitchen table where he's stationed. His focus flicks up towards you, you watch the way his eyes take in your appearance, the way they linger on your dress before moving up to your face.
“That’s the life of a teacher. Overworked and extremely underpaid.” He responds casually, placing his pen down and stretching his arms out. You hear something pop, probably his back from being stiff and him sitting crouched over the table.
Something you've gotten on him for plenty of times.
“Isn’t that the truth.” You smile faintly, tapping your fingers against the table.
He only nods, so you continue, “Well, I’m getting ready to head out. Do I look okay?” You question him quietly, pulling your arms to your sides so he can get a good look at you. You find yourself wanting his validation.
“Yeah, you do,” he nods, giving you a small smile. “You look very pretty in your dress. I like that color on you. It looks good with your skin tone.” His voice is soft and sincere, almost shy in a way as he speaks. It makes you smile, a real grin that you can’t contain.
“Thanks, Ry. I appreciate that.” And you do. More than he will ever know.
“If you need anything, just call me, okay?” His voice has grown serious now. “If anything at all goes wrong—don’t hesitate. Call me and I’ll be there to get you, even if I have to sit you on the back of my bike and peddle the both of us home.” You let out a small laugh at the mental movie your mind creates for you. It's ridiculous, but you're one hundred percent positive that he's telling you the truth.
“I’ve got you on speed dial. You're my emergency contact if it goes south.” It sounds like a joke, but he really is your emergency contact.
Just the same as you are his.
“And you better use it if you need to.” He smiles, voice full of sincerity.
“I will. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“I’ll see you soon. I hope it goes well.”
“Thanks, Ry.”
Then you're out the door, leaving Ryland sat at the kitchen table wondering why his heart feels like it's been broken into two.
You knew the date wasn’t going anywhere almost as soon as it started. The man was nice, the conversation flowed, but you just didn’t click.
It also didn’t help that you kept comparing him to Ryland all night. Comments he made, jokes he said that you just knew Ryland would never say. He didn't have that same effect on you that Ryland had. That easy connection that blossomed between the two of you almost instantaneously just couldn't be replicated with the man you met tonight, but that didn't surprise you, not really. Ryland was one of a kind, the type of soul that you could never find in another body no matter how hard you looked.
You knew your feelings for Ryland were there, constantly lingering and slowly growing, but you hadn't realized just how deeply they ran until tonight. All your date had shown you tonight was that you never wanted to go on another one if it wasn't with Ryland.
───
You turn the doorknob to your shared apartment and let yourself in—the apartment is dark and quiet, except for the sound of old reruns playing on the television in the living room. Your eyes flick to the time on the clock and you furrow your brows.
It's late.
Ryland is usually sleeping by now.
You slip your sandals off slowly, careful to not make any excessive noise. Cautiously, you make your way towards the living room, your steps are quiet just in case Ryland has fallen asleep accidentally on the couch. It's not common, but it has happened before. You peer into the living room and see him on the couch, but he's not asleep just yet. His eyelids look heavy, half-lidded, trained on the television, but you're not sure he's actually watching it. You see an empty takeout container of what you can only assume is the Thai food he spoke to you about this morning. The old floorboards creak under your foot as you step on a particularly touchy spot, giving you away. His head turns quickly, eyes opening wider as he sees you standing in the entryway.
"Are you trying to sneak in on me?" He teases sleepily, that easy humor threading itself through his voice as he speaks.
"You caught me red handed." You sigh dramatically, raising your hands in mock surrender as you carry yourself further into the living room, not focused on being quiet anymore.
He watches you, silently, but you can tell there are words sitting in his throat that he won't let come out just yet. He waits, ever so casually, as you take a seat on the middle cushion of the couch, curling your legs up under yourself.
"Did you wait on me?" You know those aren't the words he wants to hear right now, but you ask anyway, eager to hear his answer.
"Yeah, well—I tried to. I think I was about half asleep when you came in. Didn't even hear the door open." His response was what you were hoping to hear. A smile forms on your face as you watch him shift his body to face towards you. He props his elbow on the top of the back of the couch, leaning his head against his hand, the movement causing his glasses to slightly shift.
"I was quiet. I thought you'd be sleeping so I didn't want to disturb you." You shift now, scooting in deliberately closer to him. Your knee knocks into the side of his sweatpant clad thigh and he feels it, glancing down at the contact before bringing his eyes back up to find yours again.
Neither of you move.
"You never disturb me." He tells you softly, the words dancing around in the air for a moment as you pause.
"I don't think there will be a second date." You finally say, giving him an entryway into the conversation he's been waiting to have.
You swear he almost looks relieved when he hears confirmation that the date didn't go as planned. His shoulders loosen ever so slightly and he nods his head. "I'm sorry it didn't work out." The words sound sincere enough.
"No, don't be sorry. I didn't have high hopes anyway." You shrug casually, sighing lightly. "We just didn't click very well—you know?" You scrunch your brows together while you think and he gives you a nod to continue. "Sometimes you just click with people and you know it will lead somewhere. That didn’t happen.”
"Yeah, I understand what you mean. Completely." A pause, then he opens his mouth to speak again, closes it, and the words wither up and die on his tongue before he can even spit them out.
"Like, you and I, we click. I just didn't feel that with him." You're hoping he catches the hint you're throwing him, but knowing Ryland, he probably hasn't.
"Yeah, we clicked very well. We're very good friends."
There is the confirmation that he hasn't caught the hint. It makes you laugh, how oblivious he can be to things sometimes. Your laughter confuses him, his brows now knitting together as he thinks.
"What?" He questions, letting out a nervous laugh because he feels like he's missing out on something.
He most definitely is.
"He just wasn't you, Ry." The words are quiet, but they're out there now. Hanging between the two of you like a bridge, an invitation that you hope he will accept.
"What? I'm sorry—what was that?" He's leaning his head in closer to you now, as if he'll understand what you're saying if he can just close the distance between the two of you.
You try again.
More straightforward this time.
"He wasn't you. I think I knew it wasn't going anywhere before I even met him. I kept thinking of you, and he just wasn't you. The way he made me feeling isn't the way you make me feel. You make me feel things I've never even experienced before. This date just made me understand what I've been too stubborn to acknowledge for awhile. I have feelings for you, Ryland." Your nerves have caught up to you, evident from the lengthy explanation you give him. He's quiet, taking your words in and trying to digest them—make sense of them.
Your heart is trying to make its way outside of its home in your chest as the seconds tick by.
"You don't know how long I've hoped to hear those words from you." He breathes, his words dripping with honesty. "I think I've had feelings for you since about the fourth month of you living here. It was so hard not to, but I didn't want to make you uncomfortable so I just tried to push them down." You think he's finished, but he continues. "I almost went crazy tonight, sitting here thinking about that awful date and worried you would come home with good news. I know that makes me a horrible person, but I don't think I care anymore."
His confession has you melting, your legs turning to jelly where they sit beneath you. You lean closer into him, reaching your hand forward, not realizing where it's about to land, and place it on the top of his thigh. The two of you look down to where your hand has landed, its place on his thigh that is so dangerously close to his dick. You both look up at the same time, eyes locking on each other. You find no indication that he wants you to move, so you leave your hand there.
The energy between the two of you has shifted, becoming more charged.
You're close now, so close that you can feel his breath fanning across your face. It's warm, heating your cheeks. His breath smells like the spearmint toothpaste that sits in the holder alongside both of your toothbrushes. His eyes are searching your face, looking for any indication of you not wanting this.
Not wanting him.
He finds none.
And still, he asks, because that's just who he is. Always needing one hundred percent certainty.
"Is this okay?" His voice is soft, scared almost, breaking quietly near the end.
Your brain is short-circuiting, all dizzy and fogged up from the closeness paired with his scent. You can't get any words to form, so you do the next best thing—you nod.
"No," he shakes his head, "Words, please. I need to hear you say it, okay? Please?" He finishes with your name, whispering it so delicately, so softly, as if he's afraid he'll break it, break you, if he doesn't treat it with the utmost care.
"Yes," you manage to mutter, still nodding your head, "Yes, this is okay. Please." You finish stronger, the words coming out louder than the first.
There's a pause, a nervous breath, then his lips are on yours. It's not a perfectly practiced kiss you'd see in movies, it's clumsy, noses bumping into each other and breathy laughter throughout. Two people beginning to learn each other in a different way, a more sacred way.
His hands are hesitant, finally raising them to slide up your thighs and settle on your hips. He pulls away, his eyes are dazed and his pupils are blown wide. "Still okay?" He questions again.
You don't respond immediately, instead, you shift your weight, bracing your knees against the couch cushions and raising to balance on them before you swing one across his lap so that you're now straddling him. His hands keep their place on your hips through your movements, rubbing soft circles against the fabric of your dress as you get yourself situated on his lap. Your hand that was on his thigh moves to rest at his side. The skirt of your dress has risen up, bunching up around your thighs from your movements. You can't help but feel the way his hardening length presses into you.
"Yes," you tell him, raising your hands and placing them on his broad shoulders, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt between your fingers. "Is this okay?" It's your turn to question now, to confirm that he wants this, wants you, just as much as you want him. You watch his eyes flutter shut for a moment, his chest heaves as he takes in a long breath. Exhales, then his eyes are open again.
"Yes," he says, voice still slightly shaky with residual nerves, "this is more than okay." He confirms, a sheepish smile making it's way across his lips.
A smile tugs at the corner of your own lips, then you're leaning back in and capturing his mouth with yours once again. His lips are soft, softer than you imagined they would be. You're both still shy, almost unsure of yourselves when it comes to this new territory between the two of you. You take a chance, moving your hands from their place on his shoulders to his head, threading your fingers through his blonde locks. You tug, just hard enough, that he gasps into your mouth.
You swallow the sound down greedily, wanting to hold onto it forever—keep it locked away in a place only you have access to. His fingers tighten, ever so slightly, around your hips.
You pull away this time, getting a good look at his face. His cheeks are tinted red and his lips are a darker shade of pink than usual from your kisses. You bring a hand around, placing a finger under his chin and making him tilt his head back. He obeys so easily, tilting his head back quickly with no resistance at all.
"Did you like that? Me pulling your hair?" Your voice is sweet, honey coating every word.
"I think—" he pauses when your lips find his jaw, "I think I like anything you do to me." He breathes, hands tightening around your hips instinctively. You let out a small giggle, your breath fanning across his cheek. You continue to kiss along his jaw, then down his neck. The collar of his shirt has been pulled down slightly from the bottom edges being trapped under your thighs. You continue, kissing down to his exposed collarbone, pausing momentarily before nipping lightly at the sensitive skin that stretches along the bone.
He groans softly—then, subconsciously, his hips buck up into your panty-clothed core. The friction is nice, pulling a soft gasp from your throat. His hands still.
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to. I really didn't mean to." His words are quick, full of remorse at his unintended actions.
"No, it's okay," you whisper, trying to console him. You begin to make your way back up his neck, planting small kisses against the base of his throat as you move. "Can we take your shirt off? I wanna see you."
"No."
Oh.
The word makes you pause, pulling away from him almost immediately. Your skin grows hot from the feeling of embarrassment. He tilts his head back down so the two of you are face to face again. When he sees your expression, his eyes go wide and he scrambles to correct himself.
"No—I mean, yes, we can." He sputters, using his hands on your hips to pull you even closer to him. "Yes, I want you to see me. I want to see you too. I just—if we're going to go further than this I don't want it to be here—on the couch I mean. I want to do it right, in bed." He clarifies quickly, trying to salvage whatever he can of this interaction. His thumbs begin to circle your hips again in hopes of calming you.
You finally let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
He wants to do it right.
"Okay," you whisper, nodding your head in agreement. "Can we go to the bedroom, then?"
"Yes, please." He nods, tapping your hips lightly with his fingers to signal for you to get up.
You place your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, swinging your leg off of him and placing your foot on the floor. He keeps one hand on your hip, steadying you as you stand. Your dress falls back down, no longer bunched at your thighs.
It's his turn to stand and he does so quickly, bumping into you on the way up.
"Sorry," he hums, "Just excited." The honesty makes you laugh.
"Excited to have sex with me?" You tease, tilting your head up to see his face.
"Yes—excited for that reason. To have sex with you." He smiles shyly, the light from the television allowing you to see the tint of red that spreads across his cheeks.
You shake your head with a smile before turning to make your way towards the bedrooms. He follows closely behind, keeping a hand placed on your hip to tether himself to you as if he's afraid one of you will float away if he lets go. You continue, coming up on the first bedroom in the hallway—which just so happens to be his.
You reach for the handle and turn it, pushing the door open to step into his room. You've been in his room a handful of times before to grab something for him or to turn off his fan, but never for a reason like this.
His room isn't fully dark, a small lamp sitting on his bedside table illuminates the room just well enough for you to see. He has a bookshelf in the corner where dozens of textbooks on molecular biology, DNA, chemistry, and other sciences sit.
Just light reading for him.
His desk sits along the wall, the chair pushed halfway in. Papers and pens are scattered all across the face of desk. He has an unfolded basket of clothes sitting on top of his dresser. Folding them is the worst part! His voice pops into the back of your head. You swear you've heard him say that at least one hundred times by now. He watches the way you take in his bedroom, the way your eyes linger on certain things. He finds himself becoming self-conscious when he notices the clothes on his dresser.
"Sorry, I wasn't expecting visitors." He says truthfully. He never would have imagined that he would be ending his night with you in his bedroom.
He surely wasn't going to complain, though.
"With the amount of times I've heard you complain about folding clothes, I'm honestly surprised you only have one basket that isn't folded." Your voice is light, you're smiling as you talk. He laughs from behind you, his hand running from your hip up your side.
"Ry, can you unzip my dress?" Your voice is quieter now, the gentle humor that was there just a moment ago has faded into something gentler.
He doesn't speak, but you feel his hands trail up your back to the zipper that sits at the top of your spine. He grabs it in his hand and you swear you can feel his hand tremble slightly before he works up the courage to pull the zipper down, down, down, all the way to the base of your spine. His hands raise back up, pushing the fabric from your shoulders and down your arms. The dress drops, and you're left standing in your bra and panties, facing away from Ryland.
His hands hesitate before they move down to the clasp on your bra, it takes him a moment, but he unclasps it for you. You shrug the straps from your shoulders and down your arms to let it fall to the ground, joining your dress in a pile by your feet. You have one final article of clothing to shed, which you do so yourself. You hook your fingers into the waistband of your underwear and bring them down your legs before stepping out of them. The pile of your clothes on the floor is now complete.
You take a breath before turning around to finally face Ryland. Your nerves disappear the second you see the lock on his face.
His eyes are wide and his lips are parted. There's something so soft about the way he's taking you in. You think you're going to have to reach out and poke him to bring him back down to earth, but then he speaks.
"You are absolutely beautiful." He reaches his hand out to your hip, finally touching you without the barrier of clothing. His fingertips are soft as he squeezes the flesh between his fingers—it almost seems like he's testing you to make sure you're real. His fingers trail up your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their path. He pauses at your breast, looking towards your face once more for an invitation.
You nod.
He continues.
His touch is soft, ghosting over the flesh of your breast. He grabs a hold of it, holding it in his palm. His fingers close around your nipple, twisting the hardened bud between his fingers. Your body is on fire under his touch. You whimper softly, heat coiling down low that has you squeezing your legs together to get any amount of friction you can.
He takes note of that.
"You like that?" He questions, wanting to take his time to learn you.
You nod.
You're becoming impatient, wanting to see him and feel him.
"It's your turn now." You urge him softly, your fingers coming up to grip the hem of his shirt. He nods, his hand moving away from you and grabbing onto his own shirt. You help him raise it up and he maneuvers it off of himself—it joins your pile of clothes in the floor.
You knew Ryland had a nice build, but you didn't expect this. His biceps are large, and the skin on his stomach lays tightly over his muscles. It's now your turn to bring your hand up and run it across his stomach, feeling the warmth of his skin and the way his muscles contract under your fingertips. Your hands glide around before settling down low on the waistband of his sweatpants.
"Is this okay?" You say the words that have become habitual to the two of you at this point.
"Yes, please." His eyes meet yours through his glasses as he confirms. You nod, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his his sweatbands along with his boxers and pull the both of them down his thighs at the same time. He steps out of them, and now the pile of your clothes on the floor is truly complete.
You're able to take him in now—all of him.
He's bigger than you imagined. Not huge, but a good size and thickness. You know the stretch is going to hurt so good. He's hard, his dick is poking out and red at the tip. You reach your hand down to grasp him in your palm, then pause. You raise your eyes to his and he's already watching you.
He nods.
You continue.
You grip him in your hand, running your thumb over his leaking slit to gather some wetness. He's sensitive, already twitching in your palm with minimal effort on your part. You stroke from the tip to the base of his dick and it has him groaning, a sound pulled deep from his chest. That heat, the need, coils low in your stomach again.
"You're so gorgeous, Ry." You tell him, watching the way his eyebrows knit together in pleasure. His eyes catch yours again and you see the way his cheeks turn that familiar shade of pink. He's so responsive it makes you weak in the knees.
"Gorgeous." he repeats, like it's a foreign concept to him. He doesn't really believe it.
"Yeah, really gorgeous." You confirm with a simple nod of your head, like it's the most obvious thing you've ever said to him.
To you, it is.
You stroke him languidly a few more times, enjoying the feeling of him twitching against your palm.
The feeling curling deep in your stomach is becoming too hard to ignore.
You need him.
"Lay down on the bed, please." You tell him softly, giving him one final stroke before taking your touch away from him completely. He whines at the loss of contact, his hips jerking closer to you. His eyes are open and watching as you step closer to the bed.
"Wait, no—I want," he pauses, unsure of himself, then, "can I taste you, please?"
His words land hard, a pulsing sensation flows through you, right where you need him the most. Who would you be to deny him?
Especially when he asks so nicely.
"Yes." You nod, eager for the contact with him. You face the bed, crawling onto it before turning yourself around and laying on your back. The air from your movements causes a waft of his scent—a mix of his aftershave, shampoo, and that detergent he swears by, to blanket you, enveloping you in a nice little cocoon of him. He follows you, making his way onto the bed and lodging himself between your legs, his arms hook under your legs and his hands rest so gently against your stomach.
He takes in the sight of you sprawled out and ready for him and he swears he's in heaven—or as close to heaven as he will ever get. He places a kiss against your thigh.
"You look so pretty." His breath fans over you as he says it, causing your pussy to clench around nothing.
You shy away, covering your face so you don't have to look at him. "Hey, no—I want to see you, please." His voice is so soft it makes your heart ache. You oblige, uncovering your face so your view is now Ryland between your legs.
With your attention now on him, he gets to work quickly. He flattens his tongue, licking a stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, circling the bundle of nerves with his tongue. You gasp, which only encourages him more. His tongue moves back down to your entrance, prodding your hole to get a better taste of you.
He devours you like a man starved, scared that this will be his first, and last, meal. Though, at this point, the both of you know that this isn't going to be a one and down type of encounter. He's attentive, quickly learning what you do, and don't like. He licks back up, focusing on your clit, finding that spot that makes you keen and arch your back from the sensation.
"I'm gonna come." You manage to choke out, your thighs flexing tighter around his head. Your voice, those words, are music to his ears. His tongue becomes more precise, flexing to a taut point and circling around your clit to help pull your orgasm from you. Your eyes shift down, the sight of Ryland between your thighs paired with how deliciously he's sucking on your clit are enough to send you over the edge. The coil in your stomach snaps, hot pleasure coursing through your limbs. You reach your hand down to grab a handful of his hair, trying to pull him away from you, but he doesn't let up.
Your grip on his hair paired with tasting you on his tongue has him moaning, sending vibrations through your already overly sensitive cunt. He lets you ride out your orgasm on his tongue, his movements eventually slowing to a halt.
Neither of you speak for a moment, you because you're still too blissed out, chest heaving as you suck in deep breaths. Ryland because he can't believe this is happening. He has stilled, his head resting against your thigh. You feel a few light taps, Ryland's fingers against your stomach, and you look down. His fingers are still wrapped around his hair and his glasses are crooked, but he doesn't notice. The mixture of spit and your release are coating his lips and chin. He's smiling up at you so sweetly it makes your heart ache that familiar ache.
"Good?" He asks, voice unsure. You want to laugh. You just came on his tongue and he's still worried he didn't do good enough of a job.
"Great." You breath, giving a light tug at his blonde locks to signal him to come up. He wastes no time, unhooking his arms from your legs and crawling up the bed, caging you between his arms. Your hands move to his face, fingers grabbing at his glasses to correct their placement. You catch his eyes with yours.
His eyes are soft as he stares into yours, so full of something you can't quite name yet. Your fingers run down his cheek and settle on his jaw, thumb brushing against his skin. He leans into it. The yellow light from his bedside lamp catches his skin so perfectly, casting a warm hue across his face that paints him as one of the most beautiful paintings you've ever laid eyes on. He's so beautiful like this, face so relaxed and carefree.
You think he's an angel—something otherworldly for sure.
You feel his length twitch against your lower stomach, hard and leaking from the slit with desire. That familiar heat is already forming in your belly again. "I want to feel you," you tell him, voice quiet and sure. "All of you, Ry."
"Okay," he nods, "I want you, too."
You smile, removing your hand from his face and snaking it between the two of you, grabbing his length and stroking him. "Can I be on top? I want to see you."
"Yes," he nods, quicker this time. "You can have me anyway you want me. Anything you want." His voice is so certain and he's moving before you can say another word. Taking his position with his back flat against the bed, you raise to your knees and sling one leg over him, straddling him once again. His hands find your thighs, resting near the top of them like that's exactly where they were made to be.
You raise again, giving yourself room to take him in. Your hand raises to his lips, fingers splaying out expectantly. There's a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
"Spit." He does so without another command, so eager to please and be good. You gather the spit on your fingers, using your thumb to get the residual saliva left on his bottom lip. You reach down again, grabbing ahold of him once more, fingers now wet and ready to help lubricate him. You give him a few pumps, coating the spit along his length. His hips buck at the contact, a quiet groan leaving his lips as his eyes screw shut. His tip prods at your entrance and you sink down ever so slightly, dragging the moment out.
He whines, a sound so beautiful you want to have it on recording so you can play it whenever you want.
Slowly, you sink down further, taking him in inch by beautiful inch, until you're fully seated on him. A quiet moan slips past your lips at the stretch, the fullness you feel. He fits inside you so perfectly, completely made for you, and you, made for him.
You quickly decide that this is it, you're complete.
Ryland Grace has been your missing piece all along.
You just can't believe it's taken you a year to realize this.
His hands grip your thighs, fingernails marking crescents into your skin. "You—you feel so good," he gasps, swallowing hard. "I know I'm not going to last long." Embarrassment weaves itself into his words, but he shouldn't feel that. To you, it's endearing. He's going to come quickly because of you.
"That's okay," you start to shift your hips, raising up, then back down slowly, setting your own rhythm. "I want you to feel good." Moving quicker, you place your hands on his stomach to steady yourself, the tight muscles under his skin flexing as you gain momentum.
He says your name, but it's broken off at the end with a moan, "I don't think I can have you like this just once and be done." A breathy laugh, trying to be nonchalant, but his words are anything but casual and he is literally inside of you, already twitching as your walls squeeze around him.
You continue your motions, the drag of him inside of you making that coil in your stomach already begin to tighten. "I can't either."
He whines at your response, hips bucking up into you as you come down onto him again. The tip of his dick hits a certain spot inside of you that has your vision blurring. You chase that feeling, moving up and down feverishly, trying to catch the sensation again.
Ryland is a moaning mess under you, caught between scrunching his eyes closed in pleasure and trying to keep them open so he can watch the way you get yourself off while using him.
"I'm gonna—" a low groan, "Come. Can I?" Come inside? He doesn't have to say the words for you to understand where he was going with the sentence. Nodding, you work quicker, grinding against him to help him reach his peak.
"Please," you beg, "I want to feel you. Please come inside me, Ry." The nickname paired with your movements help throw him over the edge. He's gasping, hips bucking as he releases inside of you. You continue to grind against him, milking him thoroughly as you chase your own orgasm now. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, the friction helping that coil in your stomach get closer and closer to snapping.
Ryland knows you're close, feeling the way your walls are constricting around his twitching dick. He watches you move, working yourself up and using him to get there.
He thinks it's the most ethereal thing he's ever seen.
"There you go," he croons, rubbing soothing circles against your thighs with his large hands, "Use me. Let go for me, sweetheart."
Sweetheart.
Ryland has never called you anything other than your name before.
The unexpected use of the pet name and the sound of his voice is enough to let that coil snap. For the second time tonight, you're coming all over Ryland Grace. Crying out, you ride the high down until there's nothing left to hold onto anymore.
All that can be heard in the room is the sound of both of you breathing, heavy long breaths as you both try to get oxygen back into your lungs. His hands continue to work themselves over your thighs, then up your hips and your sides to help you ground yourself back to him.
Before you know it, he's wrapping his arm around your back and readjusting himself so he's sitting with his back against his headboard, still inside of you, but growing softer, as you straddle him.
His hands move to your face, fingers wiping back the sweaty hair that's sticking to your forehead. He looks happy, a sweet smile tugging at his lips while he watches you through his glasses.
He would do whatever you asked him to.
He's sure of that now. Maybe he always has been.
"What?" You question, scratching your nails lazily against his abdomen.
"Nothing," he smiles wider, "I was just thinking—" a pause, "does this change our roommate agreement?" That humor that flows so easily between the two of you is back, not changed by the events that just took place or the fact that he is literally still inside of you.
The question is so silly it makes you laugh, a deep sound coming up from your stomach.
"Yeah, Ry. I think it does."
Tomorrow morning the two of you will have a lot to figure out, but tonight, you’re just happy to be in each others arms.
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thanks for reading! feedback is always appreciated :)
