everyone needs to go see Project Hail Mary like right now oh my God
I read the book before I watched the movie and honestly I think that's how you should go about it. It provided some awesome light on the things that the movie didn't touch on. Most movies based on books usually make me like the books more but this movie just blows that outta the water. I'd say that the movie and book work hand in hand with one another, the book having the more scientific explanations for things, while the movie goes a bit more into the emotional bond between Rocky and Grace.
I cried three times while watching the movie, even tho I know what happens đ I love it so much it's crazy. I will be going to see it again in theater as soon as possible!!!! Happy happy happy (*￣â￣)ăđ
Also the standie they had at my theater is so super cute, you can sit with Ryland and everything đ
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matt murdock x vampire!reader
warnings: (18+ minors dni) eventual smut. mention of blood and graphic scenes of violence. blasphemy. constant mention of the catholic religion.
attention: mention of the uterus and its loss! mention of motherhood as something expected, taking into account the context of the 1920s.
word count: 5084
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
Owney Madden hadn't been released yet, but the lethal cadence of unparalleled violence born in the shadow of his existence was more than present in Hell's Kitchen. Now that his release was a reality, it meant it was time to rebuild the foundations of an empire that would later be remembered in the city's history.
The idea was to find key locations in Clinton with enough influence to go unnoticed or to intimidate people. Space was also necessary to safeguard what would later become as precious as gold: alcohol.
Clinton Church had an ideal location to pass itself off as something, and at the same time, it had loyal followers who listened to Father Steven's words without question. The church had an attached orphanage, making it an important hub for future smuggling; the children were easy to train and manipulate, and the young women who took refuge there could be used for many other purposes.
The plan was simple. It wouldn't be the first time a church had joined a criminal network.
The convent refused. It said no to the web of death, corruption, and bloodshed woven by Owney Madden's gang.
The Gopher GangâMadden's gangâdecided that if Clinton Church didn't join them, then they would suffer the consequences.
The police would call it an isolated incident.
May 23, 1923
The doors of Clinton Church slammed shut behind you with a thud that echoed through the nave, as if the entire building had breathed its last with you. Your hands trembled so much you barely managed to slide the old iron bolt; the metal squeaked beneath your bloodied fingers as your weight finally collapsed against the wood.
Outside, Hell's Kitchen burned.
Not amidst flames.
It burned with voices.
The gunshots continued to echo through the narrow streets like premature thunder, mingling with shouts that arrived distorted by the distance. You could hear men laughing, boots pounding on the cobblestones, orders shouted with that carefree violence possessed only by those convinced the world belongs to them.
Owney Madden was still in prison.
But his men were already walking the streets as if he had never left the neighborhood.
The Clinton Church had the sacrilege of not bowing to corruption.
It said no to hiding weapons and alcohol. It said no to the corruption of children and to handing over its young novices and girls.
The Church refused to become just another cog in a machine of a city that seemed to have forgotten the difference between faith and fear.
And Madden's men never took no for an answer.
Another gunshot pierced the air.
Then a scream. It was high-pitched. Too young.
You closed your eyes.
You recognized that voice. It had been one of the novices; she couldn't have been more than seventeen. She had arrived just a few months before with a battered suitcase and the hope of finding a place where the world stopped hurting.
On the other side of the wall, separated only by a small stone courtyard, stood Saint Agnes Orphanage. You thought of the children hiding behind the windows, huddled together while the nuns tried to cover their ears so they wouldn't hear the horror unfolding beyond the stained glass.
You prayed they wouldn't come out.
You prayed Madden's men wouldn't cross that courtyard.
You prayed...
and kept crawling.
Each movement left a new scarlet stain on the wooden floor. The trail of blood snaked between the pews as if another, invisible creature were walking behind you, claiming every drop that left your body.
The incense from the morning mass still hung in the air. It mingled with the iron in your blood and the damp scent of the ancient stone, creating a strange, almost solemn perfume, as if the church had begun preparing your funeral long before you crossed those doors.
Inside, the church remained silent, a silence so ancient it seemed to have outlived all the prayers uttered beneath that vault. Only the ragged rustle of a crawling body broke the stillness. You were fortunate that they presumed you dead and tried to eliminate those outside. They wanted those outside first, so no one could escape.
Your hands left a dark trail across the flagstones as you groped your way to the side altar, away from the front door, away from the overturned pews and the stained-glass windows shattered by Owney Madden's men. Each breath was shorter than the last. The iron of your blood mingled with the harsh taste of dust, and for the first time since you'd learned to hold a rosary between your fingers, you understood the true meaning of agony.
You didn't want to die.
Not there. Not like that. Not at the hands of filthy men who only sought to stain the streets of your beloved, damaged home crimson.
Your fingers found the crucifix hanging around your neck. The silver was warm, soaked with your own blood. You gripped it with the desperate strength of someone who has nothing left to offer.
âPleaseâŚâ the word barely left your lips.
Then came another. And another.
Not a memorized prayer, but a broken babble, a plea born of fear.
âGod... pleaseâŚâ
The church didn't answer.
The crucifix remained motionless between your fingers.
Yet⌠something changed.
It wasn't a sound. It was the complete absence of them all. As if suddenly deafness had engulfed you and the mere presence of despair was all that surrounded you.
The trickle of blood stopped.
The wind ceased to pierce the shattered stained-glass windows.
Even the pain seemed to cease, suspended in a moment that no longer belonged to time.
Then a voice spoke.
It didn't descend from the ceiling.
It didn't emerge from the shadows.
It had no direction.
It simply... existed.
Profound. Immense. Powerful.
So ancient that no human language could have claimed it as its own. You didn't understand its language, yet at the same time, you did. You recognized and didn't recognize the voice. It was a strange sensation that clung to the very core of your being, beyond the physical.
âYou ask for salvation.â
Tears streamed down your cheeks before you even realized you were crying.
âPleaseâŚâ
âThere is no salvation without sacrifice.â
The air grew heavy. The cross was still in your hands, but suddenly it felt heavier.
âWhat protects must first relinquish what it was made to preserve.â
You frowned. Those words echoed in your head, and you turned them over in the brief moment you had, trying to understand them.
It didn't make sense, not entirely.
A dagger lay just inches from you, fallen to the ground where you had left it when you collapsed. That same weapon had repeatedly plunged into your side; violent thrusts that dug into your skin without mercy while your screams of pain adorned the macabre scene of your attacker.
A nobody, a pawn who only followed orders, but at the same time enjoyed the brutality of being the one with power. He plunged his dagger in without a second thought, drove it in so hard that it became embedded in you.
The dagger must have fallen from dragging yourself so much. Or perhaps you pulled it out to try and deny the pain you felt.Â
You didn't remember it, you didn't remember the movement, but at that precise moment it didn't matter.
The important thing was that it was there.
With an effort that made every muscle in your body tremble, you reached for it; your fingers closed around the dagger's hilt.
âI have nothing, my lord,â you whispered with barely any strength. âI only have this body that is about to perish under your gaze.â
The voice didn't respond right away.
When it did again, it no longer sounded like an order. It sounded like the truth.
âThen offer that from which life begins.â
The whole world seemed to hold its breath.
You looked at your own body, the same one you were about to leave with your last breath. The blood still spreading beneath your legs. You were a pathetic sight, a human being in its final moments.
Then you remembered.
The womb, so often described by priests and mothers as a sanctuary destined to give life.
Since childhood, you had been taught that the greatest gift bestowed upon a woman resided there. That one day that void would be filled by another life. That motherhood was not just a destiny, but a promise.
What if you gave it up?
Who would you be then?
Not a wife.
Not a mother.
Not what the world expected.
Just⌠you.
A person willing to surrender the future that would never be yours. The future everyone told you you had to achieve.
The tip of the dagger rested on your abdomen.
You closed your eyes. You didn't utter a prayer.
Only a promise.
âTake it.â
The blade descended.
The pain was so immense it ceased to feel like pain. For an instant there was no flesh, no bones, no blood, but a white light that pierced every corner of your consciousness. You felt something leave your body, not torn away by your hands, but claimed by a will infinitely older than your own.
Your womb was empty.
Not empty of organs. Empty of destiny. The destiny imposed or chosen. The destiny implored or cursed.
Empty of possibility. Of all that the world had decided you should be.
The voice spoke for the last time.
âThen rise as that which no longer gives life... but guards it.â
Darkness fell upon you as softly as a blanket.
Your hand went limp, and the dagger struck the floor. The rosary remained trapped between your motionless fingers.
And your heart stopped beating.
For an immeasurable time, the church was deserted once more. The clamor of agony, despair, and violence echoed in the distance, far, far away.
For a few fleeting moments, you were nothing. A being no longer of the living, but one about to ascend to heaven or descend into hell.
You weren't alive; you had left life.
Until, somewhere between death and dawn⌠a breath broke the silence.
Your lungs filled with air with an unfamiliar force.
Your eyes snapped open.
They were no longer the same.
Nor was it the thirst that awoke with you.
The first heartbeat didn't reach your chest. It reached the church. It was the wood creaking under the weight of centuries, the stained-glass window barely trembling on the eastern wall, the wax melting with impossible slowness.
Then⌠came the hunger. It wasn't born in your stomach or your body.
It was an ancient, primal need, hidden in a corner of the universe long before churches, men, or the names of God existed. It surged through your veins like a raging river, filling every space the blood had left behind.
The world had changed.
No.
The world has always been this way.
It was you who had never been able to see it.
The darkness ceased to be darkness. The stones breathed centuries. The dampness hidden between the bricks had a scent. The incense still hung over the oratory like a golden cloud, and behind it, you could distinguish each drop of blood that had fallen from your body, each with a different fragrance, a different story.
You sat up with unnatural slowness. Your joints protested for barely an instant before settling as if they had never known the wound that had pierced your abdomen. There was no trace of the pain. Nor of the cold. Nor of the blood that minutes before had left your body to stain the marble red.
Only the rosary remained between your fingers.
You clutched it tightly.
âThank you,â you whispered with the greatest of thanks.
You called, and He answered. God didn't save you.
He consecrated you.
Protect.
The church remained shrouded in gloom, but your eyes no longer needed the light. The darkness had become a second skin; you could make out every crack in the stone, every grain in the wood, every breath hidden within the centuries-old walls. Beyond the altar, on the other side of the doors, twelve hearts continued to beat.
Twelve.
You heard them with unbearable clarity.
Each heartbeat pierced the temple like a bell.
Each carried the same scent.
Gunpowder.
Sweat.
Blood.
Sin.
Thirst answered before you did.
You didn't walk toward them. You disappeared.
The first scream tore through the silence of Clinton Church with such violence that even the stained-glass windows seemed to tremble. Then came another. And another. The gunfire began almost immediately, hurried, chaotic, fired at an enemy no one could comprehend.
The bullets found columns.
Pews.
Plaster saints.
Never you.
You moved too fast for human eyes to follow. Barely a shadow crossing the space, an icy rustle between the pews, a black figure appearing where just a moment before there had been no one.
The men began to back away.
They weren't fleeing a person, but a revelation.
Fear changed the scent of their blood. It became more intense, warmer, almost intoxicating. Each racing heart fueled the hunger that burned within you like a prayer uttered in reverse.
The entire church seemed to breathe with you.
The crucifix hung suspended above the altar, motionless, observing everything with the serenity of one who has witnessed centuries of human violence. At its base, blood began to spread slowly between the lines of the wooden floor, tracing a dark river that flowed toward the sanctuary as if seeking to reach it.
You didn't look away.
Each life taken was another weight on your shoulders.
Each silenced throat was another prayer that would never be uttered again.
And yet...
the voice did not return.
There was no reproach, no condemnation.
Only the same immense silence that had filled the church when you pleaded for help.
Perhaps that was the answer. Mercy had ended where desecration began. To protect required becoming what men would call a monster.
When the last shot rang out, Clinton Church fell silent once more.
A different kind of silence.
Not the silence of peace.
The silence after judgment.
You stood motionless in the center of the church. Blood trickled slowly down your hands, dripping onto the rosary you still held as if you had never let go. The air smelled of iron, incense, and melted wax. Outside, dawn was breaking.
The first rays pierced the shattered stained-glass windows and illuminated the main altar.
For a moment, the light fell upon your figure. You ignored the pain it caused, which for the moment was minimal, but would soon grow.
The nuns, who were slowly emerging from their hiding places, didn't know what they were seeing.
It wasn't an angel.
It wasn't a demon.
It was a person who had died defending the house of God and had returned transformed into something capable of making hell fear to cross its gates.
The two weeks since your awakening had been a succession of discoveries, as fascinating as they were exhausting.
The world had kept turning without you for ninety-four years, and now it forced you to catch up with it in a single step.
Electric light was commonplace, not something only big cities usually had; the gadgets you once saw as luxurious no longer roamed the streets of Hell's Kitchen, and instead, a ceaseless river of cars roared even into the early hours of the morning.
From the small windows near the basement ceiling, you could see the reflection of the neon signs coloring the centuries-old stone of Clinton Church, and there were still nights when you would spend long minutes gazing at them with the same fascination as a child. Sometimes you forgot you had awakened in another century until Sister Maggie came down with a cell phone in her hand or Father Lantom left you a recent book to help you understand this world to which you no longer belonged and which, nevertheless, remained determined to welcome you.
That day you were resting on an old wooden chair next to a table covered with anatomy books. You had requested everything the church could get its hands on about modern medicine. The illustrations were different, the techniques too, but the human body remained the same. You continued running your fingertips over the pages as if, by memorizing those new names, you could recover the nurse you had been before becoming something else.
It wasn't thirst that frightened you most since you had awakened. It was the possibility of having forgotten how to save a life.
The measured sound of footsteps descending the stairs broke the silence. You recognized Father Lantom before you even looked up. In those two weeks, you had learned the rhythm of his steps, the calm breathing with which he always approached you, and the soft creak of his knees as he stopped in front of the door. You carefully closed your book as he entered the room, still wearing his coat draped over his shoulders.
âI didnât expect to find you awakeâ
You barely smiled.
âI still find it hard to get used to sleeping when the city doesnât,â you admitted. âItâs⌠very noisy. Everything. Kind of overwhelming, both day and night.â
You weren't lying, not entirely. You were tired, but sleep wasn't what would give you the energy you needed.
Lantom let out a low laugh before glancing at the open books on the table.
âYouâre still studying.â
âI need to remember, Father,â you said softly.
He understood immediately what you meant. There was no need to explain. During those two weeks, he had never tried to convince you to leave behind the person you had been before 1923; on the contrary, he seemed determined to bring it back to you little by little, as if he believed it still remained intact beneath the monster.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. Silence was never awkward with him. He had this strange ability to wait until the words came on their own. However, that day something was different. You noticed it as soon as your ear focused again on the rest of the church.
An unfamiliar heart.
Its beats were weak, irregular.
The smell arrived just a moment later.
Human blood.
Warm.
Fresh.
Your throat tightened.
You immediately lowered your gaze, ashamed that you had recognized it so easily.
âThis is someone who needs help,â Lantom finally said.
You didn't answer. You couldn't. The more you listened, the more clearly you could make out that heart struggling to stay alive. You could hear the blood rushing through exhausted arteries, the breath gasping between lungs, the whole body seemingly clinging desperately to life.
âHe is very badly injured. Right now, the sisters are doing everything they can.â
Your hands began to tremble on the edge of the table.
âIâm not the one to⌠,â you whispered, shaking your head slightly.
Father Lantom did not answer immediately. He took a step toward you, just enough for the yellowish light of the lamp to fully illuminate his tired face.
âSister Maggie told me that you bandaged your hand again this morning.â
You glanced absently at the white bandage around your knuckles. It had barely been a tiny cut; it had disappeared in a matter of minutes. Yet you had covered it out of sheer habit, just as you would have done before you died.
âCustoms die hard,â you murmured.
âThank God.â
Those words made you look up.
Lantom smiled with a serenity you had never been able to comprehend.
âBefore you became this, you dedicated your life to caring for others. I donât think that disappears just because you now have fangs.â
Your throat burned again.
âFather⌠I can smell their blood from here.â
It wasn't a confession. It was a warning.
He nodded slowly.
âI know.â
âIâm hungry,â you whispered.
You felt ungrateful. They had been prepared for you, in case the demon of Saint Agnes ever awoke again. They fed you, they fed you with the blood of some sacrificed animal.
But it wasn't enough.
âI know that too.â
You clenched your fists until your nails dug into your own palms.
âWhat if I canât stop?â you said this time, raising your gaze to face him.
The question hung between them. For a few seconds, only the sound of their hearts beating above their heads existed, slower and slower, weaker and weaker, like a candle silently burning down.
Father Lantom took another step and placed a hand on the back of the chair in front of you.
âNinety-four years ago you believed that God was asking you to become that which protected this church. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps you weren't. I will never know who answered your prayer that night. But I do know one thing.â
He waited until you looked at him again.
âIf you were truly chosen to protect, then it canât be solely to take lives. It also has to be to save them.â
You felt something slowly breaking inside you.
Because, for the first time since you'd awakened in that unknown century, you understood that Father Lantom wasn't leading you to a dying man to test the monster.
He was trying to give a nurse back the purpose that death had stolen from her.
He had faith in you. You didn't know how he'd been trained to face you if you ever woke up, but you could sense his honesty. Father Lantom saw good in you; he ignored or accepted the monsterâyou weren't sure.
It scared you, really scared you. What would happen if you let yourself go? What if he or Sister Maggie saw the dark side of you? Would they still accept you as another sheep of God, or would they condemn you as an abomination of the Devil?
âI⌠can help,â you said slowly. âBut⌠little by little. And I need to know that⌠that youâre there, that Sister Maggie is there, please.â
Father Lantom said your name. âOf course, you are not alone in this.â
When you returned to the small room with a fresh basin of clean water, you noticed the change even before crossing the threshold. The man's breathing was no longer the same. It had lost the deepness of sleep and now rose and fell with the irregularity of someone struggling to regain consciousness. You carefully placed the basin on the table, trying not to make too much noise, though you doubted it would change anything. His entire body seemed torn between remaining asleep and waking up to a world that, judging by the tense expression on his face, you sensed he never wanted to return to.
For the past few hours, you had cleaned his wounds, changed his bandages, and stayed by his side long enough to learn the sound of his heart. It was a stubborn organ. Even battered, bruised, and exhausted, it clung to life with an almost violent determination.
You could hear it now, throbbing beneath the bandages you yourself had applied, accompanied by the slow flow of blood through exhausted arteries. That, more than anything else, made your throat burn. Human blood still had a scent impossible to ignore; no amount of animal blood had ever managed to silence that call. Yet, you had learned to live with it for a few weeks, to endure it like one endures an old pain that never truly disappears.
The man opened his eyes slowly. It wasn't a sudden awakening, but a cautious one, as if even regaining consciousness required an effort he could barely afford. His pupils remained motionless for a few seconds, lost somewhere on the ceiling, before he began to scan the room with evident bewilderment. He seemed to be searching for something familiar within those stone walls, some explanation for his continued existence.
âElektraâŚ?â he asked in a voice so raspy it barely seemed his own. âFather LantomâŚ?â
You had forgotten how grave a throat punished by dust, blood, and smoke could sound.
âFather Lantom will be back shortly,â you replied calmly, trying to maintain a certain distance between you both.
Her head immediately turned toward the exact location from which your voice had come.
Not toward where she thought you were.
Toward where you actually were.
That caught your attention more than you were willing to admit.
âWho are you?â he asked hoarsely, but cautiously.
For a moment you hesitated, unsure what to answer. It was impossible to explain who you were without telling a story that no one in their right mind would accept as true.
âA new novice,â you murmured.
He didn't insist. Perhaps because he was too tired. Perhaps because the pain occupied too much space inside his body to worry about a stranger.
He remained motionless for only a few more seconds before trying to sit up. You saw him tense his abdomen under the blankets, brace his arm against the mattress, and push with a stubbornness that almost brought a smile to your lips. A single movement was enough to realize he was asking too much of a body on the verge of collapse. His muscles gave way immediately, and his balance vanished before he even realized it.
You reacted purely on instinct.
You reached him before he hit the floor.
Your hands found his arms with an ease that forced you to restrain yourself. You barely had to exert any force to support him; had you not been careful, you probably would have lifted him from the ground as if he weighed nothing. You feigned a small effort, just enough to make the movement seem natural, while holding him against you only long enough to restore his balance.
It was then that it happened.
The touch.
It wasn't the first time you had touched him. You had cleaned his unconscious skin for hours, changed his bandages, sutured wounds that anyone else would have considered fatal. But consciousness seemed to open a different door.
The moment your hands held his awake body, a wave of emotions surged through you with the same violence with which thirst demands blood.
Pain.
Not the pain of broken ribs or open wounds.
It was something much deeper.
An old guilt.
A weariness that seemed to have settled in his bones years ago.
Rage.
Fear.
And an immense loneliness, so heavy that for a moment you even forgot hunger. A loneliness that threatened to shut him down completely, mixed with the dread of uncertainty.
He was afraid and felt abandoned.
By whom?
You held your breath.
You had never felt anything like it. You could feel him, literally. You almost felt within yourself the emotions battling inside this man whom Father Lantom called Matt.
A pang of guilt stirred within you, like an intruder entering his inner world, rummaging without permission.
It wasn't your intention; you hadn't even known you were capable of feeling another person in such a way.
Matt also remained motionless. His forehead was just inches from yours, and for a brief moment, neither of you seemed to remember how to break that strange balance. He spoke first.
âYou'reâŚâ He frowned slightly, as if trying to make sense of a feeling he couldn't quite grasp. â...cold,â he finished, somewhat puzzled. Luckily, he was still a little disoriented.
You lowered your gaze almost reflexively. Of course, you were cold. You'd been dead for ninety-four years.
You helped him lie down more carefully, making the gesture seem more laborious than it actually was, before taking a step back.
âAnd youâre too stubborn for someone who just woke up,â you muttered.
A barely perceptible exhalation escaped his lips. It wasn't quite a laugh; it was too soon for that. Yet, for a moment, the gesture softened the deep lines of exhaustion etched across his face.
Silence settled between them once more. You remained standing by the bed, watching him with a curiosity you hadn't felt since waking. There was something about this man that defied all logic. Not only because, being blind, he had turned his head precisely toward you. Nor because he had survived injuries that would have killed most men.
It was something else.
Something you couldn't name.
As if suffering had become a second skin for him, just as immortality had become yours. It was strange; for a few moments, you had felt what he had lived through, what he suffered. Just a few moments.
It was terrifying to be able to feel another person in that way.
âAre you still here, sister? Iâm not⌠I canâtâŚâ he murmured, confused. âI need⌠I need Father Lantom, I need⌠I need to know if sheâs alive,â he said, in a vulnerable tone that you knew didnât belong to a man like him.
You nodded, but then you remembered he was blind and almost hit yourself for your lack of tact.
âYes, Iâm still here, IâŚâ you salivated. You salivated.
Suddenly, a wave of nervousness washed over you because you could feel his presence growing stronger.
He was alive. His heart was pumping blood, not with the weakness it had been when he first arrived, no, this time⌠this time it was stronger, and the sound intoxicated your ears like a siren's song to a lost pirate.
You had managed to restrain yourself during the short time you cared for him, even when, sometimes at night, you found yourself fixated on his heartbeat; perhaps to know if he was still alive, or simply because the rhythm tempted you.
But now⌠now something had suddenly pierced you to your very core. Your throat felt incredibly dry, and he felt so alive. You could not only hear the blood coursing through his veins, but you also knew with certainty that he was suffering.
What had begun as curiosity was now a different kind of feeling, one you longed to eradicate.
You were thirsty. Thirsty for him. Perhaps you could sink your fangs in for a moment. Perhaps scratch his wrist to lick a few drops. Maybe clean an open wound and be content with the scent of his warm blood?
No.
Father Lantom trusted you. Sister Maggie did too. This man trusted this sacred ground to heal, and you⌠you were thinking of drinking his blood.
You heard him speak, but you turned a deaf ear.
âIâll look for Father Lantom,â you said quickly, as your feet began to move on their own.
As you walked away, you clearly heard his confused whisper. One that revealed how disoriented he still was.
âI cannot hear your heart.â
notes: so here's the prologue. it ended up being longer than i expected. but i really needed to lay the groundwork for this story.
there are many things about reader's vampirism that will be explained throughout the story. nothing is accidental or a mistake!
the first encounter between you two is quite confusing for matt, but for you⌠yeah.
okay so you know how Matt's other senses are heightened cause he can't see?
Well like... what if his sense of touch is super heightened .. down there. Like he gets overstimulated in bed super easily and becomes a whimpering mess because he's so sensitive even through his own clothes.
Just an idea I thought was fun jjjjjj
âĽď¸
Matt Murdock x fem!Reader ⢠18+ MDNI
đŽđ đŽđđđđžđđžđđ
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Explicit Sexual Content: Oral Sex, Sexual Overstimulation.
â˘
Summary: For the first time, you explore just how sensitive Matt really is.
Word Count: 2,275 ⢠Masterlist
Youâd been dating Matthew Murdock for a while now.
He was nice. He was caring, thoughtful, sweet and definitely easy in the eyes.
He takes you on cute dates around the city, brings you lunch when he can, makes an effort to host you at his apartment, cooks for you.
You liked him. A lot.
One thing you noticed very quickly was that Matt was very receptive to touch.
It made sense, you supposed, the other senses start overcompensating for losing one, but something about the way Matt reacted was different.
You noticed it when you first started going on dates, how heâd always freeze a little when you accidentally brushed your skin to his, which would have maybe offended you, if it werenât for the fact you felt him suppressing an actual shudder when you kissed him for the first time.
Then, one night, after a cozy night in with wine and take away, you ended up sat on his lap on his sofa.
Both of you were kissing deeply, tongues tangling and tensions rising, and your hands went up to curl in his hair. This time, Matt moaned. Just a small, deep sound he tried to hold back, but you heard it clear as day.
Matt froze, embarrassed and cleared his throat as though trying to pretend that was why he made such a noise, so you did it again. Lightly dragging your nails over his scalp this time.
He had nowhere to hide as his body involuntarily shuddered, eyes starting to roll back as he moaned again, louder this time.
He couldnât hide the way his sensitive cock was rapidly filling out underneath you either.
The two of you had yet to do anything sexual together, but you could feel this was becoming the night youâd start to.
The pure tension between the two of you was rising and the fact you kept using his weakness of touch to your advantage didnât seem to be helping.
âFuckâ Matt breathed out lowly as you softly bit his bottom lip between your teeth, the slight sting making him buck his hips up into you.
The movement pulled on his cock, exposing the sensitive head to his clothing as he got even harder.
The feeling of his rough underwear being pressed firmly against the leaking, flushed tip made him let out a little whine in the back of his throat.
âYouâre so sensitive Mattyâ you whisper in a sultry voice, before starting to kiss along his stubbled jaw, and Matt bucks his hip again when you suck at his pulse point, already breathing hard.
All he can do is whine again at your words, and nod harshly in agreement as his head falls back against the couch.
Slowly, your fingertips dip underneath the hem of his shirt, featherlight touches gliding over the tensing abs, higher and higher till you took the shirt off completely.
Mattâs own hands were fisted tightly in your top, as if trying to ground himself while you attack his senses with pleasure.
Returning your hands to Mattâs chest, you explored his sculpted body with your fingers and lips, tracing along the scars and ridges of him. The supposedly intimidating man beneath you was openly panting now, hips rocking like he couldnât help it in a slow steady rhythm against your rapidly warming core.
His sounds, god his noises. Heâs so whiny, whimpering and moaning as you touch his perked nipples, letting out loud gasps when you rock your hips ever so slightly against the bulge between you both.
Suddenly, Mattâs hands fly to your waist to still you as you rock just once on his lap a little harder.
âFuck- wait- Iâm- Iâm gonna comeâ Matt whimpers out, barely managing to get the words out between his heaving breaths.
You canât hold back the little giggle that escaped your lips at the sight of him. He already looks wrecked.
âIâve barely even touched you Mattyâ you tease gently, continuing your motions again anyway.
Matt whines again, loud and high pitched this time at the harsh friction on his ungodly sensitive erection. His hips are twitching at the sensation, half wanting to go towards it and half wanting to pull away, already overwhelmed. Heâs gonna come in his fucking pants any second.
âI-Iâm- fuck- Iâm so sensitive baby- pleaseâ Matt whimpers, his hands dipping underneath your shirt to hold your waist tightly instead, so tight it makes your skin bulge between his fingers slightly. He doesnât even know what heâs begging for at this point.
At the same time, you pinch his nipple and rock your hips down hard into him, and your reward is wonderful.
Matt keens, mouth open wide as his orgasm rushes through him, a deep groan which tapers into a whine as you keep moving through it, even after heâs stopped filling his own underwear with his hot spend.
Even just the feeling the temperature of his own come against his overstimulated flesh makes his body jerk as itâs trapped against his skin, and heâs a complete mess now. You hadnât even gotten naked yet.
As Mattâs chest heaved, trying to come down a little from his high, you strip your own top, and large, calloused, scarred hands waste no time slipping up your waist to play with your breasts. One grabbed a handful of your flesh, while the other teased your hardening nipple, making you hum in pleasure.
Leaning forward, you kiss Matt again, which he heatedly returns through his rough breathing, his hands exploring all the newly uncovered skin.
Pulling away, you duck to whisper in his ear.
âBedroom Mattyâ you say, before pressing a kiss behind his lobe.
âFuck- youâre gonna kill me sweetheartâ Matt groans deeply as he drops his head to your shoulder, a contrast to the pretty high pitched whines he was just making.
Lifting you like it was absolutely nothing, Matt carries you to his bedroom, knowing the space well enough to navigate it seamlessly despite his lack of sight, at least thatâs what you thought anyway.
He gasps slightly as the material of his boxers brushes against his still overly sensitive dick. He needs to take these fucking clothes off.
Gently laying you down on his soft, silk bed, Matt stands above you before pulling down the sleep shorts you had on, along with your underwear.
The way he drops to his knees makes your breath hitch, heat rushing to your face as you watch him inhale your scent right from the source.
âYou smell so fucking goodâ Matt groans out roughly, his cock throbbing as you filled his senses.
âMatt-â you start, before you cry out as he lurches forward, burying his face in your wet cunt like he canât resist it anymore. Your back arches as your head slams down into the bed at the unexpected pleasure rushing through you.
His tongue is everywhere at first, tasting anything youâll give him before he slowly starts to thrust the muscle into your core, his nose brushing against your clit. Deep groans are escaping him as he eats you like no man has ever done before.
Where you canât see, Matt has shed his own trousers, finally freeing his raw cock from the confines of his underwear. Even the cold air feels like too much against his overstimulated length, steadily leaking pre come still, onto the floor between his knees.
Under Mattâs magic tongue, you come with his name on your lips in no time, hands gripping his hair harshly which makes him moan into your dripping cunt, the vibrations making your toes curl.
As you try to even your breathing, Matt eventually detaches himself from your heat and stands again, with the intent to crawl onto the bed over you, but you move towards him unexpectedly.
âSitâ you order as you spin him, before firmly pushing him backwards till the backs of his knees hit the bed, and he falls down onto it. You know you wouldnât be able to move this brick house of a man without him wanting to go, even if you tried.
Matt swallows roughly as he sits on the edge of the bed, his hands coming to rest on your waist as you step between his legs.
âYouâre driving me crazyâ Matt all but whispers as his hands move up and down your body. Your own hands run through his hair again, tugging slightly to make him groan, before you drop to your knees.
As much as you were wanting to fuck him when you were sat on his sofa, now your only goal is to make him lose his mind. Youâre so ungodly intrigued by his reactions and you want to see what else you can do to him.
The sight that greets you is sinful. Mattâs heavy cock is flushed dark, leaking obscenely, half covered in his previous release and is twitching under your attention.
âBaby you donât have to-â Matt starts but you cut him off with your hand wrapping round the base of his length. The breath catches in his throat at the sensation, before letting out a little moan. His head tilts ever so slightly to listen to your movements, finding it hard to focus properly right now.
âI want toâ you say like itâs obvious, because it should be, before you press your warm tongue to his sensitive, leaking tip, tasting his musky pre on your tastebuds.
Mattâs whole body jerks immediately as he collapses fully onto the bed, with his back meeting the sheets, as another one of those pretty little whimpers escapes his mouth.
Wow, he really is so sensitive. You hadnât even started yet and the way heâs throbbing in your hand makes you think heâs about to come again.
Just to test your theory a little, you pull back and gently blow cold air over the flushed head, and Matt chokes on his next sound, before his hand flies down to wrap around yours at the base of his cock and squeezes, hard.
âBaby, pleaseâ he outright whines, hips thrusting a little, despite the fact he was the one who cut off his own orgasm. Heâs already sweaty, flushed down to his chest as he fists the bed sheets so hard with his free hand that his knuckles are white.
âPlease what Matty?â You ask innocently, moving his hand away, which swiftly returns to the death grip on the sheets.
As he opens his mouth to answer, you press your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, right against that bit thatâs sensitive on most guys anyway, but itâs clearly even more intense for Matt.
His whole body goes tight, abs tensing, his back arching like heâs just had electricity running through him as a broken whimper comes from his lips unrestrained.
The rest of your mouth encloses over his leaking tip, tongue massaging the underside and within seconds, before he can even warn you, Matt moans roughly as he comes in your mouth. Warm spend coats your tongue, hitting the back of your throat as you swallow it down, able to react quick enough to work him through his orgasm.
Matt breathes heavily at his release, but you donât stop.
The prettiest broken whine youâve ever heard comes out of his mouth as you continue to move your mouth up and down his cock even after he came, taking him in deeper and deeper till he hits the back of your throat.
Heâs trying so hard to stay still for you, to take it, but he canât help the way his muscles are jerking and twitching at the intense, painful pleasure sensation of your mouth.
Noises are falling from his lips now in a way he canât control, whining and whimpering as you assault his most sensitive part with your tongue.
The words fuck, please and your name are the only words youâre able to pick up from the sounds coming from him.
As you hollow your cheeks around his throbbing length, Matt starts to breath fast and heavy, whining high on every exhale.
âFuck- fuck- fuckfuckfuckfuck- oh g-godâ is all he manages to moan out before heâs filling your mouth once again, coming with loud, broken cry.
This time, youâre merciful and you pull off after working every drop from him, letting Matt relax into the bed again.
Heâs breathing heavy, borderline hyperventilating as he tries to catch his breath. His entire muscled body is covered in sweat, and his face is flushed red. His hair is sticking to his forehead, heavy lidded eyes staring unfocused at the ceiling, and he still hasnât let go of the intense grip he has on the sheets.
His cock spent slowly starts to soften against his stomach, still twitching occasionally, like the rest of him.
âI donât- donât think I can go again, âm sorryâ he pants out, swallowing between words as his voice cracks, mouth dry. You smile softly as you climb up the bed and lay next to him, hands playing with his hair but comfortingly this time.
âI know baby, you did so good, such a good boy for me, I wasnât expecting you to keep going after thatâ you smile before pressing a sweet kiss to his warm cheek.
Matt hums at your words, before lifting his arm and pulling you against him. You lay there in the afterglow, listening to his breathing and heart beat even out, and before you know it, heâs already asleep.
Tomorrow night, you plan to having whimpering and whining again, but underneath you as you ride your good boyâs overstimulated cock till he cries.
This is my first request so thank you I hope itâs okay! đŤśđť this was not supposed to be this long lmao, I only meant to do a little drabble and it just kept going, and I meant to only focus on Matt in this but I fear itâs not Matt Murdock smut if he isnât a munch đ Thank you anon for your idea, I love overstimulated Matt sm â¤ď¸
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summary: matt finds calm through feeling your skin under his hands. you've managed to keep it cool. until now.
warnings: no use of y/n, gn reader, lee!reader, ler!matt, established relationship, non-sexual skin-on-skin petting, kissing, the usual troubles that come with daredevil super-senses
word count: 1.2k
authors notes: as you may or may not know this haunted me the entire day while i was out with my friends. thank god no one can read my mind. title: skin by seonghwa (ateez)
///
The lights were just bright enough for you to see your book. Matt always insisted you'll wreck your eyes - and then we'll both be blind - but you said overhead lights made your skin crawl. To compromise, he had invested in two extra side lamps with regulated brightness and warm toned bulbs.
Now, you were reading, leaning partly on Matt, his arm around your shoulders and hand brushing over your arm. The softest blanket in the apartment - your and Matt's favorite - tangled over both of you.
Matt shifted, stretching one leg out onto the coffee table, making both of your bodies slide lower on the sofa. His hand stroked up and down your upper arm a few times, then trailed up to the curve of your shoulder.
The TV buzzed softly, dialogue and audio description just barely reaching your ears.
A fingertip swirled over your shoulder in meandering patterns, raising goosebumps in its wake.
That was the thing about Matt. His whole world was always loud. Every sound, every smell, every sensation amplified so much that sometimes it got painful. Over time, he found that feeling your skin under his palms - warm, smooth, soft - helped him relax. It gave him something nice to focus on, he said. And you certainly weren't going to take that away from him.
Even if sometimes it tickled like hell.
Okay, most of the time.
Alright, fine, every time.
The fingers trailed upwards over your collarbone.
It was a miracle that he hadn't realised it yet. Though that was mostly because he was either too exhausted after Being Daredevil, or you were set on providing other distractions so he wouldn't be too focused on your bodily instincts to twitch and squirm.
"Your book okay?" Matt asked softly, pulling you out of your thoughts. "You haven't turned a page in a while."
You tilted your head up to raise an eyebrow at him. "Are you timing my reading now?"
"No." He said around a smile. Fingers slipped under the hem of your tshirt to widen their trail. "Just noticing."
You clicked your tongue, turning back to your book.
Matt kept stroking around your collarbone. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Unhurried.
Feather-light.
You breathed deeply and resolved to continue reading. It would be a good distraction from it.
You barely got through two paragraphs before your attention was brought back to Matt's hand. He altered his course, one finger stroking up to the curve where your neck met your shoulder, then two fingers stroking back down into the dip of your collarbone.
And again.
And again.
You couldn't surpress it - you shivered.
The stroking stopped.
You kept your eyes planted firmly on the page in your lap.
"You okay?" Matt didn't sound worried, but there was an edge to his voice that told you he could quickly get there.
"Uh-huh."
"Am I tickling you?"
"Uh- well-"
"Ah." Now he sounded smug. "Here? Really?" He emphasised his questions with a quick sribble over your collarbone.
"Okay- hey-!" You snatched his hand. "There's no need for any of that."
"Oh, I think there's need." Matt was on the move. He pushed off from the sofa to lean partly over you. "Does it tickle when I do this?"
He placed soft, quick little kisses over your shoulder and collarbone.
"Wait!" You yelped, hands abandoning your book to latch onto Matt's hair. "Shit - hold on!"
You felt him grin against your skin. "That bad?"
"You haven't shaved." You complained.
"Oh yeah?"
You realised your mistake at the same time Matt did. Before you could stop him, he rubbed his stubble over your skin, nuzzling softly.
"Shihit!" You broke into giggles, your legs curling up. "You're gohona give me beard burn!"
Matt laughed, breath sending shivers down your spine, and placed one last kiss into the dip at the base of your throat.
"Well, at least you're only ticklish there, right?" He said once he pulled back enough to be in your line of sight. Then he wedged his hand underneath your arm to tweak at your upper ribs.
"Imagine if you were ticklish in other places." Matt spoke over your loud laughter. You squeezed your eyes shut and pulled your knee even further up, trying to wedge it between you and Matt.
"I mean, it would be really inconvenient. But thankfully it's just that one spot. No other ones." He continued, not letting up from your ribs. Changing tactics, you slid your torso sideways, down the sofa. "Hey, where are you going?"
Matt followed you down to the sofa cushions, laying partly on top of you.
"I'm gohona kill you!" You shrieked, yelping again when Matt lowered his hand to squeeze up and down your sides.
"How may times did I unknowingly tickle you?" Matt asked, ignoring your threat.
"I'm not answering thahat!"
"What, a third of the time? Half?" He pestered, now reaching back up to scribble over your neck again. "Don't tell me it was every time."
Your refusal to answer told him everything. He burst into bright laughter, head dropping forward until his forehead pressed into your stomach. His hand rested warm and solid against the side of your neck, thumb pressing into the hinge of your jaw.
"And you just let me tickle you all that time?" Matt asked over his chuckling.
"Shut the hell your mouth, Murdock." You snapped - or tired to. You were too preoccupied with catching your breath.
"Alright, alright." Matt soothed, but lifted up to bury his face in your neck and shoulder again.
"Nooo." You whinged, already giggling again as Matt nuzzled your skin more. You tried kicking him in the side, but your leg got caught under the blanket. He slid his palms under your tshirt, stroking your skin lightly with his fingertips. Whether it was intentional or not, the ticklishness increased.
"I can't believe you managed to hide this." Matt spoke into your neck, voice vibrating against you. You scrunched your shoulder up, snickering harder. "You're so ticklish."
"Leave me alohone!" In a desperate move, you jammed your fingers into Matt's sides.
He twitched, barking out a laugh against your neck.
"Behave." He lifted his head so you culd see his grin. "I'm being nice right now."
"You have an interesting definition of 'nice'." You said, breathless.
"Mm, no. What's really interesting -" Matt hummed lightly. "- is that you haven't asked me to stop a single time."
Your face burned. "That's inconsequential."
"Sure."
You knew he didn't believe you. He looked entirely too smug.
"Would it kill you to admit it?"
You gritted your teeth and pretended that your heart didn't race at the thought. "Maybe."
"Awh." Matt pursed his lips. Ran his hand over your cheek lightly. "Alright. Maybe next time."
Then he was gone.
"Wh-" You raised yourself up onto your elbows. "What do you mean 'next time'?"
Matt was reaching down to the floor to pick up your book. You hadn't even realised it fell during the scuffle. He fixed a page that had bent on impact with the floor, smoothing it out neatly.
"If you thought this was a one-off scenario," he said, placing your book onto your lap. "Then you really don't know me very well."
Adrenaline thudded through your body, leaving you tingling.
"Excited?" Matt grinned.
You huffed, snatching your book and leaning back against the sofa, dead set on reading and ignoring hisâŚinsinuations.
Over the top of your book, you saw Matt settle back against the sofa, attention back on the TV. The self-astisfied grin remained in place.
summary: Glimpses of yours and Matt's relationship told through the layers of a dessert.
w.c.: 5.6k+
main masterlist . matt masterlist
divider credits: @starrliqhtt
l'entremet, a modern, multi-layered french mousse cake, 'entre mets' meaning between courses.
pronounced: lahn-truh-may.
DACQUOISE NOISETTE
⤡ Hazelnut Dacquoise: The Foundation
The crash in the alley was loud.
A constant ring taking home in your ears as you lowered the half smoked cigarette in your hand, eyes darting in the dimly lit alley.
You saw it then. A dark figure in the bruised indigo of the late night. Slumped sideways on the garbage bags.
Curiosity killed the cat, and you were sure it might end you one day too.
You took a few cautious steps towards him, your foot disturbing the serene reflection of the moon in the puddle of water. A wet feeling in your shoe. Fuck, you need shoes without holes.
"Dude, who the fuck are you?"
You were answered with heaving breaths â they sounded louder in the quiet of the night. You licked your lip in contemplation, pausing a few feet away from the dark figure.
You could either be normal, call the cops, and leave the guy be.
OrâŚ
"Listen, man, I've had a shit day," you started, throwing your half smoked cig down, putting it out before taking another step closer, "and I wanna warn you, do not try anything with me, I have a pepper spray and karate lessons from like sixth grade, and a hell lot of frustration about my shop closing. I will fuck you up."
To your offense the man laughed â well, kind of, â the laugh turned into a sputtered breath and a pained groan soon enough.
Wow, this guy is fucking weird. And hurt.
You bit back the gasp that threatened to punch out of you at the sight of him.
He laid there, half leaned on the black bags of trash as if they were his personal throw pillows. Clad in black head to toe, a black cloth covering half his face.
Cuts decorated his body, the dark red of his blood melting into the blackness surrounding him.
Your brain scrambled to think of where you might know him fromâ
"The devil of Hell's Kitchen."
Your hand sprung up to slap itself over your mouth as if you could physically take back the words from the air and shove them into your throat.
The man's head tilted towards you once again a pained grimace spilling across his pink lips.
"I won't hurt you, I promise."
The words were whispered into the night, echoing around the abandoned alley.
His voice was textured â rough and soft all the same.
"Yeah, well you can't even if you wanted to, devil-man," your words were muffled behind your hand.
Sometimes you really did wish you could shut yourself up. You let out a sigh, lowering your hand to your side. Not like it stopped you from saying shit you didn't want to.
He let out another one of those weird laugh-groan things, shifting with great effort to sit up more.
You bit your lip, shoe scuffing the ground as you looked down at him.
He did promise he wouldn't hurt you. Clearly, he was going to bleed out if you leave him here.
"You need help, devil man?"
"No, I thinkâ" he was cut off by his own groan of pain, somehow trying to stand up before swaying andâ
"Woah there!"
Your arms wrap around him in an instant, though the position is a bit awkward you try to maneuver some of his weight onto yourself, helping him stand up.
He was warm and heavy against you.
Bloody clothes and heaving breaths.
By the time you manage to wrap his big arm around your shoulder, helping him lean on you, the
"You were saying, devil man?" you teased in between huffed breaths.
He just grinned, the corners of his mouth shaky as his head leaned down, finally conceding.
â
The repetitive motions of whipping the egg whites and sugar into a meringue lulled your mind into a weirdly calm place. Nothing else existed at this very moment in time.
Just you and the tap-tap of the whisk. A metronome to your, for once, stilled thoughts.
knock. knock knock. knock.
The whisk slipped from your hands with all the grace of a fish swimming on land.
You let out an indignant huff, hand coming to tap your chest as if trying to get your heartbeat back into it's usual rhythm through sheer will.
"Jesus! Devil man," you mutter, stomping towards the window, unlocking it and stepping aside to let his broad frame in, "you gotta stop with the creepy knocking, man. I could've fucked up the L'entremet. Again."
You'd stuck with the nickname even though you know his name now.
Matthew Michael Murdock. Daredevil. One and the same.
Or simply (and less dramatically) put Matt.
He sauntered into the kitchen with a soft hum of acknowledgement, making a quick work of his make shift black mask, leaving his hair a puffy mess in its wake.
You hated how unbearably soft the sight made you. Him walking around in the warm kitchen lights of your cramped apartment. Hair messy, and eyes glinting.
He looked as if he belonged here⌠or maybe somewhere far away from here.
"You're making it again?" he questioned between greedy gulps of water from the glass you'd kept ready for him before re-starting on your baking rendezvous, "There is already one on the rack."
"Well, yeah," you huff out, walking back towards the kitchen counter, hand fiddling with the whisk, nervous suddenly, "it's not perfect yet, I'd hoped I could do it before y'know â the place closes down tomorrow. But I guess not."
Matt walked towards it. An inquisitive look on his face as he stood in front of your previous failed attempt.
"The hazelnut base is too soft, and the meyer lemon curd is too⌠acidic? citrus-y," you supplied as he picked up the fork nearby on the counter.
Watching anxiously as he cut himself a bite, calloused hands smoothly shoveling a bite up before he shoveled it into his mouth.
"So, what do you think, devil man?"
"It is⌠perfect. The softness of the base goes well with the crunch of the â what is it? crepes?"
You let out a hum, "French crepes and hazelnut praline paste."
"Yeah, that," he chewed thoughtfully before nodding to himself, "the lemon curd goes well with the rest of the things too, 's not too acidic if that's what you're thinking. You're worryin' for nothing."
You're not entirely convinced.
You know that the guy has enhanced senses and yet your foolish brain refuses to believe him.
Regardless, your heart still preens at the praise he showers you with, shoulders relaxing just a bit as you leaned back against the counter.
The silence feels nice. So you decide to break it.
"You gonna need any stitching up tonight, Matty, or just popped in to steal some desserts?"
"Can't it be both, sweetheart?"
The warmth in your heart â you convince yourself â is from the baking and not him.
CROUSTILLANT PRALINĂ
⤡ Crunchy Praline: The Friction
The bluesy song playing on the speakers at Josie's made your head thrum as if the notes were bouncing around in your fuzzy mind.
The cheap beer was good enough to have you tipsy. Fuzzy brain and warm body.
You'd taken to watching Matt and a lady from the bar â Samantha? â play pool, all wide grins and murmured nonsense.
Foggy had retired next to you a while back, claiming to be 'tired of beating Murdock's ass at this'. Karen had followed after him chuckling as her blue eyes glowed in the cheap bar lights.
Your finger followed the path of the condensation droplets on your beer bottle.
"So, how's the search for the new job going?"
The question from Karen seemed to snap you back to the present, eyes darting to Foggy, Karen and then back to your bottle. The answer is loose on your tongue, the beginning of an I don't know, swirls around your mouth. Pungent and bitter in its wake.
Your reply is cut off at the I part of the statement by Matt coming back to the table.
Seeing his hand around her waist â Emma? â before was a nice distraction from your melancholy and numbness â a slow burn in your chest, a stinging behind eyes, and green thoughts in your mind. Jealousy.
He picks up his coat with a grin.
You don't quiet hear the teasing he's subjected to by Karen and Foggy. Your eyes focused on his rapidly reddening cheeks, and shit-eating grin. The snap of his cane, and the flourish of his coat. Soon enough he's sending a nod your way and passing a pat on your shoulder before tap-taping away to her.
Apparently he'd decided to be gentlemanly tonight â choosing to 'drop her off safely' to her place.
She's pretty. You have to admit that.
Green eyes glinting like emeralds in the lazy light, hair perfectly falling down her shoulders in a beautiful cascade, outfit just the perfect amount of casual and formal, and a smile so beautiful it managed to steal the air from your lungs.
She seemed smart too. And she must be, you think bitterly.
You try not to imagine it â him with her.
How she'd maybe invite him up, a soft grin on her pretty lips. And he'd chuckle, maybe even hesitate before he'd accept it. How he'd kiss her, warm, calloused hands around her waist, maybe even on her jaw â pulling her closer to him and kissing her deeper.
You blink back your bitter tears, taking another sip of your now warmer beer. Listening to the ebbing and flowing conversation between Foggy and Karen about some bakery they adore, how they could help hook you up there. You thank them for it and get another drink. And another. And another. And well, one more doesn't hurt.
Later that night, you remember hugging Karen bye a little too tight.
You also remember the worried glance her and Foggy shared as they insisted to get you a cab home.
You also remember sitting at your own doorstep and crying like a kid, eyes staring at the window on the opposite end of the hallway, as if some part of you was still waiting for Matt â your devil-man â to come climbing through it.
You also remember the confusion you felt waking up the next morning in your bed with a splitting headache, and tucked in. A glass of water, and pain meds on your bedside, with a hand written note that stood out to you most.
'Take Care, Sweetheart."
Wonky letters and shaky, unsure handwriting. Matt.
â
The rain continued thundering as you rushed into the building.
The warmth of the place seemed to envelope your cold, and shaking body.
The sound of the thunder and taps of the rain muffled through the walls.
You couldn't help but rush up the stairs, searching for the familiar sign of 'Nelson, Murdock, and Page: Attorneys at Law.'
"She's here!"
Foggy's voice echoed as he rushed up to you, taking the box of baked goodies from your hands as you tried to catch your breath, shrugging off your soaked coats in a rush.
'Oh my god!' you hear Karen exclaim, a thud, and the quick clicks of Karen's kitten heels as she rushed out of the meeting room, Matt following after her in a hurry that matches her.
"How'd it go?"
Matt seems to be much calmer in his tone than his partners, though you know him well enough that you can tell he's just as excited, hand shaking slightly around his cane as he clenches and unclenches his jaw, a barely there grin on his lips.
And you just know he knows. He always knows.
You swallow back the sudden emotion pushing through the adrenaline rush you'd gotten hurrying here through the rain. Your breaths hitch through your chest, heart refusing to come down from the high of the news.
"I got it," you whisper, barely audible to your own self, eyes staring at all of them, and somehow through them. Head here and everywhere.
And then as suddenly as you'd flown off, just as soon as you're crumbling down, and Matt is somehow right there. Like he always is.
Warmth seemed to envelope your cold bones as Matt hugs you to him, unfreezing the numbness you'd surrounded yourself with the past few months after the restaurant you'd worked at basically your whole adult life was closed, leaving you unsure and terrified for the first time. The good and the bad of that old place mixing in your chest till it all turned black. The bad reviews and the good ones. The yelling and the peace. All of it swirling and melting into one big black hole in your being.
"I got the job," you repeat, stronger this time, words muffled against his neck â smelling of cinnamon and cool nights.
You can vaguely make out Foggy and Karen screaming at that, as they hug each other. All of it feels as you were witnessing it from underwater.
All you could really feel was him. Matt.
CRĂMEUX AU CITRON
⤡ Meyer Lemon Curd: The Heart
Matt knew that there were only two times in your life where you'd ever considered never baking again. First, when you'd almost lost your mother to a car accident right after a big argument over your career, and second, when you'd gotten your first bad review while working at your old place. You hated to admit how bad it had actually affected you. The words 'There was no art, no thought, no emotion behind the dessert. A pathetic, monotonous attempt at a dessert which works on the symphony of textures,' had bounced around your head every time you even touched the thought of baking.
And these â confessions of sort, had seemed to come out easier for you that night on the roof with him â hazy and warm next to him, the smell of those awful nicotine gums you were chewing a while back still on your breath.
He could also smell the thick scent of petrichor and flowers around you, the scent of fancy baking things he could barely remember the names of â though he's sure you've told them all before on the late nights he's spent at yours â the scent of it is addicting, sweet. You.
In turn, he'd tried to think of something to tell you. Maybe about the many times he'd tried to quit being the lawyer, or being the vigilante. Maybe about the few too many times he'd wanted to â tried to â quit being all together. Parts of himself he refused to accept. Parts of himself he had accepted. All mixing together to form him.
Would you want this? Him?
It'd have been so easy, just to spill it all out. Keep it all in the open for you to see. And, he thinks, a part of him knows you'd accept it all far too easily. So he doesn't say it at all. Because you know. And he knows.
He had instead somehow found himself talking about his father â those late nights spent patching him up with shaking hands and bit back groans, the lazy Sundays spent with him doing homework and watching trash TV with his dad, the disgusting but full of heart chocolate cakes on birthdays that always made growing up feel better somehow. Then about Foggy and the Columbia days â the drunken laughter and half finished assignments, the 'Avocados at Law' and the half finished internship at Landman and Zack.
It'd all spilled out in a velvet soft touch of your hand to his.
Somehow the grief in him balanced by the love in you.
Existing. Together. In all of it.
He'd tilted his head, chasing the warmth of you, head poised to 'look' at you. He could hear the wind twisting and playing with your hair. He could feel the heat of the blood rushing to your cheeks as he tilted to face you. His lips a breath away from yours â God, he could almost taste it â the cocoa lip balm, and the cheap nicotine gum.
Thudthud - Thudthud.
Your heartbeat fastening as his hand came up to rest on your pulse. Warm, and sweet under his touch.
He'd felt it then, your gaze heavy on his lips, your own hands clenching and unclenching on your sides.
"Matt," you'd whispered then, one of your hands coming to rest on his heart â and then he knew. He knew again. That he lâ
"I- I don't think this isâŚ"
You'd trailed off then, and he'd smelled then the salt of your tears, your hand fisting his shirt under your grasp. Somehow both pushing him away and pulling him back in.
Yet again he's stuck in the in between.
But at least he's with you this time.
That night he walked you home, and hugged you bye.
Like always.
â
"Hello?"
You knew it was wrong before you'd even done it. Matt had forgotten his phone before he'd left with Foggy and Karen for court.
You'd reassured Karen you would cover for them â it was your rare day off anyway, not like you'd got anything going on.
And you'd seen his phone then, but it'd already been a while since the trio had left. You couldn't catch up to them now without leaving the office for too long. So you'd decided it was not that bad, that you'd texted Karen about it already so it was fine.
"Hi? Who is this?"
The voice from the other end was feminine, and gentle. It was that girl â Alexa? â from that night at Josie's.
Your heart lurched at the thought of Matt still being in contact with her. Why did he even try to kiss you then?
You mechanically muttered your name, hearing her light up as she said something about remembering you from that night.
"Yeah, yeah," you responded, "so uhhâŚ" Fuck, you don't remember her name.
"Matt forgot his phone at the office, I can give him a message for you if you want," you opted to say instead.
"Oh no, that's okay! Could you maybe ask him to call me back soon?"
"Yeah, sure, yeah, of course."
"Great! Thank you so muâ"
BEEP
âŚ
They'd gotten a bit held up in traffic.
Matt knew it was rather childish of him â being so excited to share the win with you, wanting to tell you everything that happened in court as if he were a kid winning his first match at little league. But a part of him couldn't care of how insanely naive he'd look in front of you then. He just wanted to tell you all of it.
What he was greeted with instead was you rushing off with excuses which was sure all of them could tell were lies. The scent of your tears thick in the air. He couldn't help but rush after you, hand darting out to catch your wrist in the hallway outside of the office.
"Sweetheart, whatâ"
"Nothing, you girlfriend called and asked you to call her baâ"
"Wait, what? Girlfriend?"
The look of total bafflement on his face made you pause, licking your lips in contemplation. He looked panicked, brows drawn together, red lenses glinting under the dingy hallway lights, lips pulled into a frown. Those cute forehead crinkles making their presence known at his stressed face.
"The girl from the bar â Lacy? â I'm not sure, she uhmâŚ" your eyes filled once again, and you couldn't help but chastise yourself for this childish behavior, what was this high school? What the fuck were you even doing?
"She what, sweetheart?"
His voice is as warm as his hands which snap his cane shut, curling around your wrists, tracing mindless patterns inside.
"She called you, and uh she asked you to call her back," you blinked back your tears, trying to loosen his hold on your arms.
"Okay, and?"
"Well, aren't you dating her then? If you're still in contact with her," you whisper the words as if they wouldn't be true if you made sure to speak in a low voice.
The confusion just seemed to etch deeper into his face with that, "What? Is that why you're so upset, sweetheart?"
The question is gentle, like him.
One of his hands hesitantly reaching to cup your face as he gulps.
"She's⌠Sweetheartâ she's nothing, I mean I haven't even talked to her since walking her home that nightâ"
"Does she know that, Matt? She⌠She called you and talked so confidently to me as if it were nothing, like she'd done this a million times before with you," you murmur, face screwing up as you look down at his calloused hand holding your wrist.
"Yes," he murmurs, trying to match the quietness of your voice, hand snaking further down your wrist, gently prying your fist open before intertwining your hands, "nothing happened between us that night, and nothing will ever happen between me and her⌠I don'tâ don't like her that way."
"You don't?" you ask, suddenly turning shy, leaning into his warmth now.
"I don't, sweetheart," he echoes, a small smile on his lips now as he squeezes your hand affectionately, "but you know what?"
"What?" you echo back, turning to finally look up at him properly, heart thudding expectantly in your chest again, as if it were trying to break free and rush back to him.
"I like you that way," he murmurs this lowly, face close to yours â enough that he nuzzles your nose gently, enough that you can smell the strong coffee on his breath and the scent of cinnamon that seemed to always follow him.
An apprehensive smile spreads across your lips at that, "Yeah?"
"Yeah, sweetheart," he answers, voice earnest in a way that it rarely ever was.
"Good," you whisper, hand finally curling back around his, pressing your lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss before pulling away just a bit. If it was even possible, his grin turned even more fond than it was before.
That night he walked you home, and hugged you bye.
Like always.
Just this time, you both planned a date before he left.
MOUSSE Ă L'EARL GREY
⤡ Earl Grey Mousse: The Body
Matt wasn't used to this.
'This' being sitting in a bathtub under a shower with someone after having sex.
When you'd said you wanted to take a shower afterwards it was as if it were implied he'd be joining you in there, as if it were just normal, everyday routine. Usually, with the other women he'd slept with, he would just get along with his things and leave, or maybe just fall asleep after helping the woman clean up and cleaning up himself.
There was no reason to stick around.
To share nonsensical domestic moments that meant nothing.
So, right now as he sits in the bathtub while lukewarm water falls down on the both of you, he doesn't particularly want to like it. He doesn't want to like this feeling of you in his arms in this cold porcelain tub, the scent of your shampoo strong enough, on him, around him, that he's sure it'll stick to him for days. But it's nicer than he thought it would be.
He can't help but think it's nice because of you.
"Matty, tilt your head down?"
It's more an order than question.
Your voice sounds different under the spray of the water. Acoustics or whatever.
He complies, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his head down. He can feel your sudsy fingers work their way in his hair and scalp, and then backwards to his neck. You're humming something, heartbeat steady, and muscles relaxed as you focus on his hair as if you were creating a masterpiece â or baking something you love. It's domestic. And new. And, he thinks he might be a little bit in love with you.
His bones felt dense as his head tilted further down, he was aware of it, but he couldn't stop it. Head coming to rest against your shoulder as your fingers worked in the shampoo, he tilted his head just a bit taking in the scent of you, nosing at your neck. He could hear your heart speed up just a bit at the kisses he left in his wake, his warm breath against your pulse, soft lips pressed into vulnerable skin.
That's when you let out a huff of a laugh, shifting to let him press himself further into your arms. A looseness in his movements he was unfamiliar with â yet appreciated it. The calm you seemed to stamp into his being by just existing with him. The peace you brought to his life, one eternally stuck in the in betweens of existence. And, he knows it's possible he might be a lot in love with you.
The shower washes off the shampoo you'd put in his hair. And he's suddenly taken by this itch â- this urge, really â to do something for you. Maybe he could wash your hair, use all these fancy products you love, or maybe he could wash your body.
Perhaps he would be far too clumsy with someone as gentle as you. So instead he could go back down and kiss you up between your thighs, you seemed to like it before â calling out his name as if it were the only name in the world worth something. He loves how you'd said his name, so sweet and airy. He felt unworthy of even his name in that moment, how could it be said so⌠so lovingly? A name that belonged to him called out with such strong affection?
Because he's too chicken shit to actually say it, he just pulls you closer instead, under the flow of the water, lips slotting sweetly against yours. You seem to be surprised before melting into him, hands twined in his hair still. He presses the words into your mouth, hoping they're half worthy of you.
But somehow, he knows you know. Because when you pull away you giggle, the sound muffled into his skin, sticky sweet. He can't help but smile too â he feels his cupids bow stretch, the dimple he's been told he has somehow taking home right under your lips.
He'd felt it then your hands rubbing his neck, cupping his jaw to turn him up before kissing him again. Sticky sweet like your voice, like the desserts you bake late at night, like your cocoa lip gloss.
"I love you," he can't help but spill his secret out between kisses, you somehow always coax it all out anyway.
"I love you, too," you answer back, before pressing your smiling lips to his.
He doesn't need to hear your heartbeat this time to know it's true.
â
The first time Matt visited the new restaurant you were working at with Foggy and Karen, he was surprised.
The place was extravagant, with waiters who somehow knew every good thing that had happened to you, food that had fancy name and fancier plating, and apparently, from what he heard, decorations worth more than his entire savings account.
The dessert though â it was all you, he knew it was. The same sweetness you'd seem to mix into every thing you touched was prominent in it. Warm and homey.
After the service was over, he'd found you at the back door. You were having a panic attack.
Your hands wouldn't stop shaking, as you tried to press yourself further back into the brick wall behind you, somehow resisting the urge to bash your head into it. It was as though your body and soul were trying to separate â trying to break down the delicate muscles and tendons that held you together.
That's when warm hands took your shaking ones, and you looked away from him like a scolded child. It was pathetic, really. You'd had worse services in your life â filled with screaming chefs, and buzzing timers. But tonight⌠tonight had been much more of a shit show, you'd been asked to make l'entremet for a special guest as a gift. It'd been her, the reviewer from all those years ago. Your body, as silly as it was, couldn't decipher the difference between being hunted for sport and between a reviewer from ages ago trying your desserts again. She'd loved it apparently. And yet⌠here you were again.
"Sweetheart."
Matt's voice is a rumble against your chest as he pulls you into him. Warm hand splayed across your shoulders as he rubbed absent minded circles there. Your hands trembled where they rested loosely around his waist.
"Jesus, you're still shaking, honey," he pulled away once again to guide your hands back into his, asking you the routine of stating five things you could see, four things you could feel, three things you could hear, two things you could smell, one thing you could taste.
It helped enough that you felt the panic leave â as if it were draining out of your body, leaving you dry, and hollow.
"I'm okay now," you murmur half heartedly, making no move to loosen your grip on his hands.
"No, you're not, sweetheart," he quipped gently, a soft smile bordering on sympathetic, but instead of pressing on it he chose instead to pull you further into his arms, pressing kisses on your head, the smell of cinnamon on his coat was nice, burying your face in it felt nicer, somehow. As if for these few moments the world is pushed away, the only sounds being Matt's heartbeat, and the scratch of his coat against your ear.
With his heart under your ear, and his arms around yours. You let go.
GLAĂAGE MIROIR
⤡ Lavender Mirror Glaze: The Veil
Matt is almost sure he'll die before you do.
Matt thinks you know, too, deep down â you, who's always beautiful and hurting, sweet and bitter, all in one go â you must know, didn't you?
Those late nights he spends curled up around your body, warm body entangled with yours. Bound, yours forever.
Forever.
It seemed to be such a long time just a few years back. But now as he feels his heartbeat sync up to yours, the feeling of your loose cotton tee under his fingertips, the feeling of your skin so gentle under his callouses. How could any amount of time ever be enough?
It's scary to him. How contagious and hemorrhagic your love is. How faithful and deep it is to a fault.
It scares him most times how utterly forgiving you are, holding him up over and over, absolving him with a touch of your hand. No matter the crime, no matter the sin. You guide him back to goodness regardless.
The sticky sweetness in you dissolved into him, and he takes it all greedily. The string of loneliness running through him â the one that burns his soft flesh from the inside â the sting eases just enough. Enough for him to let go of his ache, of his burns and bruises.
In the beginning he'd tried to give you something or the other in turn of this⌠this kindness you were giving to him so freely. Something perfect in order to make up for the fact it was coming from him, to prove that he too, was worthy of your kindness â of your forgiveness. He often wonders if he succeeded. Part of him thinks he must have because how else was he allowed to keep you here, right next to him. Heartbeats syncing, breaths slowing.
But at the end of it all.
All the thoughts, the feelings, the questions pass.
And he always ends up right where he started anyway.
With you.
Always you.
â
You try to be a restrained person.
Otherwise you were sure your heart would race right out of your chest. Breaking past the human, physical barriers of a tender, broken body; spilling into everything you touch with affection â the things you bake, the people you love, the shows you feel with, the songs that soundtrack you, the movies you experience through, the books that break you down and build you up over again, it'd all have a piece of your heart in it then.
Yet, Matt somehow nudges past it all, opening up your chest like an open wound â the vulnerability of it all painfully embarrassing.
You'd been taught as a young chef that cooking is art too â self expression, and love, â it too, holds the power of taking a piece of you and sending it along through the food⌠Through the art.
Yet it'd never managed to make you feel as open as it had with Matt.
It was as if he'd chosen to feel, hear, see, all these parts of yourself â some you'd been too ashamed to weave through your food, your art, some you'd been too proud to open and show to others.
But somehow, through all of it, he reached over and over again for you. These parts of yourself you marked off as unlovable, he somehow loved more than he did himself.
Those early mornings you spend, tangled up with him under the sleep, and sun warmed sheets all you can think of is wanting this â him â forever.
Forever, something you'd found so baffling as a kid, something you'd found so utterly insane to even think of â suddenly seemed to normal, so easy to desire, with him.
All you want is these lazy mornings.
Where he wakes up cozied next to you, and murmurs something about not wanting to leave the bed just yet.
Where you look at him, beautiful and good, with a halo of his curls spread out like feathers, and rosy lips pulled into a barely there smile, eyes fluttering, and senses loosened.
Where you drink coffee together, barely awake but here all the same.
(to be added to taglist, please let me know in the comments!)
note: Hi guys! I know I haven't been all too consistent with writing but the muse struck so here I am. I hope you enjoyed the oneshot! Thank you for being so patient with me.
earlier this week Twitter user ppuccin0 tweeted about a fashion article that advised against tops with large floral patterns, saying the wearer was in danger of looking like a "ăăăłăăŁăăŻăă°ăă," or a "romantic auntie." the tweet went viral with many agreeing that a "romantic auntie" sounded like a very nice thing to aspire to be, and some even posted illustrations or photos tagged with the trend
illustration by Toyota Yuu (author of Cherry Magic)
illustration by 141shkw/Sora Midori (author of Beautiful Curse)
photos by Takinami Yukari (author of Motokare Mania and Watashi-tachi wa Mutsuu Ren'ai ga Shitai or "We Want A Painless Romance")
illustration by m:m (mangaka of Matataki no End Roll)
illustration by ooinuai (mangaka of Onikui Kitan)
illustration by ma2 (mangaka of The Reason We Fall In Love)
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âYou look nice,â Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
âI uh,â You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.Â
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.Â
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
âI just⌠I canât say no.â You lament. âIt would be weird.â
âWeirder than going?â Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. Itâs also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. Youâre pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man âworks from homeâ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
âI donât know. Maybe.â You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.Â
âWhatâs weird?â Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.Â
âWedding.â Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. Sheâs older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.Â
Ryland frowns. âYouâre already married.â
Heâs⌠well, Ryland's⌠actually youâre not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.Â
Heâs in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him âDoctor Graceâ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.Â
âMr Graceâ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes heâd brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.Â
âMm mm.â She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
âYouâre not getting married.â Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like itâs a scientific fact, one heâs so assured of.Â
âThanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.â You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.Â
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. âYou arenât, are you?â
âNo. My ex is, though.â You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.Â
âOh. That sucks.â He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. âHappens to the best of us.â
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like itâs happened to him. Rylandâs not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margotâs. Heâs never mentioned past romances, you donât think heâs been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. Itâs such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.Â
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. Thereâs a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. Thereâs a long window the length of the wall on the doorâs other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, itâs why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, theyâd never let up. âIâm considering the pros and cons of skipping it.â
âYou were invited?â He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. âI already said Iâd go too.â
âWhy?â Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time youâd caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.Â
âItâs complicated.â You say, biting at your cheek.Â
âBullshit.â Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.Â
âWe went out for maybe two months in college.â You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. âHeâs engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. Weâre⌠friends.â
Margot watches. âWith your ex or the sorority girl?â
âSorority girl. Daisy.â That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when youâd asked, gets me out of the classroom.Â
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.Â
âYou were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.Â
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. âI⌠Yeah? Thatâs the interesting part?â
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where theyâre slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. âNo, I just canât picture it.â
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. âWell Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. Sheâs nice. Works in PR now.â
âBut sheâs marrying your ex?â Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.Â
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. âI mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think itâs a little weird. I donât even know why I said Iâd go. Itâs going to be embarrassing.â
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. âWhy is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.â
âI was a little head over heels for this guy.â You admit, sheepish.Â
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. âYeah? How so?â
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion itâs easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. âI was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.â
âHot?â Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. âGod, his jawline. And his hair- it was so⌠ugh!âÂ
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. âI donât even know why I said Iâd go. Itâs dumb.â
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. Itâs not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. Youâd agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that youâd have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.Â
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVPâd for yourself in the first place. Itâs one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.Â
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like heâd been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.Â
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. âThen find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.â
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, âAre you trying to pimp your husband out to me?â
âOnly for aesthetic reasons, of course. Itâd be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.â
It would sting more if it wasnât so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.Â
âI mean, how good is his jawline?â Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. âAre we aiming high?â
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that theyâve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. Itâs the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.Â
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend whoâd never found âitâ, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. âYou can do better.â
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. âThis is your type?â
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. âThis is the hair that had you allâŚâ
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
âHe slicks it back now. It used to be⌠I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.â He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. âHe does have a good jawline...â
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now youâre kind of obsessed with the so-called â5-oâclock shadowâ Ryland sports on Fridays.Â
Itâs not something youâre likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way youâre able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.Â
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of âprofessional developmentâ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly youâre devastated about it all.Â
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bellâs long gone, as are the students. Heâs dressed like heâs on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. Youâre halfway through explaining your plan and the wording youâre going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.Â
âIâll go with you.â
Heâs a little breathless with it, like heâd been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.Â
âI know that Iâm not Margotâs husband with a âbetter jawline and better hairâ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If heâs a lawyer itâs gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you donât have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.â Rylandâs big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like youâre her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.Â
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.Â
âYeah. Okay.â You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.Â
His eyes donât move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. âYeah?â
âYeah.â
It isnât a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends youâre about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack whoâs obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who youâd told years ago to âgo for it, heâs a nice guyâ working under the assumption that sheâd only last a few months by his side too.Â
Youâre not sure which answer youâd prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.Â
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what youâre going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. Itâs sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.Â
âOkay, Iâll show you. Wait, hold on.â You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.Â
âItâs a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.â Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.Â
âHa ha.â You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.Â
Heâs up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what youâre wearing too so he can match. The inviteâs dress code called for formal attire in âdark coloursâ. On the facebook page sheâd made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how sheâd love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering thereâs some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated youâd slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.Â
So navy it was.Â
Youâd sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out âwoeâ- it had felt fitting when youâd stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasnât satisfied though.Â
Even your attempts to describe the dress youâd bought didnât work well enough.
âI mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from âfloor length' means?â he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. âI need all the data.â
âOh listen to you, Mr. Science,â You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. Itâs too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.Â
âI was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, donât you think?â He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.Â
Rylandâs dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on âCasual Fridaysâ as it is called in staff meetings. This oneâs dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. Youâve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though itâs not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as heâd explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.Â
Heâs at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. Youâve not actually been to Rylandâs apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.Â
Itâs just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but heâs stuck a desk there instead, his bed thatâs almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, heâs a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.Â
Rylandâs not brushed his hair, itâs all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug heâs been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though itâs just past ten. Heâs blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.Â
âIâm sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.â You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.Â
You flip the camera, showing him the dress heâs been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.Â
Itâs cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. âIs that velvet?â
âItâs fake satin. I think.â
âFake satin?â He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friendâs wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. Itâs got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.â
âOkay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.â That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like theyâre about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything. Â
âYeah, and here, the lace up back.â You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.Â
âIsnât that going to be a nightmare to put on?â He asks, squinting still.
âThereâs a zip.â You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. âSo itâs fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.â
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.Â
âCome on, youâve got the easy part.â You try, a little concerned heâs about to say he shouldnât go. âYou just have to put on a suit.â
âI canât just âput on a suitâ.â He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. âIâm supposed to be like, your big âfuck youâ to the girl who got with your ex. Iâm supposed to look good with you. I donât know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.â
âRyland. Itâs not about saying âfuck youâ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didnât want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.â You canât really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. âYou donât have to come.â
âNo, Iâm coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.â Heâs cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your âaesthetic appreciationâ of Ryland that youâd been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.Â
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities heâs got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.Â
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When heâd first arrived, youâd assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think heâs cool.Â
Over the years youâve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo youâd googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. Youâd sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, heâd left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shopâs online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where youâd asked him to come to the wedding, or where youâd already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.Â
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; heâd come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- âIn a suit? God, neverâ- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and heâd walk home or take another separate uber.Â
Thereâs talk about your âbackstoryâ, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him itâs not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends youâd not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.Â
âWe obviously would have met at school.â He says, like itâs a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, heâd turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before heâd decided the floor was his resting place. âMaybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.â
âWe did like trivia.â You agree, pointedly.Â
Itâs almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that youâre sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.Â
Heâs got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.Â
âMaybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?â
âIf youâd asked me to trivia as a date?â You glance up. Heâs already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
âYeah.â You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.Â
Ryland sounds⌠nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night youâd gone to. Heâd been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the barâs warm lighting. Heâd been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.Â
With the way heâs looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario thatâs beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, youâre starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.Â
âEnjoyed it, probably.â
âReally?â He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.Â
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when youâre halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Rylandâs not been to your apartment before, something youâd failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if youâd have to buzz him in.Â
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.Â
âSee,â You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. âMy door locks.â
âStill one less lock that youâre supposed to have.â he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.Â
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.Â
âYou look nice,â he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.Â
âI uh,â You pause, swallowing thickly.Â
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. Itâs the only thought spinning around your head. Itâs a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie heâd sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than youâve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.Â
Suddenly youâre reminded of all those times heâd complained about all the formal conferences and charity galaâs heâd attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.Â
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when youâd asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when youâd googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when heâs in his classroom, or tiny apartment.Â
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.Â
âYou look good.â You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. âHow long have you had this?â
âAges. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?â He tacks that last bit on, like heâs waiting with baited breath for your approval.Â
âIâll say.â You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. Heâs tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure itâs the same length, no doubt. Ryalndâs still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.Â
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. âRight, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.â
âDo you need a hand?â Ryland asks, and youâre about to turn, ask him, âwith whatâ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, heâs cold. From the outside air, where as youâve been nice and cosy with the heat on while youâd done your hair and make up.Â
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. âSorry, cold fingers.â
You swallow. âItâs.. itâs okay.â
âHow tight?â He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.Â
âBit tighter.â You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than youâd expected.Â
âThere?â He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.Â
âYeah, perfect.â It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.Â
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.Â
Rylandâs hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if thatâs why heâd opted for the style, if heâs here, dressed up as the guy with âbetter hair and a better jawlineâ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who heâs trying to be.Â
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. âWow, full gentleman experience.â
âI told you, I can't just âput on a suitâ. Itâs more than that.â He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didnât realise this was an option.Â
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota thatâs polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You donât talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.Â
Itâs nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road thatâs already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
âYou can just let us out here.â Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like itâs necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.Â
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since youâve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. Heâs got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. âI like these.â
He smiles, something a little smothered like heâs trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. âWell I like your dress, so I think weâre even.â
Itâs a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, youâd seen some lovely shots on the venueâs website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, heâs always suited it, even if the cityâs never had much to offer.Â
âNot too much for our first date?â You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. âFirst date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.â
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.Â
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when youâve got him like this now.Â
Together you sit about halfway down on the brideâs side, the pewâs nearly empty, only someone on the other end you donât know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's youâd guess extended family.Â
âSo whyâd you like this guy so much?â Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. Heâs glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where heâs talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.Â
âWhat?â
âHim,â Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. âWhat had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.â
âThey do.â You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where itâs dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Rylandâs eyes settle on you, like thereâs nothing else to look at. âHe made me feel like the only girl in the world.â
âThatâs a cliche.â He refutes. âAnd a song lyric.â
You smile. âIâm serious. Heâs like that with every girl he went out with. Heâs like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.â
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, itâs almost as if heâs scared what he might find. âWhat'd he do? To make you feel like that?â
Itâs cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Rylandâs bed. You smile at him, wondering if heâs thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.Â
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldnât stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.â
âI canât.â Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and heâs looking at you like youâve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.Â
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?â
âStop looking at you.â He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. âI can do the other things though.â
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. âYeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?â
âIf itâs with you.â He amends.Â
âAnd slow kissing? You like that too?â
âYeah I do.â Heâs not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.Â
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. âGood. Really good.â
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like itâs all rushed straight to his head.Â
âHey Macey, good to see you.â You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.Â
âOh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasnât it?â She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and itâs good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. Itâs nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Maceyâs always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Rylandâs been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.Â
âIâm Macey, nice to meet you.â She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.Â
Thereâs a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a âcoming soon to a theatre near youâ caption under it.Â
âI suppose it will be your wedding next then,â You tease, âWhereâs Jamie?â
âOh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.â Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamieâs name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.Â
âSo Ryland,â Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. âHowâd you two meet?â
âWe teach at the same school,â He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. âA little cliche but I donât mind.â
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like thatâs just soooo romantic. âWhat do you teach?â
âScience, opposites attract I guess.â
âPlease tell me you used that line.â She practically swoons.Â
Ryland huffs a little laugh. âNo, the kids threw that one at me actually.â
âReally?â You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory heâd been cooking up all week.
âOh yeah. You should hear them. âMr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. Theyâre relentless, I swear.â
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you canât help but giggle a little.Â
âTheir heads might explode when they find out.â Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. âGod- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.âÂ
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. âOh my god, I forgot about that.â
âProfessors of yours?â Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
âYeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!â Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.Â
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. âA car wash fundraiser?âÂ
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. âOh? Donât you know? We were a little wild in college.â
You scoff. âA little?â
âOkay, a lot.â She corrects. âThe car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. Thereâs definitely pictures. I have pictures.â
âMacey.â You scold, mostly joking.Â
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. âHey- Iâm just reminiscing on good times. Donât you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-â
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesnât do anything but laugh to herself.Â
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like heâs on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?â
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Rylandâs chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. âTell you about it later, handsome.â
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest youâd ever seen, looking a lot like heâs about to kiss you now, when thereâs a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.Â
Itâs beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time youâd all made âvision boardsâ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life sheâd like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. Youâre happy sheâs finally arrived there, that she has a man whoâs willing to give her everything sheâd dreamed of.Â
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. Itâs a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.Â
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. Thereâs a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jackâs lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of itâs beautiful.Â
Itâs heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You arenât really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. âCare to dance?â
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.Â
Itâs littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.Â
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Rylandâs shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. Heâs warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. âI know this isnât the kind of dancing you meant, but itâs the best I can do for now.â
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you werenât even aware he knew. âI think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.â
Rylandâs lips tick up into a smile. âYeah?â
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried heâs not one for such public displays of affection. âLeft my wild nights behind in college.â
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. âA shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.â
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. âMight do a private showing. Just for you.â
âYou going to wash my car?â He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.Â
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, âYou donât have a car.â
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly werenât speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. âGuess weâll have to go with the kissing booth then.â
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where heâs smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. âOh, what a shame.â
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords heâd tied up so perfectly for you.Â
For you, all of it. His nice suit heâd dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.Â
âYou got plans after this?â You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once itâs left your lips.Â
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Rylandâs voice. âThought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?â
âThink I can manage it,â You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that youâve both been pretending couldnât happen, wasnât there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.Â
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. âWanna get out of here?â
âBit forward, Ryland,â You tease, âweâve not even taken photos yet.â
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before heâs pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.Â
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, thereâs a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.Â
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while youâre grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.Â
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as youâre preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.Â
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. âWhichever one you donât put up there, Iâm keeping.â
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.Â
He grins like heâs won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroidâs back.Â
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Maceyâs left.Â
Rylandâs got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.Â
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.Â
The night air is crisp and the second youâre outside, waiting for the uber thatâs just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if heâs been waiting to do it all night.Â
You look at him and raise a brow, but donât say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. Itâs almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.Â
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that youâre not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalndâs phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the tripâs destination.Â
âPresumptious.â You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. âHow are you going to wash my car if we donât go to my place?â
âYou donât have a car.â You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.Â
âRight,â He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say âdrat, there goes that planâ. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, âWhat was the back up plan again?â
âYou are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.â
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. âMore so when I know I'm right.â
âAnd what, pray tell, are you right about?â
âThat you like-like me.â He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.Â
But you donât want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. âYou gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?â
âThatâs very forwards of you.â He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. âAll scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.â
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. âYouâve been seeing other scientists? Iâm heartbroken.â
âGive yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.â
âEarsdropping, huh? Didnât think you were the type.â He looks far too pleased by the idea that youâve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever heâs saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
âIâll Tell you exactly what type I am in,â You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. âfour minutes.â
He nods and you wonder if heâd get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. Itâs something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once youâre both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldnât return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. Youâre still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.Â
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something youâve not felt in a long time. Thereâs not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before itâs too late.Â
Ryland though, heâs here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.Â
âSoooo,â He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like heâs suddenly nervous.Â
âSo?â You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when heâd turned up at your apartment that afternoon.Â
âItâs been four minutes.â He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one heâd picked out just for you.Â
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
âIt has.â You lick your lips.Â
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap youâd never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.Â
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.Â
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.Â
Itâs slow kissing, itâs dizzying and itâs want. Everything heâd promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.Â
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.Â
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. âRyland,â
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.Â
âIs your doorway where you take all the girls?â
âThere are no other girls.â He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than youâd been prepared for.Â
âJust me?â
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. âYeah.â
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems itâs been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.Â
His bedâs unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight youâve dreamed about far too many times.
Thereâs pressure there, against your ass, a hard length thatâs tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know heâs so turned on by the slow kissing youâd been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow heâd tied himself. âBeen thinking about this for too long.â
âYeah?â You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. âSince you laced it up?â
âSince you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.Â
The dress doesnât fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but itâs a damn near thing. One of Rylandâs hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease thatâs maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.Â
You try to turn but heâs got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that itâs not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.Â
âOkay,â You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. âCome on, donât you wanna fuck me?â
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.Â
âNeed to remember this bit.â He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.Â
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet youâre beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.Â
âNext time, Ry-â He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. âRyland, come on. Need you.â
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and itâs like youâve said the magic words. Heâs turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.Â
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Rylandâs hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.Â
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so youâd gone without. You had assumed that heâd figured that one out, given how heâd both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that itâs out of the way, heâs looking at your chest like he hadnât expected to see it so quickly.Â
âYou mean it?â He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. âI.. I get a next time?â
âYeah.â You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. âAs many as you want.â
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Rylandâs hands move from where theyâve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didnât know you understood so well until tonight.Â
âLet me.â He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.Â
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.Â
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.Â
His hairâs spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse thatâs begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.Â
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.Â
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when youâre about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.Â
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. Heâs gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence heâs treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.Â
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. âAre you⌠Can I-â
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. âWhat is it Ry? Youâve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.â
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. âIf you say so.â
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle thatâs still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.Â
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.Â
Itâs maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like itâs the best thing heâs ever tasted. Heâs been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.Â
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but itâs got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way youâd expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.Â
Itâs a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and itâs highly plausible that heâs leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. âYou said I could fuck you, right?â
âYeah,â you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. âYou can.â
With your head still spinning from the attention and care heâs taking with you, itâs a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.Â
Rylandâs above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. âLike this?â
âJust like this.â You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.Â
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.Â
Youâre getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, heâs still got his briefs on and youâre still wearing your underwear.Â
âOff,â You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.Â
Rylandâs head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.Â
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.Â
Warm and heavy in your palm, heâs bigger than youâd expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, thereâs so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.Â
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand heâs not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.Â
âCondoms. I need-â He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. âI need a condom.âÂ
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand thatâs not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.Â
It doesnât go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. âI was going to do that.â
He sounds a little bit thrown, like heâd really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.Â
âYou were also going to fuck me.â You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.Â
âNot fair.â He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. âNext time, you let me take my time, okay?â
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. âWeâll take turns.âÂ
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than youâd heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.Â
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.Â
Itâs a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
âGod,â he pants. âYou feel so good, baby.â
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.Â
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Rylandâs tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.Â
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. âFuck, thatâs perfect- so good.â
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. âY-yeah?â
âYeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.â The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.Â
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. ââM not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.â
âSâokay. Let go, baby.â You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.Â
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.Â
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.Â
âCouple more.â You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. âAlmost there.â
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.Â
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so heâs sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.Â
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. ââS a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.â
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. âMight? What happened to ânext timeâ?â
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. âWell, I donât wanna push my luck.â
âYouâre not pushing anything.â You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.Â
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Rylandâs now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan. Â
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.Â
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. âYou want a shirt?â
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. âOnly if itâs one of your nerdy ones.â
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.Â
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.Â
âThis okay?â He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.Â
âMore than okay.â You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. âBeen thinking about this.âÂ
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like youâre so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just canât help but let him know.Â
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. âHaving sex with me?â
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasnât where you were trying to go with this though. âSleeping in your bed. With you.â
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. âOh.â
âI think our next date should be trivia.â You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. âSo we can get it right this time.â
âDeal.â
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
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I know "shields up" is obviously an understandable sci-fi ask when you're in a spaceship facing down an alien spaceship...however also very funny that Ryland "I prefer to put a wall up in my relationships" Grace is out here reaching for his Old Reliable Cope.
