#yeaaaaah

This is what my two friends named the Lifers

Help-

the wrecked way they say your name for the first time. — @morally.

it's like the world is out to get me. you'd think a little appreciation would be in order after saving the dang thing, but in actuality misfortune doesn't discriminate. it can present itself in many ways, and its latest choice is apparently in my pants. morning wood is . . . a curse.

he feels himself stir against her backside and eyes that were once batting gently open shoot wide, the remembrance of where he is and who with a quickfire memory amidst the fog of sleep that is rapidly clearing. ryland's arm loops around riley, her hand curled around his wrist : it is a position that is typically a comfort but is now an awkward dance to get out of, to at least shift to a less incriminating position. this is why he should be the little spoon, alongside him having less hair to get caught in her mouth. his head lifts to check if she's awake yet, doesn't manage to get a definitive answer and certainly isn't about to call out her name to find out or potentially expedite that process. instead his hips give an awkward shimmy, twisting and contorting until his upper body remains pressed tightly against her back but he is facing skyward from the waist down.

it's not comfortable physically but it's a better alternative to riley waking up with his crotch alert and pressed into her, a very embarrassing elephant in the room. he thinks that's the end of it, a sigh perching at his mouth until her fingertips unlace from his forearm, reach behind herself to twist him back closer and his muscles become rigid as planks. maybe if he doesn't move it'll go away. yet the situation ( as he's opted to think about it ) only worsens, maybe because he's invested so much thought into its avoidance, and he shuts his eyes tight when he feels the blood rush downward, his ensuing hardness inevitable and impossible to ignore.

what is even harder to dismiss is what she does next, so surprising a motion that he actually flinches when her hand feels him over his boxers, as if it were someone else's. it is a tentative touch, a caress that only serves as instigator for its continuation : he feels himself stiffen under her fingertips even through fabric and has to take a breath, his diaphragm tense. ryland's mind catches up to his body, realises she's awake and very much aware but he can't see her face, can't guess at her intentions until she turns in the circle of his arm to face him. her blue eyes are wide and seeking, inquisitive, and this alone undoes him further long before the reach under his waistband does. the warmth of her palm rubbing his erection parts his lips involuntarily, his line of sight transfixed, refusing to leave her face, her mouth.

❛ riley— ❜ it is husky with sleep, or desire, maybe both, a plea for less but also for more. it has been so long, painfully long since he has known anything like it, the touch overstimulating and exhilarating and her tenderness only serves to enhance it. a keen whine rumbles at the roof of his mouth, riding the wind of a breath as his hand comes up to her neck, holds her jaw like an anchor, kisses her softly. his arousal is prominent between them but also in the glaze of his eyes, the bob of his adam's apple and how his mouth chases hers. it realistically doesn't take long at all before he's rutted his last thrust into her hand, his gasps against her throat speaking of a relief long overdue. they stay there indefinitely, her other hand in his hair and gently stroking, his arm at her waist keeping her close.