Summary: Lars accidentally rips his favourite comfort blanket and brings it to the new seamstress in town to fix it.
Wordcount: 6.1k
Warnings/tags: Porn with plot, smut, friends to lovers, jealous!Lars, riding, penis in vaginq sex, praise kink, hair pulling, creampie, unsafe Sex, first time, dirty talk, subby!Lars, crying, english is not my first language, not proof-read
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Lars carried his baby blue blanket to the tailoring shop as if it was a person dying in his arms.
He had accidentally snagged his beloved blanket on a nail today, the hardened rust ripping a few stitches, and the more he moved it, the more the yarn untangled itself, the delicate wave pattern coming undone.
Lars had cried like it was the end of the world until Karin recommended him this new tailoring shop in town, and that she had heard the owner was a very lovely and kind lady. He practically flew into his car, speeding down the road to find the cozy store tucked away in a quiet corner of the small wisconsin town, snow piling up on the roof.
Luckily, the lights were on, and the sign on the door read 'open'. This was his last hope.
The little bell above your shop door chimed, a cheerful sound that always made you look up from whatever you were working on with a smile. And how could you not? After years and years of dreaming and saving up, you were finally able to call this little nook your own shop.
So as a person stepped inside, you felt that familiar flutter of excitement. A customer. Your customer!
It was a tall, soft looking man, draped in a plush winter jacket and clutching something to his chest like it was a wounded animal. He was handsome, cute even. He had a fine-boned, round face and a dusting of chestnut brown sat atop of his head, his mustache matching the colour of his hair. His eyes were wide, pale blue, darting around the shop as if he expected a trap to swallow him up.
"Welcome in!" you said, setting down your scissors as you cut pieces from some burgundy fabric "What can I help you with today, sir?"
He shuffled forward to the register, his broad shoulders hunched. "I- uh, I need to get something fixed" his voice was soft, almost a whisper, and he held out the bundle in his arms. It was a blanket, baby blue, knitted out of thin and delicate yarn and clearly throughouly loved, but equally treasured to make sure it remained in tact.
You gently took it from him, noticing how he pulled back his hand before your fingers could touch his. You let the fabric slip between your fingers with a soft frown before you found a tear, the stitches jagged and ripped.
The man in front of you wrung with his hands as you assessed the damage. "I'll pay whatever you want, just...just repair it. Please" he practically begged you. You softly smiled at him, this clearly was no ordinary scarf. "Sounds like this is very important to you, if you want to get it fixed so badly" you said, your head tilting to encourage him to satisfy your curiosity.
His mouth stretced into a vertical line and he blinked harshly, two times, before he took a breath to answer "My mom made it for me...before I was born" he muttered, and you were about to say 'aww', when he continued, wiping any joyous expression off your face "She died when I was born, so..." he smiled gently, as if this wasn't a devestating fate at all.
You looked back down at the blanket in your hands. You could see the careful, even stitches of a woman who had poured all her love into every row. A mother knitting for a child she would never hold. It almost made you tear up, but you swallowed that down. "I can fix this" you said softly "It's a simple pattern and stitching, I'll make it barely noticeable. Give me about two days."
He lit up at your statement "Thank you" he breathed, as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He patted down his thick jacket for his wallet "How much?"
You leaned forward and pressed your hand against his clothed forearm, and while he flinched for a second, the pressure of it was oddly...comforting? How were you doing that? "Let's see how it turns out first." You smiled with a little wink, and he seemed to relax a fraction.
Two days later he returned as if those 48 hours had him greatly distressed, like waiting for a sick loved one to come out of a complicated surgery. You seemingly had awaited him as well, smilling widely when his adorable, awkward nature filled your shop. "Ah! Mr. Lindstrom was it, right?" you pointed at him to which he nodded timidly. You had actually remembered his name days ago when he told you. He felt warm inside, but he blamed it on the heat from the lit fireplace in your store.
"Just give me a second!" you called out to him and he made himself comfortable on one of the plush chairs that surrounded the fireplace, watching you count through various letters before finding the letter 'L' on top of your shelf.
You climbed up, sorted through a few finished orders and custom pieces until you found his, the one labeled with 'Lindstrom', and retrieved it with a giddy smile. You didn't want to admit it, but you probably had never worked as diligently and careful as you had done for this piece. You just wanted to make it perfect.
He jumped up from his seat, brushing back his hair and dusting off his jacket as if this was a special event. You giggled softly at his antics. He was very intriguing, you had to admit.
You then handed him the repaired scarf. The tear was invisible unless you knew where to look, the yarn you had chosen a perfect colour match to the original one.
He held it up, craddling it in his big hands, his fingers tracing the spot, and his eyes went watery. Your heart clenched in your chest, fearing he didn't like it and you just ruined the precious memory of his mother. "You...don't like it?" you whispered and his head shot up, his round, teary eyes searching yours "Oh, no it's- it's perfect. Looks very good" he nodded with a jerk of his head, clearly not being great in showing his gratitude and excitement visually. But you didn't mind, you knew it meant a lot when he said it like that.
He went to wrap it around his neck like a scarf. It was a very cute way to still use and honor the blanket, even though he couldn't be swaddled up tighly in it anymore.
His hand dipped into his pockets then, reaching for his wallet "How much-" he started, but you held up your hand and shook your head. "It's on the house. I couldn't take money for something that is so dear to you, especially since it was a gift from your mom. I'm not going to make you pay for it now"
Lars just stared at you then, his soft pink lips slightly ajar, something shifting in his expression. A kind of awe, or maybe gratitude so deep it looked like pain, you weren't sure "You don't have to-" he said, shaking his head in disbelieve, but you just smiled at him. "I want to." you assured him, smoothing out the blanket over his chest "Really."
He swallowed, his cheeks glowing red under the dim light of your shop. He could barely feel your touch through the many layers of clothing he wore, but it made something in his chest flutter nonetheless "Thank you." he breathed, his ears starting to match the colour of his face.
As much as you would have liked, you were sure this wouldn't get deeper than that. He would leave, and you'd never see him again. Maybe a few glimpses around town, but that would be it.
And at first you thought you were right. A week passed with no sign of him. You tried not to let it affect your mood- he had just been another customer! And yet, you felt like there was more to him, and you wanted to see him again. No, you didn't just want to see him, you wanted to get to know him better.
Then one afternoon, he appeared again, holding the puffy jacket he wore last time under his arm. Timidly, he showed you a ripped seam under the arm.
"I was...uhm, chopping wood and moved a bit too much" he explained, blinking harshly. You laughed, and it surprised him into a half smile "You chop wood?" you asked then and he nodded, all shy and sweet. God, he looked very cute today, very cuddly with the many layers he wore. "Yeah, I'm pretty good at it" he said proudly, softly puffing out his chest as you took the jacket from him to assess the damage. "I bet you are" you smiled, counting how many stitches had ripped open.
He blinked, nodding at you, his heart beating faster in his chest for a reason he couldn't name. "You should watch me some time" he suggested, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.
You looked up from the jacket in your hand to find him standing there all nervous, and it made something flutter in the lower parts of your stomach "I'd love to. But first, I gotta fix this jacket so you can really get back to it" you winked, opening a drawer to fish out a needle "It's an easy fix. Come, make yourself comfortable" you gestured to your cozy sofa next to the fireplace "It'll take ten minutes."
He just nodded and settled on your little couch, tensed, as if he wasn't supposed to be there, while you threaded a needle with matching yarn.
While Lars was busy admiring your simple shop and the fabrics rolled up on high shelves, you were able to take a better look at him. He was wearing a nice sweater, a shirt peeking out at the collar. It was a bit worn, lumpy at the shoulders, but he looked soft and warm and somehow out of place in his own skin. You almost wanted to coo.
"Do you have someone in your family who knits, then?" you asked while you worked, vaguely gesturing to his clothes.
"Uh, yeah, I had. My grandma knitted most of my sweaters. She died years ago though..." he told you, yet again like it was the most normal thing in the world, throwing you a tight lipped smile, while you could only watch in pity. He twisted his hands in his lap. "I like sweaters. They're cozy." he muttered, trying to lighten the mood.
You nodded at Lars, pulling your string tight before looping it back through the fabric "I can see that. They suit you." You smiled gently as he blushed at your compliment.
"I do custom work, you know." you shrugged, biting your lips in concentration. It was a good look on you, and Lars couldn't avert his eyes. "I could make you one that fits perfectly. Not that the oversized look isn't cute but I thought, maybe, you'd like a sweater that isn't all stretched and loose" you muttered, and you couldn't believe you just called him cute like that. God, you surely just scared him off!
His eyes grew wide "Really?"You turned from your work to look back at him, only to find him already watching you "Really. I'd give you a discount, since you're such a nice customer."
He blushed, the beautiful colour creeping up his neck. "That's- I don't know what to say." he admitted, munching on his bottom lip while trying to hide a bashful smile from you. You tied a quick knot as you finished stitching up the hole in the jacket, cutting off the excess yarn. "Say yes, and I'll take your measurements."
Lars was hesistant, mostly because he didn't want to flinch when your touch would ultimatively burn him and make you feel bad about it, but how could he say no when you looked at him like that?
He nodded gently and you got to work. The measuring was as delicate as you could make it. You had come to the conclusion yourself that he might not like to be touched by basically strangers, or maybe he didn't like to be touched at all. Either way was fine. You still had to make him take off the sweater, keeping him in only a very light pink long sleeve, so you could take measures as accurately as possible without making him even more uncomfortable than he already was.
You used your most flexible and soft tape, so he barely felt it over his clothes, and you made sure not to touch him more than necessary, though you noticed how he tensed when your fingers brushed his chest, his waist or his arms, even though you were extra careful. He held his breath when you measured his shoulders. Not because of pain, but because your fleeting touches left a weird but pleasent tingling sensation.
"There" you said proudly, after walking back and forth between Lars and a table to write down his measurements "I'll try to have it ready in about two weeks" you informed him and two weeks later, he returned on time for the sweater.
You had chosen a rich, warm brown wool, soft as a cloud, and knit it with slightly dropped shoulders and a generous fit that would hug his midsection without clinging too much. When he pulled it on over his head, the fabric settled against him like it was made for him- well, because it was, but seeing it fit him like this really made it clear. He looked down at himself in awe, running his large hands over the sleeves, the chest and the hem, tracing the pattern you had made with darker wool.
"That's a nice sweater" he nodded to you with a smile, his whole face scrunching up when he did it. Oh he looked so cuddly and warm, it made your heart ache in your chest, and all you wanted was to sink into his arms because it looked like the most cozy place in the universe "I'm glad you like it."
He wore it everywhere. He wouldn't take it off for days on end, he slept in it just to smell the scent of your shop, and he wouldn’t leave the house if he had to wash the garment. It became his comfort sweater, much like his little blanket was a great comfort to him. The combination of wearing both was unmatched. After Karin told him, very nicely, that he might want to look for other sweaters to wear, as the town surely thought he wasn't washing his clothes, he decided to have you make more.
But Lars being Lars, he purposefully ripped or cut some of his older clothes so you could fix them, claiming he had snagged them somewhere or that Gus' cat got them, a cat which Gus didn't have, but you didn’t have to know about that, just so he didn't directly have to tell you he wanted another sweater.
It quickly became obvious he searched for excuses to see you, waiting for you to suggest another handmade sweater of yours for him. He would feel less of a burden if you got the idea of making a second sweater for him instead of him specifically asking for one. You were surely busy, with you being the only seamstress in town.
Oh, he could never be a burden
So soon you made him another, and another. He quickly became a regular, sometimes just dropping by to say hello, to sit on your couch and watch you work while you talked about anything and nothing. It was mostly just you two, and you enjoyed the company greatly, rather than listening to the radio all day just so you wouldn't feel all alone. You learned a lot about each other, you about his family and what he did for work- him about where you were from and how long you've been sewing.
Conversation flowed fairily easy with Lars, something you hadn't expected, but when he was comfortable enough, he could be quite the chatterer.
He became the highlight of your day. He'd bringt drinks and snacks to your shop after work, knowing you often forgot to take breaks and eat when you were hands deep in a project, especially when you had procastinated it for a while and it had to be finished in a few days. In those times, he always made sure to pull you out of it for a moment, have you take a breather to clear your head before you continued.
One day he even let you take pictures of him modelling your early spring collection, his face visible from his mustache down and ending at his thighs to showcase the longsleeves, hoodies, jacket and sweaters you made for your storefront window. It was perfect, and you could have kissed him right there, even though he would argue he looked silly or you should have hired a professional. Which was bullshit, you liked it like this, having him in your shop even though he wasn't there, and while he wouldn't admit it- Lars felt honored and...proud that you wanted him out of all people to model for you.
Everything was going well, your relationship, whatever this was, blooming between you like the flowers in early spring breaking through the thick snow blankets.
Then Mark came in.
He often did, he was one of your regulars as well, just usually not when Lars was there.
Mark was a very successful lawyer. He was tall and clean shaven, his hair slicked back to perfection, pearly white veneers glinting when he'd smile, and his lean but toned body clad in expensive and hand tailored suits- which is the reason why he was here. He needed a new one for a case abroad, pinstriped and fitted at the waist with shoulder paddings.
He always tipped well and complimented your work, and you liked him well enough as a customer. Back then, he was in your class in high school, the guy who had every girl wrapped around his finger. Well, except for you. When he noticed that, he desperately tried to make you change your mind, even though you were sure he didn't even want you that way, like at all. He just wanted to reassure himself that no woman was able to withstand his charm.
Maybe he was still bitter about the fact that he never managed to get you into bed with him, which was why he still sought you out, even in this small wisconsin town. But how could you care if you made about 2500$ plus a fat tip whenever he visited?
Lars came from your office in the back where he had managed your emails like he did at work, just one of the ways he tried to make up for all the cheap or free of charge clothes you had made him the past months.
So when he saw you kneeling in front of a random mans crotch, pinning his trouser hem, he turned into a statue. His jaw was tight as he watched you. He knew the things you had to do for your job, but seeing this guy all arrogant and smug while practically shoving his crotch into your face made him feel sick to the stomach.
Marks gaze landed on a dumbfounded Lars then, his carved brows furrowing "Didn't know you had a little helper around here" he nearly growled, staring Lars down as if he was his sworn enemy.
You jumped softly, standing up straight again, your cheeks flushed that Lars had found you in such a compromising position. "Mark" you said, clearing your throat "This is Lars. He helps me out sometimes" you explained, then gestured over to Mark, looking at Lars with a forced smile "Lars, this is Mark. He is a lawyer and often comes to me for custom suits"
Mark extended a hand. "What a pleasure to meet you...Lars" he smirked, his voice carrying a hint of disgust as he said Lars' name.
Lars puffed out his chest, squaring his shoulders and his chin held high. He reached forward to shake Marks hand with a strength that made the lawyer flinch in surpise. The touch burned Lars more than usual, probably matching the anger brewing in his chest, but he held Marks intense gaze as if trying to assert dominance and impress you, even if it meant pain.
Your mouth was agape at Lars' behavior, especially knowing how agonizing touch could be for him. Yet he shook hands with Mark, as if he was jealous. No, Lars wasn't jealous, was he? Sometimes stirred in your gut, your thighs pressing together.
Mark cleared his throat, his ego clearly bruised as he wiped his hands on his dress shirt. "You know, you could use a suit, buddy. A sweater isn't exactly...classy" Mark chuckled, eyeing Lars up and down, to which Lars faux confident facade finally broke. He blinked harshly and brushed past you to get his jacket. "Lars-" you started and reached for him, but he had already put on his jacket, not throwing you another glance in fear to see your disappointment of him tucking his tail between his legs.
With a pressed out "I have to go" he was gone.
You were sure he'd return tomorrow. He always did, right? Your chest felt heavy throughout the whole fitting with Mark, your thoughts drifting back to Lars- so much so you sometimes accidentally pricked Mark with a bobby pin as you secured a hem for later stitching.
Lars didn't come back for two weeks.
You waited until you couldn't anymore, closing down your shop way too early today to drive to his house and check up on him.
The afternoon was gray, threatening snow, and you stood on his porch, if you could even call it that, knocking on the flimsy garage door until your knuckles ached. The curtain twitched at the window next to the door before it creaked open, as if he had watched you while you knocked desperately in hopes you'd leave, before realising you weren't going to give up, so it was only fair to answer the door.
"What do you want?" he asked you through a small crack in the door, his eyes tired and red rimmed.
"I want to talk" you urged "Please"
It took him a few moments, gently sniffling and blinking hard, before he looked down at his feet with a nod and let you push open the door further to let yourself in.
His little garage house was neat but sparse. He had a bed in the corner, a little desk, a small kitchenette and an adjacent room with a toilet and shower. He had the baby blue scarf around his neck as if to comfort himself by smelling it. "You've been avoiding me" you said, crossing your arms over his chest.
Lars huffed "No I haven't", the apples of his cheeks puffing out softly.
You cocked a brow "Lars. I'm not stupid." you pressed on impatiently, your gaze so intense it made Lars feel bare and laid out before you, even though he was wearing so many layers. He suddenly got the strong urge to go outside and chop wood.
He turned away so he wouldn't have to endure your stare "Shouldn’t you be with Mark? He probably needs your help or wants to look at you like you're a work of art and..." and you are one, he wanted to add, but didn't. Instead he shut his eyes tightly as if waiting for a painful blow.
Your eyes grew wide in shock "He looks at me like I'm something he can buy with money! He can fuck off with his stupid suit requests and his money if it means you'll come back to me" you said, your voice cracking.
"You don't really care about me, no one does. You just feel sorry for me, that's all. But I don't want that" it surprised even him that his voice didn't wobble when he said it, and now it hung heavy in the air between you. The words stung. You stepped closer, grabbed his arm and forced him to face you as he tried to put on his winter jacket.
He winced, and you let go, guilt settling in your chest "I care about you, Lars." you said, your voice tender "I care so much it's stupid. I thought I scared you off, but no, you're just jealous and too proud to admit it."
His eyes were wet as he looked at you one last time before stepping to the door, reaching for his navy blue beanie "I'm not jealous." he muttered timidly. "I'm going to chop wood" he breathed out, ready to take his keys and leave.
"You are."
Your stern tone made him stop in his tracks, his back turned to you. "You're jealous of Mark because you think he's got me wrapped around his fingers because he's rich and handsome to most people." you continued, watching him lower his head in shame. You hit the nail right on the head.
"You're jealous because he talks to me easily and isn't afraid to be bold. You think that's what I want, but it isn't" your voice became quieter and quieter the more you talked, until the soft quaking of his shoulders silenced you.
You stepped closer, impossibly slow, inching your hands over his sides and locking together over the front, cuddling him to you from behind. It felt warm, having your arms around him. No pain, just warmth and comfort.
"I don't want him, Lars. I want you. I want shy, sweet, mustache-having and sweater-wearing you." you whispered against his back, the fabric muffling your voice. A pathetic sob escaped him then, and he pressed his palm over his mouth, leaning ever so slightly back against you. "I don't know how to- to..." he muttered, but he choked on his own cries, burying his face in his hands.
"I know, I know, it's okay" you cooed, turning him around in your arms to cup his cheek, featherlight at first, before he leaned into your hand like a cat "We'll figure it out together, I promise" you kissed him then, and he returned the gesture, clumsy and wet, his mustache tickling your upper lip. It was hesitant, but it made both of your hearts soar in your chests.
The kiss deepened, and his hands came up to frame your face, trembling against your cheeks. You felt the warmth of him through the sweater, the slight give of his soft belly against yours as you hugged him closer by the waist. He smelled so good, like wood and freshly cut grass.
"Can we-?" he started as you pulled back for a breather, his voice rough, and you kissed the question right off his lips with a smile "Yes. If you want."
"I do" He breathed the words into your mouth. "I want you. I've wanted you e-ever since you..you made me that sweater" one of which he was wearing in the moment, while he was deeply embarassed of having confessed to you that he had dreamed of this happening after meeting you just a couple of times.
You pulled him over a few steps to his neatly made bed, and gently pushed him to sit on the edge of the mattress.
"I want to see you" you said, and after he nodded timidly, you pulled his sweater and long sleeve shirt over his head. Underneath, he was pale, soft around the middle, with a light dusting of hair across his chest and a trail going from his slight pudgy tummy into his underwear. You licked your lips at the sight. He watched you with wide eyes, his hands fidgeting at his sides.
"You're so pretty" you murmured as you admired the beautiful flush that spread down his chest, and he shook his head, avoiding your eyes "I'm not." he denied your praise, though it certainly made something move in his soft grey pants.
"You are" you said and traced the line of his collarbone, to which he shivered, goosebumps appearing on his arms. And now that you could take a closer look at him, you noticed how defined the muscles in his arms actually were, probably from all the wood chopping he was doing. You wanted to moan as your hands slid over his broad shoulders down his strong arms, but you held yourself back "Now lie back for me, baby"
He did, and you took your time with him. You undressed him slowly, your hands gentle over his thighs and his hips as you pulled his pants away. For every garment you took off him, he was allowed to take one from you as well.
When you pulled his boxers down, his cock sprang free. He was thick and long, heavy against his belly. He was only half hard but already so fucking big, and the sight of it made your mouth water. "Oh Lars" you breathed, your pussy gushing into your already wet panties and you squirmed.
"Is something wrong?" His voice was high, worried that he might have scared you off, that you didn't find him attractive, that you realised how uncomfortable he made you, that you thought-
"No. Nothing's wrong. You're just...big. Really big." you couldn't help but whine when he throbbed, biting your lip and digging your nails into your thigh to stop yourself from touching his slick, pink tip.
He flushed deeply, scooting away from you against the headboard "I don't- I didn't know- is that bad?"
You quickly shook your head to sooth him "No" you said with a smile, and you leaned down to kiss the head of his cock, a wet smack following your lips. He gasped, his hand flying up to cover his face, his hips jerking up against your mouth. "Trust me, it's perfect. I love myself a challenge" you winked, leaning back to take your own undershirt and bra off for him to see you bare. He peeked through his fingers and his breath hitched. "You're so pretty" he echoed, and you laughed softly.
You crawled over his strong legs, your tits jiggling between your arms, hypnotizing the poor man "We're a matched set then." you purred before straddling his hips, shrugged off your panties with his help, while his ears were starting to turn a burning shade of red.
Your wet cunt was now hovering over his shaft, which was fully hard now, the tip rosy and leaking. You took him in your hand, guiding him to your entrance, and the first nudge of that thick head against your folds made you both moan. "Ready?" you asked him breathlessly, sliding the tip back and forth along your wet folds.
He nodded with a cute whimper, his eyes squeezing shut. "I'm scared."
You cooed gently, brushing your thumb over the tender skin under his eyes "You don't have to be scared, I've got you. Just breathe with me, okay?" you lowered yourself an inch at a time. He was so thick that it stretched you, a deep, aching pressure that made your vision blur, bordering on pain, but you pushed through. His hands flew to your hips, gripping you tightly "Oh my god" he whimpered. "S-shit, you're so- I can feel-" he started to gasp between words and you had to put your hands on his face to calm him "Shh. I know. It's okay." you whispered, your voice cracking into a groan as you finally sank all the way down, his balls pressed against your ass, his cock buried as deep inside you as it could go, the tip nudging your cervix. He was trembling, his chest heaving, and when you looked down at his face, his eyes were wet with tears.
Your brows furrowed in concern "Are you crying, baby? Do you want me to stop? Is it too much?" you asked, brushing the fat tears away that rolled over his plump cheeks "N-no it's just...it's too good" he whispered. "It's so good I can't stand it, I- I don't know what to do"
You smiled down st him and then started to move, slow rolls of your hips, and he let out a sound like a wounded animal. You leaned forward to kiss him, and he opened his mouth for you, his tongue shy as you wrapped and curled your own around it, moaning into his mouth, the sweet sounds making him tremble in your arms "You feel so good inside me" you whined against his lips, every thrust punching the air from your lungs "So fucking good."
He hugged you closer, hiding his face in your neck "Really?" he asked, his voice broken, his mustache tickling your sweaty skin. "Really. You fill me up so perfectly. I can feel every inch of you. You're going to make me cum, Lars" you panted into his ear and he sobbed, his hips starting to meet yours, a clumsy, desperate rhythm to make you feel even better and get you to that edge.
You rode him hard, your clit grinding against his pubic bone, the friction building a pressure low in your belly. His moans were high and broken, his hands gripping your waist so hard you'd have bruises by tomorrow.
"I'm gonna c-cum" he gasped, crying into your shoulder "I'm sorry, I can't hold it-" he hiccuped, the strong arms around you trembling as if he could will himself to hold off his orgasm even when your velvet like pussy was dragging over his cock like a dream. "Don't hold it, baby Cum for me. Fill me up." you whispered, the filthiness of it making him mewl, and when your fingers found his hair to pull- he was done for.
He cried out as he came, his body arching off the bed, his cock pulsing wildly inside you. Hot ropes of cum painted your walls, and the feeling of him flooding you, paired with your fingers over your clit, pushed you over the edge too. Your orgasm clenched around him, milking him for all he was worth, and he sobbed through the aftershocks.
You collapsed beside him with shaking legs, sweaty and breathless but more satisfied than you had been in a long time. The same for Lars, as he had usually let out his sexual frustration by chopping wood and more wood, until Karin had to physically force him inside for a break. As he laid there panting, a whole lot of weight just lifted off him, thanks to you.
He turned into your arms, burying his face in your neck, his tears wet on your skin. "I'm sorry" he mumbled, kissing your neck as an apology "I didn't last long."
"That's what the second round is for, maybe tomorrow" you said, brushing your fingers over his bare back, circling the moles there and he laughed wetly.
You laid together together for a while, just basking in the afterglow. He was warm, soft, his heart hammering against your palm as your fingers reached his chest. "I could make you a suit some day" you said idly. "A tweed suit, perhaps. Something with a glen check pattern and a matching vest" you sighed dreamily, imagining all the things you could make him as if he were your own personal mannequin. And you knew he'd look dazzling in everything.
While Lars had no idea what you envisioned through your words alone, he smiled at the idea "I don't want a suit. I want this" He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, pulling you closer "I want to be your Lars in sweaters forever." he whispered, his nose nuzzling with yours.
You giggled at that, threading your hands through his hair "You're my Lars" you whispered back "In or out of sweaters."
He fell asleep in your arms, his mustache tickling your collarbone and with his hand splayed over your belly securily as if to make sure you wouldn't leave. You watched the soft rise and fall of his chest, and you thought about all the sweaters you would knit him, and the suits you would maybe convince him to try on in the future. You tried not to think about his bed being way too small for two people, but you made it work, and fell asleep with him cuddling like you were his favourite pillow.
You never wanted to miss this ever again.
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I was planning to post this yesterday night but i got home from vacation and I was so fucking tired i couldn't have pasted and edited it in tumblr for the life of me😭
@ken-dom @bleerggg I hope it's fine i'm tagging ya'll for my second Lars fic, hoping i did him justice again💔
I have SO MANY ideas for Grace and Lars it's crazy and i don't think i'll be able to write it all before the hype dies down help
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one of my current fave fanfics is paroxysm by @jimmythecookiemonster so much so that it has given me so many brainworms since the first chapter. now that it has (unfortunately 🫡😔) came to an end, i have decided to get my kick for those two elsewhere so i made the paroxysm!reader mii i have been meaning to make. (i had already made patrick mii)
she's loosely based on The Reluctant Bride by Auguste Toulmouche. I was looking for era appropriate-ish inspo since the fic is reader insert and thought the reference was nice 😅 and the name is just me picking a name i like
anyway here's what's happening been with them so far:
she fell first:
you need to know that for some reason patrick is a full on loner on this island. i got so many couples. they all live together. but he has shown no romantic interest in anyone or asked to move in with anyone. my mii almost immediately fell for him and then got rejected by him, loki (spn) is also in love with him and he shows 0 interest. so safe to say that i was a little worried for them. so after eloise started losing hope i started to focus on them and kept getting them to meet up.
and finally:
and he absolutely fell harder
sent them on a trip to get them closer:
and then when patrick asked me about it i just couldn't wait and told him to confess:
part two of how do you like your eggs in the morning? | previous | ao3
Summary: When he was thirteen, Ryland made you a promise. At nineteen, he fulfilled it. You sort of wished he hadn't. At thirty-four, you've made yourself a promise. You are trying very hard to keep it. You really wish you weren't.
Tags: childhood friends to lovers, pining, breeding, oral sex (both ways), fingering, piv sex, impact play, f!reader, flashbacks, fluff, angst
A/N: 18+ only! this is part 2 of a 3 part series. happy ending guaranteed, but you'll have to wait for part 3. content warnings for mentions of terminal illness, emotional abuse, and reproductive coercion (not from Ryland, obviously).
shirred (transitive verb): 1. To cook (raw eggs removed from the shell) by baking. 2. To gather (a material, such as cloth, or memory) into decorative rows by parallel stitching.
Now
He grabs your hand as soon as the bar doors slam behind you, and tugs you not to the parking lot, but around the corner.
"You know, I'm really not supposed to follow strangers down dark alleyways," you say, and he shushes you, and you're giggling until you round another corner, and the sounds of the street are all but gone, and he presses you back against the wall, hands on your hips, and he looks at you.
That's all. Just a look.
He's been looking at you a lot tonight.
It's the third Tuesday since you first fucked. Olesya teased you at brunch the morning after, and you waved her off with an eye roll and a lie about how you were going to think about donors some more. The week after she didn't bring it up at all, which you take as a decisive win. You don't need her knowing. You don't need anyone knowing, and you're sure Ryland doesn't, either. After all, you promised him nobody would ever find out. Signed on the dotted line about it.
So when he walked into the bar that first Saturday after, you pretended at first not to notice. And when he went in for a hug, you acted like you weren't suddenly very aware of every place his body was pressed to yours, and every place he had touched you the day before, even though for a moment you were convinced everyone else could, too, like he'd left some kind of thermal map in his wake. You spoke with him only in a group, and you waited to leave until five minutes after he did, and walked another ten minutes to meet up at a different bar before letting him fuck you in the bathroom, and when you got home and showered and went to sleep that night you congratulated yourself on being very discreet.
Tonight you are, perhaps, less discreet.
It's not trivia, but you are at a bar. You've allowed yourself two drinks—you didn't drive, and also you think complete teetotalism might make Olya suspicious of the claim that you've put your baby quest on pause—and the drinks are making you a bit reckless with your eyes.
The drinks are making you linger on his hands, as he toys with a straw; his tongue, as he licks his bottom lip; the movement of his Adam's apple when he swallows.
You know what those hands feel like on your neck. You know what that tongue feels like between your thighs, and you know what his throat feels like beneath your mouth, and you are still deliciously sore from yesterday, when he visited you at your office after hours and picked you up and set you on the desk and pressed into you with your heels still on, and you are increasingly struck by the realization that you will never again know what it's like to live in a world where Ryland Grace has not been inside you.
There's a thrill to this, the sneaking around. The longer you do it, the less careful you feel yourself getting. Like you're daring yourself to get caught. Tonight, he waited only a very cursory twenty seven minutes before wandering across the bar to you.
“Smoke break?” he asked, gesturing towards the door.
“I don’t smoke,” you said, already getting up from your seat.
“I know.”
“You don’t smoke.”
“I could start. You have no idea how many vapes I have to confiscate every week.”
“That is, hands down, the unsexiest thing you’ve ever said,” you said. “Also, I think they call them juuls now?”
And then you were out the door, and around the corner, and any pretense of making conversation fled to the wayside, and now here you are, and he is looking at you like it’s the whole reason he came tonight at all.
His glasses are halfway on. His eyes are unbearably soft. It's the kind of look that cuts you to the quick every time, even though it's more or less his default, so you tug him closer and focus on the desire that blooms up behind the softness. Desire is bearable, you've learned. You know what to do with desire. Even now, a few weeks in, you cannot help but be a little thrilled by the knowledge of this, his desire for you, the physical proof of it hard and urgent against your hip.
It's almost enough to outweigh the pit in your stomach.
This is the point, you know, where you should kiss. Under any normal circumstances, this is where the kiss would go. You know what it would feel like. You can feel the phantom of it on your lips.
You're pretty sure, based on the way his eyes slip down for a moment, that he can, too.
These are not normal circumstances. The circumstances you have drummed up for yourself include, in no particular order:
1) Resigning yourself to a life of happy singledom, wherein you raise a child by yourself
2) Sneaking around with your oldest friend in order to acquire said child (and, apparently, a baffling number of orgasms along the way)
3) Forbidding yourself from falling in love with him
4) In the interest of #3, forbidding yourself from kissing him on the mouth
So you don't kiss him. Just like you didn't kiss him in the bar bathroom, or against the wall of the foyer of his house the following Tuesday, or in the back seat of your car, or, on one memorable occasion, the front seat of his car (probably the most action it's seen in months).
Instead, you let your hands trace across his chest to settle on his arms. You turn him around, so that your positions are reversed. You give him a little push, hear the quiet exhale that escapes him when his back hits the wall.
You get down on your knees.
He gets his hands in your hair almost immediately. Not pulling, or pushing, just gathering. He combs back through it, catching any stray strands, and holds it up in the back of your head like a makeshift bun, and even in this he is so gentle, thumbs brushing at your temples, that all at once you have to put effort into keeping your hands from trembling as you undo the front of his jeans. You mostly succeed. Any remaining failure you choose to blame on the alcohol.
His underwear is gray this time. The same branded waistband. You are reminded of a few weeks ago—not when you were looking at his underwear, or even in the same room as it, but after you went home, when you were trying and failing to sleep, and you went down a rabbit hole of trying to find actual underwear with Bunsen burners on the band. It didn't take long to find.
You almost sent them to him, and then you stopped yourself.
It should have been an inside joke. A friendly gesture. To him, it would have been a friendly gesture. To you, it would have been yet more mortifying proof of your fundamental flaw, which is that you fall into things too hard, too fast, and you always have, and this is the one thing that you absolutely, under no circumstances, can fall into.
You tell yourself this as though it will somehow reverse the fact that you are already halfway down the cliff. You fell off this particular cliff twenty two years ago.
He's already hard when you free him from his underwear, hard and flushed and leaking at the tip. You lick your palm, run it over the head, smile at the sound this results in. A long, slow stroke up and down, repeated, because you like the feel of him in your hand, and you like the way his breath hitches, and you like this, this one, tiny way in which you can have any measure of power over him.
You retrace the movements of your hand with your tongue—first licking just the head, then tracing up along the entire length of him from base to tip, and he moans, unrestrained.
There's no reservation in him when he gets you alone, because he cares less. Because the stakes are lower. Because he has nothing to lose. You don't kid yourself into thinking this is anything more to him than a rebound; an opportunity to have easy sex after a breakup and do an old friend a favor. Two for one.
Does that mean you don't think he cares at all? No. Of course not. Ryland has always cared about you, has always tried to take care of you, even when he's done a shit job of it, because at the end of the day you are his friend, you are the little sister of his best friend from elementary school, you are the daughter of his mother's best friend from elementary school, and you see all of this in his eyes, you feel the weight of it settle over you like molasses, every time he looks at you.
When you look up at him, his glasses are three-quarters off. His hair is the exact kind of mussed it was when two years ago when you both walked into the bar.
You open your mouth. You take him in.
-
Two years ago
The hair is the first thing you see. The back of his head. Glasses over the ears.
You tell yourself you're imagining things. You tell yourself there are plenty of blond men. This is a lie; you reframe it. There are plenty of men in San Francisco. Some percentage of them must use hair dye. Some percentage of that percentage could be at this bar, on this night, in your hometown, and then he turns around and sees you and you see his brain glitch in the exact same way as yours.
"Hi," you say.
"Hi." His voice is a little lower than it was the last time you saw him. Lower and softer, even pitched as it is to carry the few feet across the bar. Of course, he was much younger, and much angrier, when you saw him last. You both were.
"What are you doing here?" you ask, crossing to him. You rest a hand on a stool, but don't sit. Sitting feels presumptuous.
"I live here. As of a few days ago. I'm back in the old house." He gestures at you with his beer. "And you…"
"Live here," you repeat. "As of a few months ago. Further out of the neighborhood, but I come here every week. They do a trivia night."
"I heard. Saturdays at eight. That's why I'm here."
"Of course." You stare at him. You can't help it. What helps is the fact that he is staring back, with just as little compunction. "Wow."
"Wow."
"Wow."
"Wow." He nods at the stool. "Do you want to sit?"
"Yeah. Yeah! Why not." You hook your jacket under the bar. "Espresso martini, and one of whatever he's having," you tell the bartender, and then turn back to Ryland. "Consider it a housewarming gift."
"You sure your husband won't mind?"
In lieu of a verbal response, you hold up your bare left hand, wiggling five bare fingers and pretending the question doesn't make the blood congeal in your veins.
"Oh. Shoot," he says. "I'm, um. Sorry."
You squint at him.
"What?" he asks.
"Shoot?"
"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, uh, my first ever performance review, I was told I needed to watch my language around the thirteen-year-olds. Some parents complained. Several, apparently. Stellar reviews otherwise. So since then I've. Adjusted."
"Thirteen-year-olds."
"I'm starting at Grover Cleveland in a few weeks. Mr. Clivers, you remember him, he retired, so now it's me, if you can believe it. Room two twenty. Teaching. I'm teaching, if that wasn't clear." His eyes slide back to your left hand. "And you're…separated?"
"Divorced." You twist at your ring finger with your free hand. "A few years."
"If I'd known—"
"I kept it pretty quiet." You shrug. "It's embarrassing. Admitting you were on a leash."
He doesn't answer that. He doesn't need to. You see the memory play back in his eyes.
You give him a smile that's not really a smile, and then: "I'm so sorry about your mom."
"Oh. Yeah. Thanks."
"The funeral. I wanted to, but. Things with Tyler were."
"Yeah."
"I felt shitty just sending a text, and then I. He'd. I didn't have your number in my phone anymore, and—"
"It's okay," he says. Gently. Like he really means it.
You give him a look. "It's really not."
"You're here now. Apology accepted."
"Did you get body snatched, or something?" You clap a hand to your mouth, but it's too late. "Sorry," you say, absolutely the least sorry you've ever been in your life, because he's also chuckling. "Sorry! You're just so…different." Your eyes drift over him, and you hold a hand up, waving it in a vague circle. "The same, but different. Very, like, mellow."
"So I've heard."
"What happened?"
He purses his lips. "Life," he says, bringing the bottle to his mouth.
"That's not an answer, that's a cliché."
"And if I ask what happened with the divorce?"
You raise your own drink in a toast, making a face meant to more or less convey touché, and take a long sip.
After a moment's silence, he says, "It was mostly the middle schoolers." You look at him blankly. "The middle schoolers happened. They are not nice."
"Is that so."
"Very creative with their insults."
"Taste of your own medicine, huh."
"I was never that brutal. Honestly, it's worse when they're not even trying. I mentioned NSYNC to a class last year, and they didn't know who that was, and then I said they were like One Direction, back in the day, and they also didn't really know who that was, and I said the band with that guy, the style guy, and they were all, like, he's in a band?"
"God, we're so old," you say, shaking your head. "Or you are, anyway."
He points the neck of his bottle at you. "Watch it."
"How long has that been a thing? The teaching?"
"This'll be my fourth year. I pissed off one too many people in the molecular biology academia pool. Guess you could say I splashed too close to the sun."
"Ah." You nod. "Life."
"Life," he agrees.
"Life." You stare. He stares back. "Sorry, I just. I'm still on the." The muscles in your cheeks are twitching. "Shoot is just. That's really good."
"I regularly and earnestly say fudge," he says, which breaks the seal. You giggle. You can't help it, and you don't want to help it, because he's giggling too, and the giggling turns to full hysterics, and possibly the people sitting at the bar around you think you're insane, and you don't care. You haven't seen Ryland Grace in nine years. You don't think you've laughed like this with him for fourteen.
"How regularly?" you barely get out. "How earnestly?"
"Way too much. To both." He claps. "You'll love this—I dropped a box on my toe the other day while moving, and I said, out loud, Christmas Eve."
"Christmas Eve!" Your mouth hurts from smiling so wide, and you press your hands to your cheeks. "Oh, that's gorgeous."
"I really meant it, too."
"You can't even take the Lord's name in vain? Since when is Grover Cleveland Catholic?"
"They're not. I'm just paranoid."
"No, of course, of course. You ever get a Jiminy Cricket in there?"
"I'll submit that one to the PTA for consideration." His eyes flicker back to your left hand again. Your fingers twitch as you fight the urge to cover it up. It's a hard habit to break. "It's really good to see you," he finally says.
"It's good to see you, too."
"I think the last time. I mean. I know the last time I saw you—"
"Wedding number five," you say grimly, holding up as many fingers.
"Right. I'm sorry. About everything I said. That time and—honestly, there's probably about twenty years' worth of stuff I could apologize for."
"It's okay."
"It's not. It's really, really not."
He's really, really right.
But also maybe not. If you'd been asked, nine years ago, if you could ever forgive Ryland Grace, you would have said no. Mostly because, at the time, he was seemingly incapable of apologizing for anything. Now, you can't help but look at him fondly. Time and memory are flattening the old wounds to scars, distant in the back of your mind, superseded by the fact of him sitting in front of you. Real. Breathing.
There are lines in his face that weren't there a decade ago. The last few bits of baby-faced softness are gone. His hair is longer than it used to be, and fluffy up top, like he recently ran his hand through it, and you want to run your hand through it. You tell yourself this is a normal product of being happy to see someone from your past. You almost buy it.
"Look," you say. "I moved back here because I needed a fresh start. The divorce had just gone through, and. I." Your fingers twitch. "The point is, all of that was a long time ago. Case in point: Greg, who I'm seeing now—in the flannel, over there—is very nice and very normal. And, get this, he actually likes when I have friends."
Something ticks behind his eyes. "Good. Good, that's. A real improvement."
"Yeah. So." You extend a hand. "Fresh start?"
He takes it. "Fresh start."
His hand is warm, and firm. You feel the callus from the way he holds a pencil. You feel the lines of his palm against yours. You feel things in your chest and your cheeks and the back of your neck that you should not be feeling during a handshake, and that you should definitely not be feeling three months into a relationship with a very nice and very normal guy.
"Or, you know, I'll do my best," he says. "Hard to forget the time you put Play-Doh in the microwa—
"Okay," you cut him off, freeing your hand to pick up your drink. Your fake indignance can't hide your real smile. "Maybe we go back to the part where you were trying to apologize."
-
Now
He tugs at your hair, and you moan around him. "Sorry," he says, immediately letting go. "Sorry."
You pull off, looking up at him briefly with his cock on your tongue, in a way that is, you have found over the years, very reliable in its ability to render a man speechless.
"Do it again," you say, before swallowing him back down.
If he was going to say anything in response, it disappears into the groan he lets out, his head tipping back against the wall. To your delight, he does get his hands back into your hair. He pulls again, gentle. Hesitant.
There is no hesitance in your responding sound.
You can't take him all the way down right away. You don't even try; instead, you press the tip of him against the roof of your mouth, laving your tongue against the underside and letting your moans vibrate through him any time his fingers tighten in your hair. You are enjoying this far more than you had any expectations of. Maybe because it's him. Maybe because he has an objectively pretty dick, long and flushed and slightly curved at the end.
Or maybe it's just the sheer relief of finally, finally getting your mouth on him one way or another. You've resolved to never kiss him. You can at least have this.
You take him deeper slowly, in increments. You use your hand to cover the ground your mouth cannot, slick movements up and down the length of him, squeezing slightly every so often just to be a little mean. Just to get to hear what it sounds like, to hear how surprise briefly breaks his voice from groan to whimper, and to feel him try and fail to keep his hips from jerking into you.
By the time you get him deep enough that you don't need your hands anymore, he is so hard you wonder if it doesn't hurt, red and twitching, his pulse a real, tangible throb against your tongue. You have one hand on his hip, his ass, pressing through his jeans to urge him closer, and the other one tangled up in the hem of his shirt, pushing up to graze across his stomach, lean but soft, and you feel as the muscles beneath begin to tense.
"Okay. That's—ah—get up here."
You shake your head as much as you can with him in your mouth, which is not much, and pause only to say, "I'm busy."
"You—ah. Hang on, hang on."
He pulls you off of his cock with two hands fisted in your hair, and when you try to lean forward he holds you where you are. The tension of your hair wrapped around his fingers is delicious, hazy, and you feel the thrum of blood through your lips, your tongue, your throat. You look up at him, plaintive. "Is something wrong?"
"No, but I'm—I'm close. You should stand up."
"Why?" Your hands are still free, you remember. You bring one of them up. He groans, loosing one of his hands to catch yours before you can wrap it around him. It's not a foolproof plan; you have another hand, and you use it. You're gentle. Slow. Slow enough that he can think about it. A bead of precum rises at the tip, and you run your thumb over it. "You don't want to come in my mouth?"
"God," he breathes. "Yes, I want to, of course I want to, but that's not. I mean." Your tongue is lolling slightly out of your mouth, and you let your gaze flicker back and forth from his eyes to his cock, back and forth, back and forth, as you strain towards it. "The point. The whole point."
"Maybe we can make an exception," you say, then look up at him entirely. "It's going inside me either way, right?"
He lets out a low, shaky breath on a desperate vowel. "You can't say things like that."
"I don't have to say anything." You bring a hand to your mouth, and lick your palm, long and slow, savouring the taste of it, and then take two fingers into your mouth. "You're the one who keeps trying to make conversation."
You bring your hand below your skirt. When you lean forward, this time, he doesn't pull you back.
Your fingers brush against your clit, over your underwear, as he reaches the back of your throat. It gives you something to focus on, something to distract from the overwhelm, as you breathe through your nose and relax your throat and press forward a little more, a little more. You're already wet, somehow. Very possibly you've been wet since before you got his pants open; from before he got you outside; from the moment you saw him in the bar and felt his hand pressed against the small of your back and imagined what that same hand would feel like, will feel like, later tonight when he presses into you.
You push your underwear to the side, slipping a finger in, then two, and match the rhythm and pace at which you are taking him with your mouth. It's simultaneously not enough—your fingers can't reach as far as his, can't curl at quite the same angles—and too much, too much stimuli, too many things competing for your attention as you let him fuck your mouth and pretend that's filling you where you need.
And the thing is—it's good. It's not enough, but it's good; you want more, but you're somehow satisfied, just like this, because you like to make him feel good, and because you trust that he will want to make you feel good, and the reciprocation may not be the whole point but it makes all the difference in the world.
The hand intertwined with yours tightens. He holds fast, gripping you as you grip at his waist, like that one point of contact is an anchor in the ocean. Like it's keeping him steady. Like you are keeping him steady, keeping him together, holding him the way he's always held you. The way he always manages to take you apart.
-
Eleven years ago
In your mom's defense, she really scaled down for her fifth wedding.
In lieu of a fancy venue, it's in the Grace's backyard, which is bigger than yours. Your mom is rewearing her first wedding dress, claiming that she'd been waiting for it come back in fashion. You're the maid of honor, having been passed the mantel by Mrs. Grace, who, thin and soft-spoken and freshly in remission after a grueling year of chemo, assured you that she was more than happy to take a backseat and let someone else plan the bridal shower for once.
You have put together and taken apart five separate plans for this wedding over the past six months. You are beyond relieved that things went off half as well as they did.
You were supposed to wear your last bridesmaid dress. Your last bridesmaid dress is several cup sizes old. So instead you went into the back of your childhood bedroom, and dug out something long and brown and satin, and steamed out five years' worth of wrinkles from where it had been living on the closet floor, and you wore it like it meant nothing to you at all.
Now you're wearing it sitting in a plastic lawn chair, swatting away mosquitos and watching the last few stragglers tear up the dance floor to Whitney Houston. Just like you watched them through "Sweet Caroline," and "September," and the Cupid Shuffle. Not that you mind sitting. It's good, for the maid of honor to oversee.
And, anyway, Tyler doesn't like dancing, and you feel bad leaving him at the table, even though he left for the bathroom and hasn't come back in three songs.
As always, your mom cried during the ceremony. As always, she claims its the final one. As always, you know she genuinely believes it. That's the thing about your mom: outside of her job, she isn't flighty, not really. She just loves hard. And you have an optimistic feeling, about Husband Number Five (he'll earn a name once they make it past the two year mark. You're optimistic, not stupid). With any luck, there'll only be two more weddings in your family's future: yours, and Josh's. Josh might never get married, which is fine, and you, much to your relief, are only going to have to date one person before you get married.
You're happy to be like your mother in every way but this. Her capacity for love is impressive, and exhausts you just to think about. You've only ever really had room in your heart for one person at a time.
Someone steps in front of you. "Hey."
"If this is about Aunt Irma throwing up in the bathroom," you say, looking very pointedly at your nails and very pointedly not at him, "then yes, I know, and I put Kristy on it, and if it's about which of the bridesmaids is single, the answer is no. Actually the answer is two, but I'm pretty sure they've already been dibs'd on, which is gross and terrible, but that's how it was conveyed to me, and if you were hoping for a different answer then you should have asked me this three days ago." You look up. "But also the answer then would have been no. Unless you've got your eye on Aunt Irma. She could probably use the win."
"Uh, I choose E?" He fidgets with his glasses, giving you a very sheepish, very smug, very him smile. "None of the above?"
He looks good from this angle.
He looks good from every angle, of course, that's always been the problem—and, worse, you're pretty sure grad school has made him aware of it. He's wearing a suit similar to his prom one, but not exact. He's grown since then. Same height, more shoulders. His glasses are all wrong, because they always are, in some new and exciting way. He has facial hair, too, a light beard that you know is soft to the touch from when his jaw brushed your temple, from when you hugged him hello, before Tyler cleared his throat and gently tugged you back.
You feel normal about all of this. You've had a solid five-year streak of feeling and acting very, very normal about and around Ryland Grace.
You see him when he comes over to get high with your brother in the basement on school breaks. You saw him a lot in the hospital, when his mom was there and your mom would visit. You've seen him bike down your street almost every day for the past two weeks. You do pleasant smiles, and civil hugs, and I've only ever seen you as a friend banter, and you do them well because you do only see him as a friend, because you have a fiancé and he has a revolving door of short-term girlfriends and it's been half a decade since you allowed yourself to hope for anything different.
It's not like how it used to be. Not really. You'll never be that close again. But that's okay. People change, and time passes, and life moves on. You, at the very adult age of twenty-three, know and understand this in a way you didn't at eighteen.
"Then what?" you ask. "No Blue Moons left in the cooler? You guys were on alcohol duty, that's all you."
He shakes his head, then gestures at the dance floor. "For old times' sake?" When you don't immediately stand, he adds, "Technically I still owe you one. From prom."
"A night I desperately want to relive," you deadpan.
"You're the one who wore the dress."
You glance over your shoulder. "I should wait for Tyler."
"Yeah, uh, I think he and Josh went around the side of the house? For a smoke?"
You're simultaneously annoyed and pleasantly surprised. You can count on no hands the number of times your brother and fiancé have voluntarily hung out. Still, you hesitate.
"Music's ending soon, right? I think this is the last song. Technically the song before this was supposed to be the last, but I pulled some strings." He nods in the direction of the DJ booth. "You haven't danced all night."
You look at the booth, and Colt behind it. You look at Ryland's hand. You look off towards the side of the house. You look up.
You give him your hand, and let him gently tug you to standing.
"These shoes are new," you warn as the two of you cross to the makeshift dance floor. "And expensive. You step on them, you're buying me a new pair."
He chuckles. "Yeah, sure." He brings you around to face him. One hand slides around your waist, warm through the fabric of your dress, resting respectfully above the small of your back. He keeps his other hand in yours, and you bring up your free hand to rest on his shoulder. "I'll put that top of list if my funding comes through."
"How is all of that going?" you ask as you slowly step in time. "You've been making some splashes, lately. In the molecular bio academia pool."
"Kiddie pool, with how fucking shallow it is." He brings your hand up to meet the other around his neck, and places both of his hands on your waist. "You've read my papers?"
"I'm thinking of going into medmal, when I graduate, so. Seems relevant."
"Right. Yeah, it's, it's going fine. It's good. I just need my PI to grow some balls. I started working under him a few months ago, but he knew who I was when I applied, and it's still like pulling teeth getting him to approve anything original."
You reach up and fix his glasses. He scrunches his nose, immediately fucking them up again. "By original, you mean splashy?"
"Hey, science takes cash. Splashy is good for getting money thrown at you, if you're not afraid of pissing people off."
"That's never been your problem, huh?"
He shrugs. You feel the movement of each muscle in his shoulders, his neck, beneath your hands.
"Maybe it wouldn't hurt to try catching some flies with honey," you say. "Like, your PI. Go along with his ideas for a little bit to get him to trust you more, and then start doing what you actually want to do."
He chuckles.
Your brows furrow, even as you laugh with him. "What?"
"Yeah, uh. Much as I appreciate the words of wisdom, I'm not sure I really need advice from the child bride."
You blink. Your feet are still moving only of their own accord. You'd leave the floor, if you weren't so convinced that you must have heard him wrong. "Sorry?"
"You're twenty three. What are you getting engaged for?"
"You sound like my mom. Who, by the way, got married at nineteen."
"Yeah, and look how well that turned out."
"Okay. Cool it. My point is, twenty three isn't even. I mean, I'm an adult. That's a normal age to get married."
"If you live in Wisconsin, maybe."
You swallow, and then continue the monologue you've had to deliver to pretty much everyone you know in the two months since Tyler proposed. "We're not even getting married until I'm done with school. That's another few years, at least. This is just a promise. It's a commitment."
"It seems more like a leash," he says. "You're moving across the country for him, you turned down Stanford—"
"Yale isn't exactly a consolation prize."
"It's not what you wanted. Plus, he's an asshole."
You laugh, short and bitter. "Got any evidence to support that particular hypothesis? Other than it takes one to know one?"
"It's not just me. Everyone thinks so. Josh hates him."
"Okay," you say, stung. It isn't like you need your brother to be best friends with the love of your life, but that's worlds away from hates. "Well, if Josh feels that way, he can tell me himself."
His eyes trace across your face. "You're always looking around for him."
You stop yourself mid-looking-around, furious at having been caught doing something perfectly innocuous. "Because he's my fiancé."
"Because he's your fiancé, or because you're scared he might catch you dancing with someone else?"
It's his tone that really pisses you off. How gently he says it. The edge is still there, but beneath it is a softness that's reflected across his entire face, his brows, his eyes, and the back of your neck is hot, and your arms are still around his neck, and you are so, so sick of Ryland Grace acting like he knows what's best for you.
"Because that's what you do when you love someone, Ryland," you say. "You look for them. You'd know that if you'd ever dated someone for more than three months at a time."
That lands. You can tell by the slight drop of that infinitely smug mouth. He tries to bluster his way through it. "Just because I'm not throwing myself at every half-decent option who comes along—"
"Throwing myself?" You step away. He lets you. "Nice, really nice."
He follows you the few steps off the dance floor. "No, I just mean—I'm not going to stick around with the wrong person just for the sake of not being alone."
You turn on him. "I am perfectly capable of being alone. I just don't have to be, because I'm not going to spend my life running away because I'm scared of being with the right person—"
You hear your name, in your fiancé's voice, from the end of the backyard, and flinch so sharply it's impossible to pretend it was anything else.
You step back. Your face is burning. You don't look at Ryland. You are intensely aware of the fact that he is looking at you, which means you are intensely aware of the moment he stops. "Thanks for the dance," you say.
"Right," he says. Then, more quietly, when you don't move, "Well, you heard him. Better go fetch."
You slap him.
Not very hard, but the sound of it—only a few people are looking at you, so it can't have been that loud, but it rings in your ears and your chest and the throb of your pulse through your palm. His cheek is pink with it. His glasses are askew. He doesn't bother making eye contact with you.
"Fuck you." It feels toothless, but you can't think of anything that will make the situation better or worse, so you force yourself to settle for toothless as you walk away.
He doesn't reach for you. He doesn't try to follow. He doesn't even call your name.
-
Now
He finishes with one hand in your hair and your name in his mouth, and you keep him in yours through the whole thing.
His free hand clings to yours, tight. Desperate. Wanting. The hand on your head doesn't push so much as it cradles, following you as you take the initiative to press forward, swallowing him down as deeply as you can, hollowing your cheeks until you can tell, by the sounds he makes and the shaking in his hips and his hands on your head, that it's too much, and only then do you pull off, breathing heavily, to rest your forehead against his thigh. You pull your own hand out from between your legs. You didn't get off; you didn't have the bandwidth to focus on it, which means now you are just wet and worked up and wanting.
When you shift, pressing your thighs together in a hopeless attempt at nothing, he takes it as a signal to help you to standing, giving you a better vantage point from which to appraise your handiwork. His chest is still rising and falling at post-orgasmic speeds. His hair, despite nobody touching it, is a disaster. His glasses are establishing their own area code.
He cups your face in one hand, gentle, and looks at you, and traces his thumb along your lower lip.
"Your lipstick," he says, apologetic.
You lean forward to kiss his neck, half to hear the sound it draws out of him and half to escape his thumb, his gaze, the softness of it.
"It's okay," you say against his skin. "It was a good use of it."
His hand slides around to the back of your head, your neck; the other takes the measure of your body, the landscape of it, running down over your back and your hips to land between your legs. His breath catches when he feels how wet you are.
He turns the both of you around, returning your back to the wall. "Can I—"
You nod into his neck.
His fingers trace over your underwear, feeling where you've soaked through the fabric, and you are making soft noises into his neck and you can feel it, you feel the moment when he's about to push your underwear to the side and—
Thunder. Far away thunder, but thunder.
You pull away from each other—not fully. Just enough to make eye contact. It's the most bearable eye contact you've made all night.
"Uber?" you ask.
He nods, already reaching for his phone. "I'll call."
-
Fifteen years ago
"Hey. It's me. Don't hang up."
"Josh isn't back in town until next week, you'll have to call him at school."
"I know."
The silence stretches. You don't hang up, but you don't help him, either.
"So," he finally says. "Freshman year. That's big. How's, uh, how were midterms?"
"What do you want, Ryland?"
"Brr."
"What?"
"Frosty. Like, you're being cold, like—it was a joke."
"Funny."
"You can't seriously still be mad about last year. Look, it was my first time going through a breakup, and I was still really messed up about it, and then you were. You were just—there."
"Great apology. You practice that one?"
"I'm trying to—"
"Look." You sigh, and then plaster on a smile so broad you know he'll hear it through the phone. "Just forget it, okay? That was ages ago. I don't even think about it anymore."
A pause. "Great," he finally says. "Okay."
"I'll tell Josh you called."
"I—"
You hang up, and flop back on the bed, and stare at the ceiling for a long, long time.
There's no reason for you to be upset about this. Prom was forever ago, and you've seen Ryland in passing plenty of times since then, and you haven't been angry. You've just been—distant. That's normal. That's fine. And, anyway, you have a boyfriend. You've had a boyfriend for about three months, and you're pretty sure you've cracked the code to happy, healthy, mature relationships.
Tyler brings food to class when you forget, and insists you sleep over so that you don't have to walk alone across campus in the dark. He kisses you in the middle of the quad, in front of everyone. When you walk into a party together, he keeps one protective arm slung over your neck, and when you go back to the dark of his attic dorm and twin XL bed you never have to worry that he's going to recoil from your touch. He's tall enough that you can wear heels, and smart enough to hold his own against you in an argument, and he makes you feel wanted.
He makes you feel wanted.
When you compare what you'd offered to Ryland—sneaking around behind everyone's backs for a few months—to this? You could laugh, really. So there's no reason why a twenty second phone call should leave you with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. It doesn't make sense.
Then again, nothing you've ever felt about Ryland has really ever made sense.
So you cry anyway. You give yourself five minutes on a timer, and then you wipe your tears and dig out the informational pamphlets you received in the mail from various NorCal law programs, atop a backlog of Cosmopolitans (your mom leaves you her subscription when she's gone), and you flip through them all until your head is full of meal plans and finanical aid brackets and day-to-night looks, and nothing and nobody else.
-
Now
You love your shoe collection. In particular, you love the shoes you've chosen to wear tonight: a very sensible heel, perfect for the office and for a night out. They are strappy, but not too high. They are suede.
They are also, incidentally, terrible in anything but perfect weather.
You can walk fine in them—you're not eighteen anymore—and the storm still hasn't arrived quite to where you are, but it's muggy and grey and they're suede, for fuck's sake. You frown down at them as you stand on Ryland's front porch, waiting for him to find his keys.
"Shoot," he says, patting his pants agressively for the third consecutive time. You fight for your life not to tease him mercilessly about shoot. You've done it often enough in the past two years to straddle the line between inside joke and gauche. You settle for saving it to deploy at a later date. "I think—maybe they fell out in the car. Or else I left them at the bar?"
"Hopefully not behind the bar."
He groans, but he's smiling through it. "I think we've got to go through the back," he says, and so now you're following him up down the porch, up past the driveway, and the concrete is turning to mud and these are your favorite shoes.
He finds the spare key in short order, unlocks the door, notices you aren't right next to him anymore, and turns around. "What are you—oh, my god."
"They're suede," you say, fumbling with the buckle. It is, it turns out, much harder to unbuckle them when the humidity has rendered both your fingers and the fabric a little damp. "And the mud—I don't want to ruin them—"
You're in the air before you finish your sentence.
"You are just," he says, looking at you, then shakes his head, laughing, and you can't help but join him, laughing with your face pressed into his shoulder (he was much less muscular, the last time he carried you like this) at the absurdity of the situation as he carries you across his back lawn to the back door, and over the threshold.
"I can walk, you know," you say, as he kicks off his shoes without putting you down.
"Can is irrelevant," he says. "Like you said, they're suede."
"We're not in the mud anymore. This is hardwood."
"Hardwood could be terrible for suede."
"I think hardwood is pretty neutral, as far as suede is concerned."
"That's hardwood's PR answer," he says, and the bed is here, you've reached the bedroom, and he puts you down on the bed, and you sit, still a little giggly with your two drinks, and try again to unbuckle your shoes.
His hands settle over yours.
"Here," he says from his current position, which is apparently on his knees, on the ground, in front of you. "I can—" His fingers brush against your ankle as he undoes a buckle, pulls the strap back, eases the shoe off your foot, places it to the side.
As he tends to the other side, he presses his mouth to the inside of your knee, open, and as soon as the buckle is undone he lifts up his head and looks at you while he runs a free hand up your calf, up your thigh, under your skirt.
When he reaches your underwear, you let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.
You are still wet from before, wet through the fabric, and his fingers press against the fabric and against the wet and against you and he is still looking at you. He looks at you as his thumb finds your clit, applying an amount of pressure that could charitably be called teasing. He looks at you as he pulls your underwear to the side and touches you directly, dragging a finger across your entrance but not pressing any further. He looks at you between kisses pressed in an upward trajectory along your thigh.
You aren't looking away. You don't know why you're not looking away, because the looking is unbearable. You just know that not looking is impossible.
He breaks eye contact to reach for your underwear. You lift your hips to allow him to pull it down, just until it's dangling from one ankle. He gets his hands more firmly around your hips at the same time he leans forward to get his mouth on you, he tugs you to the edge of the bed and you are flat on your back with your legs over his shoulders.
He tastes you like he is hungry for it.
Not that he ever lacked enthusiasm. Or technique, for that matter. A few weeks ago, he was good, genuinely good, at reading your reactions in the moment. Now he has done the reading. Now he shows you how terrifyingly quickly he has learned what you like, and occasionally that he has new ideas of things that you might like, and do like, and it doesn't take very much time before you are close. You were already close, on your knees outside, with him in your mouth, and your own fingers trembling and inadequate inside you. Now, he drags his own fingers along that same path, but it's more—more inside you, more intense for the fact that you have no way of knowing what he's going to do before he does it.
The orgasm shudders through you, gentle and languid, and you know he feels it because he keeps doing exactly what he's doing, not changing the rhythm, until you've crested the wave and you're coming down and he eases up to avoid overstimulating you.
He eases up. He does not stop.
"Hey," you say, reaching down to tug at his hair. This is maybe a mistake, because now the roles are reversed, and tugging his hair makes him moan into you. "I—oh."
He pulls off. His mouth only; his fingers are still inside you, slow. "I'm not done," he says, into the crease where hip meets thigh, and then, into your mons: "You never let me take my time with you."
"You take plenty of time with me," you say. The fact that you are producing coherent language at this point is a miracle worthy of canonization, because he is back on your clit, first with his tongue and then with his whole mouth, lips and tongue together, like he's kissing you.
"You never let me take as much time as I want." He curls his fingers a bit more, moving his hand with your hips as they lift off the bed a little. "You know, the contractions of the vaginal walls during orgasm help to draw sperm up deeper inside. Towards the uterus. Scientifically, this is useful to the cause. You can't argue with science."
"That doesn't make sense. That only works if there's sperm to. To. To draw up."
"I'm priming the engine," he says. "Putting one in the bank for later."
"That's not—that makes even less sense. That's, like, two half metaphors sandwiched into a quarter. Quarter metaphor," you say, and then you stop saying anything at all because he has his mouth back around your clit and he is sucking, and there are three fingers pushing into you instead of two.
Your muscles have all sorts of opinions on what the appropriate reaction to this situation is. The muscles south of your waist, especially—not just where he's currently the most focused on, but your legs (twitching), your toes (curling), your thighs pressing around his head with absolutely no input from your brain. He seemingly figured out how to circumvent your overstimulation fuse—while still riding the aftershocks of your first orgasm into the before-shocks of what appears to be a rapidly-approaching second—but you are sensitive. Shaky. The sounds you make are rapidly decreasing in dignity.
You press a hand to your mouth—half to stifle your own moans, half to give your mouth something to do—and you feel him shake his head, "mm-mm" muffled against you. One hand leaves your hip to reach up, feeling, grasping for yours. You give him your hand, slightly baffled.
He pulls back just enough to say, practically into you, "Don't." He squeezes your hand. "Let me hear you. I want to hear you. Please."
He gets his mouth back on you, and your head tips sideways. You can make out your reflection, just barely, in a sliver of window. He curls his fingers, and it pulls a moan out of you from somewhere deep in your chest, and you do not try to hold it back.
-
Sixteen years ago
Your mother is out of town, and so is your brother, so Mrs. Grace invites you over to get ready.
She lets you rifle through a box of old lipsticks, and laughs when you make a face at the more egreiously frost-forward options. Sun through the bathroom window. Donna Summer crooning in the background. Hair in a curling iron; AquaNet, acrid in your nose, a fine mist that hangs in the air for a moment before settling in a thin film on the bathroom sink and the bobby pins scattered across it. Mrs. Grace is full-cheeked and smiling, her long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, her fingers under your chin, delicate, as she brushes on a layer of eyeshadow. Whenever you think about her, years down the line, it will be like this.
"There." She pats your knee. "All done."
When you look at yourself in the mirror, you don't look that much different. You found your dress on consignment: bronze satin that gathers at the waist and falls like water to your ankles, which you have yet to twist in the shoes you borrowed from your mother's closet. The heels are three inches high. You have been practicing walking around the house in them all week, with mixed results. Mrs. Grace kept your makeup simple. You look a little more shimmery than usual, maybe, but—yourself.
When you come out to the living room, and see Ryland, his reaction (or lack thereof) confirms it. "You look nice," he says, and nothing more.
He looks nice. It's not that you've never seen him in a suit before, but you've never seen him in a suit for you. He didn't go to his own prom, you remember. Too busy. And the last time your mom got married was when you were sixteen. So it's been a few years. The suit is dark, and the tie is white, matching the boutonniere pinned to his lapel, and the corsage he pulls out of a box on the living room table.
"You never told me what color," he says. He reaches forward for your hand, and your heart freezes. "So I figured white was safe."
"Right." You let him slide the corsage on. Roses. "No, yeah, this is. This is great. Thanks."
"The car's ready out front, so—"
There's a flash from your left. Mrs. Grace, with the kind of disposable camera that she's still loyal to, despite the boys gifting her a digital camera for the holidays. "Not so fast."
Ryland groans, rolling his eyes. "Mom."
"Oh, shush. I didn't even get to do this with you last year."
"You got to with Colt. Same difference."
"Step in like that, perfect."
He stands just behind you, his hands resting gingerly on either side of your waist for a moment, before reaching further to take either one of your hands in his. You've taken dozens of photos with Ryland. You've hugged him dozens more times. There's no reason why this version of that same touch should be any different. Your pulse argues otherwise.
"No faces, Ry, you know I'll keep you here forever if you don't—"
"Mom."
"Smile!" The camera flashes. "One more!"
You feel his head turn, and you turn to look up at him. "Sorry," he mouths.
You're still smiling a little. "It's okay." You look forward just in time for another flash.
"Mom, we're going to be late."
"Alright, alright." She fidgets with the camera. "I won't be able to get them developed until next week, but—"
"I'm sure they're great, Carol." You run up to her—or wobble up to her—and give her a hug, and a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you. For all of this."
"Oh, it's nothing." She pinches your cheek. "You two stay out of trouble, all right? I'll be home all night if you need to call, but I DVR'd the Days finale, so don't. Spare key's in the back, usual spot, and I already made up the bed in the spare room for you."
"Thank you," you say again—and then follow Ryland, who's already out on the porch. With a not-insignificant amount of effort, you manage to walk down the stairs and get into the car, and you wave goodbye as he pulls back out of the driveway and down the street.
"Thanks for doing this," you say, after about thirty seconds of silence. "Even if it's just because your mom made you, or whatever."
"She didn't make me. I promised." He glances at you, then back to the road. He clears his throat. "It's cool if you don't remember. You were, like, ten."
"I was twelve. My mom's wedding. Second to last. I remember." You look at him. He doesn't look back. "It's, um, it's nice of your girlfriend. To be okay with it." You fidget with the volume on the radio. "She sounds great."
"Yeah. She isn't really my girlfriend right now. We're on a break. I mean. We were on a break. We're broken up now, or whatever. So it's not like she really has a right to care."
"Oh." You leave the radio dial alone, and fold your hands back in your lap. "I'm sorry."
“It’s fine. It's not a big deal. Happens all the time. You'll see, when you get to college."
You turn to face the window, so that you can roll your eyes without him seeing. "Sure."
It is very Ryland, to think he's figured out the way the entire world works in a nine-month span. You don't look forward to the person he'll be once he makes it through all of undergrad and starts grad school.
To his credit, though, he keeps any insufferability to a minimum the rest of the night.
He doesn't comment on the food (which is, objectively, terrible). He's sociable and pleasant to your friends, making jokes and asking about their graduation plans with a distinct (and, you suspect, effortful) lack of condescension. He dances with you without complaint, and rescues you from losing your balance on more than one occasion.
The only moment he objects to anything, really, is when one of your classmates tries to pass you a flask.
"No," he says, taking it from you and passing it to the couple next to you.
"What? Why?"
"I'm not drinking because I'm driving, and you're not drinking because you are eighteen."
"You're nineteen."
"And driving," he says.
When he briefly leaves to go to the bathroom, your friend Kristy passes you a cup full of punch. You take a sip. It's bad. You gulp down another six sips before he comes back from the bathroom, and you smile up at him perfectly innocently, and he gives you a look like he knows exactly what just happened.
"What did you do," he says.
"Nothing."
He picks up the cup, which is mostly empty, and takes a small sip. He makes a small face. Then he puts it back down, and sighs, and reaches a hand down.
"What?" you ask.
"We're going to get you some water, and then dance off whatever you just drank."
"I barely had any. And it was more fruit juice than tequila, anyway."
"Vodka," he corrects you. You roll your eyes, but you drink the water he gives you, and you stumble over to the dance floor, hand in hand, and all you can think is that this is a night you're going to want to remember forever.
Most of the music has been upbeat. You figure the chaperones don't want to have to worry about getting a floorful of hormonal teenagers to leave room for Jesus. But you can't help but look at Ryland, all elbows and knees, eyes squeezed shut as he moves so gracelessly it's a wonder his hair is still on his head, let alone his glasses—and you think about his hand in yours pulling you to the dance floor. You think about his arm around your waist when you were taking photos at his house, and the way it makes you feel to have his eyes on you, even just sideways for a second in the car, and you can't help but wonder what it would feel like to have all of that for a whole song. Unrushed.
The song ends. The lights dim. The music slows. He slows.
He looks at you.
The heavens open.
If by "the heavens," you mean "the ceiling of the high school gym." And if by "opens" you mean opens. The fire sprinklers are going off. Your hair is wet and your dress is wet and the floor is wet, and the water sends mascara stinging into your eyes, so now all you can hear is everyone screaming and all you can see is nothing.
A hand finds yours. You squeeze. He squeezes back.
"Come on," he says, just audible above the chaos, and you nearly slip and twist an ankle no fewer than three times as you wind your way through the crowd, out a side door, and into the relative calm (most people must have rushed for the main doors) of outside, the night air cool on your newly damp skin. Once you're outside, he lets go of your hand.
You rub at both of your eyes. "Oh, my God."
"Are you okay?" He sounds breathless, and there's genuine concern there, sure—but also a smile.
"Yes, I'm—God." You stop, laughing. "Shit." You rub until the stinging abates enough that you're able to open your eyes, just a little, your entire face a squint, and he looks over at you and starts laughing twice as hard. "Shut up."
"You look like a raccoon!"
"Yeah, and you look like a drowned rat," you say, which is sort of true in that his hair plastered to his head and his glasses are beaded with water and sitting at a full diagonal, and not at all true in that he is smiling and he is smiling at you and you don't think he's ever looked more beautiful.
He reapproaches you, fidgeting with his suit pocket. "Wait." He reaches, then hesitates, then commits to putting a hand on your face, your cheek.
There is a brief, gorgeous, terrifying moment of stillness.
Then he uses the handkerchief in his other hand to start swiping at your eyes.
He does it with all of the gentleness of a teenage boy who has never had to take off makeup in his life—which is to say he is slow, and he is careful, and he is using way too much pressure.
"Hey," you say, catching the handkerchief hand in yours. "Okay. Thank you, but—just let me—" He relinquishes it to you, the hand on your jaw lingering for one half-second longer before he steps back. "I can't believe you have a pocket square."
"Fuck off," he says, his voice fond and exasperated. "Car's over this way."
You follow him a few steps, still dabbing at your eyes. After a particularly treacherous step, you stop, and bend down, doing your damnedest to stay balanced on one foot as you tug at the straps of the other. "One sec."
He turns back. "What are you doing?"
"These aren't—the ground is too soft," you explain. "My heels. I'm taking them off."
"You can't just. Okay." Before you know it, he's back by your side, and there's an arm behind your back, and an arm beneath your knees, and your heels are not on your feet but also your feet are not on the ground.
"What are you—"
"You can barely walk in those things. I don't know why you even wore them."
"It's a—" You hiccup. "It's a rite of passage. My mom picked them out. Said they went with my dress."
It was the only thing she had time to help pick out. She cares a lot, your mom, she really does; that's why she's out of town all the time, picking up extra flights so that you and Josh don't have to worry quite so much about college. You know this. Still, in some of your more self-pitying moments, you can't help but wish she had the kind of job that kept her a little bit more in one place.
So yeah, you wore the shoes. And yeah, you can't walk in them, but that's seeming less and less like a bug and more like a feature if it's the thing that landed you here: cradled against his chest, one arm slung around his neck, your impossible shoes dangling from your other hand.
His face is closer to yours than it has been all night, so you see him visibly soften a bit. "They do go with your dress," he says. "They're pretty. I just don't want you to sprain something. Or step on a nail. Tetanus feels like bad prom date protocol."
"It's very chivalrous of you," you say. "That and the handkerchief."
"Shut up."
Bold with six and a half sips of punch, you press your lips quick to his cheek. Then you let your head flop back. "Put me down. I want to run."
"No running."
"Why not?"
"Because that would also be bad prom date protocol. And we're at the car already."
Three minutes later, when you are both in the car and wrapped in old camping blankets pulled from the trunk, he says, "We didn't dance."
"The blisters on my feet say otherwise."
"I mean a dance dance. A slow dance."
"Mm. Maybe there'll be dancing at the afterparty."
"Right. Where's that?" You give him the address. He pauses. "That's a hotel."
"Yeah. A bunch of people pooled together and got a suite, I guess."
"There's no way your mom is cool with that."
"She is somewhere over Nevada right now, so she doesn't really get to be un-cool with it. Plus, she heard you were coming and basically gave carte blanche to do whatever. But, um, you don't have to come, if you don't want. You can just drop me off. I think you've solidly fulfilled your prom date duties at this point."
"No. We're not going there. Unless you really want to, I guess?"
"No." It's the truth. You don't really have a desire to go to a hotel with a bunch of other eighteen-year-olds drinking and hooking up. You had thought that might be the kind of thing Ryland would want to do. "No, not really."
"Great." He puts the car into reverse. "I have an idea."
-
The beach is almost empty when you get there.
Far down, so far you can barely see them, is a group of kids having a bonfire. You leave your shoes in the car, and run down the sand until it shifts from powdery to packed, and you lay down in your dress and your wet hair and let the tide lap at your feet.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him walk up to you. He sits. He lays down.
Above you, the sky is so dark it almost circles back around to lightness, a heavy purple-grey that you make an active effort to commit to memory.
"This is perfect," you say, after a while. "Thank you. For keeping your promise, even if your mom didn't make you. You didn't have to do that. I could have gone with someone else."
"I'm glad you didn't. It was good to have a weekend home. School is good, but. I missed this." He waves a hand up, at the sky. You understand what he means. "All of this. So, you know. Thanks for letting me crash your prom."
You hum. "It wasn't really crashing. We agreed, just. A long time ago." You look at him. He looks at you. You both smile, and then look back up at the purple sky.
His hand is an inch away from yours. You are so aware of it, embarassingly aware, as if there is some kind of electrical current that's pulsing from him, through the sea-damp earth, into you.
"And." You stop yourself. You start again, "If this was going to be my first d—I mean, my first time going to a dance, or whatever. I'm glad it was with you. I mean. You’re the first person I ever really liked."
He doesn't say anything.
"Back when we were kids," you rush to add. "Obviously. Sorry." You laugh. "I—that's embarrassing, or whatever, but I couldn’t say it before, and I know I probably shouldn’t have said anything because I don’t want things to be weird, I just—”
You turn to look at him a second time, midsentence. This is the bravest thing you’ve ever done, and maybe the bravest thing you ever will do.
The best case scenario is something you don’t even let yourself dream about. The worst case scenario is that he looks at you with disgust, and you really don’t want to see him looking at you with disgust, but you have to know something about what he’s thinking, and so you turn your head and you don’t even get a chance to really even look at his expression before he kisses you.
He kisses you.
You’ve never kissed anyone before. You don’t know if you’re any good; you don’t know how to be any good. You just know his mouth is warm and soft against yours. Gentle. You think he might be wearing chapstick. You have no idea what to do with your hands.
His hands are more decisive, coming up to cup your face. This gives you something of a blueprint; you let your hands lift to his chest, then to mirror his, tentatively brushing against his neck, his jaw.
He pulls back—not far away enough to really look at you. Just enough to mark the end of that kiss, and separate the beginning of the next one, which is deeper and fiercer and has one of your arms winding back around his neck.
He uses one hand to pull you closer, the other still at your cheek. Your clothes still aren't dry from the fire sprinklers, and for a moment you could almost believe you are flush against him, nothing in between. You still aren't really sure what you're doing, but you understand, by some instinct built up by years of sneaking your mom's magazines and Harlequin books, that this is maybe where you're supposed to open your mouth.
So you do. Just slightly.
There is a distinct shift from warm to hot as he mirrors the movement. The hand on your cheek slides back around to the back of your head, the back of your neck, and the hand on the small of your back urges your body against his, and you make a sound, a small one, a soft one—
He stops.
You spend a second like that—still, clinging to each other. Panting slightly. Your heart is a hummingbird in your chest.
He pulls away. Far enough to look at you. The hand on your neck is back to your jaw, and the hand from your waist comes up to touch your cheek, tracing down to your mouth, thumb dragging across your lower lip.
"Your lipstick," he says. "Sorry."
"It's okay." It's barely a whisper.
"We should. Um." He swallows. His eyes don't meet yours. "Come on."
He gets up. The night air hits, with a sudden chill, everywhere he was just pressed against you. He holds out a hand without looking at you, and helps you to standing, and starts back up over the little dunes.
You don't speak as you walk to the car.
You don't speak as you get in.
It isn't until several endlessly long minutes driving that you ask, "Where are we going?"
"Your house. I'm taking you home."
You pause. It takes you several skipped heartbeats to be able to formulate some kind of response. "My mom is out of town," you settle on, slowly. Cautiously.
"I know."
"Right." Your heart is in your stomach, and your stomach seems currently to be making a play for your throat. "I, um. You should know, I haven't. I mean, we can. We can do whatever you want. I want to. But I haven't, I mean, I haven't even kissed anyone before, so it might not—I'm probably not going to be as good as your ex—"
"What."
You look at him. He keeps his eyes firmly on the road. "What?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You're driving to my house."
"Yeah. I'm dropping you off."
You blink. "Nobody else is home."
"You're a big girl, you can handle a night alone." There's a layer of sarcasm that wasn't there before—and it's not that you haven't heard Ryland be sarcastic, and it's not even that you haven't heard him be condescending. But there's an edge to it, a hardness, that is new.
"That's not. I just thought—"
"I'm not hooking up with you."
"Okay." You nod. You don't know what the hell you're nodding at; mostly because you need to do something that isn't sitting still and listening to your entire nervous system explode. "Why not?"
"For starters, your brother will kill me."
"He doesn't have to know," you say, and you know that you should have more self respect than to say that, and you hate that you don't care. "I don't have to tell anyone, we can just. Until you go back to school, or just tonight, whatever you want."
"I'm not doing that," he says sharply.
There are several stoplight's worth of silence.
You hate how small your voice is when you ask, "Did I do something wrong?"
He sighs. It's the worst sound you've ever heard. "Everything you said before was really sweet. You've always been sweet." On his tongue, its impossible to hear it as anything but naive. "But you should be more careful, in college. There are a lot of guys who would take advantage of that."
"How is it taking advantage of me if I'm asking for it?" He doesn't answer. "Ryland, you don't really think you took—"
"No," he says sharply. "You're right. I didn't. And I'm not going to. So stop asking."
"Okay. I'm just a little confused. Why would you—"
He hits the breaks, harder than he has all night, and the car lurches to a stop. "God, I was just trying to be nice." The silence that follows is heavy. There's no air in your lungs. Very possibly there is no air in the car, or in San Francisco, or in the entire state of California. "Don't overthink it. I was doing you a favor."
You realize, dimly, that you're in front of your house, where he has driven so that you can get out of the car and take off your wet dress and climb into bed and spend the night alone in an empty house with the past thirty minutes on replay behind your eyes. You should unbuckle your seatbelt. You make no move to unbuckle your seatbelt.
"A favor," you say.
"Yeah," he says. He pauses. Then he clears his throat, and says, more confidently, "Yeah. Otherwise your first kiss would probably have been, like, with some random guy in a frat basement somewhere, you know? You deserve better than that."
"Right." You unbuckle your seatbelt, and open the door. "Right. Thanks a lot, Ryland, this was so much better than that."
You slam the car door shut behind you, muffling whatever it is he says next.
The sidewalk is wet beneath your bare feet. You drop your shoes in the foyer, and watch the shadows move on the wall as he pulls away and down the street.
You peel off your dress. You don't bother to shower. You just tug on an old shirt, and climb into bed, and press the side of your face into the pillow, and wait for it to be morning.
-
Now
You fight the urge to quiet your moans with the pillow, because he asked you to let him hear you, and you want him to hear you, and there isn't much to quiet, anyways. You are making sounds, but they are soft. Hitched breaths. Little rhythmic whines, in time with the pulls of his mouth on your clit. Something close to a please, when you feel the pleasure beginning to crest, and you clutch at his hand and at his hair as he finally, finally gets what he's been begging for, and the moan he lets out against you rolls through you like far-off thunder.
Now, after two, your body twitches away from him. Too much pleasure. Too much everything.
He leans back before you can push his head off. You are hazier than ever—eyelids low, mouth a little slack. He looks up at you, and you expect to see smugness on his face, and maybe there's a note of it but primarily he just looks—pleased. You'd almost say relieved, if that didn't feel like an odd adjective for the moment.
His mouth is still wet with you. His hand is still in yours, thumb tracing patterns across your fingertips. His other hand lies flat on your abdomen, slow, slow, slow strokes up and down as he rests his head on your thigh and looks up at you.
"Good?" he asks.
The answer is yes. You do not have any words left with which to answer him. Instead you grab at him with both hands, pulling him up, undoing his pants and his shirt with shaky fingers.
He's tugging at your shirt, too. You are a mess of hands, the two of you, a mess of hands and of lips—yours on his neck, his on your forehead—and you both get about half undressed from the waist up before you feel the full weight of him settle between your hips.
You haven't actually slept with him in a bed before, you realize.
You haven't slept with him in a bed, and you haven't slept with him fully naked, and, while you've certainly fucked face-to-face, you've never actually slept with him in missionary. The old-fashioned way. You know, traditional.
Without really thinking, you push at him. He pulls away immediately. "What? Are you okay?"
"Yes—just— " You manuever him, and he lets you, until he is flat on his back, and you are above him, knees to either side. If he has any problems with the sudden coup, you'd never know it from the unabashed delight on his face. And this is good. The delight is good, obviously, and so is everything else. You can see his face from here, but there's distance. Further-than-kissing-distance.
It's stupid. The whole rule is stupid, but it's a rule you've engineered, and so now this a necessary precaution. It's already been agony not kissing him tonight, and you know better than to think it'll be any easier once he's inside you.
You start with a slow grind. It's slick, almost frictionless with how wet you are, which is wet enough that he almost slides in every time the head passes over your entrance. You don't last long before reaching down and lining him up, and taking him in, in one long, not-quite-patient motion.
"Okay?" he asks, like always.
"Yeah." You are jelly-limbed on top of him, so relaxed from two orgasms that you don't particularly have it in you to do anything but take him all the way to the base. "It's good. I'm good." He twitches inside you, and you take a deep, shuddery breath. "It's a lot," you admit. "It never stops being a lot. You'd think I'd be used to it by now."
"Yeah. I know," he says. Some distant part of your brain wants to point out the ridiculousness of that claim. "But you can take it."
His hand settles lower on your waist, your hips, until his thumb can reach your clit. At the touch, you let out a slow, shuddery breath, and lower yourself forward, pressing your torso flush to his. His other arm winds around your waist, hand resting on your back.
His hands on your hips follow you—not urging in any particular direction, just holding, keeping his thumb on your clit as you start to move against him.
You start slow. You cannot stay slow for long. Not after an entire evening of wanting and waiting and close but not quite. You are relieved and you are desperate, and as you properly pick up the pace he begins to meet each movement of your hips with an upstroke of his own.
You shouldn't be able to come again so soon. You shouldn't even be able to get close.
But the angle. And the length of him. The weight. The sounds he's making against the side of your head, into your hair, and the steady circles he's rubbing into your clit; and his other hand on the small of your back, where it had rested when he hugged you tonight.
"You can take it," he repeats, more quietly now that his mouth is at a level with your ear, and the softness in his voice is indirect opposition to the way he is now fucking up into you from below. "I know you can. You always take it so well for me." You make a noise into his neck—asking, pleading—and you feel him nod. "You do, you do, you know you do, you always—you feel so good."
You're close. You're close, but not tipping over, because it is too soon for that, after all. But you are on the edge, you're riding the edge for longer than you thought possible, you just can't reach it.
"Can you," you say. It's muffled into his neck; you turn your head, slightly. "I need—fuck. I need."
The hand on your back slides up to your neck, holding. Grasping. The lightest pressure. "Here?"
"Yes. Yes, but." You grab at his other arm, pulling, so that your clit is pressed against his pelvis rather than his hand, and you guide that hand to your hip, your thigh.
He grabs, letting you feel where each finger indents the softest part of your ass. "Like this?"
"Yeah. Yes. And can you." You cling to him tighter. "Can you—hit."
He hesitates only briefly. The first smack is tentative. Light. Barely enough to make a sound.
"Harder." He tries again, and you hear the snap of it, in between the slap of his hips against yours. "Harder, please, please."
The third time is a proper slap, loud. It stings just right, just enough, an anchor amidst the overwhelming pleasure, and you nod into his shoulder with a little cry, again, again, and he hears you and he does it again and you come, hard.
When you start coming down from the high, he's still driving into you. The hand on your ass is rubbing, soothing, gentle back and forth.
"Thank you," you mumble, the words half-slurred against him. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
He's getting close too, you think. His moans are getting louder, his thrusts less controlled. You get your hands on his chest and press up to sitting, looking down at him.
His face is flushed. Rosy. Glasses fogged. His lips are parted, and he isn't bothering to censor any of the sounds coming from it, and you want so badly to lean down and swallow those sounds, and that is the one thing you cannot do, and you think you might lose your mind a little.
With what little wherewithal you have left, you reach down, covering his mouth with your hand. It doesn't actually do much to muffle him. You really don't mind. He's still looking at you. His eyes are fixed on yours, above your hand, his brows drawn. You feel something enormous in your chest. It beats at your ribs from the inside. It's too much. It's too much. You can't take him looking at you like that.
You lean down, and you press your lips against the back of your own hand.
His hips stutter. He moans, low and louder than ever, so much so that you feel it in your chest and your hips and your palm through to your lips, and he comes into you hard and long with your hand against his mouth.
-
Sixteen years ago
Anyone who ever said senior year of high school is for coasting was lying. You've never had more work in your life. It's like your teachers are assigning you more in order to ward off senioritis. Like it even matters. Except it does matter, of course, because you need to keep your grades up in order to not lose your scholarship to Berkley, which is why you are now essentially flat on your stomach, cheek to carpet, hand smushed against your mouth, trying to dig out an essay from months and months ago that your AP Lit teacher for some reason wants you to rewrite.
"Aha!" You emerge with a bulging blue D-ring binder, triumphant. You wrinkle your nose at the dust bunnies clinging to your hand. Whatever. You found what you needed to find. You drop the binder on the floor, shake off your hand, and flop back on the bed.
The phone rings. You grab it without looking. "You've reached—"
"It's me."
"Colt! It's been too long."
"Ha, ha," Ryland says dryly. "You know that joke is even funnier the hundred and fifth time."
"Don't be pissy," you say. "What's up? I can grab Josh's dorm number from the kitchen, hang on, but you seriously have to write it down this time—"
"I'm calling for you. What color is your dress?"
"What?"
"Your prom dress. What color is it."
"Uh. I don't have one yet. Why?"
"So I can make sure my tie matches. I know that's a big deal, or whatever."
"…I wasn't aware that you were coming to prom. To my prom."
"Are you going with someone else?"
You've been asked, a few times. You haven't given any of your would-be dates an answer. "No."
"Cool, so just let me know when you pick a dress. I think I need to order the corsage or whatever ahead of time."
"You're coming to prom—"
"I'm taking you, yeah. Catch up."
"Will your girlfriend mind?"
He pauses. "Why would she mind? She knows we've been friends forever."
"Right. Is school….I mean, like, how are things? Otherwise?"
Someone shouts at him from off the phone. "Fuck off," he says to them, his voice muffled—and then he's back, close in your ear. "Look, I've got to go. Just tell my mom when you find a dress."
"I will. Bye, Ryland."
You hold the phone to your ear for a few seconds after he hangs up. Then you press it to your chest. You look at yourself in the mirror, tilting your head as though the version of you on the other side will have some kind of answers to the questions you are too afraid to even ask.
"It's not a big deal," you tell yourself, out loud, as you put the phone back in its cradle.
It isn't a big deal. He has a girlfriend. It wouldn't be a big deal even if he didn't have a girlfriend, because it's just Ryland. Ryland, calling to hold up his end of a pinky promise he made you six years ago.
You flop back on the bed, reaching up to try and touch your toes as your brain continues its crusade. It's just you. It's just Ryland. It's just prom. You've been friends since before you even knew what prom or a date even were. Nothing that could happen over the course of a single night could ever change that.
-
Now
You are once again on your back, a pillow under your hips and a blanket over you. During some of your less-horizontal hookups (see: bar bathroom, office desk, car), you've been giving yourself over to gravity's whims without worrying about it too much. Since you have access to an actual bed this time, though, you feel as though you might as well at least try following r/TryingForABaby's advice.
As though reading your mind, he says, "I can't believe it took us this long to reach an actual bed."
"Hm." You look around the master bedroom, as much as you can look around. The only light is from the moon and the streetlamps outside, filtered through the curtains into a gauzy silver glow. "You know what I can't believe? I think this is the only room in your house I'd never been in before."
"Yeah?" You hear his head shift on the pillow. "Yeah. I guess you're right. It's weird, right? The master bedroom. It took me a full year or something to move all of my stuff in."
"You spent a year in the bunk beds?"
"It was nice," he says defensively. "I'd never had the top bunk before. Colt always called dibs." He pauses. "And then I rolled off my first night, and I never used it again."
"Ouch."
"Took my tailbone two weeks to recover." He nudges your hip with his hand. It's almost funny, how tentative he becomes in the immediate aftermath. He'll touch you, sure. He'll squeeze your hand, and stroke your hair; but the two of you don't really cuddle. You take it as another sign that you are on the same page about what this all is. Casual. Or, if not casual, then purposeful. Strictly business, as he'd joked the first time. "Speaking of, are your knees okay?"
"What, from being on top? I'm not actually that old, you know. You may be ancient, but some of us are still a young and sprightly thirty-four."
"No, I mean. Back at the bar." His hand twitches, down, like he's going to touch your knee and then thinks better of it. "I shouldn't have let you do that."
"Let me?"
"At least if we were here, you could have had a pillow, something—"
You wave a hand. "I've been on my knees in worse places. Don't worry about it."
"Where could possibly be worse than concrete?"
"A frat basement, for starters."
It comes out harsher than you mean. Not in tone. It's the nakedness of the words, dropped into the silence like a stone into a pond. The room swallows them whole.
I didn't mean that, you want to say—but, of course, you did. That's the problem. You meant it. You meant it a lot, and you meant a lot by it. It's accusation and absolution, all in one. It's permission. It means look at what you did to me (that's not fair, you know, because what did he do, really, except kiss you one time and then decide he didn't want to anymore?). It means you could do anything to me, anything you want, and I would still let you after all this time.
"That sounds uncomfortable," he says.
So he doesn't remember, then.
That shouldn't be disappointing. It shouldn't be. It's the kind of thing that should fade after a few years, let alone sixteen; the kind of thing you are embarrassed for still remembering after so long. And, anyway, you don't actually want to fight.
Still, it feels like swallowing something when you speak again. "I didn't mind. That's my point. Did you like it?"
"Obviously."
"Great. So did I. So it's all good." This time, you nudge his hip. "I'm pretty tough, you know. I won't break, if you're a little rough with me."
"Okay," he says. "Well, that's not the bar."
"Yeah, I know. I took the bar ages ago. Passed it my first try."
"You—" The joke makes him laugh, once, curtly, dragging a hand down over his face. Unfortunately, it doesn't derail his train of thought. "I mean, the bar for this," he says, gesturing between the two of you, "isn't I don't mind, or I won't break. That's not good enough. I can't do this if you're not getting anything out of it."
You push your lower lip into a moue. "I feel like it's pretty clear what I'm getting out of it."
"You know what I mean. If you're not going to enjoy it, then I can go out to the grocery store and pick up a turkey baster right now. That's part of the point, to me. "
"I am. Enjoying it. That's why I asked for it, all of it. And I thought you had a very strict BYOB policy."
"If you want a turkey baster, I will make sure you get a turkey baster."
"You've always tried to give me exactly what I wanted, huh?"
"Yeah, well. There were times when I could have done a better job."
“You." You roll over onto your side to look at him. "You do realize you're currently giving me a baby? A whole baby. That’s—I mean, it’s crazy I asked. It’s crazy you said yes.”
“It’s not that crazy.”
You flop back onto the mattress. You stare at the ceiling. “It’s pretty crazy."
"Maybe. But I don't mind." He goes quiet, in the way that you know means he's thinking about something. "I don't mind. Was that the bar with. Your ex. The big one. Did he—"
"Ryland."
"Yes?"
"We just."
"I know."
"Do you really want me to go into the details of my sex life with my ex-husband."
"On a personal level? No. But for research purposes of what does and doesn't work for you—"
"Okay, so Reddit doesn't count as research, but me telling you my memory verbally, off the cuff, does?" You keep your tone light. You are passing the light tone test with flying colors. "Eyewitness testimony is famously untrustworthy, you know. And, um. I don't really remember much of it, anyway."
"That sounds like a cop out."
"It's not," you say, and your tone is still light but with an undercurrent you can't control, and you know he hears it because he stops saying anything at all. "Um. I remember some things, but for the most part its fuzzy. I think I blocked a lot of it out." You laugh, quiet. Bitter. "I do remember that he wanted kids."
"That…makes sense. Seems like the kind of thing you should agree on, to get married."
"We didn't, though. Agree." The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead. "You asked me, ages ago, what caused the divorce. That's what it was."
Not the other stuff, you don't say, because you know you don't have to say it for him to hear it.
"We'd talked about it back when we were dating," you say instead. "We'd decided that we didn't want them. And then our last year together, I guess he changed his mind. Which, you know, he was allowed to do, what do you know when you're twenty, but he didn't. He didn't really tell me? It was just."
You have to think about what you say next. It's not the first time you've used the words, but it's the first time in a while, and the first time here, in the dark, with a body that was just inside you and is now an inch and a half away. You can hear him breathing. It's quiet, but you can hear it, and it's occasionally sending you back to a different bed, next to a different body, with a ring still on your finger, and it's making you lose the thread of the story.
You dig a nail into your palm. You coax yourself back.
You are here, in this room, next to the person you are next to. You find the thread of the story. You pull at it until the words unravel in the order you'd decided on several years ago, when you needed to explain this to your brother and your therapist and your journal in a way that would not make you cry.
"My birth control kept on not being where I'd left it, which I thought was just. You know. Me. Being forgetful." This was a place for people to laugh, you'd decided, when you'd practiced the telling of it. He doesn't laugh. No one ever does. "And then we had a scare, so finally I just decided to get my tubes tied, and he wouldn't sign off on it. Husbands still have to, apparently, did you know that? Like we were in the fifteen hundreds."
You sort of laugh. He doesn't.
"Anyway, he wouldn't give his permission, or whatever, and we fought about it, and I remember the next day—I mean, I'd barely slept, we were arguing all night—and I was just too exhausted to really feel angry anymore, and instead I just had this weird mixture of dread and relief, and I wasn't sure what the relief part was, until the next day I was taking the subway home and I saw this baby. A cute one. Like, Gerber baby cute. And I thought oh, maybe I do want kids one day, but not with Tyler."
The room is silent.
"Just. That easy. Just sitting on the 6 like, Astor Place is next, and also I don't want to have a baby with my husband. It was the most honest thought I'd had in years. And I knew if I went home, I wouldn't have that kind of clarity again, and my birth control would keep going missing, and the next scare wouldn't just be a scare, and I'd have to stop working, and—I don't know."
You press the heels of your hands to your eyes.
"Maybe I was being dramatic. But I got off the train at Grand Central, and instead my normal transfer I caught the Metro-North—God, I didn't even buy a ticket, just got on the train. It was so stupid, I almost cried when the conductor came up, because I didn't have enough cash on me and I didn't. I didn't want it to show up on the credit card. In case. But yeah, I showed up at Josh's door at, like, one in the morning, and. Everything after was a mess, obviously."
Your hands are still against your face. You don't say anything for what is less than two seconds, but feels like much longer, because you don't trust your voice to be steady.
Sorry," you say. Your voice isn't quite where you want it, but if you don't talk then he is going to talk, and you're not sure you're ready to hear what he may or may not say. "Sorry, none of that is what you asked, like, at all, I really just don't remember a lot of the other stuff, sex, and what I liked, or if I really like—I mean, we met when I was eighteen. All of my."
You pause. It is a short pause. It does not feel short. The room is silent. The room is roaring with the fan and the blood in your ears and the sound of him listening.
"Most of my firsts happened in that relationship," you say, carefully. "So. I don't know that I'll ever be able to parse out exactly what I would have liked, on my own, if I hadn't met him. But, um. When I started dating again, after the divorce, a while after, sometimes I would just. Go somewhere else. In the middle of it. And turns out a little bit of pain is really good for, like, reminding yourself that you have a body. It makes it easier to stay in the moment. And I do think it feels good, genuinely, but it's a little bit of a chicken-or-egg situation as to how much I just like it organically, and how much it's a matter of function, because now it's both."
He doesn't say anything.
"Apparently that's normal," you say. Reassuring him, maybe. Reassuring yourself. "Josh made me see this therapist, the year after. I was staying with him for a while, and—anyway. She said that's normal. That, and the memory gaps, too, after. Um. All of that."
There's a long, long silence.
Then he says, pleasantly, "I could kill him."
"Ryland."
"I'm not angry. I'm just stating it as fact. I really could kill him."
"Ryland."
"You wouldn't believe the stuff I have to MacGyver for labs, half the time I'm worried I'm going to accidentally make chlorine gas and poison the whole science wing. Or decapitate myself with a Rube Goldberg. Or something." You don't say anything. "Josh would help. Colt, too. I'm sure he'd have some great ideas. It's basically his job to get set on fire."
"Yeah."
"I probably shouldn't be telling you this. You should have plausible deniability, in case we need a lawyer."
"Josh is already a lawyer."
"Yeah, but he shouldn't defend himself. Not for such a grisly crime."
You crack a smile, finally. A tiny one. It feels a bit like tasting clear air after months of breathing nothing but ash. "I don't practice criminal law. You know that, right? It's important to me that you know that."
"You're smart. You'd pick it up."
"Pass." You twist your head in the direction of the wall clock. You can't make it out in the dark, but you still say, "It's late. I should get going soon."
"You know you can stay over, right?"
"Fine. But I call dibs on the top bunk," you say. You hear him chuckle. The sound, more than the joke, makes you smile. "No, look, I know you have an early start."
"Tomorrow? It's a bank holiday."
"Oh. Right. Well, I probably have to. I mean, there's always stuff in the office to." You shake your head. "Just give me ten more minutes of pillow time, and I'll be out of your hair."
Two seconds. Three. "Okay."
You chew on the inside of your cheek. "And I'm sorry for—" You press your hands back against your eyes, and are relieved to find them only a little wet. "All of that. Um. I don't know what—"
"Hey. Hey." His hand, touching the back of your wrist. Gently. Tentatively. You let him pull your hand away from your face. "It's okay. I mean, it's not okay that any of that—but you—you being here is okay. Whatever you want to talk about is okay."
Your hand curls back, out of his. Away from him. "I don't really want to talk about it anymore."
"That's okay too."
"Thanks," you say softly. It's all you can manage.
You sit in deafening silence for about a minute, and then: "If you don't want to talk, I actually." He claps—quiet—then gets up. "This is perfect."
He's only half-lit by the moon through the curtains as he hops around, trying to tug on a pair of pajama pants while he talks, and only half-succeeding at either. It shouldn't be charming. You are, regrettably, charmed.
"I found, while I was unpacking more boxes—attic boxes, not moving—the point is." He points at you. "Don't go anywhere."
"Wasn't planning on it." Even as you say it, you mentally track your shoes, on the floor; and your underwear, next to them; and your purse, abandoned on the couch on your way to the bedroom. You had your fair share of one-night stands, following the divorce, in between all the bad first dates and dead-end short-term relationships. You know how to make an exit.
He comes back holding a box before you can make an exit, and with his elbow manages to flip on the nightstand lamp. You both wince and blink furiously. When your eyes have more or less adjusted to the light, he is sitting very carefully on the edge of the bed.
"What's this?" you ask.
"Just some light reading." He takes something black and rectangular out of the box, and passes it to you. "Mom was religious about this stuff. Even when she was in the hospital, she'd have us bring these huge sterilite boxes of all of her craft stuff, and she would just go to town."
You open the scrapbook.
It starts off with baby pictures, of course. Too young for even you to tell the twins apart. Pictures of them with their mother. Not as you last saw her, but as you remember her. Pictures of them with their dad, who you never met.
Ryland—adult Ryland, real Ryland, the Ryland in the room with you—is still sitting on the edge of the bed, not touching you. You have spent most of the evening, you realize, with his hand on your waist or your wrist or your hair. The absence is strange. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. "You look like you're about to fall off the bed," you say.
He hesitates. "You seemed like you might want some space."
You nod him over with a roll of your eyes. "Get over here."
He gets over there, sitting close enough next to you to look over your shoulder, while still leaving an inch or two of space.
"You can skip ahead," he says, reaching over. In leaning in, his other arm goes back behind you, resting across the headboard. He doesn't touch you. He also doesn't pull away when you lean against him. It isn't much a conscious decision as an inevitable one. You are tired, and he is warm and solid behind you, and you are still stubbornly clinging onto the belief that you can accept casual intimacy from him without drowning in want.
Pages flip. Photos of you. You, Ryland, Colt, Josh. Just the boys. Just you and the twins. Every possible configuration thereof. Running through sprinklers, and singing in school concerts, and holding up trick-or-treat hauls with gap-toothed triumph. Riding bikes. Falling off bikes. Graduations—yours, in addition to theirs. Elementary to middle school. Middle to high school. Wedding photos throughout—the boys in suits, you in a flower girl dress. The boys in suits, you in a puffy teal junior bridesmaid dress. The boys in suits, you in floor-length bronze satin.
Before high school graduation, there's a few of just you and Ryland. Bronze satin, again, but you're visibly younger, the both of you baby-faced in a way that, by your twenties, had already begun to fade. The living room as background. The window. The coffee table. The couch you straddled him on two and a half weeks ago.
Ryland, slipping white roses onto your wrist.
Ryland, standing behind you with hands, his and yours, clasped around your waist.
Ryland, seconds later, smiling down at you while you look into the camera.
"It makes you think," he says. "Thirty plus years. The photos make the memories more tactile, but they're just fragments. Moments of moments. There's so much stuff that happens in between that we just…forget."
"Yeah." You try to flip back to safe territory—bikes, suits, teal dress—and realize that such a thing doesn't exist. There is no safe territory. There is no part of your life, really, that he hasn't been present for, and vice versa, except for a decade in the middle that you can barely remember and would, most of the time, rather forget.
You close the book. You close your eyes.
You'll leave soon, you tell yourself. You'll go home. Sleep in your own bed. It's just that his chest is warm beneath your cheek, and his heart is steady beneath your ear, and you are so, so tired of pretending you want anything different.
"Yeah," you say. "Who even remembers that far back, anyway."
-
Twenty two years ago
Your cheek is on his chest. His arms are around your waist. He is treating the dance like it might get him seasick. It has been the most awkward minute and forty five seconds of your life.
You have never been happier.
Every other step, his chin grazes the top of your head. It's a thrill every time. Ryland hit his growth spurt late—they both did, both twins—and you're still not quite accustomed to the height difference. You're pretty sure he isn't, either. Not the way Colt is.
But then, Colt has never been anything but perfectly at home in his own body. Colt is athletic, graceful, controlled. Ryland is, physically, none of these things. Ryland's posture is so bad that even his smile is crooked. Ryland trips over his own feet about as often as Colt trips over words while reading. It's like whoever split them up in utero did it intentionally off-kilter. Yin and yang. Unbalanced-ly balanced.
All this to say: Colt was a great dance partner. Ryland has spent the past minute and forty-five seconds swaying side to side so stiffly its like he's barely moving at all, like he's being controlled by someone who has just been gifted a marionette and is trying very hard not to tangle the strings. He has also managed to step on your shiny patent leather shoes no fewer than seven times. It is not a very long song to begin with. He has been dancing with you for half of it.
You are relieved for your shoes, and otherwise disappointed, when the slow number is replaced by something upbeat. The adults around you seem excited enough. Your mother breaks out of the very long, very involved kiss she had been planting on her new husband to punch her hands up in the air and cheer, and allow the bridesmaids (Colt and Ryland's mother among them) to drag her to the center of the floor.
You and Ryland are in a corner of the dance floor, and for a few seconds he just stands there, so you also just stand there. You have spent what feels like a lifetime trying to copy Ryland Grace. What's a few more seconds?
"That wasn't even a whole song," he finally says.
You look at him. He looks and sounds neutral—bored, in that way he began affecting pretty much as soon as he turned thirteen—so it's difficult to know if he means the remark as a complaint or a statement or what.
"Maybe," you begin carefully, "we can do this again the next time my mom gets married."
"Okay," he agrees. His voice is still irritatingly level. There's a brief pause, and then, faster: "That might never happen, though. I overheard her telling my mom that this was the last time."
You'll believe that when you see it. Your mother is beautiful, and gregarious, and loving, and works as a flight attendant. She has no shortage of men interested in her, and no shortage of interest in men. But it feels disloyal to say that (even to Ryland, who has seen all of this firsthand and thus knows it to be true), so you settle for a noncommittal shrug.
"We'll dance at prom," he says.
You look up at him. He's looking very determinedly at something on his shirt sleeve. His glasses are sliding down his nose. Those are new, too; he's still figuring out how to wear them. "Prom?"
"When we're in high school."
"Yeah, but my prom or your prom? We're in different grades, genius."
"Either. Both."
"What if you have a girlfriend? She'll want you to take her to prom."
"Ew." He scrunches up his nose. His glasses take this as an opportunity to go skydiving. By some miracle (the miracle being the strap his mom makes him attach to the arms of them, ever since that time he broke two pairs in as many days), they stay more or less on-slash-around his head. "I'm never getting a girlfriend."
Your heart sinks. "Okay." You chew your bottom lip, savoring the taste of the bubble-gum lipgloss your mom let the makeup artist use on you. That's one nice thing about your mom's weddings, is getting to feel pretty for a day. You can't wait to grow up and wear lipstick. "Well, I might have a boyfriend."
"Ugh. Fine. If you don't have a boyfriend, then I’ll take you to prom.”
"Promise?" You stick out your pinky finger. It's the kind of thing that, at twelve, you're sort of too old for, and that Ryland, at thirteen, is definitely too old for. He indulges you anyway. He always indulges you. Ryland's never done anything but give you exactly what you wanted.
"Promise," he says—then immediately lets go of your hand, like the indignity of doing a pinky promise as a teenager is causing him physical pain. You half expect him to wipe it off on the leg of his dress pants. He doesn't. He still doesn't look at you, either. "I can't believe I'm coming in second place to some guy you don't even know yet."
"Third place," you say. Finally, he looks at you. It's like a family-sized pack of glitter bursts in your chest. You try to keep any of it from showing in your eyes. Instead, you tilt your head, hoping your smile reads as mischievous rather than smitten. "Colt was born first.'
And then you run. You take off running past the dance floor; past the round tables with the lavender centerpieces you picked out; past sitting adults, whose reprimands Doppler away from you at lightspeed. You know he's following close behind. You know that when he catches you (he can, if he doesn't trip first), he'll grab your hand, and the thought of it makes you so giddy that you're tempted to let a hand trail behind.
walks into your ask box as tho walking onto a stage to deliver a seminar
“Ken is mystified by the clit,” quoth I. “Genitals are already incredible and an adjustment. But the idea that there’s this bitty thing that illicit such a big reaction — and an easy way to earn praise — excites him. He is absolutely the kind to accidentally overstimulate his clit-having partner because he keeps messing with it out of sheer curiosity and fascination.”
nods, then leaves the ask box
anon I love you and your quothing. You have a brain the size of a planet. 18+. Ken x afab!reader. overstim.
You groan and buck against his fingers. You don't want to seek any more of this out, not really; it's burdgeoning on an ache at this point. He's been down there for what must be hours... but you're orgasm-drunk and happy to let him play with you. You're content to be his doll for once.
He Loves exploring you with a capital L. Your body is so different to his, so human and malleable and sensitive. He'd do whatever it takes to get you off, like it's his goddamn purpose in life just to please you. When you agreed to take him into your bed for the first time he let out an actual 'yippee!' and, since then? Well it's always been about you. About your body. About your pleasure. He's come just from fingering you. Something about seeing your wetness webbing over his knuckles just sends him over the edge, you guess.
And today? Today he's found your clit. He is obsessed that such a tiny part of your body can have you arching your back for him and howling his name. You think it may actually be his new best friend but hey, you aren't complaining.
It's just... it's been half the day and he won't stop. Overstimulation is one thing. This might just be madness. The bed is so soaked that you think you'll need to shop for a new goddamned mattress tomorrow.
Ken's thumb swipes just right across the little nub and you scooch back a bit, gasping as you go. He looks at you with such surprised sadness that it's like you just kicked a fucking puppy in front of him.
"Baby?" he asks, lovesick and cunt-drunk, "Do you... do you not like it?"
"I do, Ken, I do," you choke. Of course you fucking like it, he's made you orgasm about seven times. "'M sensitive, is all."
"Oh, okay. Is that good?"
"Can be. I've just come a lot, sweetie."
"And you liked it? I'm doing a good job?"
"You are, yeah. A very, very good job."
He triumphantly fist-pumps the air using his free hand. It's so cute you can't help but laugh, but then he's back to your clit and you're moaning.
"Can I make you come just one more time? Please-please-please?"
You might be in charge, but you're powerless against the big blue eyes staring up at you from between your legs. Your thighs are numb and your pussy will never be the same, but you settle back against the pillows.
you go through Ken’s browsing history and are surprised at what you find. 18+, Ken x gn!reader.
“I’m going for a run!” Ken shouts as he does his stretches at the front door. He’s in a bright pink tracksuit, far too warm for the climate outside, but he insisted he had to complete ‘the look’.
“Okay, honey. Are you wearing sunscreen?”
You hear an ‘oop’, the sound of a bottle being opened, and a wet slap as he applies it liberally.
“Uh, okay, now I’m going for a run! I’ll get you a coffee on the way back!”
“You’re a doll. I mean— well, you know what I mean,” you say as he heads out the front door.
It’s been… cute, living with Ken. After adjusting to the whole “hey I’m your childhood toy come to life and now I’m in love with you” thing, anyway. He’d do literally anything for you and that sort of dogged devotion takes some getting used to. In fact, you kinda miss him when he steps out now. Maybe you’re falling into folie a deux or whatever they call it. Folie a doll, perhaps.
You’re not dating… but you’re not not dating. It’s hard to explain.
Then you realise he’s left the laptop open.
It’s your laptop, really, but you’re mostly on your work one so he gets free rein of it. Curiosity suddenly overwhelms you. Is it bad etiquette to snoop on his browsing history? Maybe, but once again: it’s your laptop. You wanna see what your literal boy toy gets up to when you’re at work.
You sit at the table where it’s been abandoned and open up the history tab. At first it’s just the same stuff you’ve seen him looking at as you pass by every day: men’s fashion, horse compilation tiktoks, part time job vacancies involving horses…
sexy videos
That one makes you pause. Sexy videos, huh? So far Ken has been pretty, well, well-behaved about his physical needs, but you assume as he makes the transition from plastic to human that he must be having them.
Maybe you wouldn’t mind if he talked to you about that. Maybe you wouldn’t mind giving him a hand.
The search term took him to your favourite porn site, of course, and it looks like he spent some time there.
kissing
Only a guy like Ken would go on a porn site to look up kissing. You snort your amusement and keep scrolling.
couples kissing
kissing first time
loving couple
real loving couple
You feel your face soften into a smile. Oh. Of course that would be the kind of stuff he’d be into. All of his attempts at romance so far have been exceptionally traditional: bouquets of roses and candle-lit baths drawn ready when you get home from work. Unprompted massages. He wrote you a love letter once, and even though his spelling wasn’t the best, you still keep it in your bedside drawer with your other precious tchotchkes.
Tender sex couple love
“I love you” sex video
Seems like he found a couple he was into. You click on them and they’re both pretty long and intense, in a sweet way. Amateur stuff but there’s a lot of gazing into each other’s eyes and whispered affections. It’s cute. From the runtime bar at the bottom of the video, it looks like he sat through the whole of them.
submissive man praise
Your eyebrows skyrocket. That’s a turn. You didn’t know he knew that word.
blond submissive man praise
bleach blond submissive man praise
You can imagine him getting more frustrated as he tried to narrow down his search and can’t hide a grin. Looks like he got lucky with the results as there are many videos matching his descriptor on this particular site. He’s watched quite a few of them, too. Men who look uncannily like him on their knees as their dominant tells them how good they are at giving oral. You feel your cheeks get hot as you imagine doing that with him.
Does he want you to do that with him?
You’re so caught up in the scene before you that you don’t hear him open the door again.
“Forgot my water b—“
“Oh, yeah, baby boy, you’re doing so well…”
He freezes. You freeze. The people on the screen don’t freeze, and the man keeps sticking his tongue in his partner’s hole, much to their delight.
“My secret sexy videos,” whispers Ken in horror. When you aren’t angry, he doesn’t know how to react. So he just stands there.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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description: you and ryland try watch a movie. eye contact is avoided. discussions are had. things happen.
pairing: ryland grace x f!reader
rating: explicit (18+, mdni)
tags: friends-to-lovers, fluff, idiots in love, p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (reader mentions being on birth control but pls use proper protection irl folks)
word count: 6,582
notes: we've made it to the finale. i have a few things i wanted to add before we proceed with the smut:
1) i gotta be honest y'all this is the first time i've written smut in any great detail so hopefully it's decent. i never realized how hard it is to keep track of all those limbs like wtf. i hope i did a good job of conveying the experience. i'll probably come back to this eventually and clean it up a little - adjust pacing as needed, fix any potential errors, make it read a little smoother - but for now i hope you enjoy.
2) i may also take some requests while i wait to start on my next piece, which i'm thinking might be the bridgerton-inspired friends-to-lovers jealous!ryland fic I posted about awhile back, or the martian au where reader gets spooked at the possibility of rekindling her relationship with ryland and runs away to mars. but i need a break from writing longer pieces, so if anyone has any specific drabble requests they want in the meantime feel free to stop by my ask box! (side note, i may not answer every single request. i find if i try to write something i'm not connecting with it kills my motivation, but i will try my best to get to as many as i can.)
3) as an aside please don't be dumb like reader and ryland here. always use proper protection when having sex, and remember that the pill/implant/iud/ring don't protect against disease.
3) lastly, i also want to thank you all for reading, and for your likes/comments/reblogs on the last two parts, it means so much to me <3 enjoy!
tag list: @k3nxk3n, @jake-sullys-whore, @witheringwidgetwrites, @theecrescentmoon, @sleepybunnybobby
You wipe your damp palms against your pants and make your way towards the door. You suddenly feel self-conscious. You're still painfully turned on. Your body feels like a live wire and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Plus you wish you'd had time to change from the plain black leggings and loose band tee you're wearing.
Your organs feel like they're actively rearranging themselves as you pad over to the door, your hand shaking as you reach out to swing it open.
Ryland is on the other side, and you try your very hardest to look normal as the two of you come face-to-face. You smile at him like you always do and step aside to let him in. If you happen to take a few extra seconds to stare at him as he walks by, no you didn't.
Honestly, he looks the same as he always does, at least in the physical sense. His blond hair is dishevelled atop his head, his glasses are slowly sliding down his nose, and he's dressed in blue jeans and a red hoodie. You can see the hem of his t-shirt peeking out from the bottom. But he's giving you a wide berth as he steps inside and you're not oblivious to the way he can't quite meet your gaze as he says "hi" and steps inside.
Ryland peels off his hoodie and hangs it on your overcrowded coat rack. Underneath he's wearing a dark blue t-shirt. On the front in white ink is a picture of a cat sitting proudly, a computer mouse dangling from its mouth.
Hank, having temporarily forgotten how hopelessly hungry he is, trots over and wails up at Ryland, who is trying his best to kick off his shoes without tripping over the tabby that twists between his legs, tail vibrating.
"Slut," you accuse him fondly.
"Don't call him names, he's just a little guy," Ryland objects, leaning down to scratch under Hank's chin.
"Yeah, he's a slutty little guy."
Ryland rolls his eyes and immediately heads for the kitchen, reaching for the bag of cat treats you keep stashed on top of the fridge. He fishes several out and then crouches down to feed them to Hank one by one. It's totally unfair that Ryland can hand feed Hank without issue but the second you go to do the same suddenly your fingers become food and you narrowly avoid ending up on antibiotics while Hank stoutly avoids you for the next day and a half. Whatever, you're not mad about it.
You lean your hip against the kitchen counter and watch Hank gobble up the last few treats. "You're the reason he's fat, you know."
"I'm the reason he's happy," Ryland corrects you. He is not modest about the fact that Hank likes him more and shows noticeable joy whenever Ryland comes around to your apartment. "Look at his bowl, it's empty. No wonder he's glad to see me." Ryland reaches out to scratch at Hank's ears. The traitorous tabby begins to purr. "Aren't you, pal? You know I'll always give you treats."
"Oh my god, it's not like he's starving. He's just a dramatic bitch who can't wait ten minutes for his dinner." You retort.
"Wow, ten whole minutes? You should be glad I got here when I did, he definitely would've died of starvation by then."
It's your turn to roll your eyes. In the end you cave and give Hank his dinner early. It'll keep him out of your space for at least the first few minutes of the movie. Then Hank will take his customary place on Ryland's lap for the remainder of the evening.
"Popcorn?" You offer, making your way over to the broom-closet-turned-pantry.
"Always."
You set about to making the popcorn while Ryland pulls the movie up. He closes the too-thin curtains that really don't do anything to block out the evening sun and turns off the overhead light.
Neither of you says anything while the popcorn pops. You keep your eyes glued to the timer and tap your finger against the counter as the seconds tick downwards. It feels less like you're waiting to start a fun movie night with your bestie and more like you're watching the countdown on a bomb. Except instead of an immediate impact - which would surely be easier to handle - this explosion will be slow. Not controlled, not by any means. But definitely slow. With luck, it'll at least be painless.
You pull the steaming bag from the microwave and dump its contents into a big plastic bowl with a gaudy floral print on the side that you're pretty sure made it (somehow) from your grandma's house to your apartment when you first moved in.
You hand Ryland the popcorn bowl as you settle onto the couch next to him, leaning forward to set your phone on the coffee table. Ryland's eyes follow it, and for a moment he looks like he wants to puke. You know exactly why and you feel exactly the same.
You lean back, curling your legs underneath you and pressing yourself as far against the arm rest as you can. It does very little to provide you space on the cramped couch, and the six inches that separate you from Ryland somehow feel like too much and too little at the same time.
Ryland settles the popcorn bowl on his lap, nibbling at it as you get comfortable. Or at least as comfortable as you can get on this godforsaken piece of furniture.
You both keep your eyes forward as the movie starts, but you're having a hard time focusing. You can't bring yourself to relax back into the cushion like you normally would. You can't seem to stop the nervous bouncing of your leg or the way your fingers twitch and flex against the hem of your t-shirt.
You can tell Ryland is on edge too, even though he's trying to look like he's not. He's leaning back against the couch in a way that appears, at first glance, like he's relaxing, but you can see the subtle tenseness in his posture - how his shoulders are slightly hunched forward, the way his fingers grip a little too tightly to the bowl in his lap, the faint furrow between his eyebrows.
Normally he would be providing live commentary on the movie, picking apart the scientific inaccuracies, and somehow managing to eat the entire bowl of popcorn in the first five minutes. Tonight, though, he is uncharacteristically quiet from his spot opposite you, his hands braced against the sides of the popcorn bowl that sits untouched on top of his legs.
Hank appears at Ryland's feet and perches his front paws on the couch cushion to investigate the availability of Ryland's lap. Upon seeing it occupied he sits back down, looking distinctly displeased. He opts for glaring at Ryland, who only reaches down to scratch Hank's head. Hank, feeling slighted, bats a paw at him and walks away.
Ryland shifts in his seat and you swear you see him lean further away from you. You can't help but wonder if he knows what he's done. If he knows, does he know you know? How could he not, with how jumpy you've been since he arrived?
You look at Ryland.
He looks back.
You both look away.
You look at him again. Ryland looks back from the corner of his eye.
"You good?" he asks without turning to face you fully.
"Yeah. Yep, fine." You respond in a totally natural and convincing way.
Except you're not fine, because you're still thinking about that goddamn voicemail, about the sound of his voice pitched low with want for you, about how sensual your name sounded as it lingered on his tongue. You wanted to hear it again - muffled into your shoulder - and again - whispered against your cheek - and again - groaned into the crease of your thigh. You were thinking about the fact that he wanted you and you wanted him and you two had spent who-knows-how-long dancing around each other like the romantically inept twenty-somethings you were, when you could have been getting closer in every sense of the word.
You contemplate your choices while Mark Watney expounds on the details of harvesting potatoes on Mars.
On one hand, the last thing you wanted was to put your friendship with Ryland in jeopary. It would be easy (enough) to put the whole thing out of your mind. To forget it happened and move on, pretending as if you don't hold the knowledge of how Ryland sounds with his hand on himself deep in your mind.
On the other hand, what if… what if he really did want more from you? What if he had considered it? What if he had turned the thought of you and him and together over in his mind again and again only to arrive at the same conclusion you had: that it was better to not say anything, to cherish what you had and be happy with that?
Then again, that was assuming his feelings for you extended beyond the lust of a young man imagining his attractive friend in what sounded like a very erotic fantasy. Maybe you were getting ahead of yourself there.
You don't even consider the possibility that he'd done it on purpose, regardless of the true nature of his feelings. Ryland was sweet - he held too much respect for you, for your autonomy, for your comfort, to do something like that. If he had wanted you to know how he felt he would have opened a dialogue about it. You two had always been (mostly) honest with one another. But he never had, so you had assumed he harbored no romantic feelings towards you.
You don't pay any attention as the protagonist on screen joyfully celebrates receiving his first message from Earth. Outside, the sun dips further towards the horizon. You watch some dust motes dance in the slats of golden light that shine through the gaps in the curtains.
You glance over at Ryland and all you can think in that very moment is is fuck it.
He wants you. You want him. Now one of you just needs to do something about it, and you know it's not going to be him. You'll have to be brave for the both of you.
"So," you say to the TV screen.
"So," he echoes.
You both watch in silence as poor Mark's potato farm blows up. Ryland's fingers twitch against the side of the popcorn bowl. The tension in the room is palpable, but not necessarily uncomfortable. Like you're both waiting for something you know is coming, but you're not afraid of it.
You finally turn your head to look at him, his face in profile. You clear your throat and try to keep your voice even as you ask, "Sooo… are we just going to pretend you <I>didn't</I> leave me that voicemail earlier?"
Ryland chokes on air. He buries his face in his hands and sinks further down into the couch. It makes the popcorn bowl tilt precariously in his lap. You can see a blush creeping its way down his neck, staining his skin an enticing shade of pink.
"Oh my god," he says into his palms. "I'm so sorry. I was really hoping you hadn't listened to that. I don't know how that happened, honestly, I thought I'd hung up and I- I really didn't mean for you to hear that, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable and I- look, I never-" Ryland sits up suddenly and twists to face you. The movement sends the popcorn bowl tilting off his lap and into the space between you.
"Shit! Sorry, sorry. Let me clean that up." He starts to scoop the spilled popcorn back into the bowl. "I can make us more, just give me a minute."
The movie continues to play. He continues to ramble. Hank has reappeared, hoping to make off with a few pieces of movie theater butter popcorn. You watch Ryland try to shoo him away while desperately attempting to clean popcorn from between the cushions. And the whole thing is so ridiculous that you can't help but laugh.
Ryland pauses, his hand still shoved between the cushions. He squints at you through his glasses.
"Sorry. I'm not laughing at you, I promise. It's just- this is not how I expected tonight to go." You take a moment to collect yourself, then say, "Sorry I sprung that on you."
"No, it's fine. I didn't exactly expect- well, that- to happen. I should've paid closer attention." Ryland maintains eye contact, but you can tell he's feeling flighty. You finish helping him gather up the spilled popcorn and then he places the bowl on the coffee table. "I really am sorry if I made you uncomfortable. And I don't expect you to- you know- feel- what I mean is I'm not, like, expecting anything from you. I hope you know the last thing I'd want to do is ruin our friendship, and if you'd rather not be friends anym-"
"Ryland." You interrupt him. He stops, mouth hanging open around a sentence that never comes. His jaw closes with a soft click. He looks a little pale and you wonder if you should be telling him not to puke on your couch. Instead, you say, "I know. You didn't make me uncomfortable. And even if you did, all I'd need is some space. You're my best friend, I don't think I could just cut you from my life and pretend you were never there."
And even if you did, you had no doubt Ryland would respect that. It'd be like he didn't exist.
You don't like the way that thought makes your heart ache.
Ryland's face crumples with relief.
"Okay. That's good. I appreciate that." He glances away, then glances back at you. There's a nervous quaver to his voice when he asks, "So we'll just… forget about it, yeah?"
This is it. With sudden clarity you realize you hold the future of this relationship in your hands. You told yourself you'd be brave for the both of you, and this is your chance to follow through on that.
You gnaw at your lower lip, picking out a stray piece of popcorn from where it's tucked under one of the back cushions. You try to toss it into the bowl and miss, watching as it bounces off the edge and lands on the floor in front of your feet. Hank eats it, then disappears into the dark like the little gremlin he is.
"I mean, we could, but I'm kind of curious. About how long you've…" you trail off, your eyes flicking to his face, then down to his stomach, then back up again. He immediately understands what you're referring to. His eyes grow wide and his face turns red as he plucks his glasses from his nose and uses the edge of his t-shirt to clean the lenses. You know he's doing it so he doesn't have to look at you. You've seen him use this tactic before.
You can't really blame him. You know it's a probing question, and it's clearly caught him off guard. But he doesn't look uncomfortable, just a little perplexed, like he can't understand why you'd want answers to these questions. Like he can't believe you're even asking them in the first place. But Ryland's always been something of an open book with you, even now that you've turned this particular page.
"Well," he starts, his voice cracking. He pauses to clear his throat, then tries again, "well I've had a crush on you for awhile. And it- that- started not long after I realized I liked you. As more than a friend."
"And how long is 'awhile'?" you prod. You know you're encroaching on dangerous territory. You're nearing a line that can't be uncrossed. Hell, you probably already passed it when you asked him how long he's been masturbating to you.
He continues to wipe at his glasses, which are surely clean by now, and mumbles, "Three years."
"Three years?!" You're kind of taken aback. Three whole years he's had this crush on you? Three whole years he hasn't said a word, given the slightest hint, tried to make a single move? And you, who somewhere in the summer between sophomore and junior year had started wondering about him as more than a friend, had just… done the same.
God, you feel like a fucking idiot.
"Look, I'm sorry, I just- I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to think I was one of those guys who only sticks around in the hopes you'd sleep with me one day and I didn't want to ruin what we already had so I thought it was better if I didn't say anything at all and I-"
"Ry," you interject again. "Stop apologizing. Seriously. I know you're sorry. And I don't think you'd be the type to do something like that." That shuts him up again. You shake your head and try to keep your tone light as you say, "I'm the one asking some really invasive questions. I feel like it's my turn to apologize."
Ryland huffs out a low laugh, but doesn't respond otherwise. A beat of silence passes. Then another. In the lull of the conversation you see something shift in his expression as he carefully slides his glasses back on. He goes from being uncertain to being curious, adopting that look he gets when he's found a particular problem he really wants to solve. He peers at you from over the top of his glasses. God, you hate it when he does that. It always manages to make you wet in a shamefully short amount of time.
He turns to face you, drawing one leg up on the couch between you and propping his arm on the back. You mirror him before you even realize you're doing it. The left half of his face is obscured by shadow now, the sun having set low enough to plunge your apartment into darkness, while the right half of his face is painted in color as the movie plays on, forgotten.
"Why do you wanna know, anyway?"
You fix him with what ends up being a very half-hearted glare. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
You scowl. "That, right there. Feigning innocence. You know damn well why I wanna know."
There's a brief flicker of surprise on his face - a subtle raise of his eyebrows and a parting of his lips that's there and then gone so quick anyone else might second guess if it were there. Not you. You've known Ryland for so long you've memorized every microexpression, and you're certain of what you saw.
Surprise gives way to smugness. He smirks at you, looking far too pleased. You hate when Smug Ryland makes an appearance and now is an especially irritating time. He's caught onto you, and you know he's not going to make this easy for you.
"Yeah, I think I do." His eyes drift unsubtly down to your lips. "It'd still be amazing to hear you say it."
He's already had his secrets laid bare and he took it like a champ so you don't understand why it's so hard for you to do the same now that it's your turn. You can't quite bring yourself to look him in the face so you settle for staring at his bicep. Not that it's any better, because now you're thinking about how it might feel so have those arms wrapped around you and-
You blink, gather up your scattered thoughts, and force the words out before you can think too hard or too long about how exposed you feel. You know it'll be worth it.
"I have feelings for you, too." You leave it at that and finally muster the confidence to look him in the eye again. You know he'll have questions later. But right now he's looking at you with such intensity that you know an interrogation is the very last thing on his mind.
You watch as he slowly - so slowly - moves his hand towards you, the one that's resting against the back of the couch. He lifts it up to your face and grasps your chin which draws a soft gasp from you. He uses his grip to tilt your face towards him, and the expression on his face is unreadable because he's leaning in, so so close, and then his lips are brushing against yours.
It's not really a kiss, more of a question, and you answer it immediately as you press forward to more firmly secure your mouth against his. Ryland groans, swiping his tongue across the arc of your lower lip. You part for him immediately and at the first touch of his tongue against yours you sense that something inside him as broken open, because he presses forward with such desperation that it steals the breath from your lungs. It's like three years of longing and frustration have finally found an outlet and you, you're all too willing to drown in the flood of his affection. Your hands tangle in his hair and oh, it really is as soft as you imagined it would be.
Ryland's free hand finds its way to your calf, his fingers curling into the space behind your knee, and then he's tugging you towards him. You go easily, slinging yourself across his lap. He's already hard in his jeans - fuck, is he that desperate for your touch? - and you can feel him where he's now pressed against your core. You can't help but grind down, drawing your clothed cunt over the length of him with a sinuous roll of your hips. Your lips part on a gasp and Ryland seizes the opportunity to lick into your mouth again, his fingers digging into your thighs. Every point of pressure is an anchor, keeping you tethered as you threaten to float away into the stratosphere.
Something on the TV explodes. You don't even notice.
"Wait, wait," you mumble against his mouth, forcing yourself to separate from him. "I don't have any condoms-" there's a brief flash of disappointment on his face before you continue, "but I'm on birth control and I don't have anything. Uh, diseases, I mean."
Ryland considers this for only a brief second before he nods. "Okay. That's okay. Me, either."
That's good enough for you. You press a quick kiss to his lips and reach down to grasp the hem of his shirt, pulling it up. Ryland helps you wrestle it off and tosses it into the shadows somewhere. His glasses are only a little off-center after. If he notices he doesn't seem to care, too busy looking at you looking at him.
Ryland's fit for someone whose only form of exercise is walking to and from campus every day. It's unfair that a guy who spends most of his time in the library or lab looks like that, but whatever. You take time to enjoy the sight of him bare-chested beneath you, your eyes roving over the slight swell of his pecs, the cut of his waist, the faint outline of his muscles. You especially like the way his stomach twitches as you run your right down his chest and then towards the trail of dark blond hair that trails from his navel and disappears below his waistband. You caress the tips of your fingers across the skin there. Ryland holds his breath.
You swallow and attempt to weave your rapidly unspooling thoughts into something coherent. Preferably a full sentence that won't sound disastrously unsexy as it leaves your mouth. Something that will tilt the balance of power back in your favor. Ryland's looking far too pleased with himself and you just can't have that.
You reach up with your left hand to card your fingers through Ryland's hair and lean forward so your lips brush against his jaw as you speak.
"What did you think about? When you-" your voice falters under the weight of your building anticipation, but you manage to compose yourself and continue, "when you got yourself off to me?"
It has the desired effect. Ryland's hands tighten on your waist as you resume the slow back-and-forth of your hips. His corresponding groan is muffled into your hair. He already sounds like a wreck when he confesses, "Thought about you like this. On top of me. Riding me."
The thought punches an undignified moan out of you. You bring your lips back to his. Ryland continues to kiss you as he works his hands under your shirt. His fingertips are warm, leaving a trail of heat in their wake as he explores the curve of your hip and the column of your spine and the jut of your shoulderblades. Then he's dropping his hands to the hem and giving the material a soft tug. You break the kiss and lift your arms so he can pull it off and drop it onto the armrest of the couch.
"Wait," he says. He reaches over to turn on the lamp on the end table next to him, flooding the room in a warm, low light. "Wanna see you." He murmurs, leaning back in and pressing his lips along your jaw. He moves his mouth down your neck and to the base of your throat. He presses a kiss to the space between your collarbones as he reaches both hands around and fumbles for a second with the clasp. He only has to try twice to get it unhooked. It slips from your shoulders and gets discarded on top of your shirt.
Ryland pulls back so he can drink in the sight of you, shamelessly sweeping his gaze across your exposed chest. "So perfect." Whispered so low you barely catch it. He brings his right hand up and rubs his thumb across your left nipple, his eyes fixated on that point of contact. His other hand settles on your ribcage. You can see his pupils are blown wide, eclipsing the blue of his eyes, and it's the hottest thing you think you've ever seen.
You resist the urge to squirm in his lap, desperate for some friction against your clit. You can feel your thighs getting slick and if you had any sense of propriety left you'd be worried about the state of his jeans underneath you but as it is the only thing you can think about it is the way he's staring at you right now. Like he can't believe you're really here, that you really want him, that he's even getting the chance to see you like this.
Ryland leans forward and replaces his thumb with his tongue, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth. You arch into him, one hand settling on the back of his head while the other comes to rest on his shoulder. His hands drop to your hips and he guides you into another slow grind against the bulge in his jeans. His mouth disconnects from your nipple with a wet pop.
"Ho-hold on, hold on," Ryland stammers, pulling you against him so he can peer over your shoulder. You feel him shift and look back to watch as he plants one foot against the edge of the coffee table and pushes it back. The thin area rug underneath crumples and moves with it.
"Sit back," he urges with a nudge of his hand against your hip, guiding you into a sitting position on the couch. You hold your breath as Ryland slides from the couch to kneel between your legs in the newly created space. He's looking at you from over the edge of his glasses again and you can't suppress the shudder that dances its way down the length of you, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.
"Can I?" he asks, his fingers lingering at the hem of your pants. The only response you can muster is a nod, your throat working as you struggle to swallow against the saliva pooling beneath your tongue.
Ryland leans over you to plant a kiss below your navel as he curls his fingers around the waistband of your leggings and pulls them down, taking your underwear with them. They end up in a crumpled pile next to him.
You fight against the urge to close your legs, watching as Ryland turns to press a kiss to the inside of your knee. He hitches your right leg up onto his shoulder, curling his arm loosely under the limb and settling his hand on the outside of your hip. With his right hand he reaches up to push at the opposite knee, spreading you wider in front of him.
He looks at you with such unabashed hunger as he trails his hand up from your knee. Higher and higher it climbs, each brush of his fingertips sending sparks across your skin. They dance along your nerve endings and coalesce in your core until you're reduced to a sighing, shaking mess on your couch.
God, he hasn't even touched you properly yet.
Ryland glances up at you, and you can see the question in his eyes. You're nodding, maybe a little too eagerly if the way Ryland's lips twitch into a smirk is anything to go by.
Any hint of smugness in his face quickly evaporates as he runs his thumb across the seam of you and feels how wet you are. His eyes find your face and he's wearing that same expression from before, the one that tells you he can't quite believe this is happening. That you're this turned on, and all because of him.
You blush but steadfastly maintain eye contact, greedily drinking in the sight of him on his knees in front of you, his thumb stroking through your folds. He presses the tip of the digit against your entrance, just enough for you to feel the pressure of it, the promise of more to come lingering in his touch. Then he's moving his finger up and swiping it across your clit and you keen at the contact.
Ryland does it once, twice, a third time. He analyzes each reaction he manages to pull from you, memorizes the way you press yourself against the couch and tilt your hips up, savors the sound of you telling him, 'yes' and 'more' and 'right there, that's it'.
When he leans forward and replaces his thumb with his tongue, the first wet lick across your clit has your back arching.
"Ry-Ryland, shit," you stammer out, your hands tangling in his hair. Ryland groans and repeats the action, his fingertips tightening against your hip. A quavering moan is ripped from your throat as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. Galaxies explode behind your eyes, your body set to trembling as your pleasure builds. You want to close your legs around his head but with the position he's put you in all you can do is flex your thighs - one against his bicep, one against his shoulder - as he reaches up to stroke the fingers of his right hand against your cunt.
"So good," you hear him mumble against you, "always wanted to know how you taste."
You barely have time to process his words before one thick finger presses against you. You tilt your hips so Ryland can slide his index finger into you, and the sensation of him inside coupled with the steady flicking of his tongue and the gentle pressure of his lips is almost enough to make your brain short-circuit entirely. He adds another and he's so steady, so gentle, so attentive as he opens you up, taking note of every spot that has you whining with pleasure.
You peel your eyes open and look down at Ryland and it's all too much. The sight of him with his mouth on you. The way he's looking up at you through his stupidly sexy glasses. The wet sound of his lips and tongue working against your cunt. The steady pace of his fingers and the exquisite pressure as he curls them against that spongy spot inside of you that sends a jolt through your core and up your spine.
You fall apart on the edge of his tongue and the tips of his fingers and you're pretty sure you have some sort of break in the circuitry of your brain because the next thing you know Ryland is draped on top of you. His arms curl around your waist to pull you closer, his nose nuzzling against the side of your neck.
"Good?" He inquires against the curve of your jaw. You muster a nod and a breathless laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
"Yeah, good." Really, really good, you want to say but you don't because the last thing you want or need is Ryland's ego getting any bigger. You slip an arm from his shoulder and tilt his face up towards you, catching his lips in a slow, sensuous kiss.
You move your hands to the buckle of his belt and get to work loosening it. Ryland suckles at your lower lip as you flick open the button and draw his zipper down. You're too eager, too needy, to take it slow now, sliding your fingers under the waistband of his boxers and wrapping your fingers around his cock. He's thick and heavy against your palm, twitching in your fingers when your thumb flicks up to spread the pre-cum gathered at the head. Ryland groans against your neck.
There's a rustle of fabric and the soft clink of metal as his jeans and boxers are wrangled off and summarily tossed to the side.
"Move," you demand, tugging at his arms. Now it's your turn to guide Ryland back onto the couch. After a bit of awkward maneuvering to find a relatively comfortable position he settles back against the couch with you settled in his lap, his hands locked on your thighs. You take the opportunity to fix his glasses as you roll against him, grinding your bared core across the hard length of him.
You use your free hand to notch the head of his cock at your entrance. Ryland's hips twitch, but he doesn't push himself up into you yet.
"Please, can I-? Please," he shamelessly begs, eyes finding yours. Your only response is to sink down onto him and the stretch of your body as he fills you is immaculate, your lips parting on a loud moan.
Ryland, on the other hand, whimpers. The noise is spilling from the back of his throat before he can stop it. You look down at him and he's looking down at you, his eyes locked on where his cock is disappearing into you. You continue to bear down against him, taking him in and in and in until your hips are pressed flush.
You pause to catch your breath, your body still buzzing from your previous orgasm. Ryland throws his head back against the couch cushion as you set a leisurely tempo above him, grinding on the downstroke in a way that rubs your clit against his stomach and stokes the fire that burns beneath your skin.
"Fuck," he bites out, followed by your name. His left hand abandons its place on your hip and slides up the length of your body, ghosting across your breast and up your neck until he's gripping your chin in his hand just like he was the first time he kissed you. God, how long ago was that? You feel like it could be hours, even though you know it's not.
He pulls you down for a kiss that's less a kiss and more the two of you breathing and moaning and swearing into each other's mouths, his tongue stroking across your lower lip as you maintain your steady pace. His hold on your chin loosens and then his hand drags down to the base of your throat, pausing there. There's no pressure, no hint of a grip, just his hand settling there with his fingertips at your fluttering pulse point and the promise of something that could be - later, once you've settled down and had time to discuss such things.
He meets you thrust for thrust, the sound of his hips snapping against yours out of rhythm with the David Bowie song playing from the TV. With each upstroke the head of his cock brushes against your g-spot and the thread of pleasure spooled between your hips winds tighter and tighter.
"Fuck, 'm close," he mumbles into your neck. "Can I- inside- please?"
You're nodding before he even finishes asking. "Yeah, yes, please. Wanna feel you-" You gasp, your burgeoning orgasm sending ripples of pleasure through you that make your legs shake. Ryland reaches down and swipes his right thumb against your clit, and it's that little extra pressure you needed. You come apart in his lap, your legs trembling against his hips.
Ryland's hand slides from your throat to the back of your neck, pulling you forward so your bodies are flush as he latches his mouth onto yours, sucking on your lower lip. He's grasping at your thigh so hard you think you might see bruises blossoming there later.
He's nearing his peak, you can tell from the way his rhythm is growing more frantic. He manages a few more thrusts up into you before he uses the hand on your hip to pull you flush with him, grinding you down onto his cock as he spills inside you. You're vaguely aware that he's babbling in your ear, but you're too awash in the afterglow of your own orgasm to bother to make out what he's saying. You catch his lips so you can eagerly swallow the low, drawn-out moan that wrenches its way from his mouth and you think to yourself that you've never been so happy to receive a voicemail in your life.
After, when you've both cleaned up (and narrowly managed to avoid staining your couch), you slip back into your t-shirts and underwear and settle on the couch, carefully arranging your bodies and limbs until you find a decently comfortable position. You lay against his chest and watch as he rewinds the movie that both of you spent the past two hours completely disregarding. A smile curls at the corners of your mouth and you huff out a soft laugh, turning your head to press a kiss against his throat.
"What's so funny?" He asks, stroking his fingers along your shoulder.
"Nothing, I just can't believe how stupid we both are. We could've been doing this for years." You lift your head up to look at him.
Ryland snorts and presses a kiss to your forehead. "Yeah, well, I guess we both got kind of in our heads about it." His voice drops as he nuzzles his nose against your cheek and then murmurs into your ear, "At least now we can make up for lost time."
This earns him a half-hearted smack on his chest. He laughs and pulls you back against him, pressing play on the movie. And if you happen to only make it halfway through before you're tangled up in each other again - oh well.
I was scrolling on twitter and saw grocky x reader NSFW. Thought you should know the artist is @/sabbasarts and I hope you can make a oneshot out of that art. It’s just…amazing. I thought of you when I saw it
my darling soupie, you can call me whatever you’d like (but Tee is perfect!). let me be the first to say THANK YOU for bringing his lovely art to my attention. as an active grocky/grockdrian nsfw twitter art enjoyer, I am DEVOURING it and screaming at the fact that this is the first grocky x self-insert art I’ve seen and it’s hot as fuuuuuuuk.
here is the art for those interested! all credit for this idea goes to @/sabbasarts on twitter/x, and with their permission as well, here’s a little something! NSFW ART LINK AND NSFW DRABBLE TO MATCH. so much boob
Rocky had a thing for your tits.
As a being who’s only squishy bits were encased in a shell of hard rock and mostly untouchable, meeting a new species of alien where practically the whole body is soft and pliable, he was very interested in studying human anatomy.
It had started innocent enough. A touch to your arm. A poke on Grace’s calf. Then your faces- three-fingered claws brushing over your cheeks, gentle brushes over your eyelids. The curious ruffling of your hair.
The more time you spent together in space, the more comfortable you became around each other. You and Grace started to be less and less careful with sex, forgetting there was another person in the ship who could hear and ‘see’ everything you were doing to each other. Then Rocky asked to observe from up close. He then asked to study the parts of your bodies that were usually buried under clothing. All in the name of science of course.
It didn’t take long before the line between platonic and sexual attraction blurred and Rocky became an active participant in your sex lives.
You explored Rocky’s vent. Rocky wrapped his claws around Grace’s cock. It was fun and kept the three of you from boredom.
Your tits were something the Eridian was especially interested in. Grace didn’t have them, or at least not as big of ones, and they were soft. Globes of plush roundness that held no purpose (from what he understood) besides simply being. The only thing he did know for certain about them, was that they were sensitive and both you and Grace enjoyed having them touched.
The scientist would suck the flesh into his mouth sometimes and twirl his tongue around the little bulb in the center. It always pulled a melodic reaction from you and Rocky started to get a little jealous that he couldn’t do the same. Or so you’d all thought.
Once, as Grace languidly rutted into your sex as a nice ‘good morning’ treat, Rocky was quick to clamor his way onto Grace’s sleeping pod to stand next to you.
“Rocky join?”
Grace’s hips slowed to a stop, pelvis pressed tightly to yours and cock reaching a depth he hadn’t been before. Your back arched an inch off the bed with a soft groan. Grace responded for the both of you.
“Sure, Rock. Do you want to take over here or use her mouth-“
“No, Rocky want these.”
You watched with hooded eyes as the Eridian stepped over you and brought his already leaking ventral seam right above your chest. Swallowing a mouthful of saliva, you questioned him.
“And what, exactly, are you planning on doing with them?”
“Suck them, statement. Like Grace does.”
Both you and Grace blinked in surprise. The scientist spoke up first.
“But… you don’t have a mouth?”
“Try anyway.”
This was new. But, whatever. Wouldn’t hurt to let him give it a go.
With a shrug, Grace began his thrusts between your legs again, picking up his previous casual pace to slowly tug on that string in your gut.
Rocky didn’t immediately try his hand at sucking your tits- he started by just feeling them, pushing and pulling the soft flesh in his claws. He did this often, kneading them much like a cat would. Rocky was always gentle too, never pressing too hard. You moaned at his touch and mewled when they found your nipples.
The engineer toyed with the buds for a while, pinching them, tugging them, until they peaked in the recycled ship air.
With Grace in your pussy and Rocky worshipping your breasts with his hands, it was hard to focus. When something hot and damp enveloped one of your tits, your attention snapped downwards.
Rocky’s ventral seam had opened, and he’d lowered himself to press the globe of flesh into the opening.
It was an odd feeling. It had the similar feel of a mouth but bigger. Grace could only hold so much of your breast in his mouth at once- Rocky held three times that. Too bad Rocky couldn’t suck on them, that would be-
The Eridian’s fleshy walls began moving in a undulating motion, pulling your flesh and for all intents and purposes, ‘sucking’ your tit. And it felt amazing.
Each draw of his walls against your nipple felt stronger, like the vacuum of suction was increasing. Rocky purred when he realized his hypothesis was correct! He could do what Grace did with his mouth. And from the way you were arching into him, he was doing it even better than Grace!
“R-Rock!” You moaned. Rocky didn’t leave your other breast to sit neglected either, claw coming to rest on it and feel it’s weight, twiddling the bud there between his digits.
Grace was stunned at what he was witnessing- so much so, his thrusts stilled again. Rocky didn’t have a mouth, yet he was sure making it look like he did. The suction his body was creating, as well as the metallic fluid beginning to drool over your breast, was creating an obscenely wet noise that had the scientist harder than he had already been before.
He had meant to wake you up with lazy morning sex, but seeing this had his heart racing. It was hot as fudge.
Grace’s cock jumped against your walls and you felt the man grip at your thighs. You couldn’t see him, since Rocky was obscuring your view, but you did hear his groans. You also felt his tip begin to brutalize a spot deep in your cunt that had you seeing stars.
With an Eridian on your chest and a Greek God-esque teacher kneeling between your legs, it was impossible to keep your noises contained. Rocky’s carapace was tough under your arms when you moved to grab at him for some kind of physical anchor- a complete contrast to the softness he held. He leant into your touch with a churr of happiness, body vibrating as he spoke down to you.
“So soft! Feels good, question?” When you didn’t answer him, he squeezed at your breast a little firmer. “I say, feels good, question?”
“Y-Yes, Rock. Yes! It feels g-good.”
“Rocky try something else.”
Just like that, the suction around your tit released and Rocky’s vent was gone. You whimpered from the loss of contact and the cool air suddenly blasting your damp skin where Rocky’s arousal was spread. Your disappointment didn’t last long.
Rocky carefully grabbed both of your tits and squeezed them together just enough that your nipples were somewhat near each other- and dropped his body down over top of them.
When he started sucking both of your nipples with his walls, you jumped in his hold. Grace struggled to keep your hips pinned to the bed and thought the whole scene was so hot he nearly came right then. He held himself back though, eyes beginning to tear up. Grace never had an easy time edging himself- he tended to get worked up to a overstimulated frenzy when he did.
The room was filled with noise. You made a mental note to cut this out of the ship’s surveillance memory. You didn’t need this to be broadcasted to whatever was left of humanity when you sent the Beetles back with all of the Hail Mary’s data.
You were moaning without abandon, Grace was whimpering, Rocky was humming. The wet slurps from the alien and the plaps from Grace’s skin against yours was music to your ears.
Gathering Rocky as close to your chest as you could, you wailed when a free clawed hand brushed over your pubis and began massaging your clit.
“Grace not doing a good job.”
The scientist didn’t even have it in him to argue, sucking a breath through his teeth and bruising your thighs with his fingers.
Grace came first- a garbled moan his only warning as he shot a load deep into your pussy. All thrusts afterwards were sloppy and weak as his high slipped away. With Rocky’s help and a final firm tug against your tits, you came all over his fingers. The Eridian held your body while your vision cleared, kneading again at your breasts like a kitten.
“(Y/n) ok?”
You didn’t respond, just nodded against his carapace and tucking your face against the rough surface. Grace wasn’t ignored either, staying seated where he was as you wrapped your legs tightly around his hips and squeezing in thanks.
Your breasts were slathered in silver and the cum dribbling out of you dripped to wet the sheets, but you didn’t care. You wanted nothing more than to sit there for the rest of the day in their embrace.
kissing him silly and moaning in his mouth, and then you’ve got a gun to his stomach and are asking him for info
He whines against your mouth
“Baby/Sweetheart, you’re killin’ me”
“Not yet cowboy. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll give you everything you want…” you dig the gun deeper “and more”
He folds and it’s the hottest sex ever. Holly is at Jessica’s house or something. Next day he comes to Healy’s covered in hickies and he’s like “…..so…I’ve got some good news and bad news”
anon your mind is incredible. 18+, gn!reader x Holland March.
Healy pinches the bridge of his nose. He does that a lot ever since he started working with Holland March. So often, in fact, that Holland is sure he can see little divots forming where the tips of his fingers come to lie.
“So you let them get away?”
“I didn’t let them,” Holland protests. Healy looks him up at down, eyes fixated on the collar of bruises Holland now sports where you bit your smile into the skin of his neck over and over.
"What happened then, go on."
"So, I got past security like it was nothing..."
"Sure."
A lie Healy does not believe. Holland hadn't convined the burly men on the door to let him through when he inisisted he was on the guest list for the exclusive club, so he had to climb through an open window at the back. If anyone sees it he'll pretend the bruise on his hip came from you, and not because he's getting kinda too old to be climbing up drainpipes any more.
"I picked the lock to get into the office."
Closer to the truth, but still not quite. It was unlocked, which is kind of the same thing.
"And then..."
And then.
And then he was rifling through papers in drawers, cursing the fact that he hadn't written down the specific file he was looking for, and suddenly there was a gun pressed into the small of his back and he was semi-hard (something he will have to examine about himself in depth in the future). Lips at his ear, a whispered grin as you spoke.
"Holland March? Your illustration doesn't do you justice."
Your voice sent an electric current down his spine. He could practically feel the shape of your cupid's bow at his helix.
He said your name with a whispered reluctance, and you confirmed his guess with a laugh. He was able to crane his neck just enough to get a glimpse at you and saw that the ad you'd taken out in the paper did do you justice: all mysterious eyes and paisley scarf tied around your neck.
"Any chance you wanna work together on this? You seem like a reasonable person, a professional," he tried, but there was that laugh again, and your gun dug deeper, and his cock got stiffer.
"Nice try, cowboy. Hand 'em over."
He passed the files back to you with a groan, and you tucked them away someplace he didn't get to notice.
He thought that would be it. But then the barrel of your gun started, well, for want of a better term, caressing him, and he knew in that moment he'd do whatever you wanted him to.
"Sweetheart, you're killing me..."
"Not yet I'm not, handsome."
And then, well, then he'd fucked you over the desk.
He knows his eyes go glassy in front of Healy as he recalls the warmth of you, the way he slipped so easily inside as he covered your body with his. You'd bent over the very desk you were both casing, allowing his chest to press against your back so you could feel the muscles in his stomach work as he rutted against you... but you'd held his tie in a vice-grip, like it was a fucking leash, controlling his every movement...
When you told him to bark like a dog when he came he had, much to both his shame and absolute ecstasy.
"So you lost the files and jizzed all over the scene," Healy sighs.
"That's about the size of it."
Healy grabs his coat.
"Where are we going?" asks Holland, because it is, it's always we, never just Jackson or Holland nowadays.
"We're going to your fuck buddy's office to take them back."
At that thought of running into you again, Holland has to hide the actual skip in his step.
ryland who eats you out and edges you until you're shaking. and then when you finally think he's going to fuck you, he pushes in only to the tip of his cock and jerks off into you. what's wrong, baby? you said you wanted him to use you, those were your exact words. then it shouldn't matter how, right? just lie still. don't be a brat. you're his favorite place to cum, you know.
HCs: Ryland Grace w a s/o with lower back pain, he decides to give her a lotioned back massage only to find out it’s a huge erogenous zone for her…
as a generously betitted warrior, i, too, viscerally understand the lower back pain struggle and am all for this.
see, he really did mean for that massage to stay completely innocent. nothing more than a little treat for you after a long day. with the way he sits sometimes, it's really no wonder he sympathizes. this is a backpain4backpain relationship.
he prepared for this, got some nice body lotion, did his research, watched some youtube videos. except, he didn't expect you to start making those sounds. maybe a blissful sigh or a soft groan of contentment here and there, but not this. you sound downright pornographic. you're flushed, and your brow is drawn in a way he has learned to associate with a very different kind of activity.
mind you, you didn't quite expect this either. you've always liked backrubs, sure, and you enjoy the feeling of his hand on the small of your back. but now his fingers are digging into your muscles, working out the tension, and fuck, it feels like heaven. there's not just the relief of the knots of tightness in your back finally dissolving, there's something else, too. his hands are large and warm and so firm, and the heat and pressure of their touch settles low in your belly, pulsing wantonly.
"probably have an erogenous zone here," ryland explains, defaulting into teaching mode in a plea for composure. still, he's stammering a bit, flustered by the sounds you're making and the way your hips are twitching against the bed like you're trying not to grind against the mattress. "interesting stuff, erogenous zones. you've got primary ones, those are the, you know, obvious ones. and secondary ones, like your back -- bit more variety here. we don't fully understand those yet. some people think it comes down to the insula, others to the somatosensory cortex. i mean, i'm not-- not a neuroscientist, so i wouldn't know that much, not enough to have my own opinion, but. uhm. always been a hands-on learner and all that. pun, uh, pun intended."
you roll your eyes, but you also giggle, and that giggle breaks on a moan when he presses into your back again. when you beg him to go even lower, lower, until his hands slide down your ass and between your thighs, ryland is all too happy to stop lecturing and oblige you.
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description: ryland gets off to thoughts of you and accidentally leaves you a spicy voicemail while he's at it.
pairing: ryland grace x f!reader
rating: explicit (18+, mdni)
tags: pining, requited unrequited love, friends-to-lovers, male masturbation, voice kink i guess?
word count: 1,949
notes: a little treat before the last part drops. "the incident" from ryland's pov. this got longer than i thought it would be (and i probably could have kept going but i decided enough was enough)
tag list: @k3nxk3n, @jake-sullys-whore, @witheringwidgetwrites
'That's enough of that,' Ryland thinks as he slams his Biochemistry book shut and shoves it across the worn wood of his tiny kitchen table. Five hours spent studying seems adequate for a Friday. Besides, he has to get ready for his weekly movie night with you.
Ryland shuffles into his bedroom throws himself onto his bed. He pulls out his phone, squinting against the glare the evening sun is casting on his screen through the window behind him. He pulls up your contact page and hits the call button, bringing the device to his ear. It rings and rings with no answer. You're probably driving home from work. Ryland tries to contain his disappointment when you don't pick up. After a pause, your voicemail message begins to play.
Ryland sucks in a soft breath as your voice meets his ear. There's nothing special about the way you're talking. The words you're saying are entirely innocent. But there's something about your voice, a quality he can't quite name, that always gets to him. The pitch of it resonates through him, fills him with wanting, makes his skin and his bones and his muscles and every microscopic nerve ending feel like they've been set alight.
It's… really a problem, honestly, because he's spent one too many study sessions at the library half-hard in his jeans while he listens to you ramble on about your latest paper or how the cafeteria should really consider adding more gluten free options to the menu. He'd rush home afterwards and fling himself onto his bed and get himself off and wonder when exactly he became so pathetically love-sick that even hearing you talk about something as mundane as gluten-free toast became enough to get him wound up.
As it is, Ryland manages to keep his composure as your voicemail wraps up, the monotonous beep signalling him to start his message.
"Pick up, nerd," he demands. Silence is his only answer. Ryland scoffs and throws his head back dramatically against his pillow. "Ugh, fine," he pouts, "I'll text you instead."
Ryland squints against the glare on his screen to find the end call button and then pulls up his messaging app.
He types out a text - a text which, after three and a half years, feels like it would be unnecessary, but at this point it's basically tradition and so he keeps doing it - and hits send.
He tosses his phone next to his pillow without bothering to lock it.
His thoughts drift back to the sound of your voice in his ear. He's already half hard from listening to you talk for what amounts to a measly seven seconds. Pathetic, he knows, but he can't bring himself to care anymore. He's been gone for you for a long time and he's mature enough to admit it.
It's easy to conjure a fantasy of you as he settles his hand over the growing bulge in his jeans and gives himself a squeeze. He pictures you on top of him, your legs bracketing his hips, your hands tangled in his hair so you can tilt his head to the side and murmur into his ear about how badly you want him inside you. He swallows the groan that's lingering on the back of his tongue and strokes his hand firmly over the front of his jeans once, then twice, coaxing himself to hardness.
Ryland sighs - a soft, needy sound - and reaches both hands to fumble clumsily with his belt buckle. It comes loose with a clink, followed swiftly by the button and zipper. He pushes his boxers down just enough to free his cock.
Ryland wraps a hand around himself. Not stroking, not yet. Just holding, his thumb swiping over the head, hips twitching as he smears pre-cum across the sensitive glans.
"Fu-uck," he groans into the quiet of his room when the pad of his finger slides across the sensitive spot on the underside, hips jerking.
He thinks of you. He always does, even when he tries not to. It's been this way for three years now. He felt guilty about it at first - still does, sometimes - but it's like his thoughts of you carry their own gravity and he's helpless to resist their pull. What's the harm, he thinks, of letting himself succumb to the inexplicable pull of you? He would never tell, you would never ask, and you two would continue to be great friends and nothing more.
Ryland shifts his hips up, rutting his cock through his curled fingers. Another sigh breezes past his lips, and it sounds a lot like your name. He wants to draw this out so badly, but he knows he can't, so he lets his imagination weave him a lovely little fantasy as he wraps his hand more firmly around his aching member and gives himself a slow stroke. He pictures you as he did moments ago: straddling him, bare exept for your bra and underwear.
The fingers of his free hand twitch against the bedsheet as he imagines himself reaching up to pull your panties aside so fantasy-you, already wet and wanting, can sink down onto him.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans out to the version of you in his head that's currently riding him, your hips rolling against his. Fantasy-you coos praise in his ear, low and intimiate intonations about how good he feels inside you and how long you've wanted him, too. Ryland increases the pace of his hand to keep time with the tempo of fantasy-you's hips. The sound of his hand working over his pre-cum slicked cock is amplified in the quiet of his bedroom, underscored by the litany of gasps and moans that spill from his lips.
Ryland feels his orgasm approach as his fantasy reaches its pinnacle. "Shit-" he bites out, your name in his mouth. He doesn't even know how long it's been since he started, lost as he is to the vision playing out behind his closed eyes. In his mind you're writhing and whining as you approach your own apex, your moans muffled into his shoulder.
He tightens his grip, twists his wrist on the upstroke, and he's gone. He barely manages to lift his shirt up in time before he's coming, painting his stomach in streaks of milky white, his back arching off the mattress with the force of his orgasm.
"Fuckfuckfuck, god, I'm coming, I'm coming-" the words taper out into a loud moan, and Ryland has never been more grateful that his bedroom is on the corner of the building so his neighbors can't hear him.
Ryland pants as aftershocks dance along the column of his spine. The overwhelming tide of his pleasure has begun to recede, leaving him to bathe in its warm afterglow. He's sure he looks a mess - pants yanked open, shirt rutted up, his stomach covered in cum and his softening cock still twitching against his stomach.
After several long moments spent catching his breath, Ryland props himself up on his elbow and reaches for the tissues on his nightstand to clean himself up. He'll do a more thorough wipe-down before he leaves, but for now the tissues will suffice. His eyes land on his phone.
Weird, he thinks - his screen is still on. Why would-
Oh.
Oh no.
No no no no no.
Ryland's eyes flick to the top of the screen. There, in incriminating little numbers with a damning telephone symbol next to them, is the active call notification. It reads 11:03. Ryland holds his breath as he rushes to pull up the call screen and thinks he might crack his phone with how hard his thumb smashes the end call button.
Ryland drops onto his back and stares in horror at the stark weight ceiling above him, his phone a weight on his chest that does little to anchor him as his thoughts begin to spiral. How the fuck had he not realized he'd failed to hang up?
He mulls over his options as his eyes trace over the thin cracks that spiderweb across the plaster. Should he text you back and tell you to ignore it? No, knowing you that would just make you curious and you'd listen to it anyway. You'd probably assume it was something embarrassing you could use to tease him, as you were wont to do on a daily basis. And you'd be right, it was the most embarrassing fucking thing he'd ever had happen in his life.
Maybe he could hope you didn't hear it, then slyly delete it from your phone when you weren't looking. He knew your pass code, after all. It'd be easy. But what if you caught him and asked what he was doing? How would he possibly explain himself? 'Yeah, sorry, I accidentally left you a voicemail earlier of me masturbating so I'm just deleting it real quick, no big deal.'
So that really only left two feasible options for him: come clean about it and hope you didn't kick him swiftly from your apartment and possibly your life, or ignore it and pray that you did too. Or that, at the very least, if it did get brought up, that you'd be able to laugh it off with him.
Alternatively, he could pretend he did it on purpose. No, that's weird as fuck. Even weirder than accidentally doing it. He immediately scraps the idea.
In the end Ryland goes for Option B: pretend it didn't happen. That was a totally adequate, totally foolproof plan, right?
His phone buzzes atop his chest, and his spiraling thoughts momentarily suspended in their downward trajectory. Ryland jumps and picks it up with shaking hands. It's a message from you: yep, see you at 7.
He glances at the corner of the screen. He has to leave for your apartment soon. It's a quick walk - only fifteen minutes or so. But now he's reconsidering even going.
He could cancel. He knows he could, and if he were smart he would (then again, if he were smart, he wouldn't have left that voicemail in the first place), but the thought of not seeing you wrenches at something inside of him, a sharp and ugly tug that he can't ignore. You've both been so busy this semester with your respective jobs and projects that you'd barely had time to see one another, but you've never missed a movie night together. Time together is becoming an increasingly precious commodity, and Ryland intends to invest in every single second he possibly can.
The thought that he might have fucked up so monumentally that tonight might be the last night he ever finds himself welcomed into your apartment sits heavily in the back of his mind.
Maybe he could call you. That might delay you from opening your voicemail, if you haven't already. He could chat with you about your Senior Seminar class and how you thought you'd do at next week's mid-semester check in with the professor. He'd keep you talking until he got to your door, and then he'd have two and a half hours to figure out how he was going to approach every possible scenario that his stupid-ass mistake might lead to and how to repair what will inevitably be a very awkward blow to your relationship.
Ryland's pretty sure he's fucked no matter what he does. He might as well carry on and hope for the best. He tries to ignore the way his hands continue to tremble and sweat as he changes into a fresh set of clothes, gathers up his phone and keys, and steps out the door to start the walk to your apartment.
Tags: Doctor/Patient, Pelvic Massage, Hand & Finger Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Penis In Vagina Sex, Unsafe Sex, Medical Kink, Post-Canon, Healing Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Medical Jargon, Tragic Backstory, Hopeful Ending, Smoking, Female Reader-Insert, Infidelity, Fingers in Mouth, Quiet Sex, Masturbation, References to Illness, Past Violence, Mouth Kink, Come Swallowing, The Shitty Husband Dies, Wakes & Funerals, Pining, Matchmaking, Sharing Clothes, Mention of Purging, Pillow Talk, Marriage Proposal, Happy Ending
Words: 10,777 (total words: 20,809)
Chapter: 3/3 (read chapter 1 | 2)
read chapter 3 on ao3 here (or below the cut) and the full story here
Just as Patrick promised, his visits are frequent over the following days. Due to your husband’s steadily declining health, however, they do not take the shape either of you expected.
He is actively dying, Patrick shares in the brief moments he is allowed to address you. Impending death, it turns out, requires thorough and careful attention, and so you must cling to the one brief but intoxicating kiss Patrick is able to steal from you over the course of these long, tense days.
You're unready for the chaos, and for Patrick's focus to be wholly devoted to the man you've come to despise most. Catching glimpses of him at work is a thrill, though it's hardly enough to satisfy your longing when you've had much more pleasurable and engaging activities in mind. Perhaps your preparations have not been so complete as you'd thought.
It's all a bit easier to endure knowing that very soon, you'll be returning to the office in Patrick's beautiful flat for your second appointment with him, where you'll have all of the privacy in the world to indulge in every desire with him, free from the prying eyes and listening ears of your household. You anticipate this without a shred of guilt, knowing the good doctor has the power to heal you the whole of you—mind, body, and spirit.
So, when your mother-in-law raps, urgent and uneven, upon the door of your bedchamber early the morning of this next session, dread fills you right to the marrow. You know he's gone.
This is what you wanted, isn't it? But why has it had to happen just now?
You open your door for her, seeing the grief writ upon her face in her ruddy, tear-streaked cheeks and downturned, quivering grimace, and as she sobs, there's no doubting what has happened. Her sorrow is so forceful that you, too, find yourself weeping for her loss, your own relief entirely swept aside for the moment. For the very first time, you embrace her thin, frail figure.
You half-expect her to push you away, to attempt to maintain some sense of propriety, but it's evident she needs this. Perhaps you do as well. Together, you cry, and squeeze, and whisper cooed reassurances. Though you do not share the cause of her grief, you can't help but commiserate deeply.
It's the closest you've ever been with her. The catharsis is immense. Perhaps you do have a friend in this world beyond the handsome doctor who’s reignited your soul and reminded you what joy could look like.
Maybe it's foolish, but you voice this sentiment.
“I am so sorry for your loss, Mutter,” you whisper in your country's tongue. “I, too, am aching. But we have each other now, at the very least.”
You hope this is not awkward. You've never addressed your Schwiegermutter directly before, and are not sure if Mutter is overly familiar, given the strain and distance of your connection.
“Please, daughter,” she answers, your heart feeling tighter even as it lightens. “Please call me Silvestrine. Or even Mama. Your words soothe me.”
“Yes, Mama.” You smile, even as more tears fall. It's been so long since you addressed your own Mama that the name aches even as it warms you.
Her son would have never allowed this when he was alive. In an instant, you recognise the intentional wedge he drove between you, keeping you, who lost your mother in youth, and she, who never bore a daughter, from ever creating a sense of kinship.
Once you've both calmed somewhat, the real work begins. It comes as a relief that Silvestrine is experienced in such matters. She sends out the servants to notify the relevant parties and fetch the needed help.
Meanwhile, the two of you sit and wait, your roles in society immutably altered for the next year, or more, as you enter deep mourning.
The first to arrive is a doctor to issue the death certificate. You observe him from your distance before he disappears into your late husband’s bedroom while wishing things were different—that it could be Patrick, come to see to the man now he was gone, so he could then come to see you—but he is not licenced here to handle this delicate issue.
Next come the dressmaker and milliner, who in stark contrast, come directly to find you and Silvestrine. They bring with them chests of dresses and bolts of fabrics and veils, all in a stark, stifling black you dread the thought of wearing. Only one day would be bad enough. You're to be seen in them for a year, at the very least.
And worse, despite the wealth of choice in fabrics—you’re drawn to the comfortable simplicity of the cottons and wools—the dressmaker will not accept your investment in anything but the bombasine. She says this heavy, silky matte fabric is the proper symbol of grief for a woman of your status, with its dull texture and lack of shine, and that nothing less will do.
It takes a long while for you to be fitted and for the alterations to be made. Come noon, the air is filled with the musical, clanging bells of the nearby church. They toll three times in your husband’s honour, and then three more, and three more. That goes on for an hour, and you're surprised at the sense of reassurance that fills your heart, renewing your courage, even as the dressmaker frets and chides you for not standing perfectly still. Others will know of the death by now. That makes it real. Means that, little by little, you're moving forward.
Despite your protestations, you're coerced into purchasing a few of these dresses, paired with black crape weeper veils that entirely obscure your face. On one hand, you are grateful you'll be masked, and free from feigning some deep emotion on your husband's behalf. On the other, you find the stiff, textured fabric uncomfortable after just moments of wear, and it feels purposefully designed to make everyday matters more challenging than they already are for a grieving widow.
Then, there's the cost. Silvestrine tells you not to concern yourself, that she is ready to pay any price related to mourning dress, but the expense still pains you. The finances are another aspect of your marriage you've never been allowed to oversee.
You know you're entitled, at least, to certain privileges under the law. You hold firmly to that knowledge, understanding this—a place to live, and a meager rental income—may be all you have.
You and Silvestrine secret yourselves away in your ugly new gowns as the commotion continues downstairs, with servants and clergymen organising the parlour for the wake that will begin the following morning, and stretch on for two days. You're not to mingle with the visitors when they come, as new widows and the mothers of the deceased are expected to be overly emotional, and to show unbecoming feeling would be a disgrace.
You also find yourself surprised there is no succinct German compound word for Silvestrine’s position—a mother who's lost her child. Now more than ever, she deserves a title befitting her poise and bravery, in spite of her loss.
It's strange to imagine that the coffin there houses the body of the man who kept you so unhappy for such a time. The lid remains closed, per tradition, which is a small blessing. No acquaintance should have to lay eyes upon his bloating, discoloured corpse. No one who held any admiration for him should have their memory tainted with the truth of his transformed visage.
And Silvestrine, it turns out, does not want to speak of her son. Perhaps the wound of his loss remains too fresh.
She shows a genuine curiosity about you, and you speak conversationally for the first time. Mostly, she's curious about your mother, and the memories of her you hold most dear. She's gentle and contemplative as you speak, and you find any caution you held evaporating as you cry and giggle and share stories you never have before, your heart bared fully.
___
The wake leaves you feeling like a prisoner in your own home, and though she won't admit it, it seems Silvestrine feels the same.
Downstairs, the attendants have been up since before dawn preparing feasts of sausage, potato, and cabbage for his visitors. You keep your distance but maintain a watchful eye over the proceedings. Perhaps, among the quietly murmuring acquaintances and colleagues arrived to pay their respects—some familiar, many more not—you might spy Patrick.
As the hours pass and he does not appear, your disappointment grows.
While you prefer the seclusion to being subject to a barrage of false, unwarranted sympathies, your home feels so changed by these recent events. It's bustling with too much activity, every window flung open so that your husband’s soul does not become trapped forever within its walls.
Similarly, every mirror in every room is concealed under black crape—another preventative measure against a perpetually caged soul. You, briefly, consider uncovering one, as eternal imprisonment would serve him right, but are too troubled by the prospect of his haunting to entertain the notion any further.
Each clock has also been stopped at the time of the discovery of his body. It's maddening not to know the current hour, making you feel stuck entirely out of time, trapped in a kind of limbo.
And it feels strange that at a time in your life that should be rife with challenging emotions, you hardly feel anything at all. It seems all you're capable of is to think, think, think.
Patrick should be here, you think aloud, again and again, despite every law of propriety forbidding him there with you. Only the merciful setting of the sun, and the quieting of the gathering downstairs, can convince you those hours have ticked by.
The days pass this way, your only solace your conversations with Silvestrine. They continue to be more healing, more revitalising, than you would ever have anticipated, but you cannot trust her with the one subject you yearn to discuss most—matters of the heart. The pining slows the time to a crawl, so the days appear to stretch on, and you know not when you'll have the pleasure of gazing upon Patrick again, much less enjoying his company in all the other ways he's demonstrated it can be enjoyed.
Church bells continue to signal the funerary process. On the second day of the wake, three tolls reveal his grave has been dug. The following day—the day of his funeral procession parading through the town—the bells chime for nearly the length of the ceremony.
You do not attend the funeral of your husband, of course. It's not expected of you. Neither does Silvestrine, for the same reason you were unwelcome during the wake. Public emotion is among the most shameful of acts. How dare anyone inflict humiliation upon the family with an outburst of emotion at the loss of a loved one?
It's the ultimate irony—that you're obligated to visibly mourn this death for a long while, and devote yourself completely to serving his memory, but that true feeling is viewed as poison to this process. Even under a stifling veil, your passion threatens to derail the stiff, unfeeling flow of society.
And the reality is that you'd have no difficulty containing yourself, but you simply would not want to be part of the ceremony. You have no wishes to honour his life.
And no desire to observe, but Silvestrine watches what she can of the funeral from a window, the procession sombre yet elaborate, involving more than one horse-drawn carriage on a winding, lengthy route through the town. You can't imagine the cost of such a display, and you wonder how much poorer you are for it, but are relieved at least to have your home empty of strangers.
Once the parade and the tolling bells conclude, your home can finally begin to look like itself again. The coffin, of course, has been removed, and all of the serving tables with their white tablecloths and pewter trays and platters all returned to their rightful places out of sight. Most importantly, the clocks resume, the windows are shut, and the mirrors are uncovered to shine again. The possibility of his soul here no longer lingers, lifting a heavy weight from yours.
That same evening, Silvestrine calls for you to join her in the study for a discussion. She produces a thick stack of folded papers, still enclosed by a red wax seal with some kind of legal coat of arms. She explains that it is her son’s last will and testament, recently probated and delivered by courier. She admits she knows not what it may reveal, but that she'd like to go through it together with you.
Her hands tremble as she cracks the wax and unfolds the many pages included therein, some in your dead husband’s hand on brown parchment, others returned on official stationery in the looping, perfect lettering of a solicitor in response.
You have certain expectations going into this process, so as you sit side-by-side in silence, reading the deceased’s words first, you're astounded at what you find.
Your eyes fill hot with fearful tears reading his letter, which insists you be disinherited, enquiring about which statutes can be referenced to demonstrate you have not performed your wifely duties in bearing him an heir. He finds it particularly egregious you've given him no son, suggesting an even greater affront deserves a punishment of some sort.
It's a struggle to read on, but Silvestrine holds you tight, whispering sweet words of support as she forces you to look at the response letter stating that this is impossible—that the legal code protects you as a spouse and nothing he could have said or done would have kept your dower from you, so long as you remained lawfully wed. Despite his wishes, and his attempts to circumvent the law, you are entitled to a statutory reserve share of the estate.
For a brief moment, you speculate. Had he ever contemplated divorce? It wouldn't have been possible without proof of adultery, and technically, you'd been completely faithful to him up until two weeks prior. You're nearly convinced it was he who drove you purposefully into Patrick's arms—before recognising the man was far too oblivious and buffoonish to ever conjure such a scheme.
The relief takes longer to settle in, bringing along with it more tears. It means you haven't been stripped of the things you'd prepared to depend upon.
He was 15 years your senior, so you'd always anticipated this day would come—if not so soon—and when it did, you'd be assigned a one-third interest in his real estate. It comes with some financial security, through tenant income, and ensures you still have a place to live, even if you have not inherited the land itself beneath the real estate.
He has left nothing else to you in the will. You cannot say you are surprised. Normally, the land title would have passed directly to his heir. Instead, his will specifically leaves absolutely everything else to Silvestrine. You're her tenant now.
She sighs deeply at this realisation as you wipe away what remains of your tears.
“If he'd been successful in removing you,” she whispers, “I would have ensured you were not left wanting, or shown out of your own home. I hope I've not given you that impression.”
“Thank you,” you say. “I fear he prevented me from developing any strong impression of you. I regret not coming to truly know you earlier.”
“You are not to blame, daughter,” she says. “Nor am I. The fault rests solely with him. I hope that we can be family, in spite of his best efforts. As we mourn, we must also look forward, yes?”
“I'd like that very much.”
She inhales, thin and shaky, and you take her hand. A sense of stifling guilt fills you for believing for so long that you were the only one living in a prison of your husband's devising. She was just as trapped, in her own way, by expectation within and without the household.
“Did my son ever speak to you of Conrad?” she wonders.
You acknowledge you know this was the same of his father—her husband—but that he never mentioned him.
“It is a shame he could not establish a greater influence before his own untimely passing,” she says. “He was a truly great man. My only love. Unfortunately, our child took after neither one of us, it seems.”
An, “Oh?” is all you can manage, curious but too polite to prod further.
“We could never tell the boy the truth, of course. That Conrad, a wealthy landowner and I, a lowly commoner, had concealed our left-handed marriage. Had he not stolen a false identity for me, and falsified my records, the child would not have inherited his privileges. It was such a risk Conrad was eager to take on my behalf. It would have destroyed the boy's confidence, his very sense of self, to know it. It's ironic, perhaps, that he became such a pompous elitist.”
You don't know what to say. Even now, you fear speaking unkindly of him to his mother.
“I cared for my son, as a mother must, but I do find his absence to be something of a relief,” she admits. “And I still mourn the loss of my doting husband, but I imagine it is a different kind of tragedy altogether to lose a man who never showered you with the proper devotion.”
“It was a lonely marriage,” you concede. “My feelings now are… perplexing.”
“I imagine they must be. And I must be honest—while I struggled with missing Conrad, I enjoyed a freedom after his death like I never had before. Once the mourning period was over, of course, I could do what I wished with my money. Go as I pleased. Conduct business. I was no longer his property. I hope you come to recognise the same and enjoy those freedoms yourself.”
“Thank you, Mama,” you say, gracious. “I intend to do just that. Although, I do anticipate this year of mourning to be most vexing.” “We will need to keep ourselves occupied then. I've thought about this quite extensively, and I believe it may be in our best interests to live more simply.”
“What, precisely, would that entail?” you ask.
She hesitates before she answers.
“Dismissing the servants,” she finally says, in a rush, as if worried you'll scold her. “They're mostly for show, anyhow, and there will be no need to continue entertaining guests. We can take up the tidying and the cooking. Relearn to look after ourselves. It would be good activity for us, I think. Keep us feeling industrious and useful, while saving money. And the space is so big we could… well, never mind about that.”
While the idea of cleaning the big house doesn't make you jump with joy, you can't fault her logic. It will be good to keep busy, to feel like your work matters, without bleeding your accounts dry in the process.
“Yes, I'm very amenable to that,” you answer.
___
In the morning, you must fulfill your singular public duty as a widow in deep mourning—attending church. This unavoidable social obligation requires multiple appearances per week, but at the very least, your stiff black veil gives you the opportunity to close your eyes and pretend you're elsewhere, or even dream, if you dare it. The supposition stings even more knowing that a tenth of your income will have to go to the church, when religion has never done you any good.
After your hours listening to droning bible readings, at last it's time to return home. One of the servants is waiting for Silvestrine to return to announce the delivery of a letter, and your heart leaps, pounding aggressively, once you realise it's come from Patrick.
She opens the letter with curiosity and reads it aloud in his formal, elegant German. None of what he's written is explicit or romantic, of course, but you feel the affection bursting in every careful pen stroke.
Frau,
I cannot express my deepest sorrow at hearing of your family's loss. You and your daughter-in-law have been foremost in my thoughts and prayers, and I hope that any pains, both of the flesh and the heart, are quickly soothed.
I also understand why she cannot continue her visits to my practice, though I fear for her health and mental well-being if her underlying issues remain unaddressed. If it is not untoward, I would hope to continue my house calls to attend to the family and see that you are both as well as possible during this difficult time.
With the greatest devotion,
Patrick Sumner
“That Sumner is such a lovely and thoughtful young man,” Silvestrine says. “Yes, I think we should call upon him to visit soon. Unless you have any objections, daughter?”
“No,” you answer, concealing your eagerness. It would not do to convey just how desperate you are to have him. “I think that would be very beneficial for the both of us.”
___
Next morning, you are surprised at the echoing emptiness of the house, not a maid or attendant to be seen as you make your way downstairs into the foyer. The home is silent except for some light chatter coming from the scullery. Inside, Silvestrine and a single housekeeper are hard at work grating potatoes.
“You're awake, daughter,” says Silvestrine, her voice rich and full of warmth. “I've let most of the servants out. Would you like to prepare the Kartoffelpuffer with us?”
“I'd like to try,” you answer.
You've never helped prepare a meal of any sort, but you're not unwilling to learn. In contrast your mother-in-law, you realise, is not at all inexperienced. She moves as if she's been awaiting this opportunity for years.
It seems you've already missed the hard work of peeling the potatoes, but you're out of your element as you stand over the grating device, like a miniature table with a sharp network of lattices as the surface, to do the coarse shredding. It's not fast or elegant work, as Silvestrine made it seem, but she does not complain about your performance as you take the work off her increasingly arthritic hands.
She praises your help once the potatoes are ready, placing them in a cheesecloth and tightly wringing it to bring all of the liquid into a bowl. She asks what you see. At first, nothing, before you notice the thicker liquid settling at the bottom, and the light, watery juice of the potato floating on top. She ladles away this top layer, keeping the valuable sunken starch before tossing the potatoes back in.
It's your turn again, with no choice but to let the stinging tears flow as you grate an onion into the potato mixture, before Silvestrine generously seasons it all with freshly ground nutmeg, and plenty of salt and pepper, before cracking in a big egg with a vibrant orange yolk. She mixes it gently using her hands until it's all the same uniform blend before wiping her hands.
All the while, the housekeeper has casually been tending to the flame of the stovetop. You cannot imagine it is easy to maintain perfect frying temperature over the unpredictable heat of fire, but you have to admire the way the hot oil in the skillet glistens beside a pot of water, nearly boiling.
You’re also in awe of Silvestrine as she dollops a heaping metal spoonful into the oil, unafraid of the splattering and crackling heat as you flinch from the stove. She continues the process until the mixture is exhausted. Then, with the spoon, she presses each mound of potato mix into a disc, with room around them to spare, the edges browning appetisingly with each passing minute.
This process takes time, so as the Kartoffelpuffer cook, she turns her attention to the now-simmering water. Deftly, she cracks one egg directly in, depositing it perfectly, the sunny yolk intact, to begin to cook. She repeats this process four more times before flipping the Kartoffelpuffer, immediately coming back to fish the beautifully poached eggs out one by one onto a dish with a slotted spoon.
At last, she seems happy with the Kartoffelpuffer, quickly moving the crisp, golden-brown potato pancakes onto another dish layered with a cloth to absorb the excess oil.
Though you didn't do much, you feel quite proud of the result. They look and smell delicious, and you have no doubt they'll taste so as well. It's all Silvestrine’s doing, but your contribution feels significant regardless.
She asks you to collect both plates of the freshly prepared food as she lifts a stack of dishes and handful of cutlery, ushering you into the breakfast room. You're happy to oblige, assisting her in setting the dining table, with each crispy Kartoffelpuffer getting topped with its own poached egg, and each setting a mug for hot coffee.
You're so caught up in the joy of the act that it takes a moment to register you've set a table for five. There's you, and Silvestrine, and…?
Right on time, there's some commotion at the front door. One of the attendants has returned from some duty outside the home, and behind him, Patrick follows, his eyes growing unmistakably wide at the sight of you.
You can't help but stare in return. His beard has grown in more since his previous visit, coming in thickest around his chin and under his lips and sparser up along the jaw. His looks are as captivating as ever, the beard enhancing his handsome symmetry, even if his skin appears rather pale and sickly, glistening slightly with a sheen of sweat.
And it feels so right him to be here you can hardly contain yourself.
“Mr. Sumner!” Silvestrine greets him. “It's a pleasure to see you've accepted my invitation. Come, sit.”
She arranges for Patrick to sit beside you, flanked on either side by the two servants, with Silvestrine sat opposite you both. You and Patrick exchange muted hellos and pleasantries, each trite word sparking between you as you ponder the hundred things you wish to utter to him, the thousand things you wish to do with him in the privacy of a closed room. It takes all of your concentration not to slide into a giddy delirium as Silvestrine thanks him for the beautiful letter and urges everyone to eat.
And the Kartoffelpuffer is as appetising as you dreamed, the flaky texture of the fried potatoes complementing the perfectly runny yolks, the sweet nuttiness of the nutmeg subtle yet essential.
“This is an exquisite meal,” Patrick marvels, his hands the slightest bit unsteady as he cuts in with knife and fork. “Truly exceptional.”
“My daughter here assisted me in making them just now,” Silvestrine says. “She is new to the kitchen, but already shows immense promise as a cook. What flavour!”
You're ready to protest—you’ve had little if anything to do with the flavour—but Patrick speaks next.
“I'm impressed,” he remarks, turning to you with a smile. “If continued practise produces more dishes like this, it seems a worthy endeavour. If cuisine sparks your passion, of course. Diversion is such a critical aspect of health in the wake of such a loss.”
You've nearly forgotten you're meant to be in deep mourning. The burdensome black dress should be enough of a reminder, but neither of you—widow nor mother—feels obliged to hold on to misery as the prevailing emotion when there's so much joy to be had. The servants seem unfazed, while Patrick appears fully invested in your wellness over decorum.
“I've enjoyed it quite well so far, yes,” you answer politely. “I can't say I'm responsible for much of the delectable dish in front of you, but Mama is a patient teacher. I'll happily continue my instruction with her and discover if it fully suits me.”
“I'm glad,” he says. “And you, Silvestrine. How are your spirits?”
“Oh, as can be expected,” she says. “The sadness ebbs and flows. I'd rather not bore you with an old woman's capricious emotions.”
“No,” Patrick insists. “I'd be very much up to the task of listening, if you're keen to speak. Many of my patients have found it inspiriting to discuss topics which would otherwise remain unaddressed or even buried. Like lifting a weight from one's shoulders.”
“Present company included,” you add.
You recall just how healing it was to be truly heard and seen for the first time—everything that followed aside.
Silvestrine considers this before requesting that you and Patrick accompany her to the study. You both follow gladly, and inside, you feel quite alive to be sat next to Patrick on the settee, opposite your mother-in-law, as she discusses the state of her heart of late, holding little back. You both offer a willing ear—and he his soundest professional guidance—and you can swear that by the minute, you can see the colour and health returning to his visage.
After this heartfelt conversation, Patrick offers an apology that he cannot stay, while making a promise to return soon for a proper physical with you. Your sex throbs at the mere mention, dismayed he must leave while deeply pacified by your time together—and eagerly anticipating when you'll see him next. “What a lovely young man,” Silvestrine notes once he's gone. “How lucky we are to have someone like him to nurture us in this time of need.”
“Yes, Mama,” you agree. “We're very, very lucky indeed.”
___
The following day is Sunday, which, yet again, requires you and Silvestrine to spend most of your day in reverent silence in the pews of the church.
Already, you've discovered that the other congregants avoid you both as if death is something they can catch, giving you space to let the repetition of the sermons become senseless noise in your ears as you travel elsewhere in your mind's eye, Patrick accompanying you wherever it takes you.
So, when he takes his seat beside you, recognising you even under heavy veil, you at first believe you're imagining him.
But no, Patrick is very real, his presence sturdy and grounding, and though you cannot politely share even a word with each other here, let alone a surreptitious touch, his willingness to accompany you manages to lift the drudgery of the obligation. This dullness shared is a gift, you think, passing with unexpected haste, to the degree you nearly regret the end of the service, when Patrick must bid you both a quick farewell.
___
Silvestrine surprises you the following morning with a knock upon your bedchamber door.
“You'll find the house empty today,” she explains. “I feel called to the church, and the two remaining attendants will be joining me. I'm sure you'll have no difficulty managing without us for a few hours.”
“Yes, Mama. Thank you.”
“Mr. Sumner should also be by shortly,” she adds, immediately grinning at your reaction. Apparently you're unable to hide your pleasure. “He's been most attentive. He appears so concerned for you, daughter.”
“He's the most thoughtful of physicians,” you respond with a truth. “I believe his treatment will be a boon to my humour. I must thank you for allowing his presence here.”
“I'd be a fool not to,” she says. “Any benefit to you is a benefit to me. And he is rather dashing, isn't he?”
Perhaps mercifully, she closes the door behind her before you get the chance to make your response. She doesn't know the half of it.
___
The time before Patrick’s arrival seems to stretch on indefinitely, an excess of nervous energy beating through your veins as you pace the house in your scratchy and dreary mourning gown.
In reality, he's there in less than a quarter of an hour, bursting in through the front door and slamming it behind him before he pulls you fully into a snug embrace.
“Oh my darling, my love,” he mutters, in English, his lips buried in your hair as he grips you, swaying. “You've endured so very much. How your heart must break.”
“I've missed only you, Patrick,” you tell him. “Needed only you.”
“I should not have waited. I should have been here for you from the moment it was possible…”
“No,” you insist. “You've done everything right. That we can even be alone here now is proof of that.”
You part gently, one of your hands rising to stroke his beard, the thick hairs wiry but soft under the pad of your thumb.
“What can I do for you now?” he demands. There's a hunger in his icy blue eyes. “What do you need? I’ll give you anything. Anything at all.”
“Take me to my room.”
He does what's requested, one hand scooped at your lower back, the other under your knees hiding beneath your skirts, to lift you and carry you to your chambers, laying you upon your bed.
“Now?” he barks, impatient.
You know what you want. It's everything you were denied the last time you enjoyed each other.
“I just need you inside me Patrick,” you beg. “Please.”
There’s a tremble to his eager nod. In fact, he's tremoring all over.
“Is there a particular way you'd like me?” he wonders, with a hard swallow.
“Is it wrong to think you'd look very fine fucking me in your shirt and waistcoat, with your trousers dropped around your thighs?”
“No,” he whispers.
He throws his braces from his shoulders, drags his beautiful knitted jumper off with one strong hand, and tugs his trousers down from his waist. Next, he frees himself from his drawers, so hard and ready for you that being made to wait another minute will make you scream.
“And would it be sick of me to wish to make love to you wearing nothing but your gloves and stockings?” he says, licking his lips.
“No, I'd find that very tasteful. Now, take all this off me—everything but the gloves and stockings.”
He’s careful with each thick funereal layer, his deft surgeon’s hands making quick work of ties and clasps and buttons until you're undressed precisely to his liking.
Then, he drags you to the edge of the bed, pulling your legs in their stockings over his shoulders, and without any preamble slides all of himself into your slick, wanting cunt, bottoming out against you.
You cry out together in unison, and the first intoxicating taste of what you missed so badly is even more blissful than you remembered.
Patrick’s hands fall under your ass, gripping you to pull you even closer to him, so there's no distance remaining between your bodies. Instead of working you, thrusting in and out, he remains buried deep inside you, rocking his hips to generate a different kind of building pressure, leaning over you so his twitching friction rubs your clit as your gasps and moans mingle in the air.
“Thank you, Patrick,” you manage to call between hitched breaths. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
As far as you are from the peak, there's something that feels complete about this kind of pleasure. Together like this, you are whole and free, like you've never been.
“I’ve thought of you every minute,” Patrick admits, his eyes in a half-lidded daze as he rolls his hips, lips held slightly open. “Of your sweet voice, of your cleverness, of burying my cock deep into you and never, ever leaving.”
“I've touched myself each night imagining just this,” you admit to him. “My visions of you have kept me sane.”
“And I, you. But nothing, nothing I can conjure in my mind's eye comes even close to the real thing.”
“We're not meant to be kept apart this long.”
And then his cries begin to grow closer together, his body twitching with such a frenzy that you know he can't last much longer. You don't want him to.
“Don’t you dare slow, Patrick,” you warn him. “I need to hear what you sound like filling me up.”
“But, you haven't finished…”
“Please, my love. I need this.”
Dutiful as ever, he obeys, his yelps of pleasure with those final rough pumps into you like music to your ears even as his magical motions cease.
Even as he softens inside you, he refuses to let you go, lingering in place as he holds your bodies together.
“I'm afraid I won't be able to go again today,” he says. “An unfortunate side effect of my past opiate misuse. But just tell me how I can best please you. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
“You’ve pleased me plenty. I'm not looking for release. Not now. I only want you.”
“Oh, you torment me,” he whines. “First I’m not allowed to come to you. Then, I'm denied the chance to make you come undone.”
“Yes, and you’re being very brave about it,” you tease.
Finally, he pulls out, helping you to clean up the thick white seed he's left inside you before sitting beside you on the bed.
He takes your hand, his beard brushing it as he plants kisses down its length to your forearm.
“You know, I've been rehearsing all the things I've dreamt of telling you,” he says. “It all felt so important. But now I'm here with you, everything else falls away. This is all that matters.”
“I feel the same. Why can't we just stay like this forever?”
It cannot be—not now. The mere thought gives you a deep chill, and you shiver.
“Are you chilly?” he wonders, placing warm, steadying hands on your bare shoulders. “Let me help you get dressed.”
“No!” you blurt out, eliciting a puzzled look from Patrick. “I only mean I'm sick and tired of wearing frumpy, irritating black day in and day out on behalf of a man whose death I celebrate.”
Patrick looks about the room.
“I understand,” he says. “Perhaps this will do?”
He hands you his soft jumper. It’s the colour of rich dark chocolate with a gorgeous corded texture, and it smells like him—of chlorine and sweet tobacco.
You throw it on without hesitation, safely blanketed in its warmth and woolliness. Wearing it feels nearly as good as an embrace, and you can't resist touching the sleeve to your cheeks and lips, luxuriating in the texture—in something that belongs to Patrick, freely given.
“You’ve never, ever looked more beautiful than you do now,” Patrick mutters, nothing short of awe in his voice.
“I've never been happier than now,” you say. “And that's all thanks to you.”
___
There's nothing like having your own home to yourself with Patrick, stepping through it without a care in nothing but his jumper, gloves, and stockings as he makes you tea.
“You're looking much changed today,” you remark from the dining table as he prepares the stove for a kettle, admiring his robust complexion and the certainty of his movements. “Had you been feeling unwell?”
“I was rather poorly, yes,” he answers. “I debated whether it would be wise to come by on Saturday in my condition, but very little could be done at that point to hold me back from you. It was the correct choice, it seems.”
“What ailed you?”
He pouts his lips, considering your question.
“It sounds preposterous, but I believe I've developed a new chemical dependency. Upon you. Upon the feelings you provoke in me. I craved you so badly I made myself sick. I'm lucky even the most minute doses of you seem to quell it.”
“We’ll have to be careful with that compulsion,” you say. “But I intend to give you a taste anytime you need me.”
He steps over to you and leans, his lips landing on yours. A sound escapes them like kissing you is so pleasurable he can't quite stand it. You recognise the sentiment in the touch of his soft lips and the pleasant friction of his beard.
“But I am not the one who requires consolation. You are braving every challenge with such ferocity,” he remarks. “A year is a very long time to be excluded from society, expected to do nothing but cloister yourself in grief. How are you faring?”
“Poorly, at first. Beautifully now. So long as I can have you, I think this will be a rather easy time.”
“I am relieved to hear it. I wasn’t aware you got on so well with your mother-in-law.”
“I didn't. Our close kinship has been a recent development, and such a welcome one. I'd wither away without her support, and yours.”
“And you're comfortable,” he asks, “with all that has been entailed to you?”
“Yes,” you answer. “I do not require much. I am guaranteed a place to live, and a suitable income. Beyond this, is seems, Silvestrine is insistent upon helping me.”
“Good,” Patrick says, nodding. You believe he plans to say more, but those words remain unspoken as you fall into silence.
“Did you attend the funeral procession?” you wonder instead.
“I did not,” he answers. “I wouldn't wish to even pretend to pay him my respects.”
“You could not have given a better answer,” you say.
___
You pass the hours comfortably in the parlour, sipping your tea and dining on fruit as you pry more deeply into each other's lives. You hope he is as enamoured with every bit of knowledge of you as you are of him. Your thorough understanding of him feels like a kind of power.
Anticipating the return of Silvestrine and the others, you begrudgingly remove Patrick’s lovely jumper and don your dreaded black dress again, though he carefully folds the garment and tucks it away for you in a chest in your room, so you can keep it close.
Then, it's back to the main room. You're still having a lively conversation with Patrick when everyone enters, and he stands and bows to greet them.
“I take it you had an enlightening time,” Patrick suggests.
“Yes, very.” Silvestrine smiles. “But perhaps not so enlightening a time as my daughter. See how she glows.”
You watch as Patrick’s cheeks flush, matching your own blushing heat. Perhaps you are too obvious, but Silvestrine’s outward joy for you is too sincere to deny.
“She responds very well to care,” Patrick deflects. “You know, I'd be delighted to see to you, too. I think an examination could be of great benefit, and it would please me deeply to know you're both as well as you can be.”
“Oh, I'm being mindful of our money matters for the time…”
“This would be free of charge,” he says. “For the both of you. Frankly, for the ease of my own heart, I must insist.”
This was something you hadn't considered. You're so unused to handling money matters, and are grateful for his generosity. Perhaps it's to be expected, but you don't see yourself in a position to make any demands.
“Well, then I must accept,” she concedes, matter-of-factly. “Give me only a moment and I will call you to my chambers when I am prepared for you.”
You thank Patrick quietly once she has strode off.
“As I said,” he reiterates, “I will be much happier knowing you're both in good health.”
He goes silent before adding, in a conspiratorial whisper, “And, between us, I have come concerns.”
You have no time to ask more before he's summoned upstairs. He spends a long while in his exam with her before finally, he emerges, and must soon take his leave of you.
“That Sumner is clever, but he has some strange ideas,” Silvestrine confides with you later during a private conversation in the library.
“Yes,” you agree, “but I haven't seen him miss the mark yet.”
You're certain you're the only of his patients he sees fit to lavish with multiple orgasms, so it's hard to rein in your curiosity.
“He's urged me—quite enthusiastically—to cease my use of calomel.”
You're familiar with the compound—mercury chloride—a powerful purgative some have hailed as a miracle drug.
“For what purpose was it prescribed to you?”
“For everything, dear. It's meant to be a panacea. For warding off consumption, flu, cancer—anything that might someday ail me—by purging the disease. But he says it's causing me to waste away. Rotting my teeth. And that the mercury within is toxic. Madness-causing even. I cannot believe he is serious.”
“I am sure his position is informed, Mama,” you say, hopefully not too firmly. “I am inclined to trust him.”
“Oh, and he was so gentle too.” She wrings her hands. “Do you really think that it is as he says? That preventative means could do so much damage?”
“If you are not at great risk of those illnesses it is preventing, yes. And especially if such prevention is not as efficacious as some might insist.”
“And am I growing rather thin and weak, as he's suggested?”
“That is for you to say, Mama. Perhaps it would do to quit your health tonic, just for a time, to see if your condition seems improved?”
“That is precisely what he has suggested to me. Perhaps I will follow the doctor's orders, then. But if I take ill, I shall have a few choice words for him.”
“As will I, but I don't think we need worry ourselves,” you share. “He wishes only for our wellness.”
“I suppose so,” she concedes. “On another, mostly unrelated matter, I have something I'd like to discuss with you.”
She spreads the papers of some form of legal document, as well as a schematic on a rolled parchment.
“I have learned more of the managerial stake in my son’s railway company left to me in his will,” she explains. “Now, I am in no state to step into his occupational position, but am to be considered something of a silent partner, for the time being. He's left it to me to interpret his wishes and vision for the company, and I must say I feel completely out of my depth.”
“I, too, am ignorant of such things,” you say. “But I am happy to attempt to aid you if you wish me to.”
“Yes, yes, that would be such a help,” she answers, with a sigh of relief. “An old woman like me can't hope to learn these things—and at such an inopportune time! A foreman will be coming and going to bring me the relevant paperwork and authorisations, explaining the best he can. I would so value your assistance.”
“Could it not be delegated to someone with the experience and insight to handle the work appropriately?” you wonder.
“Not for the first year,” she explains. “If I want to be able to sell the stake, that is. Which I very much do.”
“I see. Well, in that case, I would like to begin reading these materials directly, to familiarise myself with what is being asked of you.”
“Be my guest,” she says. “I find it all rather dull and indecipherable, but you've always been the keener mind. I shall bid you good night and leave you to it.”
Silvestrine is not wrong. At first, the work does seem as unknowable as it is tedious. The financials are a bore, the decisions made following no clear rhyme or reason, while always resulting in a striking uptick in profit. It's here that you notice an emerging pattern. Actually, all of this might be very interesting indeed.
___
Patrick visits twice more for exquisite homecooked meals—a collaborative effort courtesy mostly of Silvestrine—over the next seven days and sits with you in church on Sunday before it's your favourite day of the week yet again.
You're already dressed in nothing but his jumper when he arrives, and he's ready to lift you from your bare bottom, pulling him close with his caressing hands, so you can wrap your legs around him as he kisses you, ravenous and moaning all the while, like he's already pulsing inside of you. His kisses are insistent, like he needs you to breathe, like without this his heart will cease its beat, the many minutes melting away under his welcome barrage.
“What do you desire, my love?” he finally asks, panting, between kisses.
“I desire your impatience,” you say. “For you to do with me just as you please, without hesitation.”
“Then I wish to tease you in novel and perplexing ways,” he says, “as you have teased me.”
“I would like to see you try,” you goad. Again, he carries you to your bedroom and deposits you upon the bed. This time, he discards every layer of clothing—including a new cream-coloured cable-knit jumper—until he stands before you wearing not a stitch.
You're quite surprised when, again, he pulls your body to the edge of the bed, and even more shocked when, thick cock in hand, he chooses not to penetrate you, but instead to run its pink head along the soaked seam of your cunt.
He draws back before he thrusts again, fucking between the lips vigorously without entering you, and forcing you to call out when he grazes your throbbing clitoris.
“That feels good, does it love? Allow me to give you more.”
With his hand, he presses his bell-end to your clit, applying pressure in the perfect, tiny circles he knows you love so much. The sensation improves upon any digit, any tongue, bathed in your own wetness.
“Patrick, please,” you cry.
“Not until you’re coming for me,” he negotiates. “I know you can.”
You're certain he's right. His sensation is shocking in its rightness, the thickness of him tensing against you, toying with your sensitive bud.
For a moment, you wonder why, but it matters not as you learn to embrace this strange new pleasure of the flesh and then begin to feel the first overwhelming convulsions of your orgasm.
Patrick, too, must see its approach, immediately shoving his cock inside of you and replacing its motion against your clit with a coaxing thumb, stuffing and stretching you as you arrive with the buck of your hips and an uncontainable growl.
His rapid yet thorough strokes have you spellbound for the duration of your extended climax, but once it's run its course, he pulls out of you with a wicked smile.
“Patrick!” you whine. “Must you taunt me so?”
“I think I must,” he says, again running the pressure of his thumb along your cunt’s slippery crease. “After I've been deprived so badly of making you scream these last weeks. I might be obliged to conduct a test to see which method induces the greatest volume. If you're a willing participant, of course.”
“Yes, Patrick,” you beg. “Please don't keep me waiting any longer.”
“Of course, my love,” he says, in a painfully slow, drawn out manner. “First, an old favourite. The means of your first orgasm, digital stimulation of the pelvic interior…”
You're ready to tell him to stop wasting time when he slides two fingers inside of you, the gasp you emit promptly replacing the urge. It's evident he's done wasting time, immediately locating your most sensitive pleasure point and applying the work of his skilled fingers.
“Yes,” he coos as you tremble and cry out. “Show me how good this feels. You deserve all the goodness in this world, my love. It's all inside of you already. Just let me unleash it. That's it. That's it.”
Patrick knows your body better than you do at this point—knows when you're nearly ready to come—and his tender reassurances relax and rouse you at once, a self-fulfilling prophecy as you clench around his sturdy hands, his name the subject of your every heaved breath.
“Very good,” Patrick says, his pupils grown so wide you can hardly see the blues of them. “Nice and loud for me. But let's see if we can do even better.”
Without warning, he drops to his knees, his thick, round tongue greedily lapping up your dripping wetness, licking you clean, before he teases your pussy lips with kisses and nips of his teeth. Finally, he lavishes your clitoris with hard, fast flicks, making you twitch with a shaking sigh.
He moves in closer, tickling all of you with his beard, his hands gripped around your thighs for purchase as he works, his tongue moving up and down, or in tiny circles, and occasionally sucking you gently, drawing such a sharp, immediate pleasure you let out a hiss.
The only shame is that he can't speak and eat you at once, his only sounds the hums of delight that buzz against your pulsing clit. Perhaps that means you should make use of your voice in his stead.
“God, Patrick, I love that tongue,” you moan. “Show me what your fat, thick tongue can do, darling. Yes! You are so good, my love. Make me lose control with nothing but that perfect tongue and those soft lips—oh Patrick, I'm coming, I'm coming!”
When it happens he's swirling his tongue on you just so, and he keeps that particular motion on all the way through until the pulse running through you has run its course and your shaking has mostly subsided.
He kisses your inner thigh several times before he stands before you again, wild-eyed and grinning.
“Even louder that time,” he says. “Marvelous. Now, let's see how much noise you can make when I make proper love to you.”
“Let's. I've been patient enough.”
And it's the most wonderful feeling in the world to have his weight bear down on you, take in his fullness when he drives himself inside you, while kissing you passionately all over—hundreds of tiny whimpered kisses worshipping you from your lips to your neck and your chest and back again. One hand massages a breast while the other holds him upright, and then his head is buried in the bed beside yours, using both hands to lift your bum so he's hitting just where he needs with each shallow stroke.
“There it is,” Patrick says, gasping between strokes. “It truly is my greatest pleasure to make you come. So, so beautiful. And it's so, so close. God, I'm so lucky. God, I'm so very lucky…”
You interrupt him, shouting that you're coming again, nothing but electric bliss radiating through you and euphoric calls as his jagged and deep thrusts and irresistible whine tell you that you've finished together again. This feels like the magical, natural order of things.
Patrick kisses you yet again on the lips, deep and lingering, this time, before he hesitatingly lets you go.
“Just as I thought,” he whispers. “That method won out. By quite a large margin.”
“We'll, as much as I enjoy the other activities we practise together—and hope we never cease them—there's nothing I love quite like making love with you.”
“We're on the same page about that, at least.”
And you can't get enough of the time you're allowed to lay out on the bed with him, holding each other close, face-to-face, as he trails his fingertips down your soft skin, up your arm, down your belly, and back again.
Your own hand goes to the deep creases in his forehead, tracing the lines there. You know that look. He's thinking too deeply about something.
“What has you so preoccupied?” you ask him.
He sits up, clearing his throat. It's unexpected for him to be so serious, so suddenly.
“Our time together has brought me a peace I no longer believed possible,” he says. “I must ask, are you happy? With me?”
“I've never been asked a sillier question,” you answer. “You make me the happiest I've ever been, when my circumstances should be the farthest from it.”
“And when you imagine a future…”
“You are in it,” you interrupt him. “You are it.”
He pauses, taking this in.
“And in this—our—future, do you envision us wed?”
“I haven't had the opportunity to think that far ahead,” you admit, after a brief hesitation. “I will be very pleased so long as we can be together. But yes, I would be blissfully happy if you were to be my husband.”
His wide smile shows his sharp white teeth, but still there’s an uneasiness in his heavy eyes, lending something to his visage that troubles you.
“I can see why you might imagine I'd be uncertain about this,” you say, before he can object. “I've just been set free from subordination in such a miserable marriage. I'm stuck with the duties of a widow until the world at large has decided I've grieved enough, but even then, the marriage would grant me certain societal benefits moving forward. I would give it all up if it meant the two of us would be permitted to walk hand in hand in the street, without fear of ostracism and ridicule.”
“I am not so rich as he was,” Patrick whispers. “Would it be selfish of me? You'd not have the same comforts you're accustomed to, and I imagine your dower will revert if you remarry…”
“That would be a small price to pay.”
“You'd live with me, of course.” He smiles. “And I'd provide for you as well as I can.“
“That would be a most marvelous life, I think.”
“In that case,” Patrick says, taking both of your hands between his, “would you do me the greatest honour of becoming my wife?”
“Yes,” you shout out, before he's even completed his sentence. “Nothing could please me more.”
How long has it been that you've ached for a marriage based on love, and intimacy, and authentic connection? To receive care and affection, over control and ownership? To be eternally bound, attached to Patrick in a manner that is open and acknowledged rather than confined to secret meetings, feels so right and fair you can hardly believe it's reality.
You'll have to wait, of course. A minimum of nine months is essential in order to rule out pregnancy and inheritance scandals, while at least a year’s delay is customary. It seems so far off, and yet close enough to make your heart race with anticipation.
“We'll have to plan a wedding,” Patrick says next.
“Perhaps something quiet and cosy,” you suggest. “We don't have much in the way of friends and family.”
“We do not,” he agrees. “It is a pity we cannot marry immediately. I hope it is not presumptuous to say that the moment you agreed, I began thinking of you as my wife. What say you to that, Mrs. Sumner?”
“I say that I love the way you think, husband.”
___
It's later, when you're taking tea with Silvestrine, that she changes the topic from that of her favourite childhood biscuits to your late husband.
“My boy worked to make your life quite unhappy,” she remarks.
It's the truth, but even now, you'd prefer to avoid saying anything that may come across as disrespectful or a lack of appreciation.
“And you are still so young,” she continues. “And still beautiful. I hope you don't think it too late for yourself to find the right match.”
“You mean remarry,” you answer, as coolly as you can manage.
“I do. I understand that second marriages are not respected with high esteem, that many think them just a shadow of a ‘true’ first marriage, but I believe that's a frivolous reason not to seek out a second chance.”
“I agree, Mama. I think I should keep an open mind.”
This is especially true given your complete lack of a spiritual connection to the man.
“May I speak with you plainly?” she wonders.
“Yes, of course.”
“Based on your behaviour, I can assume Mr. Sumner has been nothing but entirely professional with you,” she says, “but it's plain to see the manner in which he lights up when he's with you. And your health seems to flourish under his watch. Would you consider entertaining him as a suitor?”
You go still, wondering just how much it is wise to reveal.
“He is very kind,” you answer carefully. “Intelligent. Passionate about his work. And yes, handsome. But most importantly he has treated me with such respect and dignity. Helped me find my strength. At the appropriate time, yes, I would be happy to consider him.”
“I must admit, I have been meddling,” she adds. “I’ve spoken with him and discovered he is a very eligible bachelor. He's not the type to believe that a young widow is any man's leftovers, and though he has not confessed it, I am certain he fancies you.”
So Silvestrine is playing matchmaker now. You suppress a giggle at the thought. It's best to continue allowing her to believe this was all her idea.
“It would be very pleasing to me if you are correct,” you say. “Would you be kind enough to encourage him, if you can? Not directly , of course…”
“You're right, daughter,” she says. “It's very early to discuss such things. You must think me so greedy, planning to get you out of the house, and end your dower…”
“Not, at all,” you insist. “I find it romantic. And, if all goes accordingly, he is not a poor man, and I will not go wanting. Perhaps it isn't too late for me. And then you will not feel burdened to keep this great big house on my behalf.”
You've noticed her fussing over it. The house is far too grand for the two of you, and you know she only tolerates the frustrations of its maintenance because the law entitles you to reside there.
“You two will make a very fine and happy couple,” she says, with a mischievous look.
“I do hope so.”
___
Thanks to Silvestrine’s plotting, you and Patrick are allowed additional time alone each week, and you continue to make the most of it, allowing her to believe herself some manner of romantic mastermind all the while.
Today, after some much-needed time on top of him in your bed, you dress yourself in his forest green jumper before directing him to the library, promising a surprise.
You're not sure what Patrick is expecting. A gift in the form of a book? An attempt at more sex on a stack of old volumes? What you have to show him is much more elucidating.
“This is proof,” he says, gasping as he riffles through the documents you've organised into careful stacks. “Of fraud, extortion, bribery, even murder. So thinly veiled it's evident at a glance. How on earth did you get your hands on this?”
“I'm effectively a co-partner of my late husband’s company,” you explain. “A foreman brings all of this to us to guide the most prudent business decisions possible. I've simply taken notice of other details.”
His jaw clenches and his hands ball into fists as he reads on.
“You’re as furious as I am,” you state the obvious. “But I'm very glad to have this knowledge, because it means we can put a stop to these evil men and bring them to justice.”
“Justice?” he baulks. “Do you propose we go on a murder spree? Because I cannot do that again, and I will not bloody your innocent hands with such violence…”
You're not expecting his passion, his protection. It only enamours you to him more deeply, and you are relieved that is not the only resort.
“Not at all,” you say, your voice softened to calm him. “We will bring these evils to light. Reveal the proof of their misdeeds and make them face the repercussions. And if that is not enough, we shall make arrangements to have them uncover their own corruption through pride and ego. Trick them into false dealings and recover what they've taken from those of whom they've taken advantage.”
“It would be very satisfying to see the expressions on their faces as they fall from grace,” he admits.
“And even more so to see their victims get what they're owed.”
“What of your late husband’s corruption?” Patrick wonders. “The insurance fraud. Would that be brought to light as well?”
“Only once Silvestrine is able to sell her stake in the business. Once her future is secured.I won't allow this to bankrupt her.”
“You have always been a secret dreamer, haven't you?” Patrick teases you with one of his widest smiles yet. “It's one of the things I love most about you, that lovely mind full of wild ideas. Yes, Mrs. Sumner. I will happily dedicate myself to your plan of righteous vengeance.”
“I knew you would, husband. Now, help me decide which of these obscenely rich and morally bankrupt bastards we should dethrone first.”
medplay with ryland …. if i may…. and he’s making you describe how the latex of his gloves feel while they’re inside you….. for his notes of course. you have to be as detailed as possible.. but if you stutter through your sentences he stops…. and . and. help
"if i may" YOU ABSOLUTELY FUCKING MAY ohhhhhhh my god. oh my god.
if you stutter through your sentences, he stops. if you try to touch him, he stops. if he's feeling like being a purist about isolating variables, you might get blindfolded; otherwise, he's very specific about where you should look: at his fingers, disappearing inside you. his thumb, swiping across your clit just infrequently enough that it can pass for an accident. or look at him, focus on him: his eyes intense above his glasses, his face otherwise placid—bored, even, to match his tone. the only thing that betrays his air of professionalism is a slight flush, pink down his neck.
there might reach a point where you are simply too wet to really make out any specific texture; that's okay! that just means you're ready to take more. for science <3
sunday blues (lars lindstrom x f!reader)
summary: lars meets a new face at church and becomes attached to her and her unborn son
wc: 5.9k
cw: pregnancy, talks of domestic abuse, use of (y/n)
a/n: this idea was born the second I finished watching the movie for the first time! took me long enough to actually write it down :’)
It wasn’t very often that Lars saw new people at church.
Living in a small town where not many people passed through, church goers were mostly regulars- people who’d lived in the town their whole lives and planned on staying.
So seeing a new head a few pews in front of him immediately caught his eye.
He didn’t think much about church visitors, since most that did come were usually family members of the regulars. They would sit with their relatives and were gone the next week.
However this new face- or new head he supposed, since he couldn’t see their face- sat alone.
The woman, whose shoulders were bundled in a green sweater, sat quietly. She didn’t talk to anyone, just observed the slow trickle of people shuffling to their seats. Maybe she was waiting for someone to show up?
As the minutes ticked by and she continued to sit alone, Lars wondered if she was just passing through and wanted to stop and attend a quick sermon before she continued on her way.
When the priest got up to stand behind the pulpit, Lars stopped worrying about the lonely stranger and turned his attention to the homily.
He didn’t get a chance to see what happened to her after that, hurrying out of the chapel once the service was over to rush home. Karin and Gus were going out for lunch and they needed someone to watch their daughter. Lars was happy to say yes, caring greatly for his little niece. He still wasn’t quite confident in his abilities as an uncle but he didn’t feel pressured to be perfect around her so he had no issues babysitting.
Lars forgot all about the stranger until he saw her again the next Sunday in the same spot, still alone. He didn’t make any move to go sit with her- he wasn’t the ‘go up to a person you don’t know and get to know them’ type of guy- but he paid a little more attention to her through the hour.
She seemed content there by herself, if Lars read the back of her head right. Most people he observed alone would fidget, feeling awkward and out of place by themselves, usually finding a pew to sit on with others already occupying it and striking up a conversation. It was just a human thing, Dagmar told him once. Lars couldn’t really relate. While he was starting to enjoy the company of others, he didn’t feel awkward sitting in church alone. It was peaceful. Maybe this stranger felt the same.
Once the service was over and the congregation began walking out, Lars hung back a little longer than normal. He watched quietly as groups of neighbors walked down the center aisle towards the door, offering him a smile or a ‘good morning’, which he would return with a tight smile of his own and a nod.
The stranger also took her time, not seeming to be in any rush to get home or to whatever she did after church, standing only after more than half of the crowd had left. A coat that had been draped over her lap appeared in her hands and she carefully pulled her arms through the sleeves.
Lars averted his eyes when she shuffled out of the pew to leave, not wanting her to think he was some sort of creep when she turned around to leave the church.
He expected her to walk right past him, to not acknowledge that she even knew he was there. Most visitors did. But when she came to a stop next to the pew he sat in, Lars lifted his eyes from the floor.
Pretty, was his first thought. Bright eyes, soft smile, nice face. She looked around his age. It was rare to see a younger new face in town. Her coat was large, almost hanging over her knees and kept in place around her torso with her hands that sat tucked in the pockets. It looked warm, he thought. A good winter coat.
“Excuse me? Sorry to bother you, but could you give me directions to the hospital?”
Lars’ eyes widened in surprise and a little fear. She quickly shook her head in panic when she realized what he might be thinking. “I’m fine! I just have an appointment in one of the smaller clinics there. I’m new to town so I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the city’s layout.”
That was a relief. Lars didn’t know what he would’ve done if this stranger started having a medical emergency right in front of him.
“Okay,” Lars nodded after a moment of hesitation. Not because he didn’t want to help but because he was trying to piece together why he got butterflies when she looked at him.
If she was put off by his quiet, one-worded response, she didn’t say anything. She stepped back a bit to let him exit his pew and lead her back to the doors where most everybody had already left. Her soft smile never wavered.
Once outside, Lars stepped down the stairs a little faster than he normally would out of nervousness. He didn’t often talk to people he didn’t know. It was a only simple query for directions. She followed, albeit a little slower and trailed Lars as he moved out to the curb. She followed his gloved finger when he pointed down the street.
“You, um-” He cleared his throat softly, hoping he sounded a bit more confident than he felt. “Take a left on the street with the laundromat. Down there. The white and blue building. That’s 5th street. And then go a couple of blocks west. It’ll be on the right.”
The stranger nodded along, mentally mapping her route while he spoke and giving him another grin when his words tapered into silence.
“Thank you! I probably would’ve gotten lost if I tried to find it on my own so I owe you one. It’s nice to meet you…?”
Lars gave her a closed lip smile while she spoke, blinking once she trailed off. It took a second for him to realize she was waiting for his name.
“Lars.”
“Lars,” she repeated. Lars liked the way his name sounded when she said it. “I’m (Y/n). It’s nice to meet you! I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah.”
Giving him a tiny wave with her pocketed hand, she walked off towards a small white vehicle that must’ve been hers. Lars stood for a second longer, watching her back before nodding to himself and turning towards his own car.
. . .
She wasn’t at church the next week. Or at least, when Lars settled in his pew, he didn’t see her.
Maybe she was sick or had another appointment at the hospital? He probably didn’t scare her away from church, did he? He couldn’t think of anything he did or said that would’ve offended her.
His thoughts swirled as he watched the regulars take their seats. Maybe she’d moved? Maybe her plans had changed and she had to skip town? Yeah, that was probably it. Or maybe she just didn’t attend church every Sunday, which was ok too.
“Can I sit with you, Lars?” Lars squeezed his hands into fists in surprise and looked to the aisle next to him. (Y/n), donning the same coat as last time, gave him a smile and gestured to the empty bench next to him. “Unless you’re saving it for someone?”
“No, you can sit.”
Lars scooted down a little more, even though there was plenty of room for her already and watched as she side-stepped closer. When her coat fell from her shoulders and she carefully settled onto the wooden bench, Lars noticed something he hadn’t before.
The sweater she wore this week, a cream colored cable knit, was loosely fit around her body- oversized around her shoulders and torso until reaching her midsection. The fabric was slightly bulging there, the near perfect roundness underneath it clued Lars in to what the sweater tried to hide. Her coat had obscured it from view last week. The appointment at the hospital had probably been for the baby.
(Y/n) noticed his gaze and smiled softly, bringing a hand up to gently cradle the bump.
“It’s a boy,” her voice was soft amidst the still bustling congregation- reverent. “Just a few more months now.”
Lars didn’t have the same reservations about pregnancy that he had a couple of years ago.
Karin’s pregnancy had gone smoothly- no complications and a healthy baby girl in a quick couple of hours. The relief that Lars had felt once he got the news that mom and baby were in good health was insurmountable. It helped heal the part of him that was terrified to lose someone he loved from the process like he had when he was born. Of course, there was always a chance for something to go wrong, but he didn’t feel that crushing terror anymore.
“Congradulations,” Lars twisted his gloves in his hands.
“Thank you! I’m very excited to meet him. Do you have any kids?”
Shaking his head, Lars couldn’t stop himself from continuing to glance at the bump. “No. Just a niece.”
(Y/n) didn’t get a chance to respond before the priest addressed the room and they filtered into silence. Both turned their heads to the front and quietly listened to the sermon like they had the past 2 weeks, but this time Lars was even more distracted. Every brush of her hand over the bump, every touch or rub of her thumb caught his eye. He yearned to know more about her and her life even more now, but didn’t know how to word it.
Once an hour was up, Lars realized he hadn’t paid attention at all to what had been preached that day and he didn’t really care. Instead, he quickly stood before (Y/n) could and offered a helping hand under her forearm when she moved to get up. Her smile was radiant and Lars felt his cheeks turn a shade darker. In fact, his whole face felt like a heater. With the layers of fabric between the two of them, Lars knew the pain from touching her wouldn’t be too bad so he hadn’t thought twice about the contact. He was surprised when it didn’t burn at all.
Lars let go once she was steady, but stayed close by as she shrugged her coat back on and meandered from the pew and down the aisle. He was hot on her heels, carefully watching her footing and hands twitching at every step just in case she managed to trip. The stairs outside of the chapel were suddenly more dangerous than Lars ever thought they were. Despite the hoard of people around them, Lars walked slowly and didn’t care if they were being a little obstructive. He wasn’t about to rush her.
“Thank you for letting me sit next to you today, Lars! It’s nice to get to know someone else in town besides my doctor.” (Y/n) joked, taking a couple of steps away from the church entrance and turning to face him. Lars gave a questioning smile.
“You have no family here?”
“Nope,” she stuffed her hands into her coat pockets. Lars looked at her exposed sweater. “My great grandma owned the house that I moved into but she passed away a while ago. The house has been sitting empty ever since so when I needed a new place to live, my uncle who inherited the house offered it to me for the time being. At least until I’m able to get my feet under me. But no, none of my family lives around here.”
Lars’ brows scrunched and he blinked a couple of times “You’re alone? What about… when you have the baby?”
A weak shrug. “We’ll be ok.”
Lars didn’t believe her. Karin had a village of people to help when she had her baby, and it still took months before she was able to get any proper sleep. Keeping the baby fed and changed and soothed was already hard enough. But then there’s feeding and taking care of yourself and the house. Appointments, finances, keeping a fire going. Lars saw firsthand just how much one 8 pound baby could affect several lives. He didn’t think one person could go through that alone.
“Do you have things? For,” a small gesture to your stomach. “him?”
“I’ve got a couple of things already but I’m hoping to thrift the rest. Maybe get some help from the church if I can work up the courage to ask,” she laughed.
Lars scratched at the back of his neck. He wanted to offer some of Karin and Gus’ old things but that wasn’t his place. The stuff didn’t belong to him and what if they wanted more kids so they had planned on keeping what they had?
“I’ll be ok, Lars. Promise. I wouldn’t have moved away if I didn’t think I could handle this alone.”
He wanted to push. He wanted to know what she was moving away from. But that wasn’t his place either.
“I’ll see you next week? Save me a seat?”
A week felt too long. “Ok but- can you zip?” (Y/n) stopped her half step away to look at him in confusion until he made a motion in front of him like he was zipping a zipper. “The baby could get cold.”
“Oh!” She laughed and fumbled with her coat, carefully zipping the sides together and effectively hiding the bump underneath the fabric. Lars relaxed a bit, knowing the baby was warmer now. “Bye Lars! Have a good week!”
His response was barely above a whisper. “You too.”
. . .
You decided pretty fast that you liked this new town.
It was small, but everyone seemed friendly and it was a nice change of pace to the constantly bustling life of the city you’d come from where everyone was yelling and honking at each other in the streets, screaming profanities about something or other. This town was quiet. No honking, no shouting. Just the soft breath of wind and the hum of cars rolling down the street at a leisurely pace.
It was a little very cold and snowy but you could see yourself spending a while here. You could see yourself raising your son here.
Going to church was one of the highlights of your week. Not because you were extremely religious but because you just liked seeing people. It was pretty lonely in your little house and since you had yet to find a job that would hire you for two months, you didn’t get much social interaction. While you didn’t really talk to anyone at church, just being around the congregation was enough.
The second week of attending, you realized halfway through the service that you had no idea where the hospital was. Being just over 6 months pregnant meant appointments were becoming more frequent to check your baby’s growth. After transferring your records from your old OBGYN, the new doctor wanted to see you right away to become familiar and check your progress. You meant to bring along the small slip of paper that had the hospital’s address written on it but had forgotten it on your fridge (pregnancy brain was your excuse).
Asking someone for directions was going to be your next best bet so once the sermon was over and you stood to leave, you began scoping the remaining crowd for someone who looked approachable.
The man you spotted in a pew a couple of rows back seemed nice enough. He had a soft face and sat bundled in a thick blue and cream coat. The brown hair on his head was gelled and his mustache was trimmed. He had a good vibe about him.
His surprise when you asked him for directions was cute. When he spoke, he spoke softly- so gently, it was almost hard to hear. A nice change of pace compared to the man you had the displeasure of being around for the past couple of years. The man, who you learned to be named Lars, was shy. You could tell he was a quiet person and you honestly felt a little bad for picking him out of everyone in the church to ask for directions out of the blue, but he’d done so despite his visible uncomfortableness.
The next week, when you asked to sit next to him, you half expected him to say no. You mentally prepared yourself for him to say no. But he’d nodded and scooted down to give you some more space.
His obvious shock and interest in your baby was sweet. It didn’t seem malicious in any way, just curious wonder. You felt his eyes swivelling your way for most of the sermon, but you found that you didn’t mind at all. Lars was the perfect gentleman as you left- helping you to your feet, sticking close to your back while you walked and walking side by side with you as you hobbled down the stairs- a constant, solid presence.
When Lars asked you to zip up your coat, you couldn’t help but smile. While you hadn’t been zipping your coat up the past couple weeks, due to the horribly unflattering shape it made you when it was zipped up over your protruding stomach, it warmed your heart to see the care in his eyes once you did. He’d mentioned he had a niece, maybe he just adored kids? You made a mental note to ask him next week.
. . .
You don’t have to wait a week until you see Lars again.
After over three weeks of living in your new home, you’d run out of essentials. Body care items were one use away from empty, you needed a food restock and the cleaning supplies you'd brought with you had run dry after spending weeks cleaning up the rundown home. Plus, there were some baby items you wanted to nab before too long, just in case the baby decided to make a faster appearance than what you were ready for.
There was really only one store in town, so that was where you found yourself one afternoon, a shopping cart full of items and now perusing the baby aisles.
Diapers were one thing you were stockpiling, newborn sizes and a couple sizes up. From the suggestion of a friend, you were hunting down a specific brand and of course the brand had to be on the highest shelf. What employee thought putting diapers on a high shelf was a good idea?
Hand resting over your bump, you considered stepping onto the shelves but decided against it to save yourself and the baby from a fall. There were no employees in sight, nor were there other shoppers in your aisle.
Sighing under your breath, you moved to start pushing your cart towards the front of the store. The diapers could wait another week. A familiar face passed by the mouth of the aisle before you could take a step.
“Lars!”
The tall man halted in his tracks to look your way. He had a half gallon of milk in his hand and had on a similar outfit that he wore to church- coat, scarf, gloves and shin-high boots- but his hair looked a little more ruffled. It fit him. Lars wandered your way, gave your belly a cursory glance and smiled softly. He followed your finger when you pointed to the box of diapers you wanted.
“Could you grab one of those boxes for me? The 1’s? I’m not tall enough and don’t want to risk climbing the shelves.”
Lars looked a little terrified that you’d even thought about doing that. The shelves were no match for his height, mustachioed man easily snagging a box and tucking it under his arm.
“You can put it under the cart!
He made no move to do such a thing. “You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things.”
The box of diapers couldn’t have weighed more than 5 pounds; it wouldn’t be a backbreaker to pull the box from the bottom of your cart to scan once you reached cashier, but Lars seemed pretty adamant. You would’ve told him to put it in the cart but it was full enough already and would most likely topple out.
Lars was a quiet mountain next to you while you went to check out, helping you load your stuff up on the belt and reloading your cart back once everything was scanned and bagged. He didn’t say anything when he took over the duty of pushing the cart and followed you out to your car, gently stacking your bags into your trunk.
“Will you be ok at home?” His brows were scrunched in worry, eyeing the heavier items.
“Yes, I’ll be ok. I promise. A gallon of milk won’t kill me.”
He nodded, more to himself than anything, then opened his mouth like he wanted to say something more. It took a couple of seconds of inner turmoil to actually say what was on his mind. “I told my brother and sister-in-law about you.”
You adjusted your sweater where it was starting to bunch up over your belly. “Oh?”
“Um… they wanted me to bring some of my niece’s old baby things for you. If you want them. Mostly clothes but there’s some other things too. Like a crib and stuff.”
“Really?!” You reached out to snag a hand in the silky material of his coat. Lars was surprised when he didn’t flinch. “That would be amazing! I’ll make them cookies or something- whatever their favorite desert is, I’ll make it! I can pay them too-”
“No, they said it’s a gift.”
“Ok! Yeah, you can swing by whenever, I’m not busy most days. How about tomorrow?”
. . .
Lars decided immediately that he liked your house.
The outside was a little worse for wear, but the inside was cozy and inviting. It was a small place, especially with the added hoard of baby things he’d delivered, but it didn’t feel suffocating. Lars was used to small houses anyway, he lived in one, but yours felt much more like a home. Warm lighting, plants, soft looking pillows on the couch.
You were ecstatic when you opened the door to Lars standing on your front stoop, a large box held in his arms and shuffling on his feet. He gave you a soft hello in greeting and a small smile when you waved him inside. It made his stomach erupt in butterflies seeing how happy you were to see him.
The baby items he delivered were a godsend- many of the more expensive things you needed were loaded up in Lars’ car. A bassinet, a highchair, a baby monitor- and a whole load of clothes. Lars sheepishly told you that his niece was, well, a girl and seeing how you were having a boy, some of the clothes might not be what you were looking for. You couldn’t have cared less. Clothes were clothes. Free clothes were even better!
Lars sat next to you on the floor and carefully helped you organise the tiny articles of clothing into type and season, asking you quiet questions about your life but trying his hardest not to pry about the one thing he really wanted to ask about.
Where was the baby’s father? You had no pictures on the walls, there was only one set of boots by the door besides his own and no one ever came to church with you. Maybe the father wasn’t religious and just worked all the time? Maybe you weren’t the kind of person that hung personal pictures on the wall? He didn’t know but he got more and more curious by the day.
. . .
“I want to show you something,” Lars told you one Sunday after a sermon. “Are you busy?”
You certainly weren’t busy enough to turn down time with the tall, handsome man who was starting to capture your heart. Well, until he began leading you into the desolate woods through shin deep snow. You started to get a little worried then. Maybe you should’ve made up an excuse to be busy? Was he one of those deceptively sweet and quiet murderers?
Lars kept close by as you both traversed the woods. He didn’t want you to trip over any fallen branches or step into a hole obscured by snow. You kept a protective hand over your coated bump just in case.
Just when you started to think that maybe you should turn around and run, a treehouse came into view. Lars smiled at you when you looked at it and you instantly knew that the structure held some sort of significance for him.
“This is the treehouse! My brother Gus and his friends came here a lot and he would bring me along when I got older. It’s not used much anymore but I still come here sometimes.”
“I always wanted a treehouse growing up,” you smiled at Lars’ surprising enthusiasm for his treehouse.
“Well, you can come and use it whenever! Gus doesn’t come here anymore so it’s usually just me.” He began climbing the ladder attached to the tree trunk. You didn’t know how to tell Lars you weren’t planning on climbing any trees anytime soon, so you just agreed.
“He can come here if he wants, too.” Lars says once he reaches the platform, laying on the wood and looking down at you. “The baby. Do you think he’d like it?”
You laughed and slowly sat down on a rock adjacent to the large tree after brushing snow off of the surface. “What little boy wouldn’t love a treehouse?”
. . .
You give Lars one of your new ultrasound photos.
You don’t know why. He wasn’t the father of your baby. He was just a friend.
In the back of your mind, you worry Lars might think it’s weird. But when his face lights up like the Christmas tree in your living room when he realizes what he’s looking at, your worries blow away in the wind.
Lars pins the picture next to the couple of other photos behind his computer so he can see it throughout the day. Kurt questions him about it but Lars doesn’t respond, too busy staring at the amorphous blob of blurry black and white pixels that sort of resembled a baby.
He spent the rest of his shift brainstorming what he should get you and your unborn son for Christmas.
. . .
Lars learns your story when he gives you a ride home from church one Sunday.
The roads weren’t the best thanks to heavy snowfall the night before, so Lars sped to your house extra early to ask if you wanted a ride so you didn’t have to worry about driving. Of course you said yes.
While the silence in the car wasn’t uncomfortable, Lars couldn’t handle not knowing anymore.
“Can I ask you something?”
Your gaze shifts from the passing homes outside to look at the side of Lars’ face, where he kept his eyes trained on the road. His hands were gripping the steering wheel.
“You can ask me anything, Lars.” You had a feeling what was coming next.
It took a long bout of nothing before he blurted his question. “Where’s the baby’s father?”
Yep. You figured Lars would ask eventually. Actually, you were surprised he hadn’t said anything earlier.
“Back in Chicago. With his girlfriend.”
Lars glanced at you. You stared out of the window and kept talking.
“We’d been together for over five years. I thought he was the one, as delusional as that sounds now. He wasn’t the nicest, and had a temper but I was blinded by love. I know now that I was holding on to the memory of who he was when we started dating. The guy that bought me flowers every weekend and who worshiped the ground I walked on like I mattered. Then I got pregnant and he really changed. He was never home, and when he did come home he was distant. I found out through a friend that he was cheating on me and had been for quite a while. When he learned of the pregnancy, he felt stuck with me. I packed up my things and left the next day. He got mad when he saw me loading up my car and threatened some bullshit I know he won’t have the balls to follow up on. I drove straight here after that.”
Lars let your words sink in- how much you’d gone through and how brave you had to of been to uproot your life and move to an unknown town to keep your baby safe. It was extremely admirable and Lars told you as such.
“I’m sorry to hear about that. I’m really happy that you’re here.”
Lars could see your smile out of the corner of his eye. “Me too.”
. . .
It’s Christmas day when Lars gets the phone call. Or rather, Karin gets the phone call on his behalf.
Lars is at his brother’s house watching his niece open her presents, fire roaring and snow falling outside to make for a cozy Christmas morning.
Karin picks up the ringing receiver and Lars doesn’t pay attention to who she’s talking to or what she's talking about until Karin begins to sound a little concerned.
“What? She wasn’t due for another month. Is she ok? Is the baby ok?”
The glance she gave Lars told him enough. He was running out the front door without a second thought.
. . .
Lars doesn’t like hospitals. Never has. Despite the calm atmosphere of the surprisingly quiet hospital waiting room, Lars’ mind was a whirlwind.
Karin’s friend who was a nurse in the labor and delivery wing had called her after she’d tried Lars’ landline and couldn’t get an answer. Considering the fact that you had no family nearby and Lars was regularly seen out with you, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to let Lars know that you had gone into labor unexpectedly last night.
The nurse told him mom and baby were ok, just tired and healing, but he didn’t believe her. He would believe it when he saw it with his own eyes.
He spent the better part of two hours hunched over in the waiting room with his baby blanket bunched in his fists and nose buried into the worn knitting. A couple of passerbys who knew him stopped to offer words of comfort but they didn’t help. All he heard was ringing.
Would the baby be ok? Did he get enough time in the womb to develop properly? Would he have to stay in the hospital for months to be monitored, poked and prodded?
Were you ok?
You’d done it all alone. Had you driven yourself to the hospital in debilitating pain because you had no one else? Should he have offered to stay with you since your due date had been getting closer?
Lars didn’t hear the nurse the first couple of times she called out his name, only snapping out of his thoughts when she lightly touched his shoulder and he jolted away from the burn.
“(Y/n) is awake and asked for you. Would you like to come and see her?”
You looked like you were glowing when Lars walked up to your room. With the white light from outside thanks to the flurries of snow falling and the warm lighting of a couple of lamps through the room, Lars thought you’d never looked prettier.
He loitered in the doorway for some time, worried that he was dreaming. You looked ok. Tired, but ok. And the little bundle in your arms seemed ok too. There were no big machines in the room that the baby was hooked up to, no cries of pain, just stillness.
You were gazing so softly at the little life in your arms despite your exhaustion, only looking away when you noticed the hulking figure in the doorway. Your soft smile didn’t waver when looking at him.
“Lars! You came!” You spoke in a low tone so as not to disturb your baby, but no less overjoyed. “Come sit.”
Your head gestured to the chair that was sitting next to your bed, empty and waiting for a visitor to fill it. Lars couldn’t help but compare the room to Karin’s when she had her baby. The room had been flooded with family and friends, a constant trickle of people moving in and out to congratulate mom and baby. There was no one here besides you and your son. Lars decided he actually preferred your room. It was peaceful.
Lars felt too big for the chair he carefully sat in, perched on the edge to be as close to you as possible. He had a perfect vantage point to study the boy in your arms, who you tilted his way to give him a better view.
He was definitely small- smaller than his niece had been- but healthy looking. He had two eyes and two ears. A nose and a mouth. A soft dusting of hair on his crown. His breathing seemed strong. Lars felt his anxiousness begin to melt away.
“Sorry if I scared you, Lars. The nurse told me she’d called you to let you know I was here since I told her I didn’t have any family for her to contact. She knows we’re close so she figured you would be the next best person to get a hold of.”
The blanket in his hands twisted around his fingers. “It’s alright. I’m glad you’re both ok.”
You beamed at your son. “A couple of hours old and he’s already a drama queen. Don’t know why he decided he needed to come so early but all things considered, he’s healthy. Just a little on the small side. The hospital wants to keep us here for a couple of days to monitor him and make sure all is well but he’s eating just fine and he’s able to maintain his body temperature pretty good. A little miracle.”
Lars agreed.
“Do you want to hold him?”
He’d had plenty of practice holding his niece when she was a baby, but this felt different. This baby felt more fragile, more delicate, and something he was terrified to break the new life. You could read his expressions pretty well by now.
“You won’t hurt him, Lars. He’s stronger than he looks. But you don’t have to hold him if you don’t want to.”
He did want to. Lars draped his baby blue blanket over the little body in your arms and nodded.
Lars’ body dwarfed the infants. He was pretty sure he could easily hold him in one hand. The baby weighed practically nothing. He’d woken a little at the shift from your arms to his but settled easily back into sleep once Lars nestled him in the crook of his arm.
“He’s so little,” Lars whispered.
“A whole 5 pounds,” you hum, resting back against your pillows to watch the interaction with adoration.
“My niece was 8 pounds.” Such a minuscule difference in numbers that meant everything when it came to newborns. “Have you named him?”
Your head shook while you picked at the tape holding the IV in your hand. “Not yet. With how crazy my life has been lately, I haven’t put much thought into it. Now that he’s here though, I can find a name that will fit him. Want to workshop some with me?”
You wanted his help? Naming your baby?
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Lars. More than anything.”
lars my beloved. part 2 to colt sex scene stand-in is next :D
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this is my dream situationship, I wrote this for me, myself, and I lmao
2.7k words, smut, oral f receiving, fwb arrangement
summary: you end it with your fwb, ryland steps in to take his place
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When you first met Ryland, almost ramming into him with a full cup of coffee in the teacher’s lounge, you didn’t think much of him. You apologized for stealing teacher coffee, telling him that the admin keurig was broken, laughing when he made a face and said something about those not getting cleaned enough anyways. “When was the last time it was descaled?” He asked with a pointed look, smiling when you shrugged with an exaggerated frown.
The second time you ran into Ryland, he was sweet talking the older woman who runs the library. You were returning your own book, stopping to listen when he hands the librarian a short list, “my kids have been doing so well, they deserve some new books.” He smiled brightly at her, thanking her quickly when she told him that she’ll look into it.
He sidled up next to you as you turned to leave, walking all the way back to your office because neither of you wanted to stop the conversation. He told you about the list of books, shared that he’d been going to thrift stores every weekend trying to find copies to keep in his classroom, it was so sweet that you couldn’t help the small smile crawling its way up your face. “You should come along,” he threw it out casually, “I’m going on Saturday, I can meet you there?” And suddenly you have his phone number and a friend.
You see him a lot after that, hanging out at your place, bringing dinner when it’s his turn because you will not let him cook in your kitchen. He’s always friendly, keeping his hands to himself and not trying to force any romance. You like that about him, he seems to just genuinely want to hang out, like he just enjoys your company and that’s it.
Things take a turn when he’s over one afternoon, your heavy sigh from the other side of the couch grabbing his attention. He asks what’s wrong, of course, and you throw your phone on the cushion. “It’s nothing, this guy I’ve been hooking up with wants more and I, well, I don’t.”
His brows shoot up, mouth opening just a little. You shrug, “I get it, the whole friends with benefits thing doesn’t work for everyone. I just don’t want a relationship, you know?” You look at him, feeling warm under his gaze. He nods slowly, gears turning in his head. “What do you want, then?” He asks quietly, scared he’s pushing a boundary. You think about it, really think, and turn back to the tv with a smile.
“Permission to be crass?” You huff a small laugh, eyeing him when he bumps his knee into yours. “Have you ever needed permission?” He laughs with you, shooting you a wink when you push his arm. You take a deep breath, debating how honest you want to be with him. It’s not like you’re afraid he’s going to judge you, but this isn’t the kind of conversation you two have broached before.
“I want someone who will eat me out for a few hours and then leave,” and you really laugh, relief flooding through you when he chuckles next to you. “Fair enough,” he murmurs, pausing for a second before he adds, “well, if I’m your type I’d be happy to pick up the mantle.”
You whip around to face him, wide eyes searching for a sign that he’s joking. There isn’t one, just his cheeky smile and a warmth to him that you didn’t expect. “What’s in it for you?” You ask with furrowed brows, surprise growing when he leans back against the arm of the couch, body language open and a sly smirk pulling at his lips. “What do you mean?” He’s toying with you, you can feel it.
“I mean, what’s in it for you? I’m not putting anything else on the table,” you fold your legs under you, turning to face him fully. “Sweetheart, you are the table. I’d love an invitation to dine,” his cheeks are pink, the only hint that he’s affected by the conversation. “Just an offer,” he throws out noncommittally, laughing when you cover your face and duck your head.
“You started this,” he giggles, “look, dating isn’t really my thing either. I get it, you still have needs.” You nod, shooting him a shy smile, “yeah, alright.” His eyes go wide, freezing at your words.
“I’m in,” you take in his blush at your words, watching it creep down his neck, knowing it’s spreading to his chest. “Y-yeah?” He chokes out, smiling when you nod again. He moves forward slowly, taking your hand in his. “Okay, ground rules?” Of course he wants to know the rules.
“We keep it causal, communicate about everything,” your breath hitches when he places soft kisses up your wrist and arm, he nods with a smile and looks at you from under his lashes. “Deal. Can I kiss you?” His voice is low, not quite hesitant but something close. You whisper your yes, your eyes sliding shut when tentative lips press to yours. You pull him closer, opening just enough to slip your tongue into his mouth. The groan he lets out goes straight to your core, his hands wrapping around your waist over your oversized t-shirt.
He kisses down your jaw and neck, teasing the sensitive skin with his teeth, smiling when you moan above him. Firm hands push you back, settling you on the couch, letting his body hover over you. He reaches for your shorts, maintaining eye contact until you nod. They hit the floor quietly, big shoulders slotting under your thighs, hot breaths fanning over your clothed core.
Before he does anything, he finds the tv remote, passing it to you with a wink. “Pick a movie, I’m not stopping until it ends,” his words make you laugh, until you realize he’s being serious. He places soft kisses to your thighs while he waits, fingers drawing shapes on your skin to feel the goosebumps rise. You’re not paying attention to what movie you select, too distracted by the man busying himself between your legs.
He peeks at the screen, smiling when he sees the runtime - two hours. As soon as the opening scene starts, he’s running his fingers over your panties, humming when you twitch at the pressure over your clit. You reach for his hair when you realize he’s still watching the tv, tugging a little to get his attention. “This is a great movie,” he murmurs, sticking his tongue out and licking right against your center.
A heavy breath leaves you, but you let him take his time. “Smell so good,” he whispers so quietly, you almost wonder if you were even meant to hear it. He buries his face in you, breathing deeply and closing his eyes for a second. Finally, he hooks a finger in your panties and pulls them to the side, a low groan pulling from his chest when he sees you already glistening for him.
Slow kisses press to the skin around where you wanted him most, thumbs spreading you open that much more. When he flattens his tongue and licks a long, firm stripe, you can’t help the gasp you let out. It encourages him, though, and he focuses on your clit, laving it with slow rolls of his tongue and light sucks with his lips.
You realize a few things all at once: one, he’s good at this. Like really good at this. He pays attention to your reactions, eyes flicking to your face when he’s unsure. Two, he seemed serious about the movie thing, meaning you’re going to be here for a while. And three, this is exactly what you wanted.
He keeps the pace languid, like he intends to use all two hours he’s being allowed. It takes him twenty minutes to work your panties off, another ten before he even thinks about letting you come. He builds you up slowly, heat crawling up your spine and pooling in your stomach so glacially you think you might lose it. A particularly harsh suck has your back arching, a higher moan falling from your lips, his hands holding your hips in place.
You think maybe he takes pity on you, because he finally speeds up his movements just enough, eyes locked on your face as you tug his hair and throw your head back. “Gimme,” he whispers into you, smiling when you tense and shake around him. The high is warm, as soft and gentle as the buildup was. You relax into the cushion again, trying to fix the mess you’ve made of his hair.
He’s still smiling, eyes shining when you peek at him. Big hands smooth up and down your thighs, his lips press to your mound, teeth flashing when he laughs at a joke in the movie. You shoot him an incredulous look, huffing when he leans around your leg to see the screen again. “You’re not watching,” he mumbles into your skin, “you’re gonna miss the story.” He winks at you, laughing at the moan you let out when he flicks his tongue over your clit.
It makes you laugh too, your legs closing playfully over his ears. He licks down to your entrance, groaning when he tastes how wet you are. He slurps it up and spits on your clit, looking up at you when you make a strangled noise. “Good?” He seems worried for a second, relaxing when you nod and card through his hair again.
“Please, keep going,” you whisper breathlessly, his name slipping out when he dives back in happily. He pushes his tongue into you, groaning at the way your walls give way for him. And here’s the thing, when you met Ryland a few months ago, you thought he was just the nerdy science dork that was fun to talk to. You’d just been excited to make a new friend, you never intended to get to this point with him.
But the way he fucked his tongue into you, fingers gripping your legs and his beard scratching against the inside of your thighs? Yeah, you couldn’t complain. You also learned not to judge a book by its cover because where had this confidence been hiding all this time?
He slides a hand down slowly, making sure you can feel his approach to your core before he replaces his tongue with his fingers, pressing in so slowly you swear you can feel his fingerprints branding your walls. His tongue is back on your clit, you can see your slick shining off the tip of his nose. He looks a little dazed, like he’s had a few drinks, his eyes rolling when you grind your hips against his face. He hums, tongue vibrating just right.
A spasm shakes you when he curls his fingers, finding that spot with a little bit of searching. “Is that it?” He whispers, leaning up to lay his cheek on your hip, his fingers moving steadily. He rubs it again, harder, and grins when you jerk under him. “Mm, sensitive,” he kisses your skin, leaving a wet trail back down to your core.
“You feel so good, I could live right here,” he suctions on to your clit, doubling his efforts with a groan. “You gonna give me another one?” His eyes are hooded, glossy and needy. You nod, slipping a hand under your shirt to pinch a nipple, a cry leaving your lips when he presses into you a little harder. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, grinding his hips into the couch at the sight.
You feel the coil tightening, gasping breaths signalling your end when it snaps and sends heat through you. He fucks you through it, his fingers pumping and tongue dancing until you can breathe again. “Fuck, Ryland,” you manage out, tugging his head off of you by the strands of hair you’ve got in a death grip.
He slows down, fingers still moving slowly while he looks up at you. “We’ve still got so much movie left,” he smiles, laughing when you throw your head back with a groan. “Come on, let me have one more,” he kisses your leg, free hand skimming up to your side, smoothing over the skin still hidden under your shirt.
“One more,” you sigh, giggling when his face lights up. He pulls his fingers out, a small moan falling from his lips when he sees how you clench around nothing. He lifts your leg, pushes it up toward your chest, and dives in quickly. He doesn’t waste any time with this one, tongue fucking you like his life depends on it, his thumb circling your clit harshly.
When you hold your leg for him, freeing up his hand, he reaches for your shirt. Blue eyes meet yours, a growl leaving him when you nod and help him lift your shirt above your chest. He pushes your bralette out of the way, big hand cupping your breast and squeezing until you roll your hips against his face again.
You register that his hips are moving against the couch, you can feel his little whines and whimpers in your cunt, he’s getting off on this. You want to encourage him, to tell him how good he’s doing, but he drops your breast to shove a finger in your mouth. “Play with your tits for me, pretty girl,” he grunts, moving his mouth back up to your clit and pushing two fingers into your sopping core. You do what he asks, abandoning his hair to pinch and pull your nipples, gasps and groans falling from your lips.
His eyes are so heavy you think they might be closed, until you notice how he’s flicking back and forth between your breasts, like he can’t decide which side to watch. A wave of heat flows through you, your back arching in warning. He nods against you, mumbling praise and groaning when you clench on his fingers and roll your hips quickly. You come again, pleasure wracking your frame and sending shocks down to your toes.
You hear him whimper loudly, feel how he tenses and drops his head for a second, doing his best not to cut your release short by keeping his fingers moving. He looks up at you, pink dusting his cheeks, breath coming out in heavy pants. You smile, relaxing again and pulling your shirt down. “Did you…” you trail off.
“Yes,” he laughs, hiding his face by moving to drink down your slick, grinding his nose into your clit in his haste to distract you. It makes you jump, your hands flying to his hair to pull him off. He goes willingly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. It doesn’t clean much, his face is shining from chin to nose, but his lips are dry when he presses them to yours, licking into your mouth slowly when you open for him.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, “we should make this a thing.” He kisses you again, smiling when you laugh and nod, until he finally pulls away for good. “We’ll last the whole movie next time,” he giggles when you shove him, watching you stand on shaky legs and head for the bathroom.
“We could do a Lord of the Rings marathon,” he muses from the hallway, “extended edition gives us like, 13 hours of content to work with.” You step out in front of him, eyes huge, “you got 13 hours of that in you, He-Man?” A loud belly laugh sneaks out of him, his hands landing in his pockets like he’s trying to play it cool. “I don’t know, we’ll have to find out.”
He looks at you with a small smile on his face, his face going red again as he scratches the back of his head, “you don’t happen to have any boxers in your dresser do you? I don’t want to wear mine home.” You snort at that, scrunching your face up when you realize how uncomfortable he must be. “Yeah, come on,” and you grab his hand, shoving him in the bathroom to clean up while you dig something out for him to get home in.
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i'm so serious I just need someone to do this to me a couple times a month and i'd be so set
