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i linger where you are (part 1) ; ryland grace x f!reader — age gap, co-workers, just lots of lingering and yearning
synopsis. you were supposed to be nothing more than a coworker—younger and definitely off-limits. but between late evenings, lingering glances, and a palpable tension neither of you want to name, resisting becomes really hard! (2.9k words)
note. i honestly could’ve compiled all the parts into maybe one fic bc it would total around 11k i think but i haven’t finished yet, and i wanted to get this out into the world! so, my apologies for the short word-count chapters. but anyways! i hope u enjoy (i have never dabbled in intentional age gap fics before so this is a first)
masterlist | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4
Ryland Grace didn’t think anything when you’d first been hired. Truthfully, he’d barely looked at you the first week you’d started teaching.
Not because he meant to be rude, he was just always stuck in his work—the lesson plans he needed to write, the presentations he needed to prepare, the projector that always refused to function unless smacked twice. He had half a mind to pay attention to much outside the four corners of this classroom.
So, he didn’t think anything when you’d been hired.
He only had preconceived notions, that after teaching long enough, he knew new hires usually arrived with the same expression on their faces. The same wide eyes, the feeling of open opportunities, and the desperate need to prove they belonged.
You fit perfectly, fitting right into the puzzle.
You were young and nervous, but eager to prove yourself. You were the type of person who reminded him, and many others, why he loves teaching—that vigor and passion is irreplaceable when you first start out.
He’d been just like you.
Always staying late, and always apologizing for things you didn’t need to apologize for, but felt that you needed to.
You’d settle eventually. As everyone else did.
Of course, there was no way to know when, and to Ryland, it certainly wasn’t now, as you glared at the printer with a certain disdain swimming in your eyes and a press of defeat on your lips.
“The printer hates me.” You sigh, hands on your hips as you stare at the current cause of your misfortune, refusing to print your lesson plans despite the ticking time of your deadline.
Your tone remains polite, but Ryland can tell you were starting to get upset by the way your tongue darted over your lips, and the way your fingers drummed on the table where the printer was sitting.
A laugh sounds from a table nearby, his.
“Don’t worry too much about it. The printer hates everyone.” Ryland says without even looking up from the stack of papers in his hands.
By the nonchalance he’s going for, it seems a common occurrence.
“That’s a little comforting.”
You continue to study it, like it’d suddenly work if you’d just direct enough intensity towards it. Maybe it’d cower in fear, maybe it’d listen to you and start printing because you had a deadline, and God forbid you made it in time.
You’re so intent on staring at it that you don’t realize the looming presence behind you.
You smell him before you fully process he’s there—the scent of coffee, dry erase markers, and a musky perfume you can’t name.
The way his scent completely engulfs you makes your heart beat irregularly, cardiac arrhythmia-esque. His towering height doesn’t help either, makes you stand a little too stiffly when you catch sight of him through your peripheral vision.
Ryland, on the other hand, is completely normal about everything.
He’s reaching around you, pressing another button on the printer with the mastery of a man who has been teaching for years, and apparently navigating this very stubborn printer.
He’s hard at work, focused on pulling the stubborn sheet of paper you had fed it earlier when you made the mistake of assuming its cooperation, but all you can think about is how big and tall he is compared to you.
What he always this tall? Or were you always this short?
There is a certain way his biceps flex when his arm is outstretched like this, and when he’s using a bit of strength to grasp at the stubborn paper that had been caught in the teeth of the printer. It’s tight against the button down shirt he’s wearing that it almost makes your breath hitch.
Like God left a traitorous kiss on his cheek by casting him here, straight off his good-boy-who-doesn’t-know-he’s-hot trope.
You’re only pulled out of your thoughts when the printer starts to hum in the obedience you’d asked from it earlier.
The papers you’d been meaning to print follow.
"There." He smiles down at you, glasses hanging stubbornly by his chin.
It’s always anywhere on his face but properly horizontal on the bridge of his nose. It somehow makes him more painfully dashing, yet so painfully out of your league.
He waits a second more, checking the piece of paper that slips out to make sure it doesn’t print in botched ink like it does sometimes. And when a few more pass in perfect ink, he’s already back to where he was seated with his stacks of paper.
You blink at the fast pace of events, at the rasp of his voice, at how proportionate he looks with his business casual.
It’s basic human decency, helping you with the printer. He just happened to look unfairly attractive while doing it, and effortless, too.
The printer seems to be able to differentiate between years of experience.
“I’d been fighting with the printer for fifteen minutes, and you fixed it in like two.” Your voice is amused, riddled with disbelief.
The science teacher simply chuckles, still unmoving from his grading of papers.
“It just takes a bit of experience. All the equipment in this school knows when you’re new. Give it a month. It'll stop picking on you.”
“Guess I have a few more weeks of getting picked on then.”
You shake your head, a small laugh leaving your lips. And the sound echoes for a while in the empty faculty room before you excuse yourself to submit the papers you’d just printed.
Against his better judgement, and unknowing at the time, Ryland finds himself smiling.
After that day, he finds himself helping you more often than he’d liked to admit.
Ryland reasons it’s because you were still finding balance, still standing on unsteady feet from a life entirely different from university. He figured he could offer a little help once in a while, pass on the times when he’d been the one who needed help earlier in his career.
His assistance consisted of unwilling projectors, spare markers, locked supply closets, things that were menial. And he never stayed longer than necessary. Never lingered.
Ryland, to him, was nothing but professional.
(If you called “noticing” professional.)
From weeks of being your right hand man, he’d made a few observations.
Of course he did, he was a scientist, it’s only inherent in him to do so. The list is long—the way you curl your lips when you concentrate enough, how you call staff by their first names but older colleagues always properly addressed with their last names, and that you stay long after most teachers have gone home.
Sometimes he’d pass by your classroom on his way out and notice the lights still on.
You’d be standing in front of a bulletin board, pre-cut tape hanging from your arm. Sometimes you’d be sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by paper.
But the one thing that never falters is that you were always doing something.
Always working hard to prove something.
It reminds him of his first year teaching, reminiscent in the way you mirror the same passion, the same determination in his eyes then that all first-year teachers always had.
Now, Ryland was a little more aged. He’d been teaching for more than 10 years now, ever since he’d quit the research field. But he’d like to think he still had remainders of that passion.
Though, sometimes passion can go a little overboard.
It’s been almost two months since you’d started teaching, and you were still staying later than most.
Ryland usually wouldn’t mind, usually wouldn’t have made a comment had it been anyone else but for some reason, he’s grown to have a little concern reserved for you.
“Hey, you’re still here?”
The sudden voice surprises you. You’d always been alone in the late hours of Grover Cleveland. So, it’s reasonable that the presence of another person startles you.
“Yeah.” You laugh, looking up from the heaps of paperwork on your desk. “Will that get me in trouble?”
Ryland lingers by your door, staring at the clock in the middle of your classroom. It’s been 3 hours since the bell rang for dismissal.
“No, no. I just, I didn’t realize anyone else was still here. You’re making us veteran teachers look bad.” He decides to joke, small smile on his lips.
You’re shaking your head as he speaks, sending him a tired smile as you stretch your arms over your head from being hunched over and grading papers for three hours.
“I just lost track of time.”
Ryland nods once, mind racing with how to tell you to not work too hard lest you want to exhaust yourself beyond recognition.
He’s done it before. Multiple times, even. He knows more than anyone how much exhaustion can beat you down until you can no longer stand on your feet.
“Don’t.”
You tilt your head, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Don’t what?”
“Lose track of time.” He’s looking at you a certain way, like you’re supposed to know what he means. “You’ll burn yourself out.”
Your face breaks into a soft smile, at the masked care dripping from his tone. “You sound experienced.”
“I am.”
You snort, and he exhales a laugh through his nose in response. When you don’t seem to move, he adds, “I’m gonna get going now. You should go home too, kid.”
“Sounds like a command.”
“Professional recommendation. From…you know. Someone who’s already made that mistake. And from all those teaching years under my belt.”
You laugh. “I will! Thanks Mr. Grace.”
He nods, heart swelling in an unidentifiable feeling at the thrill of your eager wholesomeness, before he closes the door behind him.
A week after he’d “reprimanded” you, heavy rain falls upon the school just as almost everyone in the school has left. It comes without warning.
The weather here is always unpredictable.
Ryland sees it through the window of his classroom, sees the tilt of the rain and how it makes the parking lot barely visible from where he’s looking.
It’s just hazes of gray outside with a certain blurriness heightened by his poor eyesight.
He sighs, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion as he remembers he’d forgotten to bring his raincoat today. Poor timing.
He rummages through his drawers, pulling out an old black umbrella he’d been keeping in his classroom for a few years in case of emergencies like today. And after packing up the remnants of things he needed to bring home, he heads out.
The hallways are quiet, and his eyes unintentionally spares a glance at your classroom, like it always did on nights like these.
Ryland sighs in relief when he sees it dark, unoccupied.
Good, you’d gotten home before the rain had hit, he thinks.
He doesn’t think about the connotations of his thoughts, and why he’d been thinking of your safety. He doesn’t want to think about it. Instead, he directs his attention to his old umbrella, clicking it open with a familiar resistance from not having been used for almost a year.
Then, he steps outside.
He counts down a few seconds to gather up the courage to walk to his bike, doesn’t know why he does, and when he’s just gotten to one and about to brave through the rain when he notices someone standing beneath the covered entrance of the school.
Well, not just anyone.
You’re standing just by the awning, arms folded, and simply watching the rain.
Ryland stops in his tracks, feet moving to where you are, instead.
“Are you planning on waiting until next week for it to stop?"
You turn your head at the voice. At this point, his intonations and the rumble of his voice has grown familiar to your ears (much to your delight). So, you’re not as surprised as you normally would be.
Where surprise would’ve been, you laugh.
“I was hoping the rain would get tired eventually.”
“You’re very optimistic.”
“Well, I guess that’s one of the perks of being new here.” You look up at him, spare him a second, before it fixates on the rain again. “I haven't learned exactly how the weather works yet."
“Did you study somewhere else?” He asks curiously, umbrella staying idle in his hands.
“Yeah. I studied in New York.”
“Woah, that’s… that’s a long way from home.”
You nod your head. “It is. But I needed the change in environment.”
Ryland doesn’t prod further, sensing that you didn’t really want to talk about it. There is a certain tone in your voice that doesn’t want further questioning, like you’ve been avoiding it.
Maybe he’d find out eventually. For now, he’ll look towards the parking lot.
It’s a lot more visible when you’re standing outside, and he can almost make the model of a few cars sitting a distance away from where you’re standing. It’s not too far, but it’s far enough that if you attempted to run for it, your shoes would get soaked.
And you might get sick. He doesn’t think that’s worth the risk.
He looks back at the umbrella in his hand, and then at you, still staring at the rain, still crossing your arms over your chest. Still patient.
Ryland hesitates for a moment, but surely walking you to your car is normal. It’s human decency. It’s just sharing an umbrella. It’s just walking you and making sure you don’t get sick.
Nevermind the proximity that would entail.
(Very mind, he will come to learn.)
“Come on.”
You blink at the older man and at his vagueness. “Huh?”
"Which one's yours?"
You’re still staring at him, eyes wide until they travel towards where he’s now holding his umbrella. His hand is outstretched just a little that it now covers the both of you partially.
Partially. He’s asking for your permission, if this was okay.
You couldn’t say no, not with his loose tie, and the starting buttons of his top unbuttoned, and the shy, polite way he’s looking at you over his glasses. It’s almost impossible to refuse.
There is no better offer, anyway.
“Oh.” A smile falls on your lips, shuffling a little closer to the man so you’re both now beneath the umbrella. “Thank you. It’s uh, it’s just over there.”
It’s small, barely enough to really protect the both of you from the rain. So, when you walk, your shoulders are brushing against each other.
Again and again and again. By accident.
And both of you are hunched over on instinct, by feeble attempt at keeping yourselves dry, and you’re impossibly close to him as you’re both struggling to walk through the rain.
It’s a little awkward, and you can’t help the occasional laughter that escapes your lips when you try to step over a puddle at the same time. There’s a persistent smile on his face.
Despite the struggle and his distaste of getting wet, Ryland shifts the umbrella further towards you without really thinking about it. Droplets fall on half his sleeve and it wets the blazer he’s wearing.
You notice immediately.
"Mr. Grace." You’re trying to yell over the loudness of the rain, but it’s so loud. "You've got the umbrella entirely over me."
He glances once. He looks like he didn’t hear you, despite hearing loud and clear.
"You're getting wet!” You reattempt, deciding on shorter sentences.
Ryland only shakes his head, his grin growing. “It’s only cause I’m taller.”
Your footsteps continue to match despite the rushed pace, and the tapping of the rain on the umbrella and on the ground is loud, and it’s so cold but there is warmth where your shoulders are meeting.
Your car came too soon.
When you unlock it, Ryland reaches for the handle at the exact time that you do, and your hands almost touch. It feels unbearably hot.
“Sorry.” He mumbles. It sounds more for himself. And then, he opens it for you.
“Thank you, Mr. Grace.” You’re smiling at him sheepishly, and Ryland suddenly couldn’t care less that he’s getting wetter and wetter from the rain as time passes.
(He quickly reasons that it’d be stupid if you got sick after all this trouble.)
“Drive carefully.”
“You too. Thanks for rescuing me from the rain.”
You don’t know he’ll have to walk home with his bike.
“No problem, kid.”
The term of endearment bothers you because it reminds you there is a reason it is being used. He is, really, painfully out of your league.
‘Kid’ is a line, a sword, a boundary, a shield. You could search up so many more adjectives, and it will all mean the same thing. It is something that stands in between the two of you.
On the other hand, the last thing Ryland hears is your laugh before the door is closed, and he stays behind as your headlights disappear through the curtain of the rain. And he only realizes he’s still standing there when the rain starts to slow a little.
The umbrella starts feeling heavy still on his hand.
On the entire walk home, through the struggle of pushing his bike with him, he realizes he still has the umbrella tilted slightly to his right. As if you were still walking beside him. And he catches himself replaying the sound of your laugh. Once. And then again.
And along with it settled something terrifying, something he wasn’t ready to name.
synopsis – an unexpected layoff forces you to move in with a random man you meet on the internet—who just so happens to be ryland grace. a blind date forces the two of you to finally acknowledge your true feelings for one another—and just how deeply they run.
Just want to squish Lars's cheeks for real 🙂↕️ (after having an established relationship and he's comfortable with it of course!) + bonus beanie version!
This Lars piece has been sitting in my wip folder for a while now but thanks to @pixiebuggz absolutely adorable Lars fic I was inspired to finish it 🫶🏽
LOVE YA VI!!! 💖
Posting both versions cause I couldn't decide and liked both hehe
use your words — ryland grace x shy!f!reader ; basically just ryland “use your words” grace who gets off on hearing you say what you want + the glasses stay tf on (1.3k words)
18+ !!!! mdni !!!!! this is smut !!!!
(freak o’ clock is backkkk! you are needy and horny, there is piv penetration)
“Ryyyyy.”
You’re whiny and putty beside him on the bed as he works through his thesis.
It’s ass o’ clock in the morning, and there are papers strewn everywhere and his glasses are barely hanging on his face, and his eyes are fixated on the screen of his laptop.
From his peripheral vision, though, he can see you squeezing your thighs together, trying so hard not to be obvious. But he knows exactly what you want.
You’ve been trying to kiss him all night, trying to get him to do something. And while he enjoys the contact, he’s just very very close to being complete with his Review of Related Literature. After one last draft, he’d be done for the weekend.
“Rylandddd.” You wrap your arms around him, working hard to pull his mouth to yours.
This time, he finally relents, letting you taste his lips after hours of effort. And he loves it. Ravishes in how your arms tighten around him, the way you set his laptop aside so you can climb on his lap.
You’ve always been so shy. His sweet, shy girl. Barely initiating, and always blushing when he does. So, when you’re needy like this, he relishes every second of it.
“Not mad?” You’re still on his lips, so your words come out in a mumble. Your boyfriend easily annoys when he’s distracted from his work. You need to make sure he isn’t annoyed at you.
“Surprisingly not.”
It entices you, excites you as you dive back to keep nipping at his lower lip. He likes you like this. Likes how your fingers feel tightening around his biceps to keep him close. Likes how you roll your hips desperately against his clothed cock.
“Naughty girl.” Ryland pulls back, and you’re already trying to chase after his lips, eyes drooped and tunnelvisioned on his mouth. You only whine when you feel him bury his hands on the dip of your hips, halting your movements. “What is it you need, hm?”
“Ryy. Please. Please. Please.”
The words are desperate when they leave your mouth, your fingers transferring from his biceps to his hands on your hips to try and pry them off. You were starting to feel so good.
“Use your words.” He whispers against your ear, rough and raspy and so fucking dirty.
“Ryyyyy.”
You’re still shy, still unable to tell him what you need from him but Ryland wants to hear it so bad. Wants to hear you say you want him to fuck you, to use you.
“Words.”
One of his hands moves to bring your wrists together when you keep trying to pry wordlessly. “Don’t upset me, baby. You’re already on thin ice.”
His free hand traces your mouth, which is slightly open and trying to form the words he wants you to say. He sends a love tap against your cheek, encouraging you to tell him exactly what you need from him.
“Want you.” You whisper, eyes trailing down at his own lips before bringing your attention back to his eyes that are already looking down your loose top. His tongue moves over his lower lip as he drags a finger down your own bottom lip, stretching it out.
He wants nothing more than to shove his fingers in your mouth. “Be specific.”
“Want you to fuck me. Please.”
His hips buck up at the lewdness of your words, at how you’re so desperate for him to fuck you and fill you up. At the sight of your mouth forming those words, the sound of your sweet voice in sharp contrast with the filthy things you’re begging from him.
“You want me to fuck you? You’ll let me have you?”
“Please, please, please, please. Fuck me.”
“Good girl.”
He releases your hands, and it’s instant the way you latch your lips back on his. How you mimic your movements from earlier, trying desperately hard to create friction. How you pull at his shirt, tugging at it to let him know you want him to take it off.
“What did I tell you about using your words?” Ryland moans against your mouth, one finger hooking at the band of your shorts to pull them down your legs.
“Take it off, Ry, please.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely.” His shirt is immediately discarded, taking yours with it.
Ryland lets his eyes roam over you for a moment, at the cute matching underwear you’re wearing for him, at how you’re still grinding against him desperately. Almost needy. His cock twitches at the sight of you and your fucked out eyes and your swollen lips from kissing him so harshly a few minutes ago.
And you’re so fucked out that you don’t process how he’s suddenly left the bed, at how he’d pulled you by the legs and dragged you by the foot of the bed, at how he’s hooking his fingers into your underwear to pull them down your legs. He’s moving so slow, and you can’t help squirm at his pace. It’s exactly what he wants you to do.
He’s stood there, one hand stroking his hard cock at the sight of your squirming cunt while his other hand blindly fishes out for a condom in his drawer.
You’re getting more and more impatient as he works the condom down his cock, and you’re whining and being such a brat, and Ryland loves it. He loves the breath of relief that leaves your mouth in between your little moans when he finally hovers over you.
One of your hands grip at his arm when he moves to remove his glasses, and you’re shaking your head desperately. “No, no. Keep them on. I want them on.”
“Oh, you want me to keep my glasses?” He smirks, pushing it up his nose as you whimper at the sight of him above you, and how close his cock is from your heat. “What do you say when you want something?”
“Please.”
You’re pulling at his arm, bucking your hip to try and feel him. And you almost moan out when he finally reaches down to grip his cock, when he finally guides himself to press his tip against throbbing cunt. “Yes, yes, yes.”
God, he almost comes at your desperation, almost comes when he pushes himself deeper and you moan out so loud, so pretty. The sounds he’s making as he pushes himself in and out of you makes your cheeks turn pink, makes you wetter, makes you louder. And, the glasses do eventually fall off from how hard he’s fucking you.
“This what you wanted, huh?” His voice is rough, breath hot against your ears, and you can do nothing but repeatedly switch between ‘yes’ and ‘please’.
A very limited vocabulary as you’re so fucked out by the pleasure.
It only encourages him, fucking into you harder as you close your eyes shut at the overwhelming pleasure that’s filling you. You’re pulling at his hair and gripping his back and clawing at him and your hands and mouth can’t behave as he fucks you.
“God, your pussy feels so good around me. Open wider baby, I know you can do that for me. Be a good girl.” He grunts.
Ryland is a loud man during sex, whimpering and moaning into you just as much as you are. “You’re so sexy when you’re needy, baby. Fuuuh. So good.”
He’s still fucking into you, hard and fast. And when his eyes aren’t closed, they’re scanning your pretty face and the way your tits bounce after every thrust.
Your moans start to muffle when he drops his head down to kiss you as he keeps thrusting, keeps fucking you. And you’re so full of pleasure that you’re ill-prepared for the feeling of his other hand reaching down to your clit. The pressure of his length and his fingers together make you come around him, and Ryland whimpers at the way your pussy suddenly clenches around his cock.
“That’s it. That’s it, baby. So pretty and perfect letting me use you like this.”
He quickens his pace, hands gripping at your hips as he fucks himself into you until he finally comes, cock twitching inside of you as his hips stutter. He doesn’t draw out immediately, lets his cock keep filling you up even when you’re both trying to recover.
You’re breathing so heavily. Erratic. And he only pulls out after pressing a sweet kiss on your lips, letting himself drop down beside you on the bed.
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The first time he takes you out, he does it old-school. Opens every door, pulls out your chair, makes sure your glass is never empty. He’s got that weathered Hollywood charm—always smells like expensive cologne and leather from his truck. He doesn’t flash cash, he just has it. Pays for everything before you can even reach for your wallet.
He texts you like a boomer when he's older and settled himself down a bit more. Full sentences, proper punctuation, sometimes a single thumbs-up emoji. He still sends you memes and is actually funny and well versed in gen Z shit lol. You know that means he’s thinking about you when he sends you memes with 0 context.
Colt is surprisingly domestic. When you stay over at his place—a sleek but lived-in house in the hills—he insists on cooking breakfast. He makes perfect scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and strong black coffee. He tells stories about the stunts he’s pulled, the bones he’s broken, but never in a bragging way. More like he’s letting you in on the secrets of his world.
He’s protective, not possessive. If some guy at a bar hits on you while Colt’s grabbing drinks, Colt just appears at your side with a calm “You good, sweetheart?”—and the guy backs off immediately. He doesn’t need to puff his chest. The confidence is enough.
He loves buying you things you’d never buy yourself. A cashmere sweater because it was cold. A vintage record player because you mentioned you liked vinyl. Not flashy jewelry or cars—just thoughtful, practical luxuries that make your life easier or warmer.
His favorite thing is when you fall asleep on his chest while he’s watching action movies. He’ll stay perfectly still, arm curled around you, until you wake up. Then he just kisses your forehead and says, “You snore cute.”
NSFW! MDNI 18+
The first time you sleep together, he takes his time. He’s been around long enough to know that rushing ruins everything. He strips you slow, kissing every inch of skin as it’s revealed, murmuring dirty praise into your ear. “Fuck, look at you. So damn pretty for me.”
He loves guiding you. Whether you’re on top or he’s bending you over the kitchen counter, he keeps a hand on your hip or the back of your neck—steady pressure, full control. Not rough, but firm. He wants to feel every movement, to make sure you’re taking it the way he wants.
His favorite position is missionary with your legs hooked over his shoulders. He gets to watch your face, your tits bouncing, and he can lean down to bite your lip or whisper dirty things. He fucks deep and slow, building you up until you’re begging. Then he picks up the pace, grunting, “Come for me, baby. Let me feel it.”
He’s a giver in bed. He’ll eat your pussy for as long as you let him—on the couch, in the shower, first thing in the morning with morning breath. He loves the way you whimper and grab his hair. His tongue is precise, knows exactly where to lick and suck. When you finally cum on his mouth, he groans like he’s the one getting off.
He talks dirty, but never mean. “That’s it, take my cock. You feel so fucking good.” “Such a tight little thing f'me, huh?” He knows the age gap turns you on, and he’s happy to lean into it without making it weird. It’s about trust, not power.
He cums a lot, and he’s not shy about it. When he finally lets go—after making sure you’ve cum at least twice—he buries his face in your neck and pumps hot ropes deep inside you or over your stomach, growling your name. Then he stays buried for a moment, catching his breath, lips pressed to your pulse.
Aftercare is non-negotiable. He cleans you up with a warm washcloth, gets you water, wraps you in a blanket. He’ll hold you on the couch, running his hand down your spine, and ask if you need anything. If you’re sore, he’s immediately checking if he was too rough. You have to reassure him you loved every second.
He has a thing for spontaneity. If he’s working late on set (he does stunt consulting now), he’ll text you a picture of his hotel room keycard. “Come keep me company.” You show up in something short, and he has you pressed against the door before it’s even closed, kissing you softly and like a schoolboy. But he fucks you like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
His favorite spot to cum is your mouth. He’s not demanding—he’ll ask, “You want my cum in your mouth, sweetheart?” while stroking himself. And when you take him down your throat, he praises you the whole time. “Good girl. Swallow it. Show me how pretty you look with my cock down your throat.”
ryland would be a competent partner. he’s a grown man who has lived on his own for years and doesn’t need to be told when to do the the things that are glaringly obvious and impossible to ignore. once he’s in a relationship, he doesn’t rely on his significant other to do the more mundane or tedious things that are required in day to day life. he just does them like he should. and he doesn’t expect praise for the meeting bare minimum requirements of being an adult and capable partner.
the trash is getting close to being full? he’s already tying it up and slipping on his shoes to take it outside without a word or making a fuss. he doesn’t leave the lid off and not replace the bag either, and when he notices the box is getting close to empty he makes a mental note to pick up another container of trash bags at the store.
every day at 3:15, like clockwork, your phone will buzz with a message from him asking if you need anything before he comes home. a sweet treat or a fun little drink from the store? something for dinner that you forgot to grab when you were out? and he knows you well, some days when you tell him that you don’t need anything, he still arrives home with your favorite candy and flowers “just because”.
he’s a planner, too. he takes the initiative to thoroughly plan and schedule dates. one outside date and one at home date every month, at least. it’s a requirement, he says, something for the two of you to look forward to. and it doesn’t just end after a few months of dating either. he keeps up with it, still going strong a few years into dating.
he helps cook dinner. then helps clean the dishes. the two of you are a unit that works together. you’ll rotate, some nights he’ll be doing the washing and you’ll be doing the drying, other nights you’ll be doing the washing and he’ll be doing the drying. he puts them back exactly where they belong too.
he doesn’t rely on you to remind him of deadlines or things going on that the two of you need to know about. he keeps a small pocket calendar in his backpack with important dates and messy scribbles of things he needs to remember. he writes down appointment dates and when bills are due as reminders for himself.
he knows how to do his laundry and doesn’t expect you to do it for him. he’ll even do yours too if he notices your basket piling up. he doesn’t have to ask which setting to use on the washer or where to put your clothes after they’ve dried. they’re folded and hung up exactly the same way you would do it yourself.
he’s emotionally mature. he doesn’t give you the silent treatment or make you wonder if there’s something wrong in your relationship. he talks through issues and he never raises his voice in anger towards you. he will give you space if you need it, but he’s always there at the end of the night to discuss problems and work through them.
he’s also competent in the bedroom, making sure to learn exactly how to work you up and where you like to be touched the most. he knows which words to whisper against your skin, when to give you praise, and when he needs to be a little more firm.
some nights he enjoys making you cum and expecting absolutely nothing in return. if you even mention that you’ve had a bad or stressful day to him, it’s not long before he’s got you spread open on the bed and he’s fucking into you with his fingers. he’ll do anything possible to alleviate any of your stress he can through pleasure.
he enjoys watching you fall apart for him, often times making you cum more than once before he’s even properly fucked you. he knows just how to angle his long fingers to reach that sensitive spot that you can’t reach yourself. he knows where to press his tongue and what parts of your skin to nip at with his teeth because it drives you insane.
he makes sure you’re ready for him, all wet and worked open before he finally does properly fuck you. and even then, he still makes sure to make you cum all over his cock before he lets himself release inside of you, or onto your stomach if you ask him not to cum inside.
that’s another thing, he never pressures you into things you don’t want to do, and he absolutely never makes you feel bad if you just aren’t feeling up to it some nights. he knows that he is more than capable to take care of himself on those nights.
ryland grace is a capable partner and he knows it, but it’s not something he thinks he should pride himself on, it’s just the default to him. in fact, he’s absolutely astonished at some of the man-child horror stories you’ve told him from past relationships, but while you’re with him, there won’t be any new stories to add to that list.
i just know ryland would love dressing up and doing couples halloween costumes. he wouldn’t even try to act like he doesn’t like it. some years he’s the one taking full control and planning the costumes. and if there’s a costume contest? his ultra competitive side shows itself and you better believe he will do anything he can to win, even if it means spending hours finding unique costumes and getting them exactly right
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