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When they fall into each other, it's not delicate. It's a crash, a bang, a collision of desperation and desire. Want and fear and Ryland can't get enough. He can't ever get enough.
It's a perfect blend of hands on skin, lips moving together, bodies in tandem, everything warm and new and it's maybe a day into this new thing between them that Ryland gets a question stuck in his head. The type of question that keeps him up at night, wondering and working out logistics. He turns it over and over again in his head until it gets knocked out of his chest by sheer force. Simon might as well have taken a baseball bat and whacked him over the head with it.
It's quite something to come home from a day of teaching to find Simon in the bed they've begun to share, shirtless except for the dang harness. Just. Laying there.
Ryland really can't take it then. His hair is splayed out over his pillow, artificial sunlight hitting just right over his ever-exposed ribs.
It's not even a conscious thought when he asks. He just drops his bag at the doorway, climbs onto the bed, and straddles Simon. Taking his surprised face into his hands, he asks, "can I lick your ribs?"
A pause.
"What?"
"Can I lick your ribs, please?"
Simon blinks up at him, silent. His stare is questioning. Questioning is good, questioning means considering. Ryland would really like him to consider.
Eventually, slowly, "Am I…missing something?"
It occurs to Ryland he might have been a bit forward. It's not polite to ask someone to lick their ribs outright.
He clears his throat and leans back.
"No," he admits. "I'm throwing this at you out of nowhere, aren't I? Sorry. I've just been thinking about it. It's how you test fossils, did you know that? If you don't know whether it's a plain old rock or a fossil, you lick it. It's supposed to be sticky. Or just stick. I'm not really sure, but I'd like to find out if yours work the same way with burnt bone and your unique physiology."
Simon, the wonderful man he is, doesn't tell him off for the rambling. He listens. He always listens, and the intensity of his stare, his attention, always makes Ryland feel warm inside.
Eventually, Simon nods. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yes, okay. How do you want me?"
Oh wow. Ryland wants him a lot of ways. Like this, splayed out, open for him to prod and explore. Map every piece in the shifting form of his beautiful body. Though, right now, he's fixated on the ribs.
They've always been a point of interest; the exposed areas are a muddy sort of color, nearing but not yet touching black. There's traces of green, and if you look closely, a little pink. Heat and metal. A gnarly, painful combination that led to a mosaic of earthly color.
Ryland wants.
He exhales slowly, reigning in the spiral of thoughts he has. The questions, the comments, the lessons sitting right on the tip of his tongue. He'll have time for that. For now,
"You're fine here," he assures. "Just lay down, and tell me if anything hurts or if you want me to stop."
"Alright."
Just because he can and because Simon is unfairly beautiful, Ryland kisses him. It's slow and gentle, a careful press of lips that Ryland follows down to his jaw. He rubs his cheek against Simon's, feeling the scratchy burn of their beards rubbing together, and kisses him there too. It pokes, scratches, and Ryland loves it.
He keeps a slow pace, kissing from the underside of his jaw down to his neck. He searches with gentle kisses for an artery. A pulse. His hands find purchase on Simon's harness, anchoring in place, and his lips find the racing beat of a heart.
He hums, only to feel the skin under his lips vibrate, and Simon shakes. He's so sensitive, always. Every touch, every breath, every kiss and bite. He soaks it in and carries it like a treasure.
It's not lost on Ryland the trust in this. With his lips placing gentle kisses over his arteries, something he could so easily rip out, one hard press away from cutting off circulation, in perfect position to kill. Simon trusts him not to.
Simon trusts him.
It's that more than anything that makes him hurry.
He wants to know. He wants to know everything and he's starting with those damn ribs. He took his samples, he knows the makeup, but he has to taste. Feel. Experience. He'd like to experience every part of Simon there is to experience.
With more urgency, he kisses down his sternum, his chest. His hands fall down to his waist as his lips find the curve of his chest. It's impossible to avoid, framed beautifully as it is by the harness. He can't help a little bite.
Simon, all the while, arches into his touch.
So reactive. Always so reactive.
When Ryland continues his path and reaches the first of the exposed ribs, he pauses.
"Last chance to back out," he warns.
Simon huffs a breathless little laugh. "Nah."
His hand tangles in Ryland's hair, and that's about all the invitation he needs.
He starts with a hesitant kiss, just a quick brush of lips. A little hello before he sticks his tongue out and presses the tip against the bone. When he pulls it back, it sticks. Like tiny little vacuums or licking freezing ice. It's a little tug— not really a sting, but something bordering on it.
It makes sense. Burning a bone would only dehydrate it, further exposing the already numerous pores. The pores suck up moisture and try to take as much as possible, causing the moist tongue to stick to the surface of the bone.
It's a very strange feeling.
Ryland does it again.
This time, he presses as much tongue as he can flat against the bone. When he peels it back, it's slow. He feels those tiniest of vacuums trying to suck in his tongue.
Again, on a different rib. A hello kiss and a long swipe of his tongue.
Simon's hand twitches in his hair, tugs just the slightest bit as he lifts his tongue. The dual points of pain and pressure send Ryland's blood running south.
Ah, jeez.
Somehow, at some point, something went wrong in his life. Somewhere between getting blasted into space to his death and winding up inside a carefully crafted biodome, he messed something up in his brain and here he is, getting turned on by getting his hair pulled and licking ribs.
At least, he thinks, he found someone who matches him at every turn. Every crazy twist and bad day and strange desire is met head on. Because as much as this affects him, it affects Simon just as much.
Every careful lick has him gasping, a pretty flush running down his chest. Green and pink and brown contrast the red of it.
"Fuck," Simon gasps when he finally pulls back. "I can feel you. How can I feel you?"
Ryland's cheeks go warm. "You feel the pressure?"
"No." Pause. "Yes, but. It's warm. Wet. Feels like you're licking inside me."
"That's— hm. That's not supposed to happen"
There's two very distinct parts of Ryland, then. One wonders how the heck Simon is feeling temperature and wetness through bone, especially one that's had its nerve-filled periosteum burned off. The other wants to shove his thigh between his legs and keep licking to see what happens. Touch, too. Run his fingers along the bone, tap and scratch and find what gets a reaction. What gets Simon grinding against him.
…he's always been good at multitasking.
"Can I try something?" He asks. "I'm curious to see how sensitive your bones are."
"Right…what?"
"I'd try different textures, pressures, and temperatures. See what you can feel…how you feel it. I'd like you to describe it for me."
"Shit." Simon's grip on his hair tightens. His eyes shut, and when Ryland lets his hands wander back up to his chest, he feels his heart racing still.
"You can say no! At any point. I'll stop."
"No. No, I mean, I don't want to say no. I'm good with it. Fuck."
Ryland laughs, blushing an embarrassing pink. They match. "Cool."
"What, uh…"
"Just stay still for me. A little movement is fine, but I don't want to hurt you by accident."
Simon nods and Ryland smiles.
"Yeah, perfect, just like that."
He's learned rather quickly that Simon loves praise. A side effect of his upbringing, maybe, though Ryland is no therapist. But he knows Simon holds praise like treasure. He knows he likes to earn it, otherwise it's worse. He knows Simon deserves it. Always always always.
He also knows that he is a very selfish man who loves seeing the way Simon reacts to his words. The hitch of his breath, the dilation of his pupils. Quite frankly, he just loves Simon.
"Perfect," he says again, leaning down for a kiss.
He drags it down his chest, back to his ribs.
Ah, where to start? Questions questions questions tumble around in his head. Ice, tools, nails, sand. A million different options.
He starts with what he knows.
Simon feels pressure. Simon likes pressure. Ryland can press down on his ribs and he'll feel the pressure of it inside him— like tapping a tooth and feeling it in your gums, he said. So, Ryland picks a rib and presses two fingers into it. Softly, at first, and when it only gets him a little huff, harder.
That gets him a sharp inhale.
Good. No change.
He kisses the center of his chest as a reward, then tries pinching. Middle and index fingers on the right side of a protruding rib, thumb on the left. Push.
There's the slightest of twitches.
"Feel that?" Ryland asks.
"Little bit. When you push down."
"Mm." He tries again, pushing in with as much force as he can muster. He keeps the force centered, avoiding pushing the bone down. "That?"
"Barely."
The kiss goes on his neck this time.
He tries pulling up. Same position as the pinch, but he gently tugs the bone up. It doesn't budge, but Simon flinches.
"Shoot!" Ryland takes his hands off Simon. "Did that hurt?"
"Yes." His voice is low, though. Dark and low the way that always makes Ryland a little crazy. His hand slides out of Ryland's hair and down to grip his arm.
Oh.
Carefully, Ryland sets his hands back down. One rests over a rib and the other takes hold of the harness.
"How does it hurt?" He asks.
"Feels— shit." Ryland rubs gently over his bone. "Sharp. Hot pain. Dulls quick when you let go."
"Inside?"
"Yeah, fuck."
"I'm sorry."
"No." Simon shakes his head. "No, it's…do it again."
Oh boy.
Ryland takes a long, deep breath.
He's had his suspicions, of course. He's seen Simon pick at the skin around his nails and press down. He's seen him pinch the inside of his elbow after a nightmare. He's seen his back arch and his eyes flutter shut when Ryland nips at him, heard him ask him not to be gentle.
Ryland gets it. Really, he does. He likes a hard grip and a rough scratch of nails— the bite of pain blending with a flutter of heat, each feeding the other, making the feelings indistinguishable. Powerful. He doesn't, however, know quite what to do right now. Because it's not him, it's Simon.
He can't hurt the people he loves.
But sometimes the people he loves need to hurt.
"Simon," he says, so very gently. "Do you like that it hurts?"
Simon drops his hand from Ryland's arm.
"Simon," Ryland says again, rubbing his chest. "I don't…I need to know. It's okay. Promise. But I need you to tell me."
Slowly, through a clenched jaw and a firm stare, "Yes."
Ryland exhales.
"Okay. Okay, that's fine. Can you…explain? Does it feel good? Is it grounding? Is it…punishment?"
"Grounding." Simon's gaze stays firm, testing. "Good. Makes me feel alive."
Ryland hums.
He doesn't have a track record of being particularly adventurous. He never slept around or snuck into movies. He spent Friday nights grading papers and responding to emails from his kids. That being said, every record has a smudge.
It was college for him. Between lessons and books there was an occasional pill. A night here and there blacked out from alcohol. A rare club. A way of life witnessed from the seat of a booth through dim lights.
He is not as clueless as people think.
"I don't want to hurt you," he admits, beginning to click the puzzle into place. "I don't want to make you suffer any more than you already have."
Simon doesn't reply.
Ryland cups his cheek. "But you're not suffering, are you? So, if you want me to, I think we can compromise."
"How?"
"I won't hurt you any way that'll cause permanent, long-term, or lasting harm. But I can hurt you in smaller ways, if I can trust you to tell me when to stop or if it's too much. That okay?"
"Yeah. Yes, I can do that."
"Promise?"
"Swear."
Ryland nods. Carefully, he pulls up on a rib.
Simon's lips part on a gasp.
"Okay?" He checks.
Just like that, Simon loosens back up. "Okay."
"Good." He smiles. "So good, Simon. Thank you."
He tugs again, and this time, he leaves a gentle bite on Simon's collarbone as he does so.
Simon groans, the deep rumble of it vibrating under Ryland. He tugs him closer, too. Hand on his waist, dragging him in. Down.
Ryland gets an idea.
He scoots himself down so he's eye-level with Simon's ribs. Always a beautiful curiosity. He licks once, twice, and finally settles with his teeth on either side of his chosen rib. He glances up for confirmation and finds Simon staring with blown pupils and red cheeks. He nods.
Ever so slowly, Ryland bites. Not too hard, not enough to damage either the bone or his teeth, but hard enough to get a grip. Then, he pulls.
"Fuck." Simon bucks up, hips and back arching off the bed, taking Ryland up with him. "Fuck, Ryland."
Yeah, he made the right choice.
He switches to another rib, not wanting to irritate that one too much, and does it again. Again, again, again, each time on a different rib, until Simon is panting under him. Flushed dark red and sweating and oh, man, were his pants always this tight?
Shoot.
He really should've expected this outcome.
He draws back only to ask, "what do you want?"
Simon gives a breathless laugh. "You ask like you don't know."
"I don't."
"Fuck me."
Ryland thinks of earlier, his tongue on Simon's bones. The way it made him shiver, how he felt it inside. He wonders…well, only one way to find out, right?
"I could. Or, uh…you liked when I was licking you earlier, right? Said you felt it inside you." He steels himself, entirely unused to the bluntness and how it makes embarrassment creep up his stomach. "Would you like me to eat you out?"
The embarrassment hits head on. Why would he say that? Why would he say it like that?
And yet, Simon bucks his hips again. It happens Ryland is in perfect position to feel the answer before he even says,
”Yes. Please."
Okay. Okay okay okay. Yeah. Yup. That's a yes.
Alrighty.
Ryland takes a breath. Jeez, he must be blushing like crazy right now. This is uncharted territory on every count. So many variables in play, no previous experience to fall back on. A billion and a half different ways he could go wrong.
He pauses. Re-frames. Uses all that SEL he used to teach.
It's an opportunity to learn together.
Right.
"Okay," he says out loud, hoping desperately his panic didn't come across. "We need to move a bit, then. You don't want to flip over, do you?"
"…no. Can't be face down."
"Alright, good. Thank you for telling me." He leans back, and takes scope of the area. Options options options flick through his thoughts until one dings like a little bell. "Okay, here's what we'll do. First, I'm going to get off you and kneel by the side of the bed. You're going to get the rest of your clothes off. When you're ready, I want you to come over and lie down with your feet on my shoulders. I can support you. Can you do that for me?"
Simon nods.
"Words, please."
"Yes. I can do that."
"Good. Thank you."
Ryland follows his word. He climbs off Simon and moves to the side of the bed. He grabs a pillow from the bed and places it on the ground before kneeling. Then, he watches Simon strip.
The pause comes when Simon has his clothes off. His hand hovers over his harness, and he glances at Ryland.
"Harness on?"
Yeah, Ryland hasn't been subtle about that.
"Yes," he confirms.
Simon nods. "Thought so."
He shifts himself over to Ryland's end of the bed, and lays down. His feet find Ryland's shoulders.
It's a little awkward, really. Strange position, strange angle. A lot of shifting and maneuvering. But when Ryland finally gets his tongue in him, it's worth it, if just for the way his breath stutters. The way he whispers a quiet "fuck". It's worth it the second he gets a moan from his throat, a hand in his hair. Worth it to be pinned under the weight of him, surrounded entirely, and have so much power placed into his hands with nothing but hard earned trust. And it's worth it, too, to feel him. To map him out from the inside and learn what makes him tick. Dig his nails into his thighs hard enough to leave indents, feel the way the pleasurepain makes him clench around his tongue.
It's exactly what Ryland loves most— connection. Messy, adoring connection. Gasping breaths and skin on skin. Dripping sweat and tight grips. When Simon asks, a hand on him. Eventually, the hot mess of him between his fingers. Heaving breaths coming to a slow and aching knees stretching.
Ryland stands, eases Simon back into a comfortable position laying on the bed, and kisses him. Kisses him again and again and he hardly notices he hasn't come until Simon places a hand on his pelvis and asks, "can I?" like it's a gift he can be given. One he hopes he's earned.
Ryland couldn't dream of denying him anything. He'd give him the whole damn universe and every star in it.
* * *
Ryland Grace has been a lot of things in his life— a student, a teacher, a coward, a friend. He's fought and learned and discovered and saved, but most importantly, he's loved.
He's loved his students, his friends, his home, his work. The beat of a good song and eating a good meal. He's loved and loved and loved and it has never been enough until he found his place on Erid. There was always more, another standard he could never live up to.
Here, at home in his little house in the biodome, it's more than enough. He loves Rocky like a soulmate and Adrian like a song, the pebbles like sunshine and Simon like forever.
He realizes, then, that he's never once said it.
So, here, with his head on Simon's chest, cradled by bone and skin and a heartbeat under his ear, he says, "I love you, by the way."
He's not expecting a response, not really. He knows, and that's enough for him. Simon gives one anyways, in the form of fingers running through his hair and a very soft, very quiet, "I love you too."
Ryland Grace has been a lot of things in his life. When he finds the right way to present the ring tucked away in his nightstand, he hopes to add married to the list.