Fic - Skimming the Surface (Emma Stone/Ryan Gosling, RPF) pg-13, 1/1
Title: Skimming the Surface
Summary: These two? They're kind of a thing.
Rating: pg-13
Author's Notes: 547 words. In the same universe as I Could Stick Around (And Get Along With You) and by universe I mean the wacky confines of my brain. All mistakes are mine. These people obviously aren't. General disclaimer, as always, applies: just slide right on by if RPF isn't your cup of tea.
For _takemeaway_
Only a few months into this thing - whatever it is - and Emma finds that they start seeping into all the tiny crevices in each other’s lives, bits and pieces of themselves lingering here and there without any intention of leaving.
Her strawberry scented shampoo makes itself quite at home in his shower and he’s constantly yelling at her for leaving her dirty towels on his bathroom floor. Ryan likes things tidy and neat, a particular way, and Emma has a tendency to wreak havoc wherever she goes.
Ryan finds her there sometime after midnight. It’s that time of year when the leaves are starting to bud, turning bright green with life. Late winter air filters in through an open window, chilling everything in its path. Tomorrow they’re going to get cinnamon spice lattes and spend the afternoon strolling through central park, she’s already decided. He doesn’t know this yet, of course, but she’s already working on an argument for it in the back of her head about why they should experience New York as much as possible before the weather shifts and people start coming out in droves.
(The argument begins and ends with that thing she does with her mouth that he can’t get enough of. All it takes is one flick of her tongue, and he’s putty in her hands. Ryan has never been as strong as he’d like people to think.)
Emma is standing at the sink in an old ratty tee of his and nothing else but faded cotton panties, her lips wrapped around a toothbrush, toothpaste seeping out of the corner of her mouth.
His smile is unmistakable as he leans against the wall behind her, his eyes flicking towards hers in the mirror.
“What?” she mouths around her toothbrush, knuckle reaching up to catch the toothpaste at the corner.
Laughing, he shakes his head, pushes away from the wall with the palms of his hands and starts crossing the short distance to her. “You are amazing,” he says so simply, so honestly it makes her heart start to hurt in the most cliché way. She kind of hates him for that. She kind of hates him for a lot of things - and loves him for them, too. It’s all very confusing. “Truly.”
She catches sight of herself in the mirror, rolling her eyes as she spits out her toothpaste and shuts off the water. Her hair is frizzed every which way and thrown back into a messy bun, eyeliner smudged at the corners. He’s most definitely lying, she thinks, but she allows it.
“You are such a dork. You know that?”
He’s behind her in a second, his arms wrapping around her waist, fingers dancing along the edge of his t-shirt, spreading over her thighs and in-between. Ryan’s grin is proud, almost smug as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.
“You like it,” he drawls, the vibrations sinking deep into her bones.
Emma hums something low in her throat and can’t control the smile spreading across her mouth. Almost shyly her hand reaches down, covering his, pushing it deeper.
Her voice is low, just for him when she says, “You do know me best.”
(They never make it to Central Park the next day.)
Summary: These two? They're kind of a thing.
Rating: pg-13
Author's Notes: 547 words. In the same universe as I Could Stick Around (And Get Along With You) and by universe I mean the wacky confines of my brain. All mistakes are mine. These people obviously aren't. General disclaimer, as always, applies: just slide right on by if RPF isn't your cup of tea.
For _takemeaway_
Only a few months into this thing - whatever it is - and Emma finds that they start seeping into all the tiny crevices in each other’s lives, bits and pieces of themselves lingering here and there without any intention of leaving.
Her strawberry scented shampoo makes itself quite at home in his shower and he’s constantly yelling at her for leaving her dirty towels on his bathroom floor. Ryan likes things tidy and neat, a particular way, and Emma has a tendency to wreak havoc wherever she goes.
Ryan finds her there sometime after midnight. It’s that time of year when the leaves are starting to bud, turning bright green with life. Late winter air filters in through an open window, chilling everything in its path. Tomorrow they’re going to get cinnamon spice lattes and spend the afternoon strolling through central park, she’s already decided. He doesn’t know this yet, of course, but she’s already working on an argument for it in the back of her head about why they should experience New York as much as possible before the weather shifts and people start coming out in droves.
(The argument begins and ends with that thing she does with her mouth that he can’t get enough of. All it takes is one flick of her tongue, and he’s putty in her hands. Ryan has never been as strong as he’d like people to think.)
Emma is standing at the sink in an old ratty tee of his and nothing else but faded cotton panties, her lips wrapped around a toothbrush, toothpaste seeping out of the corner of her mouth.
His smile is unmistakable as he leans against the wall behind her, his eyes flicking towards hers in the mirror.
“What?” she mouths around her toothbrush, knuckle reaching up to catch the toothpaste at the corner.
Laughing, he shakes his head, pushes away from the wall with the palms of his hands and starts crossing the short distance to her. “You are amazing,” he says so simply, so honestly it makes her heart start to hurt in the most cliché way. She kind of hates him for that. She kind of hates him for a lot of things - and loves him for them, too. It’s all very confusing. “Truly.”
She catches sight of herself in the mirror, rolling her eyes as she spits out her toothpaste and shuts off the water. Her hair is frizzed every which way and thrown back into a messy bun, eyeliner smudged at the corners. He’s most definitely lying, she thinks, but she allows it.
“You are such a dork. You know that?”
He’s behind her in a second, his arms wrapping around her waist, fingers dancing along the edge of his t-shirt, spreading over her thighs and in-between. Ryan’s grin is proud, almost smug as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.
“You like it,” he drawls, the vibrations sinking deep into her bones.
Emma hums something low in her throat and can’t control the smile spreading across her mouth. Almost shyly her hand reaches down, covering his, pushing it deeper.
Her voice is low, just for him when she says, “You do know me best.”
(They never make it to Central Park the next day.)