priscilla ♡₊˚⊹

he was finally comfortable. after a long, yet thankfully trouble-free twelve-hour shift, robby could actually unwind. no emergencies, no charting, just quiet for once.

by the time you finish your own work for the day, he’s already in bed. glasses low on his nose, reading the book you’d given him months ago—the one he kept meaning to start but never had the time for. his brows are faintly drawn, focused but relaxed, the lamplight tracing soft gold over his face. the grey in his hair glowing more than usual, as they immediately catch your eyes. his flannel pajama top is only half buttoned, the collar a little rumpled, and his faded green plaid pants hang low on his hips, loose and worn from use. a pair you’re sure you’ve stolen for yourself, while hoarding around his apartment the first few months of being together. 

robby looks huge like this. it’s not just the shoulders—though they’re wide enough to almost crowd the headboard he’s resting against, and the kind that make shirts strain at the seams—but everything else that comes with them. the long stretch of his body sprawled diagonally across the queen bed, taking up more space than seems fair. the bit of softness at his stomach that presses against the fabric of his top when he breathes, solid and warm and so so real. his forearms dusted with hair, veins running like soft cords against hands that look too big for the gentle way he handles things. 

oh, those hands. 

christ, those hands.

they deserve their own kind of worship. broad and square-palmed, made to work, for holding the weight of a million lives, to fix what is broken. what is hurting. 

the knuckles are rough, the tendons shifting when he moves his fingers to turn a page. every inch of them are matched with quiet strength, the accidental bruises around your hips a true testament to that. there’s always a faint ghost of a cut somewhere, a reminder of what they’ve done all day and one you love to kiss in bed when you’re both too sleepy to get up just yet. and when they touch you, they’re soft and patient. capable of slicing open the cricothyroid membrane and inserting a breathing tube to a trauma victim at one hour and lazily soothing your trembling and arching back the next. the contrast makes you dizzy, their ability, their knowledge, their competence. how something that looks so capable of damage can touch you like you’re the most fragile thing in the world. 

it makes your chest feel too tight, watching him like this. big and calm and unbothered. the picture of everything steady in a world that never is. you should really leave him be. let him rightfully rest. finally clear his mind and have an easy night. 

but you can never seem to stop yourself and you—god help him—were circling him like a restless cat.

at first, it’s small things.

you disappear into the bathroom for a while—longer than usual. run the tap. flush once. twice. come back out, hair a little messier, like maybe you fixed it just to have something to do with your hands. your own pyjama pants swapped out for nothing. just robby’s med school long sleeve the only thing covering your body besides your adorable little white panties. 

not even a glance over. 

you then grab a pack of cookies from the kitchen, just one of the snacks robby buys you so you can munch on something while you’re working. you sit at the edge of the bed, crinkle the wrapper loud enough to echo across the room. you eat a few, decide it’s not what you want right now, and put away the rest. you try again with water, sipping, setting the glass down too hard on the nightstand. the sound breaks the silence for half a second, almost spilling droplets onto the wood surface. 

nothing.

you’ve been pacing for the better part of ten minutes now. now it was the window—peeking through the blinds every few seconds like you were checking for weather updates that didn’t exist. before that it was the counter, pretending to rearrange things that didn’t need rearranging. 

but now you start folding laundry. and no, not the clean pile you already did this morning, but the dirty one you’re going to be washing tomorrow. his hoodie, your socks, the same shirt twice because you don’t like how you did it the first time. you keep glancing over your shoulder, hoping the movement—any movement—will pull his eyes off that damn book.

he doesn’t look up.

and you know he’s probably laughing at you, even despite his complete and utter silence. 

that’s the part that makes your stomach twist—the way he must see it, must notice, but won’t give you the satisfaction of even responding to your fussing. 

so you sigh. loudly.

then tug open the dresser drawer and pretend to search for something you already know isn’t there. the sound of the fabric against upholstered wood, the deliberate thud of it shutting again, just anything to fill the quiet in the room as annoyingly as possible.

still nothing from robby.

you wander toward the mirror, add some chapstick in worry your lips had gotten dry during your 20-minute-back-and-forth around the apartment. you then drop the cap. pick it up, drop it again, this time with a muttered “oops.”

nothing. not even a peripheral glance to the lace edge of your panties that peek through when you bend down, arching your back like you know he loves. 

well he’s doing this on purpose, you think. because he knows the second he ignores you, you’ll start fidgeting, pacing, clawing for attention. and he knows you hate it when he does that. which is also probably why he keeps doing it.

you sigh again, heavier. cross your arms while standing in front of the bed. then, when that doesn’t work, you start humming something faintly tuneless under your breath. anything loud enough to invade his silence.

the crinkle of the page turning is all you here in response. 

“robby.”

“mm.”

that’s it. no other acknowledgment. eyes still fixed on the words printed on the book published god knows how long ago. you knew he’d like it, sure. you just didn’t think it’d replace you as his favorite bedtime activity. and honestly? it’s starting to piss you off.

you pick up one of the pillows hes not leaning on from the bed, fluff it, and drop it back beside him. hard. “you could at least pretend to notice me.”

he hums again. you swear there’s a smile in it this time.

“noticed you pacing for the last five minutes, sweetheart.”

“then why aren’t you saying anything?”

“i’m reading.”

“you’ve been reading for an hour.”

“and you’ve been interrupting for about a quarter of that time.” he flips another page, calm and unbothered. “want me to set a timer? see who gives up first?”

you scowl, because the worst part is that he’s right and he’s enjoying this. the quiet authority, the way his voice stays perfectly even, the fact that his glasses haven’t even slipped lower from how still he’s sitting. you could scream and he’d probably still underline a sentence before looking up.

you linger by the bed, fidgeting with the hem of your sleep shirt. “you could at least touch me while you read.”

“could,” he says, but he doesn’t.

you glare at him, then huff. you climb up onto the bed without another word, kneeling beside him.

nada.

until he shifts, the tiniest movement, his arm lifting like an afterthought so you can settle next to him if you want.

you don’t. well not yet.

instead, you sit, bare legs cold from all your walking around. close enough that the warmth of his thigh makes your skin buzz, but not enough to touch. your body hot and needy and radiating tension he’s somehow too composed to care about or maybe he just wants you to squirm. because of course he does. 

you reach for his hand without a word. he lets you. lets you thread your fingers between his, lets you play with the pad of his index finger, pressing it to the tip of your nose and then to your lips like you’re trying to test how much attention he’s paying.

still reading.

but the twitch of his lips when you bring two of his fingers up to your mouth—pressing them flat to your tongue, letting them rest there as your lips close in on a slow, sloppy suck?

he notices that.

doesn’t turn to look, though. not fully. but his chin dips a little like he’s peering down at you through his glasses, tongue touching the inside of his cheek.

“you this desperate, kid?” his eyes flick up briefly, watching the way your throat moves as you swallow around his fingers. he doesn’t put the book down, doesn’t even move his hand, he just sits there and takes pleasure in your little desperate show for him. 

his voice low, careless. pages still rustling in his other hand. “didn’t even give me a minute to finish the paragraph.”

you hum around his fingers, suck a little harder. swirl your tongue between the joints, down to the base. you want to taste his skin, the salt of him, the clean soap smell clinging to his knuckles from washing up.

when he finally turns to you—truly turns—he pulls his fingers back just a little, letting your mouth chase them before slipping them back in slowly, deeper. testing. watching you take it.

“filthy little thing,” he murmurs, more amused than aroused. But it’s there—just beneath. the clench of his jaw. the shift of his hips.

“you think suckin’ on my fingers all dumb and drooling is gonna get you what you want?”

you nod, eager. greedy. eyes glazed, thighs pressed together because your core is already throbbing, slick pooling as your body pulses with heat just from being allowed to savour him. any part of him. 

he tsks. lets his fingers rest heavy on your tongue.

“you’re so fuckin’ needy, baby. can’t even wait till i finish the book? this gift of yours. gotta come crawling over like some stray beggin’ for attention.” he slowly pulls his fingers out and taps your cheek with them, leaving a smudge of your own slobber against your skin. “what, you start pulsin’ the second i sit down?”

you nod again, eyes wide. shame flickers somewhere inside you, but it only makes the ache worse.

“pathetic,” he says softly, almost reverent. one hand lifts to cup your jaw, thumb smearing the wetness against your soft lips. his palm covers nearly half your face, fingers squeezing in your cheeks. you suddenly feel stupidly small, almost breakable in his grip—the worst part? you love it.

“god, you’re so easy, aren’t you? just a little bit of my skin and you’re soaking through those cute little panties.”

you whimper, he did look you think to yourself, part of you smiling deep inside. 

robby slides his hand down your chest, then into your lap. his palm settles low, right against your pulsing center, and he presses snug enough to make you squirm.

“look at that, all warm and eager.” his lips twitch up into a smile, “you’re not even ashamed of yourself?” 

you shake your head, breath shallow. you can’t be. not when he touches you like this. not when he looks at you like he’s still half-convinced he doesn’t deserve it and yet still too selfish to stop. 

his hand should still, his voice should soften. instead, his jaw tightens and his fingers flex against your skin like he’s testing how much more you’ll take. he likes watching you unravel for him, helpless and open and sweet. likes knowing that every trembling sound you make is because of him, and that he’ll never have the willpower to stop.

he’s watching every tiny reaction you give him—the way your eyes flutter, your breath catches, your hips stutter against his palm. you feel naked under his gaze.

robby huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head like he’s almost scolding himself. “lucky you’re pretty,” he mutters, low, rough. “wouldn’t entertain this shit from anybody else.”

you whimper at that, at the casual cruelty of it, the fondness buried somewhere in the gravel of his voice.

“you think you're special, acting like this?” he asks, thumb dragging down your clothed folds. a shiver goes up your spine, at the way the pad of him thumb forces itself up your entrance, feeling the way your cunt tries to mold around the intrusion. “you think this works on me, sweetheart? like i haven’t dealt with girls like this before?”

his eyes sit heavy on you, and you struggle to keep the contact. your hand moving to his wrist, as his fingers play with your slick-covered panties. “used to shut it down in a second. i don’t entertain brats, kid. but you’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you? anything for my little attention whore.”

the words hit like a spark to dry kindling. your body burning bright with a sense of need and embarrassment. you cry without meaning to, body arching into his hand, eyes closing shut. your thighs tremble, your pulse thundering in your ears. every part of you feels wired straight to his voice, to the rough sound of it when he gets like this. his half-scolding, half-possessiveness. it’s filthy, the way it makes you feel small and wanted at the same time, like your body only exists to be looked at, touched, used by robby, and only robby. 

he tips his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “you like that, huh?” he drawls, voice dipping with a smirk. “me tellin’ you how pathetic you look while you rut against my hand like a goddamn mutt?”

your breath hitches, a strangled sound spilling from you before you can swallow it back. your eyes flutter open but they don’t quite focus. your lips part, glossed with spit and want, trying to find words that won’t come to your tongue. 

he catches it immediately, a faint grin spreading slow and cruel. “christ,” he murmurs, half wonder, half mockery. “you do like it. little thing gets off on bein’ talked to like she’s trouble.”

he leans in, voice soft at your ear: “go on then. show me. let me see what that pretty little pussy is whining so much about.”

you whimper as he cups you tighter—broad palm pressing right over the wet heat of your clit, two fingers lazily stroking up and down, letting the pressure taunt you once again. his hand covers you completely, so big it feels like he could swallow you whole. there’s no air left between your thighs, no space to think.

the cotton of your panties is soaked through, sticking deep against your folds, clinging like they’re begging for relief too. but robby just settles back against the pillows again. the book still open in his other hand. glasses still perched on his nose like nothing’s changed.

you blink at him. panting.

he flicks his eyes at you once—warning—before turning back to the page he bookmarked.

you shift against his hand, the fabric between your thighs dragging disgustingly damp. it’s makes you feel too hot, too tight. your fingers twitch toward the waistband before you can think better of it, ready to slip them off and find some more relief.

robby pulls down your thigh in your attempt to lift yourself up. he doesn’t look away from the book at first, just slides his wet thumb along the inside of your thigh. “leave ’em,” he says, voice quiet but with that warning edge you know all too well. his eyes flick to you then, steady and unblinking.

the air shifts. something in your chest flutters and folds in on itself. he doesn’t need to raise his voice, doesn’t need to do anything at all. just that look, the subtle press of his thumb, the reminder that he decides when and how you get what you want.

he drags his hand back into place, two fingers curling beneath the crotch area of your panties, nudging them aside with an infuriating calm.

his touch is maddening. just two fingers, rubbing circles right over your clit, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to test you, to see exactly how quickly you’ll come apart. you try to grind forward—just a little—and he doesn’t stop you.

but he doesn’t help you, either.

you end up having to do it all by yourself. so you position yourself over the only part of him he’s giving up to you. you roll your hips into his palm as his long fingers land near your entrance. you begin with small movements before the desperation hits you again, intentions hungry while your breath catches with every stroke of your clit against the calloused feeling of his skin.

he doesn’t even have to look fully to see the tremor in your thighs. the reflection in his glasses shows enough—your mouth open, your eyes glassy and your tits swaying with every messy motion of your body. if you were any closer his glasses would surely be fogged up. 

your whines stay muffled by your lip caught in your teeth, but robby secretly loves the sound as a reading backdrop. “that’s it—yeah, just like that.” he mutters, flipping the page. fucking flipping the page. “christ, look at you. grinding that needy little cunt on my hand while i relax. can never just leave me be, huh?” he speaks with a chuckle. eyes falling low to the feeling of your wet core against his hand. a throbbing in his lap would be equally as noticeable to you if it wasn't masked by the blanket thrown over him. “make it worth my time.”

you whimper. your hands clutch at the sheets. your thighs shake from how badly you need more. just a little. please, just something inside you beg to yourself. 

as if reading your mind, because of course he is, robby slips one thick finger in—slow, slow, slow—until you feel the familiar burn that you would scratch your eyes out for.

you squeal. eyes rolling, walls fluttering as he slides in only to the second bump of his joint, thick and warm but still so unfair.

he chuckles low, not even breaking his concentration of the paragraph hes on.

“cute,” he murmurs. “one fuckin’ finger and you’re already clenching like i’ve split you in half.”

he draws the finger out again, slick glistening in the lamplight. you whine, chasing the loss without thinking, and his mouth quirks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or scold.

“you act like we’ve never done this before,” he says, voice dipped in amusement. “every time, it’s the same damn thing. like you forget what you’re built for.”

your breath hitches, shame and need tangling hot in every bone, muscle and vein of your body. “baby,” he hums, lowering his voice, “my finger’s barely in you. how the hell are you gonna take my cock, huh, sweet thing?”

you cry at the thought, at the ache deep between your legs that remembers him too well. “tightest thing i’ve ever felt, sweetheart. s’gonna be my favorite little project to make it fit,” he told you the first time—hell, you’ve proven him wrong every time since. but it doesn’t mean it’s easy. that’s the best part: hearing him groan against your ear as your pussy fights against the thick and long intrusion, squeezing every inch of him whilst. 

the pads of his fingers trace your entrance again, feeling the way it flutters open and closed around nothing. the air between you is dirty, the scent of sweat and your cunt, laced with something feral—obscene, quite honestly—filling his senses. he swears softly, the sound rough in his throat. fuck, as if you aren’t his kryptonite already.

you’re shaking now. grinding again, your slick dragging messily across his palm, making that filthy little sound every time you rock your hips forward. your pussy is aching, throbbing for more, for him, and he just keeps going, casually licking his free thumb to wet the paper and flip to the next. the faint crinkle of the book now sounds diabolical. the idea he can focus on whatever it is he's reading despite the circumstances in which you find yourself.

but hell he's got years of practice. years of teaching himself restraint. of biting back the groans when he feels his cock strain against the fabric of his pants. of going about his day pretending that he doesn’t want to just go home and fuck the living breath out of the sweet girl who looks up at him with puppy eyes that he’s never seen before in his life. 

someone with so much unconditional love and desire for him. 

someone who lives with such genuinity and purity. 

there’s something crude about how good she is, how willing. how easy it is to make her fall apart when a sense of innocence still clings to her. something he knows he’s tainted for her.

and maybe that’s corruption: letting himself touch her like that. drown her young, soft body under the weight of his own. letting her hear what his voice sounds like when it’s dripping with filth, when he’s calling her sweetheart through his teeth. watching her tremble like she’s trying to fight a possessed being in her, and knowing she’ll succumb to it every single time.

and you know nothing better. addicted to it—the taste, the tone, the size of him. like a gambler chasing money for one more round, like a junkie needing another hit.

robby turns another page. you make a pitiful sound in your throat, too far gone to care anymore. eyes glassy. chest heaving while your throat hurts from all your panting. he can practically smell how close you are to the edge. “i didn’t say you could come yet,” he adds, coolly. “not until i finish reading.”

but then, he does it again. two fingers now, all the way to his knuckle, curling as they breach you—just enough to stretch your entrance and send a bolt of heat straight to your gut. he scissors them just so and your whole body jerks, thighs clamping down around him while a high cry crowds the space of the bedroom. he pulls out again with that same maddening calm.

“gotta say,” he murmurs, as if now just purely entertained by your little show, “you really are fuckin’ adorable when you’re like this. all dumb and wet and grateful just to hump my hand.”

your mouth opens, closes. you don’t even know what to beg anymore, but your hips are chasing something euphoric and no one can stop you.

robby leans his head back slightly, glasses sliding lower as he finally looks over at you—really looks. his palm flicks upward, pushing right over your clit.

your cheeks flame, and he grins when you try to look away. “don’t hide from me now, sweetheart. you wanna act like a little bitch in heat? then look at me while you do it. show me how pretty my girl cums, hm?”

and so you do.

almost instantly. your body gives in before your brain catches up, your hips jerk forward, legs trembling with ache as your orgasm rips through you fast and sharp, shamefully easy. it floods you in a blinding rush, so quick and hot it makes you cry out, high-pitched and broken. you throw your head back, body arching as your hand travels up your figure. palms squeezing your breast in the comforting way robby does, hands continuing to travel up to your neck. the things you normally mimic for yourself when robby isn't home to ground you back to reality. 

robby feels it the moment you break. it rolls through you like electricity under his palms; he can feel your heartbeat where his skin meets yours. he watches you unravel with eyes narrowed, as he bites the inside of his cheek. there’s something dangerous about the way you lose yourself to him, about how easy it is for him to pull you apart with nothing but patience and tone.

he almost says your name, but doesn’t. instead he just watches. breath steady, chest rising slow against yours while you tremble and clings to yourself as you come down in fragments. he likes seeing the shift, the glassy almost sleepy aftermath in your eyes, the way you blink up at him as if you’re remembering where you are.

the reminder of how completely you trust him settles into the air. how easily you gives in when he’s the one guiding you there. it’s too much sometimes—the quiet certainty that you would follow his lead anywhere, even into the dark corners of himself he’s spent years trying to seal off. that you don't just let him touch you but instead you let him undo you.

it should scare him, the power of it. it should make him move a few steps back. but instead, he feels that pull in his chest. a dangerous, steady ache that says maybe he doesn’t want to be good anymore if it means giving up the way you look at him right now.

“jesus christ,” he mutters—half a scoff, half a groan, like he’s watching something pathetic and mesmerizing at the same time.

you’re gasping. the muscles in your body jerking with aftershocks every so often. legs clamped tight around his wrist like you’re afraid he’ll pull away before you want him to, cunt still fluttering around nothing.

he closes the novel. finally.

and then he turns to you. both hands come up—one to push your hair out of your face, the other cupping your chin to tilt your flushed and dazed expression toward him. you’re so glassy-eyed, eyelashes curled upwards as you look at him with a disgusting amount of admiration. every edge of you looks so soft, your face so spent and quiet in the aftermath that he clicks his tongue at you softly, still bordering on teasing.

“you poor baby.” you blink at him, still catching your breath from your bitten lips. “all that fuss, all that humping, and it took what? a couple fingers and some words to make you come like that?”

you whimper at his mocking. but he’s not done.

“didn’t even fuck you, baby. just let you hump yourself stupid on my hand.” he’s smiling now. that crooked, cruel curl of his mouth that only shows up when he’s thoroughly and deeply entertained. which isn’t too often to begin with. 

“you embarrassed?” he asks, low and sweet. “not ashamed of those needy little thoughts that got you soaked through your panties? that you came all over me before i even touched you properly? that you love to be degraded like a little slut?”

you don’t answer, he doesn’t need you to anyway. so he leans in, voice softening but no less of a sharp tongue. “don’t worry, sweetheart. i already let you make a mess.” he kisses your cheek, warm at your jaw.

“and now that i’ve finished my reading,” he reaches down and hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your ruined panties, tugging them off with quiet finality. robby brings them up to his face, taking a deep inhale before tossing them over to the nightstand. “i’ll show you what real attention feels like.”

his hips drive into yours roughly as he fucks into you from on top, his chest pressed to your smooth back, his hand grabbing a fistful of your soft, fruity scented hair. fuck, your stupid shampoo has had his brain foggy all day...

his other hand is shoving two fingers into your mouth, pushed deep enough in your mouth for you to feel it, but not enough for you to choke. "feel that?" he pants in your ear as his tip presses into a spongey spot deep inside you. each rough thrust has him hitting the spot each time, sending so much pleasure through your body that you can't even control the gush of juices seeping out of you and coating his cock anymore.

"mm, mhm!" you slur out around his fingers, swirling your tongue around the digits before closing your mouth around them. "that's what you do to me." he hisses in your ear. "my cock's never been so swollen up and wet in my whole life. you proud of yourself for getting me like this?"

you nod eagerly, words breaking off into a loud moan as he pushes you forward, that long, thick cock of his stuffing you up to the hilt each time he bottoms out. you feel so full, like there's not a single inch of space left inside you when his dick is squished in your soft pussy. "calling me daddy and hangin' off my arm the whole damn shift. fuck." he grits, balls twitching against your ass. he knows he's about to cum soon, and in his haste to correct you, he hadn't bothered to put on a condom.

" 'm sorry!" your voice is pitchy and saccharine sweet, "just wanted to mmh! ge-get your attention..."

" 'm too old for you, you stupid little thing." he snaps, adjusting his hands so that one wraps firmly around your throat and the other spans over your eyes, blocking your vision. your moans become exponentially louder without his fingers gagging you, and you start pushing your ass back onto his dick like a real whore, swallowing up his cock each time you move back to meet his rough thrusts. you're clearly trying to prove you're not too young for him, that you can take all of him and be good for him if he just gives you a little more attention...

he gives your throat a little squeeze, feeling how the motion has you tightening around him, and his face screws up in pleasure. "fuck, im gonna cum. you gonna let me pull out, or do you want a baby in you, huh pretty?"

"fill me up please-" you beg, and he lets out a loud groan, tilting your chin up so he can kiss you from above before pushing his cock in you all the way, stuffing you with his hot, thick cum.

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