meep merp

Jack's car—he'd asked you to call him Jack, and that gave you an odd sort of thrill—is clean but lived in. Granola bar wrappers litter the passenger seat, and he crumples them up and tosses them into the back with a sheepish smile. There's a half-empty bottle of Gatorade in the cup holder. His radio is tuned to a classic rock station, though he turns the volume low as you settle in next to him. You find it all strangely endearing.

The drive is mostly silent, save for his quiet humming along to the music. Music, it occurs to you, that your dad would listen to. And then you realize that Jack is only a few years younger than your dad, and then you feel like a pervert because you'd really like to have sex with Jack Abbot.

You're so deep in your shame spiral that you jump a bit when he rests a hand on your thigh. He raises an eyebrow at you, but mercifully doesn't comment on it, saving you a little bit of dignity. You can only hope and pray that he doesn't notice the way your breathing shifts when he starts inching his hand almost imperceptibly higher.

(He does. He would smirk at it if he didn't think you'd get embarrassed. He finds it adorable that you think he doesn't see your little crush on him. It makes the chase all the more thrilling for him.)

His house, like his car, is clean but lived in. It smells like cedar and old coffee, and his bookshelf is stuffed with medical textbooks. He heats up some leftovers for the two of you, and you eat on his couch in comfortable silence. When he realizes you won't bring it up on your own, he sets his plate down and clears his throat.

"So… you were cryin' tonight. Wanna tell me why?"

You shrug, shrinking in on yourself. "It's dumb," you mumble. He scoffs and shakes his head.

"'S'not dumb, kid. Was it about Robby?"

You wince at that, feeling like a naive teenager getting her heart broken by the asshole football player. "Just… made me realize he never cared about me. Like even—even when we were… y'know…" you avert your eyes, and he has to fight a smile at how cute your bashfulness is, "he always seemed more annoyed at me than anything. Like I was—I dunno."

He arches an eyebrow and leans in closer. "What, sweetheart? Like you were what?"

You fiddle with your hands awkwardly. "I just didn't mean anything to him. And he-he made that very clear."

Jack sighs at that. The worst part is, you're probably right. More right than you know. Part of him wants to deny it to make you feel better, but Jack had listened to the way that Robby talked about you for weeks: laughing about how easy you were, complaining about your clinginess, eventually rolling his eyes at every text you sent when he got bored of you. He'd silently seethed through it all, only breaking his silence to come to your defense when Robby started to go too far. He told himself every day that it was worth it, because once his friend inevitably lost interest in you, you'd fall right into his arms. It was manipulative, dirty, completely immoral—but he's only a man, sweetie, and how could he resist your big doe eyes and plump lips?

"Y'know, I love Mikey like a brother, but the guy doesn't know how to treat a lady. I've seen him chew up and spit out more women than I can count. 'Course, none were as gorgeous as you," he chuckles, raising his eyebrows at you. You roll your eyes at that, but can't hide your smile.

"Shut up, you're just saying that," you grumble, setting your empty plate on the table. Jack shakes his head insistently, eyes crinkling as his smile widens.

"'M'not. Robby was crazy to let a pretty little thing like you go."

You sigh at that, staring at your hands in your lap. "Well, he's got a new plaything now," you mumble, blinking back tears at the memory. Jack pauses a moment before settling a hand on your shoulder—when did he get so close?—and rubbing circles into it with his thumb. You realize that you can smell his aftershave and the sweat clinging to his skin from here. It's delicious.

"Y'know what I think?" he drawls. You glance up at him and tilt your head in response. "I don't think you should cry one more tear over that man."

You huff. "Yeah? It's that easy?"

Jack rolls his eyes. "C'mon, kiddo, he treated you awful. Lotta men would be lining up at the door for the chance to spoil you rotten."

You shrug. "I don't—I don't know. He treated me okay, I think."

You don't really know when Jack's hand started roaming your skin. It's a bit intoxicating. His fingers lightly dance across your side and lull you into a dizzy kind of spell. He repeats your words with a nonplussed look on his face: "He treated you okay."

"Y-yeah."

Suddenly his unoccupied hand is reaching across to grip your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eyes. You gasp quietly. "I could treat you better." He presses the pad of his thumb to your lower lip and tugs at it slightly.

Oh.

Your brain goes blank. You know you should form a response, say something witty and flirtatious or at the very least acknowledge that he's spoken, but all you're capable of is staring dumbly at him with widened eyes. He tilts his head to the side.

"You want that? Want Jackie to take care of you?"

You nod dumbly and press your thighs together. He clicks his tongue. "Words, doll."

You let out an involuntary whine at that. He hopes you don't notice his cock hardening at the noise. "Yeah," you breathe out.

"Yeah, what?" He's enjoying this, smirking at your inability to form words.

"I want-I want you to take care of me. Please, Jack."

Jack once again takes pity on you and leans over to press his lips to yours. You sigh into the kiss, parting your lips to let him lick into your mouth. It's soft and a bit desperate, nothing like the hurried and rare kisses Robby would grace you with. His hand tangles in your hair, gripping lightly at the base. You moan into his mouth and let your hand explore his body. He's so solid, so strong and broad but with enough give to let you press your hands into his clothed skin. When he notices you squirming in your seat, he lifts you up with ease and sets you on his lap. You squeal and giggle a bit before kissing him again while grinding on him. He groans at the feeling of your clothed heat pressing into his bulge; he can already feel a wet spot forming between you. When he pulls away for a breath, he whistles at the dazed look in your eyes as you keep chasing your pleasure.

"Robby never mentioned you were this sensitive," he murmurs. You flush at that, ducking your head in embarrassment. Though, you're apparently not embarrassed enough to stop humping his lap as needy little whines and whimpers escape you.

"Never… never was this sensitive with him," you admit. He could cum untouched from the confession.

"Yeah?" he whispers, "Only Jackie can make you feel like this, right, kiddo? Only me."

You nod insistently with your head pressed into his neck. "Yeahhh, only you, only you."

"Fuck," he mutters, involuntarily jerking his hips up a bit. You moan at the feeling of him pressing up into you and ground down on him.

"C'mon, up, up," he grunts. You whine at the loss of contact but obey, standing on shakey legs and letting him lead you to the bedroom. He sets you carefully down on the bed before taking off his prosthesis with a soft grunt and setting it on the floor.

"Let's get these clothes off you, honey." Anticipation and arousal course through you. You ache for relief and help Jack to hurriedly strip yourself down to your panties. He sits back for a moment and rubs his jaw with an awed expression on his face.

"Jesus fucking Christ, baby, you're gonna kill me."

You flush at that, a shy smile gracing your face as he unapologetically ogles you. Slowly, he peels your panties down your legs, exposing your dripping cunt. He groans at the sight.

"Fuckin' soaked and I haven't even touched you. So perfect."

You squirm on the bed, trying to get an ounce of friction between your thighs. "Please, Jack," you whisper. He chuckles and leans in to kiss you hungrily.

"Patience, sweetheart, patience."

Jack works slowly, hands roaming your exposed skin as he licks and nips at your neck. You run a hand through his silver curls and press him further into you as he lightly sucks at your pressure point. Your breath is shallow with want, and you're sure he can feel your quickened pulse thudding. He reaches up to cup your breast, squeezing before running a thumb along your pebbled nipple. You sigh in easy pleasure and let yourself sink into the bed. You want to urge him along, to beg him to just touch you where you need it most, but you're determined to be good for him.

When he dips his head down and replaces his pinching fingers with his mouth, taking your nipple in between his teeth, you gasp and arch your back off the bed.

"Fuck, feels-feels good," you whimper, eyelids fluttering shut. He nibbles and sucks at your nipple before eventually moving on to the other one, sending little zaps of pleasure through your body.

By the time he finally pulls away, both of your breasts are reddened and wet with spit. He reaches down to squeeze you again like he can't get enough.

"Can't believe these gorgeous tits were hiding beneath your scrubs this whole time. I knew you were stunning, but…" his eyes trail down your naked body before landing on your puffy cunt. A large wet spot has formed on the bedspread beneath you, and you try to close your legs when you see him notice it, but he easily holds them apart.

"Unh-uh, no hiding. All this for me? Such a messy little girl."

Your eyes go half-lidded at his words, reaching that fuzzy-warm space that makes you feel like you're floating. "'M sorry… sorry, daddy… don't mean to," you slur out, wriggling your hips as the ache becomes nearly unbearable. You don't even realize what you've said, too far-gone to see his eyes widen as a wolfish grin spreads across his face. He coos at your apologies.

"Aw, it's okay, baby, don't be sorry. Daddy'll clean you up. Sweet thing, didn't realize you were this needy. It's okay, Jackie's gonna take care of you."

You're panting, nodding along to his words and trying to press into the hand caressing your inner thigh. Jack adjusts himself with a grunt and dips his head down in between your legs. For a moment, he just admires the sight in front of him: glistening, puffy cunt with a tragically swollen clit just begging for attention.

"All mine. You all mine, babygirl?"

You let out a strangled noise. You can feel his hot breath on you, riling you up even more. "Yes! Yes, I'm all yours, no one else's."

He nods in satisfaction and finally, finally licks a stripe through you. You gasp at the sudden relief before moaning as he laps up your juices like a man starved. He pulls away from you after a minute and licks his lips.

"Jesus. How'd Robby let you out of his sight after tasting this perfect pussy?"

You look down at him and shake your head with a furrowed brow. "Never-never tasted me."

He arches a brow. "You serious? Robby never ate you out?"

You pause and tilt your head. "Well, I never asked."

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Shouldn't have to ask, kiddo. Should never have to ask."

Before you can respond, he's returning to his meal. He nearly forgets about your pleasure in his desperation to drink up as much of you as he can, though you don't exactly mind. His tongue dances across your folds, flattening near the bottom before flicking and occasionally sucking at your clit. You're completely lost in the feeling above him, barely restraining yourself from grinding up into his mouth as you moan out little pleas and affirmations. You thread your hands into his hair and tug lightly when he hits the right spots, subconsciously teaching him how to please you best.

"So-so good, daddy, it feels so good, please don't stop," you pant.

He groans into you and snakes a hand up to prod at your entrance with his middle finger. You gasp when he slowly presses into you. Your arousal and moisture, mixed with his spit, makes it fairly easy, but the thick digit still provides a burning stretch. He curls up into you and, never ceasing his oral ministrations, shifts his finger slightly until your eyes snap open and your hand tightens on his curls.

"There she is," he murmurs against your cunt. He presses into it unyieldingly, pumping in and out in a "come hither" motion.

"Haaa, fuckfuckfuck, pl-please, 'm so close, daddy, so-so close," you babble. You can't stop your hips from grinding into his mouth at this point; your release is so imminent that your entire body has tensed up in preparation. He grunts into you before suddenly pressing his ring finger into you to join his middle. Your eyes widen at the newfound stretch and fullness, his thick and long fingers reaching places you never have on your own.

"Let go for me, kiddo, let go for daddy," he murmurs. You moan, your eyelids fluttering shut, and let the waves of pleasure roll through your entire body. Jack never relents; his fingers and tongue don't let up for a second as your climax builds and builds. His cock is painfully hard, straining against his boxers, but he thinks he could probably live here forever, smothered by your cunt and listening to your desperate moans.

Your entire body feels like it's tingling as you come, pressing Jack's head ever-harder into your core as you gush into his waiting mouth. He milks you through your orgasm, slowing down his fingers but not stopping them to draw out the moment for as long as possible. Your only vocabulary right now consists of Jack, and daddy, and fuck and please and more. Or you think that's what you're saying; to Jack, it sounds a bit incoherent, slurred out words that get jumbled up in your pleasure-addled brain. It's only when you start hissing at the overstimulation that he finally pulls away from you with a cocky grin on his face. He takes in your sweat-soaked, panting body; your hair, mussed from thrashing on the pillow; your blown pupils; the pool of wetness under you. His beautiful, beautiful mess.

When the pressure starts getting unbearable, he discreetly palms himself over his clothes. Your eyes are still closed as you come down, so you don't even realize he's practically jacking off to your naked form, which somehow makes it feel more perverted and more pleasurable at the same time. He quickly withdraws his hand when your eyes flutter open. You gaze at him with a dazed smile and sit up on your elbows.

"Wow," you murmur, "I didn't realize it could feel that good."

He raises an eyebrow and leans over you to press a kiss to your neck. "No? No wonder you settled for Robby. Don't know what's good for you, do you?" There's a possessive, predatory instict taking over him. It's not one he's felt before, but he suddenly wants to keep you for good and not let any other boys who don't know what the hell they're doing touch you ever again. His perfect girl. They don't deserve you.

Your eyes drift to his erection, and your lips part in desire. You reach out tentatively, staring at him all the while like you're waiting for him to admonish you.

"Can I… can I touch it?" you whisper. He groans lustfully and nods.

"Yeah, kiddo, touch it. You wanna make daddy feel good?" You nod desperately and tug at his pants impatiently as he tears off his shirt and tosses it to the side. When he's finally bare to you, you stare up at him with that innocent expression that makes him want to bend you over right there and then.

But patience, he'd told you. He can have some patience, too.

Jack's only a bit longer than Robby was, but he's much thicker, and it sends a shiver of nerves through you. You crawl towards him and tentatively take him in your hands before darting your tongue out and licking the bead of precum that had collected on his tip. He groans and tosses his head back before snapping back to keep his eyes on you. He'll be jacking off to the memory of this sight for a long time.

"I don't think it'll fit, daddy," you whisper, brows furrowed in concern. He hums and reaches down to smooth down your hair.

"It'll fit, baby. We'll make it fit."

He gently guides your head toward his cock, and he can tell you're scared to let him down by the way you try to fit too much of him in your mouth too fast. He moans in relief, but reluctantly pulls you off nonetheless.

"S-slower, sweetheart, go slower. Don't gotta take me all at once."

You nod, determined to do better, and lick a stripe up his length. He pants and nods in approval. "Good, babygirl. Doing so good for me. So pretty like this."

His praise feels like a drug; you whine and take him in your mouth again, closing your puffy lips around his tip and hollowing out your cheeks as you swallow as much of him as you can. He stretches out your lips, sitting heavy on your tongue, and makes your jaw ache, but the look on his face and the curses streaming from his mouth make it worth it. You make up for what you can't fit in your mouth with your hands. Jack's a little surprised, truth be told, that someone as innocent-looking as you is so expertly pleasuring him. He tries not to think about how much practice you must've had.

Or how often you probably practiced with Robby. Greedy bastard never even returned the favor.

Jack would love to stay here until he comes—make you swallow it as he watches, or maybe paint your face pretty—but the memory of you clenching down on his fingers is making him crave being inside of you. He pulls you off of him and watches as a string of spit connects you to him. You whine at the loss.

"Was I not good?" you ask in a small and scared voice, mouth pulled down into a frown. He shakes his head with a scoff.

"Kiddo, you were perfect, but I need to fuck you now. And I'm a bit too old to be going twice in one night."

Why does being reminded of his age make this so much hotter? What is actually wrong with you?

You glance down at his leg and shift in your seat. "Should I ride you?" you ask with a tilted head. He smiles at your concern but shakes his head again.

"Next time. I want you…" Jack hums before gripping your sides and maneuvering you to be on all fours, facing the headboard. He smooths a hand over your ass before slapping it, eliciting a yelp from you. He groans at the sight of the reddened skin jiggling. The pain makes you clench around nothing, and you push back toward him, spreading your legs to try to show him how ready you are. Jack has a perfect view of your wetness running down your thighs as you stick your ass up and let out impatient little whines.

"Please…" you whisper, turning your head to face him. He hums again and grips your the fat of hips before slotting his cock into your folds. Both of you moan at the contact as you grind back onto him. It's not really necessary; your spit has lubed him up plenty, and you're certainly aroused enough to be ready to take him, but he can't help but tease you further. He's grown addicted to the huffs of breath you let out each time he ceases movement.

"You want daddy to fuck you, kiddo? Wanna be stuffed full of his cock?" He lands another smack on your ass to emphasize his words and earns another moan.

"Please, need it, need you to fuck me," you pant.

Jack takes pity on you.

He prods at your slicked entrance. His tip alone is a stretch, and you hiss as he slowly pushes in.

"That's it, good girl. You're okay. Daddy'll go slow. Gotta tell me if it's too much, okay baby?" You nod insistently. He keeps inching further into you until he's fully seated, gripping your hips to restrain himself from moving. Both of you are panting, reveling in the feeling of being so close and—for you—so full.

"You good, sweetheart?" Jack rasps.

"M-mhm, I'm good, Jackie. You can… you can move. Please."

Jack slowly pulls halfway out of you before sinking in again and settles into an easy rhythm, a gentle pace that feels nice but isn't quite what you need.

"You can be rougher," you finally whisper. Jack pauses and peers over at you.

"That what you want, or what you think I want?"

You look over shoulder and shyly smile at him. "I want it."

"Fuck," he mutters, "you asked for it."

In one swift movement, he pulls completely out of you before pounding in again. You gasp in shock as he starts fucking into you faster, harder, his tip kissing your cervix with each thrust. The obscene, squelching sound of your juices is interrupted every few minutes by the loud crack of his palm against your ass, making you clench down on him each time. His grip on your hips is surely bruising, but it's all that's keeping you grounded. Soon, it's all that's keeping you upright: your weakened arms give out after an embarrassingly short amount of time, and your head is pressed into the mattress with each thrust.

Jack is grunting above you, skin slapping against skin as he drives himself impossibly deeper into you. You feel so fucking full you're barely able to breathe. When he shifts slightly to find that spot, your moans get louder, reaching that high-pitched whine that always makes you cringe. You bite down hard on your finger out of instinct. It only takes Jack a few seconds to realize that those pretty little sounds you'd been making are suddenly muffled. He slows his thrusts.

"Sweetheart? You okay?" he asks gruffly, peering over to look at you. You turn your head to face him with a furrowed brow, and he frowns in confusion at your teeth sinking into your pointer finger. You take it out and nod.

"'M fine, Jackie. Feels good."

He cocks his head to the side. "Why're you biting your finger? Somethin' hurt? You gotta tell me if it does, baby."

You shake your head quickly. "No, no, nothing hurts. Just… was getting too loud." Your voice is shy and embarrassed; you can hardly look at him. His eyes widen at your confession.

"Too loud? What the hell do you mean, too loud?"

You pause like you don't want to say, tilting your head down. He pulls out of you carefully and sinks back onto his knees. You whine out a complaint, but the harsh look he gives you silences you. "Kiddo. Look at me. Why'd you think you were being too loud?"

"Well… Robby always… he was worried about the neighbors," you mumble, worrying your lip in between your teeth. "I could-could never help it, bein' so loud, so he said to bite my finger to keep quiet."

His jaw tenses. Christ, he could kill the guy. "Is that right."

"Yeah… 'm sorry, I don't mean to make so much noise, it's just… it feels too good, and I can't hold it in." In your vulnerable state, you look close to tears. So afraid of disappointing him. He rubs his jaw before leaning in close to you and setting his thumb on your lower lip. You look up at him desperately.

"First of all, I don't want you biting your finger anymore. Especially not when I'm fucking you. Got it? You could hurt yourself." You nod slowly, looking chastised. He smiles and kisses your forehead. "And second of all… baby, I don't know what the fuck Robby's problem is, but I don't think I've ever heard anything as sweet as those noises you were makin'."

You roll your eyes and shake your head, still a bit sniffly. "You're just trying to make me feel better. It's—I sound weird."

He sighs. "You don't believe me? Think I'm lyin'?"

You nod, lower lip jutting out in a pout that breaks his heart. He thinks for a minute before nodding. "Alright, we're gonna try somethin'." Slowly, he sinks into you again. You're well prepared for the intrusion now, but you still gasp when he's fully sheathed in you. His hand flexes at his side as he restrains himself from moving. "You feel me in there?" he breathes out. You nod, and he tuts at you. "Words, honey."

"Y-yeah, I feel you," you whine.

"Alright. I'm not gonna move. I want you to really focus on my cock in you. And if you feel like moaning, don't hold back. At all. Can you do that for me, honey?"

Your eyes flutter shut. "M-mhmm. Yes."

When he reaches down to press the pad of his thumb against your swollen clit, drenched in your juices, you let out a loud, drawn-out moan of relief. A couple whimpers follow it as he pinches you, shockwaves of pleasure rolling through your desperation-laced body. And then you feel it. He isn't moving an inch, but he twitches inside of you. You even hear his breath hitch, and the hand on your hip tightens. Just from the sound of you moaning.

"Ja-ackie," you moan, pushing back against him. He chuckles.

"Yeah. You felt that? You feel what you do to me? Don't hold back, kiddo. Don't think I could withstand it."

When he finally starts fucking you again, you can feel that his restraint is slipping. You, with half-lidded eyes and an open mouth that's drooling into his pillow, are not much better. After more than an hour of waiting for relief and the expert blowjob you'd given him, he knows he won't last long, though he's determined to make you come again first. He can tell you're not far off either, your cunt practically strangling him each time it clenches around him and your moans turning into desperate cries below him.

"You close, doll? You gonna come again for daddy? Gonna come on my cock?"

"Y-yeah, gonna come, please daddy 'm so close," you moan. He returns a hand to your poor, sensitive clit and rubs fast circles with just enough pressure to make you tremble a bit. Jack grits his teeth from the effort it takes to hold back his own release; he has to close his eyes, because the sight of you in front of him is making it too hard not to come.

"Fuck, fuckfuckfuck I—" Electricity shoots through your body—you're sure of it—as Jack keeps pounding, and pounding, and pounding your G spot and running his thumb along your clit. You tense up, body suddenly freezing, as another climax crashes into you. Jack keeps fucking you through your release, finally spilling into you as he feels you gush and clench around him. The feeling of his cum in you is unexpectedly pleasant, a warm and full sensation that makes you whimper into the mattress. After what feels like an eternity, his movements slow to a halt. He carefully pulls out of you, clucking sympathetically at your whine of discomfort, and collapses next to you with a grunt.

"Fuck, baby. You did so good. Such a good girl for me. You okay? Anything hurting?"

You still can't quite form words, but he's satisfied by your small head shake and dreamy smile. Jack runs a hand along your side. The soft caress helps soothe your rapid heartrate down, and you melt into the touch.

"You wanna take a bath?" he asks, pressing a kiss to your shoulderblade, "Or… we could watch a movie and cuddle? Whatever you want to do."

You chuckle and stretch your arms. "That sounds nice, but I think I'd fall asleep here if I stayed."

He gives you a puzzled look. "You don't want that?"

You pause, giving him an equally puzzled look. "You… do?"

He scratches his jaw. "Well, yeah, kid, I— oh God." He freezes and suddenly looks horrified. "Don't tell me Robby never let you stay the night."

You shrug. "I-I didn't mind. Though a couple times I was so tired I had to pull over and take a nap on the side of the road." You laugh like it's funny, but Jack is still staring at you with that horrified face.

"He didn't even drive you?"

You tilt your head to the side. "Well… no. He was always pretty tired after. I'd leave pretty much as soon as we were done."

He buries his head in his hands. "Honey, you… okay. Do you know what aftercare is?"

At the checkout, you tap your fingers nervously as the clerk rings you up. When she asks, with a shy smile, if the doll is for your daughter, your anxiety breaks a bit.

"Yeah," you reply with ease, "she's four."

"She'll love it," the clerk assures you. The reminder almost makes you forget about the money being drained from your bank account as you swipe your card.

As you're leaving the store, your phone vibrates in your pocket. Panic spikes immediately. Daisy is with Pope this weekend, and no matter how many weekends you spend away from her, you're always gripped by the terror that she's in danger. A hundred possible messages run through your head as you slip into your car and unlock your phone.

You sigh in relief when none of them meet you. Instead, a picture of your daughter having a tea party with Lena makes you break into a grin.

Andy: Playdate.

You: adorable. tell Lena i say hi.

The little updates throughout your days are an unspoken agreement. Both of you understand the deep ache and constant fear that comes from being away from your daughter, and though it can never come close to having her with you, getting a picture or video or just a text detailing her day eases that pain just a bit. It's a small mercy that you both give each other, even after your most heated arguments.

After a moment, a thought brings a frown to your face.

You: Baz there?

You're choosing your words carefully, trying not to spark his defenses. You couldn't really object if your daughter's uncle was spending the day with them. But the idea, in all honesty, makes your hackles raise. What if he's there to talk about a job? What if he yells at Lena in front of Daisy and it scares her? Or worse, what if he yells at Daisy?

It had been one of the more uncomfortable conversations when you were working out a co-parenting agreement. Pope understood your reservations, but family was important to him. You both agreed without question on Smurf, but it bothered him to imagine that his daughter's uncles would be totally absent from her life. And you couldn't really argue against that. But it didn't change how you felt.

Andy: No. He's in Mexico I think. Dropped her off a couple hours ago.

Andy: Lena says she misses you.

You: figures.

Then:

You: :(

You: I miss her too. maybe she could spend the night at my place at some point?

 He responds, in typical Pope fashion, with a "thumbs up" reaction to the message. It's stupid, but it sends a little pang to your heart. Against your best instincts, you open a photo album fittingly titled "DON'T OPEN" in your phone. Inside is dozens of screenshots of text exchanges and pictures from when you and Pope first started dating.

In the weeks immediately following your breakup, you had found yourself scrolling for hours through your chat to try to find those precious early messages. It became a nightly affair, and an incredibly time consuming one. This was a way to access them without devoting an entire afternoon to the process. It also saved you from having to scroll past the slow deterioration of your relationship: the repeated conversations, the apologies you'd give each other following fights that never really seemed to fix anything, the patches of coldness between the two of you.

You hadn't saved whatever you had initially texted him in the image you pull up, but he'd responded with a—at the time—devastating:

Andy: Ok.

You remember groaning before responding.

You: do u hate me or something

Andy: ????

You: ur such a dry texter

You: srsly if u don't want to talk to me just tell me

You: I don't want to annoy u :/

Andy: You never annoy me.

Andy: Don't stop talking to me.

Andy: I don't know how to text normally. Is this not normal.

You: LOL

You: I'm sorry Pope

You: I forgot what a weirdo u are

Andy: Yeah. I know.

Andy: Sorry.

You: it's not a bad thing

You: I like how weird u r >:)

Andy: 👍

You snort at the screenshot as you pull out of the parking lot. Later, much later, he told you he had been absolutely panicking during that entire interaction. Apparently, he even asked Craig what to say. You could never avoid giggling like a teenage girl at the image: Pope standing in his brother's doorway, phone in hand, asking "Can you teach me how to text a girl?" with a completely straight face.

There's a reason that you return to this particular brand of torture so often. It's a delayed sort of pain: for a few blissful moments, you're transported to when you sent those messages. You can almost hear the Pixies album you had on in the background as you grinned at your phone. You had clutched it to your chest when he said You never annoy me, turning over in bed and screaming into your pillow. You had even kicked your legs in the air, far too old to be acting like a giddy fourteen year old with a crush. It didn't matter. You couldn't find it in you to feel embarrassed. You were too smitten.

Those few moments are addictive. You're there again, in an apartment you moved out of years ago, texting a man you were still trying to act coy around. It's delicious. It eases the hurt constantly in your heart for just a moment.

Then it all comes crashing back. That, as much as he made you feel like the most special person in the world, it wasn't enough. You weren't enough, your brain whispers. Not for him to leave it behind. Not for him to give you and your daughter—his daughter—a safe and normal life. That twenty-five year old had spent the next eight years of her life falling devastatingly in love with someone whose life she simply did not fit into. She had tried, tirelessly, to endear herself to his mother, before finally accepting that she would always be the one at the end of the table being glared at for the crime of taking Smurf's guard dog away from him for an evening. She had cried herself to sleep on more nights than she could count out of fear and anger and the dreadful, buried knowledge that this wasn't working. She had walked out and regretted it every day since, despite knowing in her heart that it was what she had to do to survive.

You don't realize you're crying until the road in front of you is blurring. Sobs rack your body as memories swim through your head. You're not really crying at the bad ones, though; you're crying at every moment of happiness and laughter and love that had filled your old life to the brim. Moments that you can now only barely grasp at during Daisy's tragically brief handoffs.

Yeah, you should probably pull over. Pope would be fuming if he knew you'd endangered yourself by driving while crying that much. He'd also be completely unsure how to respond to your crying. When you were pregnant and tearing up every other hour, his favorite phrase had been "Please don't cry. Do you want ice cream?"

Sunday night rolls around and you watch Pope's truck pull into your driveway. You gave up on offering to do the drive to Oceanside after a couple months; he refused it every single time, always slightly offended you'd even ask. You close your computer and pad to the doorway in your slippers, approaching the car with a smile. Daisy runs up to you to give you a hug as always, and you laugh as the force of it sends you back a few steps.

"Hi, honeybun. Didja have a good weekend with Daddy?" you ask, petting her hair. She looks up at you and nods with a smile.

"Yeah! Lena slept over," she exclaims. You hum.

"I heard! I bet that was so much fun." When you look up at Pope, you're expecting his usual tired and slightly pained smile—well, "smile" is generous, but there's usually a noticeable upturning of his lips—but you're met with a confused glare instead. It's pointed at your hands. Your smile falls as you follow his gaze, giving him a "what's up?" look.

"Where are your nails?" he asks gruffly. You give him an even more puzzled expression.

"What?"

"Your nails. They're not done."

You look down at your hands again to see your unmanicured nails and huff slightly at the realization. Of course Pope would notice that.

"Just… forgot to get them done this week."

Pope scowls at that. "You never forget. Is something wrong?"

You roll your eyes. "Andrew, everything is fine. I skipped a manicure. It's not the end of the world."

Your eyes lock on his hands, clenching and unclenching at his sides. Pope-speak for something is wrong, something is out of place, and I need to fix it.

"You're lying," he mutters. You drag a hand over your face. This is turning into a thing.

"Why don't you get unpacked, Daisy? I'll be up in a second."

Daisy's face falls a bit, and you wince. She probably thinks the two of you are about to start fighting, again. Which might not be entirely untrue. Still, after hugging and saying goodbye to Andrew, she grabs her sparkly purple backpack from the car without complaint and trudges into the house. When she's out of earshot, you run a hand through your hair.

"I'm lying?" you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. He nods, not elaborating. Finally, you relent.

"S.A.C. cut one of my classes next semester. I'm just being more practical, is all. It's not a big deal."

His expression shifts at that, from confusion into worry. "You're havin' money troubles?"

You shake your head quickly. "It's not like that. Daisy will be perfectly fine, I promise. Her life won't change a bit. I just need to be a bit more conservative."

Pope's jaw ticks, and he shakes his head. "No."

You scoff. "'No'? Yes, Pope. I will be making less money. I can't afford bi-weekly manicures anymore. I promise, I will live."

"No. I'll give you the money."

Yeah, there it is. The reason you didn't tell him in the first place. "Don't. Please believe me when I say that it's not a big deal."

"You love your manicures. I have the money. You know I have the money."

"I'm also well aware of how you got the money," you mutter. His breathing turns heavy at that, the air turning sour as an eight-year argument rears its ugly head for the thousandth time. He purses his lips.

"Just let me give it to you. Please."

"I do not want that, Andrew. I do not need your money, and I feel uncomfortable taking it."

"Why?" he asks, and you almost laugh, because it's such a useless question at this point.

"Because I don't want you putting yourself in danger for me, Andy. I don't want you taking on an extra job or doing something stupid because you can't accept that I'm not yours to take care of anymore."

Knife twist. For both of you. You're not his anymore. He's not yours. Both of you still sit at the bottom of a deep well of loyalty and love for each other.

He's silent for a few long moments after that, and if you hadn't devoted nearly a decade to loving this man, you might think that meant he was letting it go.

"3500?"

You blink. "What?"

"You make 3500 per class, right?"

You groan. "I feel like that's a trap."

He nods slowly. "I'll get it for you."

You nearly scream. "Pope, no, don't—"

He's in his truck, pulling away from your house, before you can finish your sentence.

When he's out of eyesight, you bunch your shirt into your hands and muffle a scream into it.

When you enter your house again, it's with a forced calmness.

"You wanna watch a movie, bug? I'll make popcorn."

It isn't until Thursday that you find the money. Daisy is trailing you around the house as you try to get a bit of cleaning in, babbling about her day at pre-school. You're… mostly listening.

"Uhuh. What color was the butterfly?"

She hums, contemplating the question with the intensity of a scientist pondering a new hypothesis. "Umummm I think orange. Maybe."

"Oh, yeah? Orange and black?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her nod. "Hm. Maybe a monarch butterfly? That's awe…some."

Your voice goes small when you open a drawer to find a thick wad of cash in it. You immediately know where it came from. You're not sure exactly when he dropped it off, since you don't often use this drawer. Daisy peers curiously at it.

"What's that, mama?"

You suck in a breath. Her life is so filled with lies, so you try to be as honest as possible when you can. "Um… Daddy left us some money."

She perks up at that. "Daddy was here? Is he still here?"

Ow. Ow ow ow. "No, bug, I'm sorry. He… he just dropped this off."

She humphs at that, crossing her arms. "Why?"

You sigh, muttering "great question" under your breath before plastering on a smile. "Because Daddy loves us very much and wants us to buy some nice things for ourselves. Why don't you color for a bit while mama finishes up in here?"

Still sulking a bit, Daisy huffs and toddles over to her coloring book to angrily scribble.

After carefully counting out the money, three times, you realize that you are holding five thousand dollars in your hand. You're seething as you pull out your phone.

You: did you break into my house

Sometimes, when you say things like that, you half expect Andrew to lord over your head the fact that he bought your house: say something like it's my house, actually or whose money paid for it?

He never has.

Andy: Sorry.

Andy: I used my key if it helps.

Andy: Is that enough?

You: christ

You: no, I needed ten thousand

His response is nearly instantaneous.

Andy: Okay.

Andy: I'll have it in a few days.

Andy: I can come by your house after I pick Daisy up.

You: oh my god

You: I was kidding

You: please, please do not give me ten thousand dollars

Andy: Are you sure?

You: jesus yes Pope

You: what would I even need that for

Andy: I don't know.

Andy: Can I still come by your house tomorrow?

You sigh and set your phone down. You should say no. At the very least, you should ask him to give you a reason. You know he'd give you something. You know it'd be a lie. You also know that being away from Pope's smell—clean linens and sawdust and the faint, lingering scent of gunpowder—for this long of a stretch is akin to torture for you.

You: okay

Before he can tell you to, you've spread your arms and legs to allow him to tie them to the bedposts. For a moment, you expect him to give you just a morsel of praise — a good girl — but he doesn't even acknowledge it. Dammit.

The bindings are… noticeably tighter than usual. You had thought that he got out the brunt of his anger on you earlier, but that seems to have been false. You can feel his frustration in the way he pulls the ties, a small huff escaping him as he does it. The knots aren't painful, but they're not not uncomfortable. You pout, twisting your wrists to try to loosen them a bit, but still your movements at the warning look he gives you.

"Sorry," you whisper. He nods, still eerily silent, and moves to your ankles.

Spread like this, with no way to close your legs, you become increasingly aware of how… obvious your arousal is. You can feel wetness trickling down onto the bedsheet, and from Robby's smirk, you'd guess he noticed it too. He chuckles.

"Got you all worked up, didn't I?" he coos. You flush but give a small nod. He reaches up to pet your hair, and you lean into the touch

"That's okay, baby. Gonna make you feel better soon. Much better…" he lets his hand trail down until it's resting on your neck, then slowly squeezes until you can barely draw a breath, "than Abbot ever could, hm?"

Something between a whimper and a squeak falls from your lips. Robby smiles, eyes drifting to your core, and finally takes his hand off your neck. You gasp, gulping air in desperately, before moaning loudly when you feel his thumb run over your swollen clit. Without warning, he plunges two fingers in you and curls in harshly. You whine at the sudden and painful stretch, trying — failing — to pull away from him. He wordlessly places a hand on your lower stomach to still your movements before curling his fingers inward, making you moan again.

"You can pretend," he starts rubbing light circles on your clit, "all you like, that you're a good girl."

You mewl and shake your head. "I am! I am a good gi—"

"Shut the fuck up. Christ, you just don't stop, do you? An adult is speaking, little girl. Keep that filthy mouth closed." He's growling, now thrusting into you harder and faster; the pain mingles with pleasure and makes you go a little empty headed. But you're acutely aware of how mad you've made him: you've disappointed him; you've done something wrong. You press your lips together and try to hold back the moans and whimpers he's pulling from you. He sighs in relief at your silence.

"Much better. You think I give a shit what you have to say? Think anyone does?" He laughs at how slack you've gone. "That's right, sweetheart. Just lie back and take it. This is what you're meant for. Not talking. Not trying to be a person." You're trembling, trying to focus on his words but his thumb is pressing harder now, and he just doesn't stop and you're fast approaching your peak and God you hope he lets you cum. He notices.

"That turns you on, doesn't it? When I tell you how worthless you are? It's okay, you can tell me."

You gasp and let out a whine, looking down at him pleadingly before nodding. "Yes, sir, it does," you whisper, burning with shame.

"Wanna cum, doll? You real close?"

You nod furiously, and he puts on a show of pondering the question. "Hm… tell me what you are, and I'll let you cum."

You pause, unsure of what exactly he wants you to say here — he's called you a lot of things just in the last hour — and flounder. "I-I-"

Robby chuckles, putting you out of your misery. "Too dumb to even know what you are, huh? That's okay, I'll tell you. Say, 'I'm a useless whore," and you can cum. Just four words, I think you can manage that."

You suck in a breath. "I'm a useless-useless whore— fuck!" Your orgasm crashes through you. Your entire body trembles as Robby keeps finger-fucking you through the aftershocks, until your moans turn to soft whimpers and he retracts his hand. You're starting to wonder how this is a punishment when you hear the buzz of the vibrator that you'd forgotten about. Your eyes widen, and you start shaking your head.

"Wait-wait-"

You're cut off by the wand being pressed to your oversensitive clit. You cry out and thrash as much as the restraints will let you, pain and overwhelming pleasure colliding into each other. He tsks and shakes his head.

"'Wait'? I don't recall you calling the shots here, dummy. I'm in charge, remember?"

You whine, trying desperately to pull away from him, but he only presses the vibrator harder into you. Tears start pooling in your eyes. He shifts the angle of the wand slightly, and you let out a high pitched whine despite yourself. Slowly, slowly, the pain starts to subside. Pleasure takes over again, and your sobs turn to moans. Robby clicks his tongue.

"God, you're fuckin' insatiable. So goddamn needy. Whore already got one orgasm — didn't even thank me — and she wants another so soon? Christ. You're lucky you have me, 'cause no one else would put up with this shit."

"Ab-Abbot," you gasp out, before snapping your eyes open. Why the fuck did you say that? You really don't know what spirit possessed you. You knew, of course you knew, that the single worst fucking thing you could do right now is bring up Jack. But you fear all brain cells have been killed off by the vibrator against you. All amusement disappears from Robby's face. He flicks the setting on the vibrator up and presses it directly against your clit, making you cry out. Overstimulation sears through you again, hot and unrelenting.

"Dumb fucking cunt," he snarls, "you don't know when to keep that fucking mouth shut. Do I need to gag you? Shut you up for good?"

You shake your head, the words tumbling out of you before you can think them over. "No, no, I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean it."

His jaw ticks. He lifts himself up to be above your face and slaps you hard enough that you go dizzy for a second. You barely have a second to cry out in pain before he's slapping you again, calloused hand colliding with your soft skin. Your body doesn't know what to focus on: the pain in your face, or your clit. You sob.

"Please sir, it hurts…" Your voice is shakey, and tears have started spilling over your cheeks. The sound of your voice, all wavery with barely-restrained crying, begging for relief, nearly makes him forgive you for that Abbot comment. He can't stand how pathetic you look right now.

"Fuck, baby, say that again," he groans, eyes locked on the fear and pain on your face. Your lower lip wobbles.

"Please, Robby," you whisper desperately. He sighs and smiles down at you.

"Fuckin' love it with you beg me like that. No, doll, this is what you get when you act like a fucking brat. You're gonna cum like this and you ain't gonna complain."

You want to protest, to tell him that you can't, but you think better of it. Maybe if you focus real hard you can feel pleasure rather than pain. You take a deep breath and try to will yourself to feel good.

"Aw, look at the dumb bitch, trying so hard to please me. What's wrong, whore? Can you not do it? I'll stay here as long as it fuckin' takes. You think I got somewhere I'd rather be?"

You're ashamed to admit it, but his words send a spark through you. Pleasure starts to build again.

"I don't think you knew what you were gettin' into when you knocked on my door, baby. If you knew what was good for you, you'd stay away from men more than double your age with nothin' to lose."

You moan, finally starting to relax again, and he laughs.

"That's what fuckin' does it? Me reminding you how fucked this is? It is, you know." He leans in closer, and your eyes flutter open to see the predatory grin on his face. "You know how sick you are for enjoying this? I'm old enough to be your father," his hand reaches up, and he chokes you again, eliciting a strangled moan from you, "and I could fire you without a second thought. I could make your life hell if I wanted. But you just keep coming back, like a kicked puppy going back to its owner."

That sends you over the edge. It's a violent orgasm, if such a thing exists. Ripples of pleasure and overstimulation run through your body. Your skin is now coated with sweat, and you raggedly pant when he loosens his grip on your neck. Finally, he moves the position of the vibrator — but doesn't turn it off, because of course not.

He pulls out two more orgasms from you — violent, jagged, brutal orgasms — before he finally switches the vibrator off and sets it down on the bed. For a foolish moment, you think that's the end. At this point, your mind is so empty that you find it difficult to conjure up words. He's pleased, of course, at your relative silence, though his mocking has only increased. But just as you're relaxing into the bed, waiting for him to undo your restraints, he licks a stripe through you.

You nearly scream. Your nerves feel like they're on fire, and his tongue is moderately better than the vibrator, but it's still overwhelming in a relentless kind of way that makes you want to cry. But it isn't until he sucks on your clit, hard, that you shout "Yellow!" desperately, before your brain can even catch up to the word. Immediately, Robby lifts from between your legs, and you sigh in relief at the break from stimulation. All anger or malice has disappeared from his face, replaced by concern and softness.

"I'm sorry, I just — I just need… it's too…"

Robby shushes you, shaking your head. "It's okay, you don't have to explain. Don't apologize. It's alright. Here, you want some water?" His voice is soothing, none of the earlier cruelty in it. You nod, and he lifts a glass of water from the bedstand to your lips. The feeling of it sliding down your parched throat, cool and fresh, is heavenly. He gives you a moment to catch your breath before speaking, soft and slow.

"Do you want to stop?" he asks, setting the water on the bedstand again and squeezing your shoulder. You pause before shaking your head.

"I don't— I don't think so. It's good, just intense. I think…" your eyes drift to the bindings on your arms and legs, and you bite your lip. "I think maybe if you untied me? Is that — is that okay? I'm sorry." You avoid his eyes, terrified of the prospect that you'll disappoint him. He takes your chin and shakes his head.

"That's fine, baby. Don't worry about it, I can undo them. And stop apologizing. Every time you do, I'm gonna make you cum again."

Your eyes widen, and he laughs at the terrified expression on your face. "Relax, kid, I'm joking. Here." He gently unties the restraints, letting them fall to the bed. You sigh in relief and rub your wrists. After another big gulp of water, he raises his eyebrows.

"Ready?"

You take a breath and nod, smiling. "Ready."

He leans down again and wastes no time tasting you. After four consecutive orgasms, your cunt is drenched, and he doesn't think he's ever tasted something sweeter. He groans against you and attacks you expertly, flicking his tongue over your clit before flattening it down. You moan, your short break making the overstimulation recede a bit, and relish in the ability to tangle your hands in his hair. Once he's satisfied with how much he's built you up, he lets his teeth drag against your abused clit, and you cry out, jerking your hips away from him. He looks up at you and glowers, pulling away for a moment.

"Did I make a mistake untying those restraints? You need me to re-do them?" he growls. He never would, of course, but the threat is enough to make your breath hitch. You shake your head insistently.

"N-no, sir, I'm sorry. Please don't."

"Better stay still, then," he says, his jaw set in something like anger.

Each time he nips lightly at your clit, it takes everything in you not to pull away. You shake, more tears spilling from your eyes, at the pain. You end up panting from the effort it takes to stay still. You've long been drenched in sweat. He's thoroughly and completely broken you down.

When he thrusts his fingers into you again, you tremble. He hits your g-spot, over and over again, curling inward while his tongue continues its attacks. When your… fourth? Fifth? Sixth? orgasm arrives, it's without much fanfare. You tighten your grip on his hair, let out a long moan, and tense up your legs. With how loud you usually are, he wouldn't have known you'd even cum if he hadn't tasted you gushing into his mouth.

Robby pulls away and stares at you, lips twitching into a smile. You're panting hard, eyes half-lidded and glassy. A string of drool trails from your lips; your legs are shaking slightly. You're essentially a breathing puddle on his bed. He thinks you've never been this beautiful. He whistles low and leans in, brushing sweat-dampened hair from your forehead.

"Look at you, sweetheart. Twelve hours ago you were one of my best damn nurses," he murmurs, his voice softer than earlier but just as piercing, "You were an intelligent and capable woman who put herself through nursing school and didn't take shit from anyone. Now…" His eyes trail down your body, from your parted lips to the sheets stained with your arousal mixed with sweat. He tsks lightly, as though in disappointment, and shakes his head.

"Now, you're nothing. Not a thought in that pretty little head, is there?" He smiles down at you and taps your forehead mockingly. You shake your head dumbly, barely aware of what you're agreeing with. He chuckles and nods.

"That's right. Just a toy for me to play with, hm?" He cocks his head to the side, and you nod, entranced. He clicks his tongue.

"I asked you a question, honey. You can still form words, can't you?" God, he thinks, you look so fucking pathetic. Just a dumb little girl who fell into his lap and doesn't know what's good for her. You furrow your brow, trying to conjure up a sentence to appease him.

"Ye-es, sir, yes… 'm your fucktoy… you can do — can do whatever you want to me, sir." Your words are slightly slurred. The crack of his palm against your already over-sensitive pussy makes you cry out in pain, your legs snapping closed on instinct. He shakes his head disapprovingly.

"Fucking liar. Thought I could do whatever I wanted to you, isn't that right? Now open your legs like a good whore and let me play with my toy."

Your lip trembles, but you nod weakly and open your legs again. You press your hands into your knees to spread yourself wider, giving him as much access as he wants. He barely seems to notice it. He slaps you again, the sound of your juices making it an obscene sound that drowns out your sob, and though your thighs twitch, you manage to avoid closing your legs this time. The small smile of approval that he gives you in response — not even out loud, God, how pathetic could you be? — makes the pain worth it.

Robby would praise you, would tap your cheek and thank you for being his good girl, but this is oh-so-much more fun. Where Jack gives his praise freely, enjoying the look on your face when he tells you how good you are for him, Robby knows that withholding his praise is far more effective. This way, you chase it like a damn dog after a bone, eagerly eating up whatever little morsels of affection he doles out. You're much more obedient when you're aching so deeply to be called good that you'll keen and light up at something as small as a well-timed smile or nod of approval from him.

He planned on holding out more, but Robby doesn't think he can wait any longer before fucking you. He undoes his belt buckle and takes his cock out. Your eyes, half-open, lock in on it. You wince in preparation for the pain to come. He doesn't exactly seem to be in the mood to wait for you to adjust.

"On your stomach. Ass up," he commands. You try to lift yourself, but your limbs feel like jelly, and you can barely hold up your own weight. His jaw ticks in anger.

"Jesus, you can't do anything," he mutters before roughly picking you up with a grunt and positioning you how he wanted. You feel like a doll. He presses your face into the mattress and, without warning, presses into you with a groan. It's hard to breathe fully with your face at this angle, and you feel like the wind is knocked out of you by him fully thrusting into you so quickly. You mewl, but he ignores it, grabbing your hip with his free hand to keep you up and pressing into your skin with enough force to bruise. It hurts, but you're glad for it; you don't think you could keep yourself up without it. He wastes no time, setting a punishing pace without much build up. He can barely contain the urge to tell you how velvety you are, how warm and tight, how good you're making him feel — but that would be far too much praise for a night of punishment. His pants and grunts mingle with your whimpers and whines. You moan when he slaps your ass.

"Tell me what you are," he pants out. You desperately try to remember what he'd said earlier.

"A-a useless… fuck… I don't-I don't—"

"A dumb fucking bitch, that's what. Can't remember four words? You're a useless whore, doll. You're my fucking whore, and no one else's. You're a filthy slut that needs to be put in her fuckin' place. You let me do whatever the hell I want to you because you're so desperate for attention that you'll take it from anyone, even a dirty old man like me. You're nothing."

You can hear how close he's getting from his voice — it starts to take on a more frantic, urgent tone, like he needs you to know exactly what you are. Your mouth is wide open and pressed against the blanket, blissful moans spilling from you. You feel like you're floating; you aren't aware of anything other than the feeling of his cock inside you and his deliciously cruel words. Through the fog, though, you're aware that he had asked something of you. You're desperate to be good for him.

"I'm a... fuck... I'm your whore... your dumb slut, your-your toy, your-" your words are interrupted by your own loud moan as another orgasm washes over you like a wave. You clamp down on him, and he spills into you with a groan. He keeps fucking you through both of your aftershocks before slowing and reluctantly pulling out of you. He moves his hand from your hip, and you collapse on the bed, exhaustion suddenly crashing into you all at once. You don't think you can move or speak.

Robby leans over you with a light laugh, pressing a kiss to the base of your neck.

"Six orgasms in one night. Still think Jack takes better care of you than I do?"

If you had the energy for it, you'd come up with a good quip in response. But all that you can muster up is a weak, "You guys… suck," through pants. He laughs, and you feel him nod against you.

"You know I couldn't let that shit slide, baby."

He has to keep a close eye on you to make sure you aren't falling asleep in the bath. You nearly do, many times, and he gently shakes you each time. After the fourth time that you start to slip down his chest into the water, he laughs and shakes his head.

"Maybe this wasn't the best idea."

You shake your head and yawn. "No, 's perfect… so good."