house of horrors

"For fuck's sake put the teaching voice away, Abbot," Robby grunts from beneath you.

You and Jack were kneeling between his legs, pillow propped under his knee for extra stability. His chest is flush against your back, one guiding hand on your hip while the other fists the silicone cock between your legs, sliding the tip over Robby's hole - lubed and stretched, just wating for you to push in.

"I'm teaching right now aren't I," you can't see his face over your shoulder but you know he's got that smug grin plastered over it when Robby groans in frustration.

Robby's cock is red and leaking, bobbing uselessly against his stomach ever since Jack stretched him open earlier. He'd taken his time to tease his husband, going needlessly slow as you kneeled at the foot of the bed, unable to take your eyes off the show in front of you and nodding along to every instruction.

"Think he's ready , sweets?" Jack asks as he pushes your hips forward ever so slightly.

You nod, turning back to look at him over your shoulder. Jack smiles, indulging you in a quick kiss before turning your chin back to his husband. Both his hands fall on your hips this time, letting you take control.

"Like this?" you ask, pushing forward until the head of your dick stretches past Robby's tight ring of muscle.

"Just like that, watch him, doll. Look at what you do to him."

Robby gasps, flush travelling down his chest. Your cock is somewhere between the size and thickness of the boys, nothing Robby isn't already used to. But his eyes stil roll to the back of his head as you bottom out. Jack reaches down, running his fingers through the growing puddle on Robby's stomach. As soon as the press against your lips, you open your mouth and wrap your tongue around Jack's thick digits, moaning at the salt hits your tongue.

"Look down, sweetheart," his voice is low, only loud enough for you to hear. "See how pathetic he looks?"

"He's not-"

"Shhh," another kiss to your shoulder, "He likes it, baby. Gets off on it. Tell him how needy he looks. Just try it."

You open your mouth, but falter, unsure of what to say, looking at Jack for help.

He clears his throat, calling Robby's eyes back on him. He grips your chin once more, forcing your gaze back down as he starts to bring your hips back towards him. Robby start to pant as Jack helps you find a slow rythm.

"Look at that useless cock, Mike," he grunts. You suck in a breath as Robby's cock twitches, "What a waste, huh, sweets? So big and thick and worthless because he'd rather stay fucked out on yours instead."

You nod slowly, "I-I wanted it inside me today but he didn't let me."

For the record, that was untrue. You were nothing but giddy since your strap on came in, aboslutely buzzing with excitement until you'd gotten the chance to put one of them through the matress - Robby had volunteered first.

"Yeah, Mike? Neglecting our girl?"

Robby whines, back arching off the bed. Jack reaches around you, rubbing his thumb over his slit. It's intoxicating, pulling debauched noises from such a a large man. It fills you with a new confidence as your hips slam against him.

"Look at that, Rob," Jack chuckles, squeezing his hand around the base of Robby's cock, "Her first time and she's already better than you."

Robby starts to lift his hips with yours, moving his hips in tandem. Jack puts a stop to it immediately, pushing you down with one swift shove between your shoulder blades. You hit Robby's body with a swift oof, intensly aware of his cock sandwiched between your bodies.

You feel the head of Jack's dick pushing against your entrance, the familiary stretch punching the air out of your lungs. He's met with no resistance from your slick walls, pushing in all the way until he's flush with your body. You're panting, adjusting to the new sensation when he lifts your head up by your hair so you're raised on your knees once more. You whine, clenching around him as he slips out again, leaving only the tip inside you.

His fingers dig into your hips again, making you rock back on him. Robby moans as your cock follows, getting louder when Jack pushes you forward again.

“My office. End of shift.”

The words snarl off Robby’s tongue and you know you’re in for it – or, really, he’s in for it, because you’re ten times as stubborn on your best days. That’s what makes the two of you work as attendings on the same shift. You never take each other’s shit and, fuck, there's a lot to shovel between the two of you.

Today, though, it’s been so bad you’re making the residents shrink and the nurses exchange suspicious glances. It started with a normal disagreement over a course of treatment for someone who’d been in overnight and spiraled the whole day between stab wounds and fevers and car crashes.

And then you and Robby both crossed the line. The unspoken one between you that keeps your disagreements to the medicine (even though ‘the medicine’ often also includes his handwriting on charts [a literal chicken would do better work, Michael], your bedside manner [you don’t have to get every male patient to give you his number], his bedside manner [and you don’t have to show them why hospitals have HR departments], his clothes [you look like June in this year’s ’Lazy Assholes of Pittsburgh’ calendar], your clothes [y’know they make scrubs that don’t fit like spandex, right?], his teaching style [they won’t learn anything if you make them feel like shit], your teaching style [they won’t learn anything if you make them feel invincible]). And so on. And so forth. And on and on and on.

But today? Today went something like this.

MICHAEL: You know that you should’ve taken the exact opposite approach back there, right?

YOU: Funny; it looked an awful lot like he’s going to survive because of my approach. Don’t worry, though. If I wanted the patient dead, I would’ve assigned him to you instead.

MICHAEL: Sure, he'll live, but he’ll always-

YOU: What? Be able to run faster than you because I saved his leg when you would’ve sent it to be chopped off?

MICHAEL: Quality of care isn’t always about whether-

YOU: You just want everyone to be as miserable of a fuck as you are; god forbid I actually prioritize what’s best for my patients instead of-

MICHAEL: If you even finish that sentence, I swear I’ll-

YOU: Oh, I’ve gotta hear this! Go ahead, Robby, what’ll you do to another attending for disagreeing with your genius and making a good call when you were too much of a coward to take a risk? Bend me over your knee? You don’t get to question my approach just because you’ve been practicing medicine since the dark ages.

MICHAEL: And you don’t get to defy my direct orders just because-

YOU: Your orders? Are you fucking serious?

MICHAEL: Yes, I am! You can’t go around making decisions like you’re in charge just because you’ve got half the doctors in the hospital begging to screw you!

Your eyes finally dropped away from his. When they lifted back up, they were a storm. Anger, yes, but hurt, too. He’d never questioned your intelligence or your place as an attending before. Never weaponized your femininity. He knew right away that he’d pushed you further than you could take, past the point of bending.

So you push back, “How about my office right now? Because there’s absolutely no way you’re walking away from me when I need to strangle you.”

Robby huffs, “You know what? Fine. Might as well spare your students the embarrassment of listening to you talk out of your ass another second.”

You pin your lips in a straight line and storm past him toward the offices, where you and he have the pleasure of sharing a thin wall that doesn’t always stop you from arguing while you catch up on paperwork.

Robby slams the door behind himself – locks it – and you’re in his face right away, no meekness or hurt left in your expression anymore as you square up to him, posture totally straight so you can almost look him in the eyes. “You are such a fucking asshole, Robinavitch. How dare you talk to me like that?”

Robby rubs the back of his neck like he does when he knows he’s fucked up but isn’t ready to back off. “Look, I know that last comment was too far, and we both know I didn’t mean it, but that doesn’t change the principle that-”

“You’re just pissed off because you know you were wrong back there and you can’t deal with a woman being better than you.”

Robby takes a step closer to you at that; you can smell his sweat and his fading deodorant. “This has absolutely nothing to do with you being a woman. Don’t even imply that-”

“Like hell it doesn’t,” you scoff. “You’re mad because I made a better decision than you. Because I pissed all over your favorite fire hydrant. But if that had been Abbot or Shen, you would never have chewed them out like you’re trying to here.”

He shoves one hand on the side of your head now, pinning you against the wall without either of you realizing. “Maybe because the two of them have actually proven themselves in my ED.”

You roll your eyes so hard you think they might fall out. “Y’know what, Robinavitch? You need to ask yourself if your dick is really big enough for this kind of fucking macho attitude because I have a sneaking suspicion it isn’t.”

You go to move, to storm off, but Robby’s grabbing your wrist before you can. Your breath catches in your throat as your chest collides with his, your mouths nearly touching. Sure, yeah, several of your fights have turned into makeout sessions (whose haven’t?), but he’s never acted like this. Absolutely no apology in the mean, borderline cruel way his long fingers wrap around your arm and force your hand to his half-hard cock beneath his cargo pants. "What do you think? Big enough for you?"

All the air floods out of the room.

Fuck, it is big. Definitely big enough to back up any bullshit he spews. Big enough to make your mouth water and that’s not the only thing dripping at the thought of what he must look like fully hard. Hot everywhere all of a sudden, you go to yank your hand away but he grips it harder, grinding into your palm and refusing to drop eye contact.

Even as undeniable lust crawls into your chest and cheeks, you scoff, unable to let him get the upper hand. With your meanest sneer, you cut back. “You’re hard from me yelling at you? Got a shame kink or something?”

“More like I’m looking forward to fucking that attitude out of you,” he growls, one hand wrapping around your throat and shoving you against the wall. You’re not scared. It’s Robby. Of course you’re not scared. You fucking hate each other and you spend an hour laughing with him on FaceTime before bed most nights because you both can't stand being alone and only the other understands. But your heart still drops into your stomach at the darkness in his eyes.

When he puts his hands on your shoulders and pushes you down, onto your knees, something hungry inside of you can’t help but let him.

Robby shoves two fingers into your mouth and coos sarcastically when you instinctively wrap your lips around them, “There you go. Useless brat until she’s got something in her mouth.”

You go to pull off so you can snark something back at him, but he grabs the back of your head with his free hand and gags you on his fingers instead. The gesture goes straight to your cunt, hot shame and arousal pooling in your underwear.

“Oh no you don’t,” he tuts. Then he lets go just long enough to let you catch your breath, tugging his cargos down barely enough to fish his cock out of his boxers. When you once again open your mouth to piss him off, he shakes his head and presses the head of his cock to those pretty lips of yours. “Don’t back down now, princess, I’m sure that big mouth of yours can take it.”

A bead of his precum clings to your lower lip and your tongue flicks out to taste it without your consent. The slightly salty, clean taste lights you on fire. So you open your mouth wider and let him slide his cock over your tongue, secretly savoring that rapturous expression he’s trying to suppress. Then, when you can tell you’ve got the power again, you rake your teeth ever so lightly down his shaft and he looses a pathetic, shaky keen so loud he smacks his hand over his mouth in the middle of it.

He glares down at you and hisses, “Seriously?”

When your eyes twinkle back and you hum in amusement, he looks at you with murder in his eyes, grips his fingers into your hair, and fucks your mouth the way you deserve. The way you were trying to provoke him to. His fat, leaking head slams against the back of your throat and you gag around him as your eyes water as his sharp zipper stings against your chin. But you can take it. That’s what he loves about you. You’ll always take whatever he can throw at you and then give it back just as hard.

Robby watches with a sadistic glee as you settle your weight over your ankles, tilt your head slightly, and give him even better access. As his thrusts pick up speed, barely letting you breathe, he pants, “See? Is this so goddamn hard? Shutting up and letting me take charge for five minutes?”

He expects you to grunt some sort of annoyed disapproval, but you don’t. He notices your expression going calm and placid. Lids heavy, jaw completely limp, body calm. He swallows hard and whispers, half a mean chuckle and half a desperate kind of prayer, “Fuck, you’re really getting off on this, aren’t you?”

You’re too far gone to give any response but a satisfied moan that rockets up his spine. Your drool seeps down his balls and onto your scrub top and he’s never seen anything so gorgeous as this. Then he shoves his booted foot between your legs, the leather creating friction against your inner seam right on your clit, and you whimper. The sound is wet and pathetic and needy with his dick stopping you from being able to express anything coherent. When you start to unthinkingly rub your clothed pussy over his shoe, Robby’s cock pulses.

At the sight of you being so goddamn pretty and submissive instead of driving him insane for once, Robby slows his pace, edging himself over your tongue, and murmurs, “Knew you were a good girl under all that attitude.”

You nod greedily, mind quiet for the first time today as you chase that perfect friction and let him control you. It silences everything that had been pissing you off. With his pleasure tightening up, Robby bites back calling you perfect, baby, just right, so good, angel, fuck. He can’t do that when he’s still simmering from today’s fighting. But he does cup your cheek and brush a tear away with his thumb, the gesture so tender it’s out of place.

And when you gaze up at him through watery lashes, he knows he’s done for.

Not just now. Not just this.

Robby doesn’t ask before he cums in your mouth. You didn’t want him to. You want him to demand everything. His bitterness floods your tongue, pump after pump of it, and you dutifully swallow. There’s so much that some of it dribbles down your chin. Once he’s fully soft, Robby kneels down and, while guiding you back to your feet, licks his own cum from your skin. Then he kisses it back into your mouth, his tongue taking dominance over yours, refusing to let you miss out on even a drop of him.

As your brain turns back on, Robby shakes his head, lets out a sharp breath, and tucks himself back into his pants. He looks at your dreamy expression for a second and chuckles. Then, with a gentle kiss to your cheek, he says, “There we go. I can work with this.”

Your familiar anger climbs back up when he moves even a fraction of a step toward the office door.

“Nope, absolutely the fuck not,” you bite at him. Blocking his exit, you point at the carpet. “Get on your back on the floor. We aren’t done here, Michael.”

When he realizes what you’re asking for – demanding, expecting – his knees weaken. Butting heads be damned, he’s definitely thought about those thighs smothering him before, especially when you put another doctor in their place instead of him. So, with wide, blown-black eyes, he lays back obediently, the anticipation making his soft cock twitch, debating how long it needs to come back to life.

You hastily kick out of your scrub bottoms and panties, toss them aside, and jokingly shove the center of his chest as you drop down into his lap. “Now who’s pathetic? On my disgusting office floor waiting to be used like a sex toy.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Robby tries with an eye roll, not convincing at all, “I could get right up and leave you-”

You shove his chest hard this time. So he falls flat on his back. You watch his pupils dilate and his lips part as red crawls into the apples of his cheeks. “That’s more like it. Big bad Doctor Robinabitch just needs to be manhandled.”

All he can do is nod and mutter, “yeah, maybe,” eyes locked to your juicy thighs as you crawl over him. You settle your knees on either side of his head and memorize the borderline pleading expression on his face when he sees your swollen cunt. You’re absolutely glistening because of him. You don’t even pretend you’re worried about breaking his nose or crushing him or whatever you’re ‘supposed’ to do before climbing on a man’s face and riding him like a bronco.

You just demand, “open up,” and drop your weight down onto his waiting mouth. His bear scratches your sensitive inner thighs and his nose nudges the hood of your clit back and- Fuck. Fuck, this isn’t going to take long. Of course Robby’s good with his tongue. He’s so unfairly good at everything. For a second, he takes charge of the moment, wrapping his arms around your hips and eating you out the way he’s dreamed of more times than he’d care to admit. Fuck him for thinking he can just get you off and call it a day. No, you’re taking this.

Without saying anything, you wrench his hands from your waist, pin them above his head, and mount his tongue like you mean it. You keep one hand on his wrists, pushing them hard into the floor, and grab his hair with the other so you cna keep his head tilted at just the right angle. His eyes roll back as he loses the ability to breathe at a regular pace, forced to gasp in air only when you ease up. It’s bliss.

Once you have him where you need him, you find exactly the rhythm you need in no time. Your fingers tighten into his hair, pain zinging from his scalp and down his back harsh enough to make his hips buck. You huff and grunt, “Shut up and take it, you big baby.”

Robby can’t help moaning, which only makes you worse. You rut your clit down on his tongue hard enough that you feel the texture of his tastebuds creating enough roughness to send you to the border of overstimulation right before you cum. You slow your pace ever so slightly when you feel your walls clamping down, working the orgasm out of yourself, so lost in the sensation that you don’t even hear how Robby moans and begs for you to use him to finish. It’s the ridge of his nose and the softness of his lips and the firmness of his tongue and you’re breaking open all over him. You feel your wetness coating his beard as a fresh flood of it comes, thinner and milder and sweeter. Robby groans through your whole orgasm, lapping up your juices until he’s positively drunk.

As you ease off him to sit on his lap, your thighs shake and your chest heaves. Satisfaction weighs heavy in your limbs and you know he feels the same way – spent and placated.

You both stay there, panting, looking at each other, for a few minutes.

There’s the silent understanding that things are different now.

Robby’s eyes soften.

So do yours.

You stand on shaky legs and tug your bottoms back on. He follows right behind.

Then Robby pulls you into a hug. Tight, warm, earnest. You nestle into his chest and breathe him in as he kisses the top of your head. Neither of you speak. What else is there to say?

As he pulls back slightly, arms still around you, Robby cuts you a borderline sheepish gaze. “You know it’s because I respect you, right? The arguing, I mean.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut the fuck up, Michael.” 

“I’m being serious.”

“Of course I know that.” You flatten your lips into a line, cross your arms over his chest, and stare him down. “I know that you respect me. You wouldn’t even entertain my arguments if you didn’t. But what you said today was still over the line. You can’t talk to me like that in front of my students. You can’t let them think I get advantages because I have great tits.”

“You’re right.” His eyes flick down to your breasts, wishing he’d had the forethought to get you to take them out during…whatever the hell this was. “On both fronts.”

You give him a little self-satisfied smirk and tell him with your hand on the doorknob, “You can apologize by buying me dinner tonight. I like that new place on seventh.”

He gives a shit-eating grin and raises his eyebrows. “Pretty expensive spot.”

You nod and reply, “You owe me a pretty big apology.”

“Deal.” He leans in, places a downright sweet kiss on your lips, and murmurs, “Can I eat you for dessert?”

You waggle your eyebrows playfully. “Want seconds already?” 

He tugs you close by the waist and kisses you hard. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“So greedy,” you tease against his lips. When he goes to kiss you again, you dodge him, eyeing him with so much tease in your expression he can hardly stand it. “Say ‘please, doctor.’”

“You fucking brat.” But he can still taste the champagne of your orgasm on his lips and he needs more, plain and simple. He’ll get hungover without another taste. So he puts on a pouty face and does as you ask in a gentle, small voice: “Please, doctor.”

“Now that’s a good boy.” You pat his face affectionately, halfway to a slap. “I’ll wait by that ugly car of yours after handoff.”

He balks. “That ‘ugly car’ is a Bentley.”

You stand on your toes and kiss his forehead “And the fact that you spent six figures on it only makes you look dumber. I’ll see you soon.”

He groans, “Can’t wait.”

it starts with the tiny shorts that you roll the waistband of to make them even shorter, the curves of your ass cheeks totally on display as you bend over to put on your shoes in the morning. the cropped-too-short tees that he knows you took scissors to yourself, no fucking bra, your tits bouncing out when you reach on your tippy toes to grab something from a high up counter that jack definitely would've gotten if you'd asked instead of wanting to flash him.

when you don't get what you want after a week, you make it worse for him. there's the batted lashes, the eye contact as you lick popsicle juice from your hand, the pouty lips when he won't give in to something.

he finally snaps when you push it too far. he's in his office, trying to brute force his way through paperwork with his reading glasses perched on his nose, when his phone pings. you're the only person who goes through his do not disturb settings, so he checks it right away. if you're texting him from two doors down, you probably just need him to grab something for you and he really doesn't mind doing it for his baby.

then he opens the text. it's a shot of your ass, framed out by a teeny black thong. you've twisted to take it, your waist and the backs of your thighs accentuated by the angle. looking forward to our date xo

he storms over to your bedroom, pleased to find the door not only unlocked but slightly cracked open. an invitation. you're still in the same position, laying on your stomach wearing just that goddamn thong and a cropped tee -- this one he recognizes as his, by the way, from a charity run a few years ago.

you turn to face him with a big smile, not caring at all that he's seeing you basically naked. "hi, daddy! how are-"

without a word, he yanks you to the end of the bed by the hips, his strong hands unrelenting. he tugs your panties down so hard they stretch and threaten to snap. you try to wriggle away from him but he grunts, "stop squirming, you useless slut. be good."

biting your lower lip, you whimper out, "daddy, what are you doing?"

"you think i don’t know what you've been doing?" his hand makes brutal contact with your ass and you let out a shocked, hiccuping gasp. "honey, girls have been begging for my cock since before you were born."

the next time he spanks you, the sound that comes from your mouth betrays the truth: it's a needy, breathy moan.

"so I'm right, huh?" he manuevers to pull off your shirt, too, manhandling it around your limbs with a roughess that turns your brain firmly into the off position. when he returns to his position behind you, he shoves your knees forward so you're presenting your ass to him. you hear him undo the zipper of his jeans and your mouth waters. he challenges you, "tell me what you want and you can have it. admit what a fucking slut you've been."

"I don't know what you're-"

"don't. don't lie to me." the fat head of his cock presses your sloppy entrance and your eyes widen. you hadn't been expecting him to be that big. from just the tip, you can tell he'll split you open. "I raised you better than that, princess." his cock slides forward, nudging your clit, and you whine for more. as he wets himself with your juices, bumbing your clit over and over, he offers, "I want to give you want you need. you're my baby girl and that's my job. want to make you happy. but I can only do that if you're honest with me. so tell me you've been trying to get me to fuck you. admit it."

it takes you a minute to find the words -- he's being really, really distracting with his hands rubbing your waist and hips and ass -- but you manage to because the desire for him outweighs the hot shame in your cheeks. you whimper into your pillow, "I want you to fuck me."

he grabs your hair and yanks your head back, sneering, "aw, you can do better than that. if you want it, ask nicely."

you arch your back and try to get at him, but the iron grip against your scalp makes it impossible. you choke out, "please give me your cock, dad. please."

"that's more like it," he growls. then he shoves into you in one sharp thrust, not particularly caring if you're completely ready or not. it stings for a second but subsides quickly, your eager wet pussy needing to let him in. he can't believe how good you feel, cursing himself for holding out this long when he could've had you as soon as he wanted. "now fucking take it, okay? be good for me."

you nod against the bed, eyebrows pinching together and mouth falling open while he pounds you at an unrelenting pace. using you how he wants. your body is an afterthought. without even thinking, your dominant hand travels between your thighs to try to give your poor throbbing clit some relief.

"no," jack snarls. "not when you're been such a brat." he grabs your hand and wrenches it behind your back, twisting your wrist almost to the point of injury, the pain right at that spot that makes your vision go blurry with tears while your cunt clamps down with want. starting to sound breathy, like he's on the verge of losing control, he admonishes, "you could've just used your words and asked daddy for what you wanted, but instead you've been distracting me and toying with me like I'm not the one in charge here."

"I'm sorry, Jackie," you cry as he starts to spank you again. "I should've been better. I'm so sorry."

the pain is immense and overwhelming because he's not holding back, not at all, the full force of those army muscles turning your backside black and blue. when you just take it though, being so good without complaining, jack's expression softens. he slows his thrusts and wraps his dominant hand around your abdomen, fingers dropping to your aching clit.

rubbing you hard and fast, feeling your thighs twitch and your stomach clenching, he prompts, "what do you say?"

you gasp out while the pleasure rewires your brain, "thank you, daddy."

he prods, slowing his fingers to keep you on the edge. "and? what do I like to hear more than anything?"

looking over your shoulder with tear-stained cheeks, you catch his hazel eyes and tell him so earnestly it makes his heart hurt, "i love you. love you more than anything. need you to take care of you. need you to show me how to be good. love you."

"there's my sweet baby," he coos. "you know you can have whatever you want if you just listen and obey."

you nod eagerly as your face scrunches up, orgasm tightening because of his expert fingers and his unrelenting cock. "I'll be good from now on. promise. be your good girl forever."

he angles his hips to hit you perfectly, matching the pace of his fingers, making your whole body shake. "then you can cum for me, princess."

you don't really have a choice, anyway. your body listens to him. yields to him. your cunt clenches around his cock and you let out an animalistic wail that your neighbors can probably hear. the added wetness and tightness has Jack throwing his head back in ecstasy, savoring each second he has inside of you for the very first time.

he groans as he starts to lose himself, "now, if you're such a whore that you're taking pictures like that and wearing your slutty clothes, are you on birth control?"

unable to speak in the wake of the orgasm, you shake your head and squeak out, "uh-uh."

He knows he's not supposed to overhear it, but he wants to, so he does. He listens in on your conversations with the other med students regularly, having picked you out of the lineup as soon as your class came in. These days, he can smell inexperience on women like their deodorant and dry shampoo at the beginning of the night shift. He can sense it in your nervous stuttering laughs, you averted eyes, your desperate need for approval.

You're giggling in hushed tones with Javadi when you admit that you're a virgin. Jack has to take a deep breath to steady himself as the sweet surge of confirmation makes his cock twitch. He heads to the locker room right away, acting like he didn't hear a thing.

For the first time in a couple months, Jack Abbot takes the pocket-sized black moleskin notebook from his backpack. He rolls his shoulders as he flips through it, going toa page near the back which follows sections labeled 'Anbar,' 'Baghdad,' 'Drexel,' 'Tufts,' 'Boston,' and 'Pittsburgh.' The book is old; he's had it since he enlisted at 18, a chronicle of his entire adult life. It started as an admittedly fucked-up game they all played, seeing who could bang the most locals in Iraq before they got written up for it. Cherry chasing, his buddies called it.

For Jack, though, it had evolved. It stopped being a game and became a conquest. An ego trip. Something he needs.

His pen hovers over the shortest list, labeled 'PTMC'; he tries not to be too sloppy at work, so he's kept it to the women who've basically fallen into his lap. After all, one of the rules is that he has to write the initials before he fucks them. A sort of promise to himself. He remembers each of them as his finger traces down the page to the next free line.

P.D.C. ✔

E.W. ✔

S.M. ✔

His pen hovers for only a second before he scratches down your initials next.

It doesn't take long for Jack to get you in his apartment. He waited a couple weeks until he saw you had a particularly hard day and all he did was invite you out for a few drinks. Then he pretended he didn't know his favorite bar closed early that day and offered to bring you up to his place instead.

And you'd accepted.

You sweet, sweet thing.

Now you're on his leather couch in tears, tucked under his arm as he comforts you, sniveling your way through some story he's only half paying attention to. He waits for exactly the right moment, rubbing your back gently, telling you it's okay to cry, saying you're safe with him, affirming your every fear.

Then you say it: "You're so sweet, Dr. Abbot. Everybody told me to watch out for you, but you're so nice."

Jack knows how to make his eyes kind, his hands soft, his lips gentle. And he lies, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear, "It's just for you, sweetheart."

Your eyes widen in the most adorable way, like you've never even thought of yourself as being attractive to men. "Wh-What do you mean?"

So Jack kisses you. He doesn't know if it's your first kiss or not, but, regardless, he makes sure it's warm and tender and intense. Hand cupping your face, tongue parting your lips, breaths speeding up. He presses his forehead to yours. "That's what I mean."

You can't even get out a surprised 'oh' before he's kissing you again. And, god, it does feel really, really good to kiss him. You'd never noticed before how strong Jack's arms were, but now he's maneuvering you into his lap and deepening the kiss and you're getting dizzy with the feeling of being wanted. You feel his cock hardening beneath his scrubs and you stiffen up.

Jack pulls back right away. He knows this step. The careful moment he has to handle just right. He adds as much honey to his voice as he can manage as he asks, "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

You pinch your eyes shut and stammer, "It's just that I've- I've never-"

Jack feigns surprise as your voice tumbles away into shame. "You're a virgin?"

You nod, cheeks absolutely flaming pink, and stare down at your socks. You'd taken off your shoes to be polite and now you feel so stupid for doing it. Maybe you could've made a quick escape and pretended this never happened, but there's no casual, sexy way to struggle to tug your sneakers back on in tears.

When Jack hears you sniffle, "Hey, wait, listen to me a sec."

Your eyes flutter up to his. Water clings to your pretty lashes. "What is it? Please don't make fun of me. I couldn't take that right now.

Jack puts his hand on your waist. Firm. Comforting. Clear. "Baby, there's nothing wrong with being inexperienced. It's just like school; all you need is the right teacher." His first finger drags underneath your jaw and he holds your chin with his thumb. "How about you let me teach you?"

Heat's building between your legs and you feel an unfamiliar sensation twisting up in your belly. His hands are so strong, his eyes so caring. And he's so handsome. And you're getting really tired of being the only girl in every room who still hasn't lost it. You touch your hand to his chest (his firm chest) and gently say, "I- I'm not sure I'm ready."

"Nobody ever feels ready for their first time," he chuckles, like it's a fact. There's no arguing with Dr. Abbot. He pulls you in close, an embrace, and rubs your back again. "I'll be so gentle with you, baby," he murmurs against your ear, hands sliding up underneath your top and massaging your hips. "I'll take such good care of you. Get you off before I even take my clothes off, just like a man should, promise. Trust me, kid, there's not a man on earth who'll take his time with you the way I will." Your head's starting to spin as he says, "Come to bed with me if you want me."

And you're standing up with him. You're not even completely sure why you're doing it, but Jack's authority and touch and words have you tumbling into his bed within thirty seconds.

With you on your back, Jack kneels between your legs and orders, "Show me what you do when you touch yourself."

"I- I don't do that."

Jack groans. He can't help himself. He shoves his hand unceremoniously down the front of your scrub pants, unable to resist any longer, and hovers his fingers over your clit. He can practically hear your heart rate jumping into hyper speed as he confirms, "Nobody's ever touched you here?"

You whisper, not sure if you want to buck your hips up to chase his fingers or hide under a rock, "Nobody."

And then Jack Abbot becomes the first. Something primal takes over him; he truly can't control himself when he knows a girl's truly never experienced anything. Almost everyone's at least masturbated before once they hit adulthood. But your pussy's completely untouched and he's going to change that.

When he parts your soft folds, he groans, "For someone so nervous, you're awfully wet, sweetheart."

Your voice perks up. "That's good?"

Yeah, he's got you right where he needs you. That need for praise, almost pathological, compulsive, tends to get him what he wants when it comes to girls like you. He chuckles softly, "Baby, that's so good. Means you like me as much as I like you."

When he's rubbing your clit, that makes perfect sense. With his other hand, Jack tugs off your bottoms and tosses them aside. At the same time, he urges, "Go ahead and take your top off for me. Wanna see how beautiful you are."

Reluctantly, nervous about your body, you do it, taking off your scrub top first and then your undershirt. The sight of you in just a gray cotton bra, a little white bow at the center, is enough to make his cock leak against his boxers. His patience at not being inside you is wearing thin, so he pushes his first finger -- slowly, carefully -- inside of your pussy. You moan just like he'd hoped, high-pitched and surprised and needy. Jack coos, "There you go. So pretty. Such a good girl for me."

Your pussy clenches up softly when he says that. His eyes roll back in pleasure as he feels your body begging for more from him. He removes his finger just long enough to wrap his arms around your legs and yank you to the end of his bed.

Then his mouth's on you. You've never felt anything like it. His tongue is so different from his fingers, more curious, more probing, more intense. His middle finger goes back inside of you, more urgent now, the softness of his tongue making sure you don't feel any stinging as he adds a second one.

Jack licks a broad stripe up your pussy and you outright gasp at the first contact with your clit. His dark laugh into your body makes you writhe beneath him. So he uses his free hand to hold you down hard, his palm pressing over your abdomen, adding pressure to the place where you feel his fingers curling against you.

Jack just lets himself enjoy you. By now, he's made so many women cum with his tongue that he can go on autopilot, focusing on memorizing the rapture that is a virgin in the first throes of pleasure. He watches as you cover your face, fighting that deep down shame telling you that you shouldn't be doing this, especially him. He listens to your pathetic uh uh uh as your thighs twitch and your blush darkens. He tastes your sweetness, your tartness, your bitterness.

When your thighs start to tremble around his head, he sighs like he's died and gone to heaven. It's only a matter of time now. You don't speak; virgins can never manage dirty talk. You manage to whimper out something like 'I- I think I'm-' before he's forcing you over the edge to your first ever orgasm. It's a strong one, too, pulsing hard around his fingers as he laps you up.

While you work through the aftershocks, Jack stands and makes quick work of his clothes and prosthetic. You haven't even processed his gorgeous nakedness before he's manhandling you backwards, shoving a pillow under your hips to prop you up, fisting his hard cock that looks way too big to fit inside of you.

Then you realize what's happening. You reach out to touch his thigh and babble, "D'you- you have a-"

He's shaking his head and lining up his cock with your entrance before you can even get the question out. Stupid fucking question. He hates that question. Half the time, girls don't even think about it their first time. Keeping his voice firm and commanding but perfectly loving, he shakes his head and lies again, "Been a long time since I've been with anyone. But it's your first time and I'm clean, honey, we don't need that. You trust me, don't you?"

Eyebrows pinched together in aroused confusion, you nod slowly. You feel the bump of his slick cock head against your clit and it's making you blissfully shaky. "Of course I do."

Jack touches your cheek with his hand and smiles. "Good girl."

You melt at the praise. It steals any other protests from your lungs.

And then Jack's pushing his cock inside of you. He always takes that first thrust slowly, agonizingly slow, making sure it doesn't hurt, making sure it feels good. Memorizing the exact look on your face when you change your identity from 'virgin' at least. After all, a big part of the ego high for Jack is ensuring you'll compare every single sexual experience to this and rate it as worse, spending the rest of your life dreaming about the hunky ER doctor who popped your cherry.

God, your cunt. When Jack's finally fully sheathed inside of you, he takes a second to savor it. To feel your pussy's greedy little flutters after your first orgasm. To watch your oxytocin-flooded eyes looking up at him like he's your savior. To listen to your gasping, hitching breaths as you adjust to something filling you for the very first time.

Jack strokes your outer thigh gently and asks, "Feeling good, baby?

"S-so good," you squeak out. You take his hand in yours and the only thing you can say is, "More."

Jack laughs and leans down, caging you between his arms and kissing you as he starts to roll his hips forward into you. "Never even had it and already greedy for cock, huh?"

You giggle and cover your eyes with your forearm.

But he stops you, pinning your wrist up above your head. "I need to look at you. Can't get off unless I'm looking in my girl's eyes."

It sounds sweet to you, but Jack knows it isn't. He just wants to see every thought written on your face as you decide that, yes, you love being fucked by him. Sex really is all it's cracked up to be and Jack Abbot is the one who taught you that fact.

He doesn't ask before he cums inside of you, coating your walls with his claim, permanently imprinted on your body and mind. He doesn't check if you're on birth control and doesn't care, just follows his pleasure through those final few moments with you, murmuring how good you are, how pretty, how perfect the entire time.

He collapses onto his side, grinning like an idiot, and you curl onto his chest right away, peppering the side of his face with sweet kisses.

"Y'know, it's probably best we don't tell anyone about this," he muses, finger tracing circles up your bare side. "I could lose my job if anyone knew what we just did."

You're half asleep already but hum contentedly, "Of course, Jack. I understand."

the queen would typically accompany the king to watch the jester's tricks, but this night, the king requested a private show. it wasn't often that the king wanted to be entertained alone, and when the jester received the message earlier that day, they began anxiously planning their routine. the queen was much easier to please.

the king's disapproving expression deepened the longer the jester performed. the final straw was the jester, who's desperate attempt at a flip failed, and they landed on their backside on the glossed floor. the bells of their hat jingled with the impact.

"that's enough!" the king bellowed, booming voice echoing through the hall. the jester froze and swallowed thickly, nervous at what the consequences of a poor performance would be.

the jester scrambled to their knees and bowed, touching their painted forehead to the floor. "i-i'm sorry, your majesty. i beg your forgiveness."

"your perfomance was disgraceful," the king bit. “come here.” he pointed to the landing in front of his throne.

frantically rising to their feet, the jester ran up the stairs to the throne, and knelt down again. the king reached for them and instead of striking them, as the jester had been bracing for, the king firmly gripped their face.

“you will not be dismissed until you have satisfied me,” he said firmly. the jester nodded the best they could. “and since you’re clearly a shameful excuse for an entertainer, i’m going to entertain myself.”

the king released the jester’s face, then fumbled with the front of his pants to free his flaccid cock. the jester’s eyes windened, but they did not resist as the king fed them. his cock swelled as it rested on the jester’s tongue, and before long, he was at full hardness.

the jester worked their mouth over the king’s length, trying their best not to choke or gag on the impressive size. they had already disappointed the king once, and they feared what would happen if they were to do it again.

the king didn’t speak; he only made low grunts and groans each time the head of his cock hit the back of the jester’s tight throat. the jester obediently allowed their mouth to be taken, used for their majesty’s pleasure.

just as the jester realized how sore their knees, back, and jaw were from holding the position, the king announced that he was near orgasm. “swallow,” the king ordered. the jester knew not to disobey, and when the king filled their mouth with hot ropes of thick cum, they instinctively drank it down.

there was no praise to be given afterward. the king tucked his softening dick back into his trousers and dismissed the jester without thanks or a wish of a good night. the jester supposed that was merciful. any other servant who performed as poorly as they did surely would have been fired, if not whipped for their disobedience.

There’s a heavy silence as Jack restarts the engine and pulls away from the curb. There’s none of your usual teary venting or frustrated ranting, and Jack’s not sure what to make of that.

“You hear that your mall’s getting an Urban Outfitters?” Jack cringes as soon as the question leaves his lips— he’s sure you want some peace and quiet, but he can’t help it. He’s never been good at quiet.

“Oh, yeah!” You chirp, turning away from the window and meeting his eye with a wide grin. Jack eyes you with surprise. “It’s opening next month.” Your brows furrow. “How do you know about it?”

Jack doesn’t respond for a moment. You’re awfully cheery for a girl who just got into a shouting match that ended in tears and an SOS call.

“It was, uh, those clothes I ordered for ya,” Jack says after a while. “Think it signed me up for a newsletter or something. I keep getting fuckin’ emails.”

When that makes you laugh, pride washes away his uncertainty.

You both chat for the rest of the short ride, and Jack figures he’s giving you exactly what you need. A laugh, a distraction, a reason to get out of the house for a bit.

Soon Jack’s pulling into his driveway. He helps you inside, where you make a beeline for the couch, grab the remote, and settle in right away. Jack chuckles.

“Don’t be shy, make yourself at home.”

You grin at him. “Thanks.”

Jack sits next to you. You curl right into his side when he lifts his arm.

He waits as long as he can stand to— which, as it turns out, is about an hour’s worth of New Girl episodes— before he brings it up again. “You ready to lay it on me now, hon?”

Your demeanor shifts immediately. You stiffen and your expression sours, and Jack can practically feel the effort it takes not to roll your eyes.

“Not really.”

“You can’t ignore it forever, y’know.“

“Duh.”

Jack squints at you. Before he can decide how to respond, he feels you move against him, and next thing he knows you’re crawling into his lap to straddle him. Jack’s hands find your hips without second thought.

“Pumpkin—“

You lean down to kiss him, sweet and needy. 

Jack groans into your mouth. Despite his efforts, his dick is hardening in his pants right away. The effect you have on him is frankly unfair. If he were about 20 years younger it’d be completely overwhelming— and even now it takes him a few long, torturous moments to get himself together and remember he’s supposed to be an adult here. He pulls away.

“I know Mike isn’t always easy to talk to–”

“I’ll talk to him.” You brush off Jack’s worry, trying to lean down to connect your lips again. He leans away.

“Really? Cause you won’t even talk to me–”

You manage to catch him in a kiss. This time your tongue slides inside his mouth right away, and your teeth teasingly nip his lower lip.

Jack groans again. His fingers thrum, kneading the soft flesh of your hips as he tries to contain himself. His resolve is wavering. This may be a fuck now, talk later situation. Yeah. Jack can justify that. 

“You just need some TLC to be a good girl and sort this out in the morning?” He murmurs, reaching out to cup your jaw and thumb over your lip. You grin.

“Yes, Mr. Abbot.”

There’s something about it that makes Jack suspicious. It’s like you’re trying too hard to sound sweet. He gets the feeling that you’re playing him, but after eyeing you for a moment and feeling you grind down on his bulge, he decides to take you at your word. He pulls you back in for a kiss.

You end up riding him right there on the couch. Then you move to the bedroom, where he settles between your spread legs and eats you out like you’re his last meal.

Two hours later he’s settled against the headboard, reading glasses on while he scrolls on his phone. You’re on your stomach at the foot of the bed, wearing a t-shirt and underwear, legs kicking idly as you read some old chapter book you found on his shelves. He looks at you.

“What’re you gonna say to Mike tomorrow, doll?” He asks, tone light and conversational.

Nothing. You don’t even spare him a glance. You flip the page.

“Hey. Kiddo.” Jack says, a bit more firm.

“Hm?” You still don’t look up.

“What are you gonna say to Mike tomorrow?”

You shrug. You flip the page again, and Jack knows there’s no way you’re actually reading that fast. He sighs.

“Can you please close the book and look at me?” Jack waits a few long moments. Gives you some time to make the right choice. You don’t. “I don’t wanna ask you again.”

“Jesus christ, you sound like Robby.”

“Yeah? Good. He’s a decent guy.”

You scoff.

“You disagree?”

Your jaw twinges. “Maybe I do.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happ—“

“God,” You gripe, finally looking at him to shoot him a nasty glare. “Can’t we just fuck without the therapy session?”

Jack stares at you, steely. Trying to keep his frustration in check. His voice comes out low but steady. “That’s not how this goes, pumpkin.”

You chuckle blithely. “You seemed fine with that arrangement when I was riding your dick.”

“You agreed to talk to him.” Jack grits out. He takes off his glasses and puts them on the nightstand along with his phone. “Y’know what? The more you refuse to tell me what happened the more I think you were just acting out.”

You scowl at him then look away, back to your book. He can see you chewing the inside of your cheek. He knows he has you pegged.

“Is that it? Gave Mike a little too much attitude, so you decided to call me up knowing that I’d treat you nice?”

No response.

“Guess I oughta text him and get his side of the story—“

“Would you just fuck off—“

Jack’s in motion before you can even finish your thought. He gets close enough to grab you under your arms and start wrenching you over his lap.

“Hey! Let go of me—“

“I tried doing things the nice way, pumpkin.” Jack intones. His voice is calm and collected, but his anger comes through in the harsh way he grips your waist and legs to keep you still. “I was happy to talk things through like adults–”

“This is such bullshit— ow!” Jack shuts you up with a sharp smack on your ass over your panties.

“--but I don’t appreciate being taken advantage of.” He continues lecturing, as if you’d never even spoken at all. “You call me up, you have me bring you to my house and dote on you all damn night under the impression that you and your daddy had an actual argument.”

“I didn’t–” another smack.

“Come to find out you were just being a brat from the start.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that!” You insist, voice high and whiny and laced with guilt. Now he’s getting somewhere.

“No?” Jack spanks you again, and this time you yelp at the contact to your already stinging skin. Then you squirm when he roughly gropes the area right after. “How’d you mean it, babydoll. Enlighten me.”

“I really did wanna see you.” You whimper. “That’s why I called. It wasn’t some big trick.”

“Aw, well aren’t you sweet?” Jack coos, more condescending than usual. It makes embarrassed tears well in your eyes. 

“I swear, Mr. Abbot.” You plead. You gasp when Jack spanks you again, lurching forward in his lap. “I was really mad, and I wanted to see you, I just didn’t wanna talk about what happened–”

“Because you know you were in the wrong.” Jack finishes for you. Your mouth clamps shut in a thin line. He raises a brow and lands another blow. “Say it, sweetheart. Just admit it.”

Your head falls to the mattress limply. “Mr. Abbot,” your whine comes out muffled. You practically sob when he spanks you again. 

“You know I don’t like doing this, babydoll. Just be honest with me and we’ll stop.”

Jack waits a couple beats. You shift in his lap slightly, but don’t say a word. He spanks you again, the hardest one yet. You yelp.

“Ok!” You turn your head to the side. He sees shiny moisture around your eyes, a fresh tear rolling down your cheek. “It was my fault. N’ there wasn’t an actual argument, I was just being a brat.”

“Attagirl.” Jack coos. He rubs his warm hand in a circle on your warm asscheek, soothing the inflamed skin. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” 

Your head falls into the mattress again with a watery groan. “Yes it was.”

Jack chuckles. “Alright, correction: it doesn’t have to be so hard.” He grips your waist and guides you to sit up. You lean against his chest and he cups your wet face as more shameful tears spill from your eyes. “Take it easy, baby, it’s done. You’re alright.”

“Stop being so nice,” You warble. Jack raises a brow. 

“You sure? Cause I can start spanking you again–”

You whine and shake your head against his clavicle, making him laugh.

“That’s what I thought.” He rubs soothing circles on your back. “You really do need a firm hand sometimes, huh? Guess your daddy’s been right all along.”

You huff. 

Robby is having a conversation with Perlah. At least that is what the situation would appear to be from an external perspective (he really fucking hopes).

Her mouth is moving, words continuing to emerge from it in a steady, organized stream assembling themselves into little sentences that travel through the air in neat succession. And he has remained physically present for the duration of the exchange, occasionally nodding, even. By most definitions this would qualify as participating. 

The difficulty arises if anyone were to ask him what she has been saying.

If someone were to pause the moment and ask, Dr. Robby, what has Perlah been saying for the last four minutes. He would be forced to produce an answer that lived in the gray area between honesty and self-preservation. 

Because the truth is that he is listening in the same sense that a television left running in an empty room is being watched. The sound is there. The program continues. But nothing of meaningful substance is actually being received.

Because you are the devil.

His devil, specifically.

Equipped with great legs, an even nicer ass, a beautiful face to match, and a skirt that is short enough to sabotage every ounce of competence he has spent the last fifty-something years cultivating. 

And somehow he is the one left standing here acting as the devil’s advocate, delivering closing arguments in your favor.

Insisting, repeatedly and with increasingly questionable credibility, that you are harmless. Oblivious. Entirely unaware of the destruction you leave in your wake. Meanwhile the prosecution continues submitting new evidence every time you shift your weight forward onto the front of your shoes.

At present you are leaning over the nurses’ station chatting with Jack, having came here to bring him lunch, which you promptly forgot in the car, necessitating a full trip back outside to retrieve. You’re just being a good, dutiful sister, as you often are.

Save for the occasion you screw his much older best friend in the hospital garage after shifts.

Robby hadn’t known you were coming in today.

Had he known, he might have taken the necessary precautions. 

Mentally fortified himself. Adjusted his expectations for the day. Taken some sort of prophylactic measure against the disruption you introduce simply by existing within a thirty-foot radius.

The skirt, once again, is really not helping.

It has not helped since the moment he first saw it. And the angle you are currently standing at is doing even more damage, the backs of your supple bare thighs of full display.

Robby finds himself mildly astonished that he cannot quite see the pink lace you favor underneath it from this distance.

He knows you favor them because last night you were stretched across his kitchen counter, and that same pink lace had been the final, fragile piece of fabric separating him from a remarkably comprehensive understanding of every sound you are capable of making.

And you make quite a few, as it turns out. A collection. A symphony, really.

You make lovely noises. Lovelier faces.

Your head tipped back against the cabinet, his name in your mouth like something rare you’d been saving up all evening.

Christ.

He needs to get a grip.

Robby scrubs down his face and turns back to Perlah, who has apparently said something that ended in a question mark and is now waiting, with what he recognizes as rapidly diminishing patience, for an answer. 

He gives her one. 

It feels, to him, perfectly adequate. Perlah’s expression suggests it was not adequate at all. 

Unfortunately he cannot currently locate the portion of his personality that would normally care about that distinction, because he is suddenly becoming aware of where everyone else in the room is looking.

Langdon. Santos. Garcia. Fucking Ogilvie. 

All relatively subtle. 

Garcia considerably less so.

All trained with laser point focus on your backside.

Idiots, the lot of them.

He slips his hands into his pockets and says nothing, which is currently the most controlled and adult response available to him given both the circumstances and the uncomfortable sensation beginning to establish itself in the center of his chest.

It is not jealousy. He is not calling it jealously.

Situational awareness, maybe. A boss noticing all the variables within his environment. Because that’s his job, isn’t it? That’s a fair argument to make.

But it burns suspiciously like jealousy. A quick and pulsing flare in his stomach. His pulse climbing in a way he could easily attribute to sympathetic nervous system activation, catecholamines doing what catecholamines have always done when a body decides something in the vicinity represents a threat.

It is the same heightened awareness that neatly concludes his so-called conversation with Perlah and propels him across the hallway.

“Abbot.” He stops just short of the counter. “Nguyen’s tox panel come back yet?”

He doesn’t specify which Abbot.

You turn before Jack does. 

Your eyes land on him and your entire face lights up with such immediate, unfiltered pleasure that it derails the irritated line of thought he had been cultivating during the walk over here.

It is the reaction of someone who either lacks or has purposely discarded the internal mechanism most adults develop to regulate their enthusiasm.

He thinks it’s the former.

“Oh!” you say, the small delighted sound slipping out of you before you seem to realize it has. “Hi, Dr. Robby.”

“Hi.” His answering smile is brief and tight-lipped, the smile of a man keeping several different thoughts on a very short leash. “Didn’t know you’d be here today.”

He means it pleasantly. He means it with every intention of pleasantry. 

What he also means, beneath said pleasantry, in a more specific frequency meant exclusively for you, is a heads up would have been useful and that fucking microscopic shred of fabric you are currently calling a skirt is not, by any recognized standard of measurement, a skirt at all and possibly just why.

He braces an arm against the counter and shifts his weight, settling into place.

In doing so, he very conveniently positions himself between your ass and the rest of the department.

He briefly entertains the idea of flipping everyone off behind his back as well, but suspects that particular behavior might become difficult to defend if Gloria were to hear about it.

“Came to feed me.” Jack says it fondly. He refrains, very graciously, from mentioning the car. You look extremely grateful for that mercy. “And the tox panel —” He taps a few keys, bringing up the results on the computer. “Came back about half an hour ago. All negative.”

“Hm.” Robby studies the screen rather than the person standing beside him. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

“Means whatever’s going on isn’t pharmaceutical.” Jack frowns at the monitor. “Which opens up a whole other can of worms.”

“Okay.” You straighten up from the counter. “I’m going to go before this gets too medical-ish for me.” You hug Jack sideways. “Eat your lunch.” Then you turn, offering Robby a bright smile. “Good to see you, Dr. Robby.”

Your hand brushes beneath the counter as you step past him, your fingers pressing briefly against his leg, quick and subtle and gone so fast it almost feels like something he might have imagined.

He’s still not convinced.

“You too.” The response comes out through gritted teeth.

He gives it fifteen seconds. Counts them out in his head because anything less would look suspicious and he is, if nothing else, a man who understands the value of not looking suspicious.

Because this precarious situation you both balance can go south very quickly if people get suspicious.

At sixteen he steps back from the counter.

“I need to make a call.” 

It is technically addressed to Jack, though Robby is already moving away with the relaxed, neutral stride of a man whose next destination has nothing whatsoever to do with the hallway you just turned down.

He finds you just before the exit, the automatic doors still exhaling cold air from whoever walked out before you.

“Abbot.”

The specification is clear this time.

You pivot towards him once again, and the movement sends the skirt flaring outward in a light, careless circle that rises just enough to make his jaw tighten, muscle popping under flesh before he can stop it.

The reaction lasts half a second at most before he forcibly reins it back in.

“Oh good,” you say. “I was hoping you’d come chase me down. Makes me feel very important.”

His gaze flicks down and then returns to your face with visible effort.

“What were you thinking? Coming across here like that.” It comes out more accusatory than he intended for.

You look down at yourself with a frown, turning one foot slightly as if the answer might be written somewhere near your shoes.

“Like… walking?” you ask. “Because I did walk here, yes. That’s generally how hallways work.”

He thinks, immediately, that he’s made you self-conscious. 

You wouldn’t make an outward performance, that’s unlike you, but your left hand moves to fidget with the with the ring that sits of your right hand pinky. Your tell.

He hates himself for it. Briefly. Then not so briefly. Lately he seems to spend a disproportionate amount of time disliking the things that come out of his own mouth when you’re involved. 

He’s used to conversations being navigable terrain. Clearly marked roads, visible turns.

With you it feels like trying to cross a river by stepping stones and realizing, too late, that the distance between them is wider than it looked from the bank.

You probably just saw the outfit somewhere.

One of those endless places the internet produces now. Maybe from that app you tried to show him once. Tick… tack? Tik talk? 

You’d pressed your phone into his hand and waited while he squinted at the screen like it was written in another language, until eventually he had to put his glasses on and hold the phone halfway across the room to see anything at all.

You laughed at him for that. Entirely too much, actually. 

Or maybe it was from Pinterest. Another digital ecosystem he understands only conceptually. 

You thought the outfit looked fun or cute or something along those lines. That was almost certainly the entire decision-making process.

He knows this. 

And still his mouth, apparently operating without supervision, is already lining up the next sentence like it intends to spit venom anyway.

“Like,” he says, voice mild in a way that is not especially reassuring, “in an outfit that has half my staff forgetting how to do their jobs.”

Robby becomes aware of the flaw in the sentence the moment it leaves his mouth. There are, in fact, several flaws, most of them related to the fact that the statement sounds like something a chauvinistic man would say.

Unfortunately, the sentence has already been spoken, and Robby has never been particularly skilled at retreating once he has committed to a position.

He is stubborn like that.

You cross your arms.

Your lips push forward in a small, stubborn pout that he knows with an intimacy that comes from spending too much time studying your face at close range.

It is a very specific expression with a very specific solution.

The correct response, historically speaking, involves stepping closer and kissing it away before you can say anything else.

Unfortunately he is currently standing in a hospital hallway.

And behind him there is an entire collection of people who possess functioning eyes.

Wandering eyes. Curious eyes. Eyes that have already been drifting toward you all afternoon in ways he has been attempting, with mixed success, to ignore.

Everyone looking at something his mind and body and soul insists on categorizing as his.

Which you aren’t.

You very specifically aren’t. The arrangement you have with each other was built carefully around that exact premise. That you don’t belong to him in any capacity outside of very specific rooms and places and circumstances. 

All involving less clothing (if that’s possible) than what you’re wearing.

His brain, however, does not appear particularly interested in honoring those contractual terms at the moment.

“I mean… I’m not the one forgetting how to do my job. So that seems… unfair?”

“Life contains a number of unfair situations,” he says quickly. “They’re adults. I’m not excusing them. That still does not mean I am particularly pleased that you chose to walk into my ER dressed like that.”

You glance down at your outfit again.

“I thought it was cute,” you say after a moment. “Jack said it was cute.”

Robby opens his mouth.

This is, in retrospect, a tactical error, because it gives you exactly enough time to continue talking.

“I just don’t understand what the problem is,” you say, frowning now. “Why are you lecturing me like I — like I did something wrong? I wore a skirt. It’s a skirt.” You gesture down at it. “And you, for the record, have historically have been very enthusiastic about my skirts, so the sudden objection is a little confusing. Like the time you bent me over your —”

“That’s different,” he cuts in immediately.

The words leave his mouth with a sharpness that successfully stops the sentence mid-flight while he exerts a frankly heroic amount of restraint to avoid clapping a hand over your mouth before the remainder of that particular memory becomes public knowledge.

Your eyes narrow. “How?”

This is the point where the smarter version of Robby (the allegedly mature, emotionally regulated adult who has survived decades of complicated human interactions) would slow down and choose his words with extreme care.

That version of him would recognize immediately that there is no answer to that question that ends well for him. And the honest answer, which is because when we’re alone it belongs to me and right now it doesn’t, is both indefensible and incompatible.

He is, unfortunately, not currently being governed by that wiser version of himself.

If that version exists at all. He suspects it doesn’t.

“It just is.”

You stare at him.

“Great, that clears that up,” you say after a beat. “I’m going home.”

“Christ, that’s not  —”

But you’re already turning, already walking away before he can figure out what the rest of that sentence was supposed to be.

Which is a problem, because the unfinished sentence had been intended to stop you from doing exactly what you are currently doing.

So Robby stays where he is. Maybe one of the smartest decisions he’s made in the last five minutes. He’s sure you might have back handed him were he to follow you.

You might turn around just to back hand him now as he lists the several reasons why he shouldn’t stand here like an idiot and watch you walk away.

Chief among them being the skirt. The skirt he has spent the last ten minutes complaining about. The skirt he currently hates on principle. The skirt that, annoyingly, looks fucking incredible on you.

Would it be cliche of him to say he hates to see you go but loves to watch you leave?

He mutters something under his breath.

—

He gives you two hours. (Conveniently the exact amount of time he had left in his shift when you left.)

This is considerably more restrained than he usually manages when you’re concerned.

His first instinct was to call you immediately and get it over with.

Hear your voice, confirm you’re not as furious as he imagines you are, restore the natural order of things.

But you hate cold calls. You explained this once in a surprisingly passionate monologue about anxiety and boundaries, which he assumes is an exaggeration, because you have neither of those things. 

You are the opposite, in fact. Anxiety and boundaries fear you.

But nevertheless, calling you would not help. Calling you would annoy you. And the last thing he needs right now is to make things worse.

So he does the responsible thing and sends a text instead, thumbs hovering over the screen for a moment before he finally types: I handled that badly.

He puts the phone face down on his desk like that might somehow remove the temptation entirely, like if he can’t see it he might remember he’s a grown man with a fully functioning frontal lobe and not someone whose mood for the rest of the evening currently hinges on a three-inch screen.

Nothing.

Thirty minutes pass before he caves and sends another message

You’re right. You didn’t do anything wrong.

Still nothing.

I’m an asshole.

Silence.

At this point pride has clearly decided it will not be participating in tonight’s events, because his thumbs move again before he can talk himself out of it.

Can I come over?

Your response takes long enough that Robby has ample time to fully experience the consequences of his decisions. He’s a fucking idiot. An idiot with no dignity, no less.

Eventually the screen lights up.

Abbot #2

i’m in for the night.

It’s not a no. It isn’t a yes either, but it isn’t a no, and that small opening is apparently all the encouragement he needs.

I know. Can I come over?

The typing bubbles appear almost instantly.

Abbot #2

robby

The next word costs him something. It always does. You know that. You’ve known it for a long time, which is probably why it works, because you’re soft all the way through even when you attempt to pretend you’re not, and both of you understand that about you.

Please.

Abbot #2

fine

He's already reaching for his keys.

—

By the time Robby reaches your apartment he has already practiced three different speeches in his head, each one engineered somewhere between the hospital garage and your building like he’s preparing opening statements for a situation he would frankly prefer not to be involved in.

He could’ve avoided this entirely if it weren’t for the anger and frustration with the world that seems to perpetually take up residence in his throat, begging to be released and taken out on others.

He focuses on the speech.

Version one is calm and mature. Version two apologizes just enough to count without turning him into a pathetic middle-aged man showing up on your doorstep with emotional baggage. Version three is honest without accidentally inviting the kind of conversation that forces both of you to acknowledge what this thing actually is, which neither of you seems especially eager to do.

In theory, they’re excellent speeches.

In practice they do not survive the door opening, because the door opens and you’re still wearing the skirt. 

This will be more difficult than he accounted for.

And now, if anything, the skirt looks shorter than it did earlier, the hem resting a breath above the midpoint of your thighs and ending just below the place where your underwear should theoretically begin. 

His eyes do the automatic scan before he can stop them. 

“…Are you going to say something or are we doing like a silent staring activity?”

Robby blinks once. Right. Words. He did, in fact, come here with the intention of producing several of them. 

“Yes,” he says, mostly to buy himself time. “I did plan to say something.” Another pause arrives, uninvited, as the rest of his thoughts fail to assemble themselves into anything useful. Excellent. Great start. “Can I come in?”

You don’t answer. You just step back and pull the door open a little wider, which he decides counts as consent, so Robby walks past you into the apartment, already aware of the small betrayal happening in his peripheral awareness. 

His left hand lifts slightly. Reflex.

Normally he would touch you in passing and in private without thinking about it, some small absent gesture. Fingers at your waist, a hand against your back, the inside of your arm as he moves around you.

He had never thought of himself as a tactile person before you, which in hindsight might simply mean no one had ever made him notice the difference between contact and the lack of it. 

“Looks clean in here.”

You turn toward him immediately. “You say that like it’s usually not.”

He gives you a look because the alternative response would be lying, and for all his flaws, he generally prefers observable reality to polite fiction.

Your apartment is many things. Charming, for one. The old brick walls and the accent wall you painted last spring (personally, against all advice, because apparently you believe interior design should occasionally be a solo athletic event) still shows faint brush lines if someone were to actually examine it.

But the word clean isn’t the first word that comes to mind.

More like: cluttered.

You own an impressive number of things and your primary organizational strategy involves setting those things down wherever you happen to be standing when your brain abruptly moves on to the next idea.

Books sit half-read across multiple surfaces like abandoned conversations. Magazines accumulate in slow-growing stacks. Ceramic bowls migrate around the apartment with no consistent destination. 

And there is almost always at least one pair of shoes sitting in the middle of the floor like you stepped out of them mid-thought and never circled back.

“Well,” he says, glancing around once more, “those were your words, not mine.”

You roll your eyes and head for the couch, planting yourself down on the cushions and look at him like a judge granting the floor to a particularly unprepared witness. 

Well, you have the floor, your eyes say plainly enough.

So he lowers himself into the chair opposite of you, spreading his legs as he settles. He drags his palms down the front of his slacks in an attempt to disguise the fact that his hands are a little too warm.

You cross one leg over the other and his eyes follow the movement.

Your skirt lifts just enough to make the line of your thighs more visible than it should be, the suggestion of what’s beneath the fabric briefly possible if he leaned forward or changed his angle.

If he were a worse man than he already suspects he might be. 

He doesn’t. But he wants to.

He is a weak man, after all. And a weak man is not immune to the possibility of getting a peak of the perfect anatomy he knows resides under there.

Perfect anatomy that he has practically memorized at this point. With his fingers, with his mouth, with his cock.

He clears his throat. 

“I’d like to clarify,” he says after a moment, palms moving from his thighs to the arms of the chair, “that my intention earlier was not to make you feel bad.”

“I know,” you say immediately, and the sound of it comes out a little softer, a little whinier than you probably intended, which unfortunately lands in Robby’s brain like a lit match tossed into dry brush. It takes him a second to drag his attention back to the conversation instead of the completely separate thought that he would very much like to solve that particular tone by fucking it out of you. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

Sometimes he wishes you’d give more of a fight. You’re just so good. And young. And impressionable.

And a wise woman once told him he was very pressionable.

There’s a pause while you keep thinking, and because you possess one of the most transparent faces he has ever encountered, every thought passing across it like subtitles.

“You just — you get this tone.” You wave a hand in his direction, specifically toward his mouth. “Like. You know. The tone.”

As if this is a universally acknowledged phenomenon. As if there is a documented Tone he should be familiar with. Which, fine, he is familiar with. 

He looks at you for a moment. Then, with great and terrible patience: “Poor thing.”

Your arm is up before he’s even finished the second word.

“Yes. That. Right there.” Fully extended, finger pointed directly at him like you’ve just located the exact source of the problem.

“I’m just —”

“You’re doing the face. And the voice, Robby, it’s a whole —” you circle your hand at him, “You get so — what’s the word — I couldn’t think of it for like two weeks, I asked my friend, she didn’t know, I ended up just Googling it —”

“You Googled how to describe me.”

“Self-righteous,” you continue, ignoring him. “And condescending.”

“Look at you,” he says, the faintest hint of amusement slipping into his voice. “Doing your research. ‘M proud of you.”

Something flashes across your face before you can stop it, that tiny involuntary almost-smile that always appears when he manages to get under your skin in the exact way he intended.

You do well with praise, he’s learned.

You catch yourself a second too late and point at him again like you’re trying to reclaim the momentum of the argument, but the energy has already shifted, the accusation losing some of its bite.

“Don’t.” You lean forward, eyes narrowing. “Don’t be nice right now, I’m mad at you —”

“Are you?”

“I’m — yes.” The finger wavers. “I was.”

“But you’re not now,” he says eventually. “Too sweet to stay that way for long.” His gaze stays steady on yours. “Aren’t you, baby?”

“I’m not too sweet,” you protest immediately, genuinely affronted by the suggestion in a way that only reinforces his point. “I can stay mad. I can be really, really mad. And I can be just as mean as you when I want to be.”

The reality is very contradicting.

Then he stands. He moves the edge of the couch and reaches down, sliding two fingers beneath your chin and tipping your face upward.

You go with it so easily, completely without resistance.

“You want to be mean like me?” The faintest curve touches the corner of his mouth. “Sweetheart, you couldn’t be mean like me if someone handed you a manual.”

His gaze drops briefly as a small flash of pink tongue slips out to wet your lips.

“You don’t have a cruel bone in your body and I have —” he pauses, forcing himself to look back up at your eyes instead of the mouth that’s distracting him, “ — significantly more than that.”

“That’s not something to be proud of,” you say quietly.

“No,” he agrees simply. “It isn’t.”

His thumb drags slowly across your bottom lip, collecting the trace of moisture your tongue left behind.

He feels the suck intake of breath on the rough pad of his finger.

“But you like that about me,” he says. “Don’t you?”

“Why do you say that?” 

He doesn’t even feel an answer is necessary given your voice suddenly comes out soft, almost dreamy.

Your pupils are blown, adding to the wide and helpless and completely undefended thing you do, as if the idea of protecting yourself against him has simply never occurred to you.

Robby feels his pants tighten and does not risk shifting his stance.

“Because you have spent your entire life surrounded by people who are entirely uncomplicated in how they feel about you. And you are kind to all of them. You love all of them. But that’s not what keeps your attention, is it? You like that I don’t make it easy. You like that I'm mean because it means you have to earn something from me. And you —” his thumb moves, just barely, “— you like earning things.”

Your eyes are almost completely black now, head cocking slightly to lean into his touch. He doesn’t think you’re even conscious of it.

“That is — that is a lot of information about me. And I don’t think it’s fair that you can just — say that, like you’ve had it figured out for a long time and you’ve just been waiting —” You stop. “Have you had that figured out for a long time?”

Longer than would be astute of him. But there’s no particular benefit in saying that out loud.

So he says instead, “Can’t give away all my secrets.”

His hand leaves your chin slowly, fingers trailing along the line of your jaw before catching the loose strand of hair at your temple and tucking it back behind your ear with a care that feels suspiciously gentle for someone who was just admitting to being cruel. 

He watches your thighs press together. 

“Let me make up for my bad behavior,” he says.

There’s a thread of desperation in it that he doesn’t bother disguising.

“You’re still behaving badly.”

“Yes,” he agrees, without any particular remorse. “Are you going to stop me from making it up to you or are you just pointing out the problem?”

“I don’t know,” you say, tilting your head like you’re attempting something that might qualify as coyness. “I’m not sure anything could actually make up for it.”

The line might carry more credibility if your teeth weren’t caught in your bottom lip right now, worrying the skin there in slow, thoughtful pulls.

Or if your eyes hadn’t made a very quick and very telling detour down to his thighs before finding their way back up to his face like nothing happened.

Or if your bare foot weren’t moving in that slow, absent drag along the length of your calf, the one you do whenever you’re trying to look relaxed and are, in fact, extremely not relaxed. 

So he moves.

He drops down in front of you in one smooth motion that leaves no room for misinterpretation, because there’s really no graceful way to narrate what he’s doing. 

He’s on his knees. In front of you.

Which is not a position Robby occupies for anyone. Has never occupied for anyone. But here he is anyway, settling there like the decision made itself. 

His hands come to rest lightly on your knees. Goosebumps pebble under his calloused hands.

“At least let me try.”

Robby watches the last pieces of the act fall away, the careful indifference dissolving into something much more honest in the way your shoulders relax and your eyes stop pretending they’re not paying attention to him. 

“Robby.”

“Let me try,” he says again.

You hesitate for a second and then give a small nod. 

That’s all it takes. Robby breathes out through his nose and dips his head forward, turning slightly until his mouth presses against the inside of your leg just below your knee.

He can feel his own pulse everywhere, can feel the saliva pooling at the back of his throat.

If there was a version of him capable of embarrassment in front of you, this would probably qualify.

Because how humbling is it to be so insatiable for one single person?

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says softly, against lush skin.

You smell wonderful. You always smell wonderful.

Above him, you make a small sound, barely audible, and Robby takes it as encouragement whether you intended it that way or not.

His cock stirs at the it, very susceptible to those lovely noises you make.

His mouth moves higher along the inside of your leg, pressing another kiss there, then another, advancing upward in small increments, following the path towards God’s greatest gift.

You are warm.

It dissolves under his mouth in familiar waves. He finds himself stalled by the simple fact that his brain does not have a word for the way your skin feels or the way it tastes.

Clinical language can explain the structure of skin in exhausting detail. Sebaceous glands, lipid barriers, surface pH.

But none of that vocabulary has any interest in describing the experience of it, none of it explains why pressing his lips to you feels less like contact and more like a trespass into something he should probably apologize for afterward.

For the sacrality of it, perhaps.

His current theory, admittedly not one he would ever publish anywhere, is that your sweetness (that you are currently denying) isn’t behavioral at all. It’s physiological. Systemic. It runs through you at a cellular level and eventually works its way outward until it reaches the surface of your skin because there’s nowhere else for it to go.

“You’re welcome,” you squeak. “Wait —” He can hear the wince in your voice before he even looks up. “That’s — I don’t know why I said that. I just meant —”

The rest of the sentence dissolves into nervous rambling that never quite finishes assembling itself, and Robby doesn’t interrupt it with words. 

Instead he reaches up, pushing your skirt higher with both hands, the fabric gathering beneath his palms as he slides them underneath it and moves upward along your thighs. 

And then he stops. The rambling you produce stops too.

Christ.

There’s nothing there. No lace, no soft cotton, no barrier of any kind between his hands and bare skin all the way up to your waist. 

His palms settle on your hips and remain there, suddenly very, very still. 

Robby draws in a careful breath through his nose.

“Please,” he says, and his voice has dropped somewhere unsteady, hands tightening on your hips by one degree, “tell me you did not come to the hospital like this."

“What? No.” The answer comes out almost offended, like the suggestion itself is mildly ridiculous, and then you giggle, this soft little sound that moves straight through his bloodstream like it has a direct path there. “I took them off when I said you could come over.” The explanation is delivered with the simple clarity of someone describing something obvious, something that should require no additional context. “I figured — you know.”

He pulls your ass forward, dragging you to the edge of the couch in one controlled movement that still manages to force a startled squeak out of you. 

His nose brushes the inside of your thigh. 

He’s making a very valiant effort not to allow his fingers to press in hard enough to leave marks on flesh that yields so easily beneath his hands.

It’s not a particularly successful effort. 

“So this was the plan,” he says quietly, his mouth moving against you, tickling the skin there. You shiver. “Get me all worked up. Have me sitting there worrying about you, texting you, coming over here ready to grovel.” His nose drags a little higher along your thigh as he exhales. “And the whole time you were just…” He pauses briefly. “... waiting for me.” Another breath fills the small space between you, yours noticeably shallower now. “You playing games with me, sweetheart?”

You avoid the question entirely. Instead a small embarrassed sound slips out of you and your hands slide back along the couch until your fingers curl into the cushions like you suddenly require structural support.

“You make it sound so dirty,” you mumble.

Robby pulls back just enough to see your face properly

“You are dirty,” he says mildly. “Just a little bit, aren’t you?”

“‘M not —”

“Maybe,” he continues, his grip on your hips relaxing as though he’s genuinely reconsidering his involvement in this situation. As if it were ever a question. “I don’t actually need to make it up to you afterall. Call it even?”

Your fingers dive into his hair and grab, pulling him forward again with a strength that bypasses any polite conversational structure you were trying to maintain, your hips chasing him instinctively.

“No — please, I’m sorry —”

He laughs.

“You fold so easy, honey” he murmurs, his lips now brushing against your cunt without quite landing. “What happened to being just as mean as me? Holding your grudges. All of that.”

You say his name again and it comes out tangled between a question and a plea and several other things he’s not going to pretend he doesn’t recognize.

Robby decides that’s answer enough and lowers his mouth on you.

He takes his time.

The pace of his mouth against you is slow and steady, patient in a way that is less about kindness and more about control, because the rest of the evening has slipped out of his hands and this small piece of it has not.

You’re already soaked beneath his tongue before he’s done anything worth crediting.

This is no surprise to him. You always are. The wet warmth of your pussy spreads across his beard, coating him completely. 

He picks up pace only when you make him. 

When your hips jut forward and take the decision out of his hands, when the coos falling from your parted lips start running together into something less subdued, your fingers tightening in his hair and pulling without any clear intention behind it, just need, just the blind animal fact of warning more and not being able to stop your body from saying so.

You taste so fucking sweet.

He needs a better word for you. A more precise word. But sweet is what keeps arriving and sweet is what it is.

Sweet is the one that keeps arriving anyway. Sweet in the way early spring smells when the air is warm after rain. Sweet without effort. Sweet without intention.

If he were a more poetic man he might try to articulate that properly. Instead he keeps his mouth where it is and focuses on the work.

“‘S so good —” you mumble, the words barely forming, barely recognizable as language. “It’s — Robby, it’s —” a breath slips out of you, loose and unsteady, “— ‘m sorry, by the way, about — about earlier, I didn’t — I was being —”

It falls apart on your tongue (and on his).

Robby pulls back, slickness dripping down his face as he replaces the stimulation with one finger. Your gummy walls nearly suck him in, tightening as if you plan to push him right back out.

He won’t allow that.

“Funny,” he says. “I was under the impression I came here to apologize to you.”

“Oh,” you say, blinking. Then: “Yeah.” 

That nearly makes him laugh. The sound stays trapped behind his teeth.

“Yeah,” he repeats, curling his finger once while his eyes stay fixed on your face, watching the way your lips part again. Such a pretty face, you have. Prettiest ones he’s ever seen. “You’re not thinking clearly right now, are you?” The words are observational more than teasing. His thumb moves slowly over your swollen, aching clit. Your breath breaks. “That good, baby?”

“You already know,” you murmur, “you already know it is, don’t do that.”

“You’re right,” he says, and the apology and action arrive at the same time, his mouth moving again as if the words barely slowed him at all, humming against your sopping cunt. “I’m sorry, honey. Going to keep saying it until you come for me.”

He is not sorry. The opposite, actually.

Especially when he notices how pliant you’ve gone, grinding against him in desperate circles, hands moving from his hair to the couch to his shoulders.

Your legs are draped over those same shoulders, ankles keeping him trapped right where he is. As if he’d ever consider leaving.

He’s messier this time, tongue dragging long, languid strokes from back to front, nose bumping your clit every other pass. You reward him with tiny mewls everytime.

His hand moves to press down on your stomach and you fight him at first, little whimpers escaping as you say something he can’t quite hear over the blood rushing and flowing to his ears.

He’s so fucking hard right now. Doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard. Though he thinks that often when he’s with you.

It hurts a little, has been for long enough that the pain has become just another ambient fact.

He’s been ignoring it, or trying to, which is a different thing, trying being the operative word because his body has stopped taking direction from the more disciplined parts of him and has been nearly humping against the couch cushion like a teenager.

Pathetic.

He groans as he makes quick work of pulling your thighs flush to his face.

If he were to pass away now, he’d die a happy man.

Though Jack might not be.

“I can’t —” the word tears out of you, “— I can’t, it’s too much, it’s — Robby, please, I’m — it’s so —” the babbling just continuous now, a current of half-finished things, your hips rolling and stuttering and rolling again. 

He can feel how close you are. Wants to take it so badly. Wants to feel you on his tongue.

His mouth pulls away once more, just to replace it with two, thicker fingers, moving his lips to your clit and sucking. He’s gentle at first, then harsher, your whole body arching off the couch to meet the rhythm of his thrusts.

He pumps his fingers faster, deeper, and then twists his wrist on the next strike. A specific angle only he knows, that he has known long enough that knowing it has transformed into muscle memory. Something now engrained into his ring and middle finger.

He feels you squeeze around him hard.

“Yes,” you whine, “— yes, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Your thighs lock around his head, replacing his hearing with a muffled white noise as your hands move to fist his hair.

He feels you come around his fingers, the noise you produce a broken sob as he works you through every last second, siphoning every last drop of pleasure he can, until you stop trembling and go heavy against the couch.

He kisses each thigh softly, working his fingers out slowly. You hiss at the loss. 

Eventually your thighs unclamp from around his head.

He sits back on his heels and looks up at you. You look down at him. 

Your hair is completely wrecked, half falling out of whatever arrangement it started the evening in, and your skirt is still bunched up high around your hips in a way that suggests you have made no meaningful attempt to recover it. 

Your expression has an unfocused quality to it, the pleasantly evacuated look of someone whose brain has temporarily stepped out of the room. 

He makes quick work of kissing you, allowing you to taste yourself through him.

When he pulls back you say, very gently “Hi.” 

“Hi.”

There’s a pause while you seem to gather a thought from somewhere far away. 

“So,” you say eventually, “I think that was a pretty good apology.”

Robby lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “High praise.”

“I’m serious,” you insist, tugging your skirt back down with approximately thirty percent of the coordination you normally possess. “Like, top five apologies I’ve ever received, probably.”

“Top five.”

“Maybe top three,” you add. “I’d have to consult the full rankings.”

“I appreciate the transparency,” he says finally. “Very helpful feedback.” His eyebrow lifts slightly. “Do I get notes for improvement, or are we just celebrating the current ranking?”

You perk up instantly. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked.” Your eyes flick toward your bedroom in the casual way someone might glance at the weather before returning to him. “Because I was actually thinking,” you say thoughtfully, “that maybe the apology process could continue… in another location.”

Your gaze lowers then, landing on the clear line of his erection in his pants before drifting back up to his face. 

“You know,” you add lightly, “for thoroughness.”

“Well,” he says, standing and reaching for you, “we wouldn’t want to leave the apology unfinished. I have a lot of making up to do.”

He blames the skirt.

the bandit stepped closer, and the princess was able to see a glimpse of brown eyes and thick brows peaking from the shadow cast by their hood.

“give me your jewlery, and i won’t hurt you.” the princess attempted to shake her head, but the grip tightened and forced her to nod instead. “show me.”

the bandit released her with a shove, and she fell to her knees on her chamber floor. with her face buried in her hands, she let out quiet sobs. her parents had often warned her about criminals in the kingdom who would hurt her, but she never considered it as a real threat. she always had to knights to protect her, but now, they were outside in the hall and she couldn’t call for help.

before she could fear for her life any more, the bandit grabbed her by the hair cruelly and pulled her to her feet. “show me,” he repeated firmly, the threat implicit in his voice.

the princess stumbled over to her vanity and she opened the top drawer which contained all of her jewelry, laid out neatly. she had spent hours arranging it.

the bandit reached his large, gloved hand into the drawer and began pulling out fistfuls of gems, pearls, and precious metal. the princess watched with tears streaming down her face, but stool helpless. at least, until, he took hold of her most prized piece: her locket.

“no! you can’t take that,” she pleaded. “you can have everything else, just please leave that. it’s my favorite.” his dark eyes met her watery, pleading ones. mercifully, he dropped it.

“i can’t take it?” the bandit asked slowly. “i don’t believe you’re in any position to make demands, princess.”

“please,” she whimpered. “take anything else!” something dangerous flashed in bandit’s eyes. he hummed in consideration.

“get on your knees.”

a new wave of tears welled in the princess’s eyes. “m-my knees?”

the bandit’s greedy hand grabbed the base of her throat and squeezed before he pushed her to the floor. “if i can’t take your precious necklace, i’m going to take something else.”

the bandit’s cock was freed from layers of clothing and held in front of the princess’s face. he forced her jaw open and pushed his head past her quivering lips. she didn’t suck it, having been too focused on taking wheezing breaths between her violent sobs. the bandit didn’t seem to mind; he held the back of her head firmly and thrust into her mouth.

he never once looked away from her face. her tears, the look of desperation and pure sadness in her eyes struck a chord with the sick bandit. dominating the kindom’s princess and reducing her to a blubbering, sloppy mess.

as the bandit’s orgasm grew nearer, his thrusts became deeper and more rough. her throat spasming with each gag made the bandit’s toes curl in his heavy boots.

“you’re going to swallow everything i give you, princess,” the bandit growled.

having shut off her brain in the efforts of self preservation, the princess didn’t react. her cloudly brain instinctively swallowed the hot, sticky load the bandit fucked into her mouth. she tried to cough it up, but he ground his dick as deep into her throat as he could as he rode out his orgasm.

“that’s it,” he growled. when the bandit pulled out, a string of saliva kept them connected. when it broke, it spanned from the princess’s bottom lip to her chest.