filth teaches filth.

one evening, the two of you were lazily sprawled over the couch, your head on yuuji’s muscular thigh, his hand resting against the swell of your ass, his palm spayed over the fabric of your shorts.

the movie on the screen grew boring, a last minute pick after neither of you could decide on what to watch and the silence in the awfully quiet living room was driving you mad, he absentmindedly clicked on whatever the controller highlighted, landing on a three hour long documentary on alien conspiracies.

about an hour in, your back grew tired at the angle you’d chosen, your neck tingling with pins and needles as you’d sat flush against his hard stomach, your eyes roaming everywhere but the bright screen in front of them.

you were looking for a distraction, your body growing antsy at the time wasted sat on the couch, you began to wiggle in his grasp.

flipping around with a huff, your head landed just against the opposite viewpoint of his thigh, your eyes now watching the slow inhale and exhale of his torso.

“what are you doin’ babe? you alright?” yuuji asked softly, his eyes still focused on the movie.

his fingers begun to tap at your thigh, following along the beats of industrial music thrumming in the background as the narrator explained away some false sightings of a ufo.

sighing, you relaxed into him further, letting your cheek squish against his thigh. the moments were foolproof, nudging the ties of his sweatpants upwards, giving you the perfect view of the semi he was sporting beginning to stand up in his sweats.

“movies boring, and you’re hard.” sticking out your tongue, you didn’t even ask him about it, simply wrapping your lips around his covered dick, sopping tongue instantly wetting the fabric of his pants.

“y-yeah because you’re laying on my lap, you expect me not to freak out when your face is right there?” he spreads his legs further, letting you have your way with his cock because he knows you’re bored—and if you need something in your mouth, it might as well be him.

moaning, you take what you can hold in your mouth, the taste of laundry detergent and natural musk swirling around your tastebuds. “y’know i love it yuu.”

the hand sitting on your hip travels up to your face, calloused digits caressing your cheek. “yeah you do, but do me a favor and at least take it out please? would feel a lot better if you did but i mean—either is fine! it just would feel a lot better in your mouth without clothes. ”

“make me a deal,” pulling your mouth off the darkened grey fabric, you gaze up at him with a smirk. “you turn off the tv and i will.”

“fuck—okay-yeah,” he white knuckles the remote, fumbling with the buttons. the room quickly goes black, leaving the two of you in silence, his breathing growing heavy, “is that better?”

“perfect.”

he begins to really test out his theory when he’s balls deep inside of you days later, his steady thrusts pushing you deeper and deeper into the mattress, the weight of him on your front sinking your back into the blankets.

your eyes are slammed shut, the corners brimming with tears as you gnaw at your lip, teeth biting the swollen flesh so hard he’s shocked it hasn’t bled yet.

your apprehension towards letting go only ends up getting yuuji’s attention, and that’s when he realizes he knows exactly what you need.

something in your mouth.

“hey, focus on me baby.” he coos, his palm gently patting the side of your cheek, the tears now falling in fat droplets down to his hand.

his voice catches your attention, face twisting when you force a deep breath, prying your eyes open.

“open up for me.”

at first, your brows furrow, mind too delirious to comprehend what he means, but then you see the hand on your cheek move, you realize.

yuuji relaxes his hand into an opened fist, joining his pointer and middle finger together towards the entrance of your mouth, the tips pressing into your bottom lip.

you quickly oblige, instantly slaking your jaw as far as it will go, tongue flattening in anticipation. yuuji laughs, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing prettily into a cheesy grin, he presses his fingers past your lips to the first knuckle.

he allows you a moment to get used to the feeling, the salty taste on his fingerprints hitting your senses. the sensation causes your eyes to instantly roll back into your skull, a feverish moan roaring from your chest when you suck, your pussy soaking his cock in pleasure.

“love having somethin’ in your mouth, don’t you?”

you go to answer, yet his fingers dive deeper, now slotting them to the second knuckle. you can barely breath, the large digits quickly filling up the small cavern of your mouth, drool collecting at the corner of your lip.

he’s quick to console you, yet his cock is so mean, hips drilling into you with a feverish force that knocks the wind from your chest. “shh—hey, let me talk-you’re a little occupied aren’t you?”

you know he’s teasing you, giving you a hard time on purpose and it’s working on the both of you, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, his mahogany ones completely entranced, hues replaced by his blown out pupils.

yuuji keeps going, thrusting his fingers in and out of your mouth to match the pace of his pistoning cunt, his cock slapping your g-spot making you gasp.

you gag, but quickly calm your self back down, his fingers pushing into your tongue and down your throat, your nostrils parallel to his fist.

even when he’d save you the last red ice-pop instead of saving it for his sister because you liked them better and she always tossed them halfway through. even when he’d let you sit on the back of his bike in the summer because you’d never quite learned how to ride. even when he’d invited you to his all boys birthday party, and walked you out of the laser tag room because you’d been too scared of the dark to keep playing. you remember his sister being upset with you that day.

you realise that you like him very early on. yuuji itadori, that is. yuuji who had been the first ever boy to say your hair looked nice after your mum made it pretty with a new silk ribbon. yuuji who smelled like the park on a hot day, like tarmac but also earthy because he’d come home coated in soil down to his scraped knees that bled through his jeans. yuuji who chased his little sister through the house with mud tracks, blamed it on the two of you but ended up stuck with the punishment anyways. the same yuuji who went to middle school ahead of you both just by two years and deemed it his duty to walk you home from elementary, he’d wait for you by the gates all scary with bandages on his cheeks from the fights he’d get into, but smiley all the same.

yuuji, who carried you back home the summer before you started high school when you broke your wrist running the woods behind his house — who didn’t flinch when your best friend scolded him for being a clutz. it was her fault not his. it’s always funny to see them bicker, she’s always so protective of you and yuuji the same. you feel a part of their bond, like you belong with the two of them at your side … which is why the guilt hurts when you start to look at yuuji differently that summer. when he starts to grow into his looks and your heart starts to flutter every time he’s near.

you try not to overthink how much he cares for you, staying awake with you while you wait in the ER to be seen — smiling with you and holding your free hand when they put a cast on you. he bares the burden of telling your parents, begs them not to punish you but him instead. for a girl at fourteen it’s chivalry. you pretend it isn’t love.

in high school you walk the halls with your best friend, fully in love with her brother — you pretend it doesn’t hurt that he’s become so popular, that all the cheerleaders seem to have his attention and he’s got so many friends he doesn’t need to hang out with his little sister and her minion anymore. you sit through awkward double dates at the local diner so your friend can get closer to her crush but your heart most looks forward to yuuji picking you both up at the end of the night in the old truck he decides to fix up in time for college.

“boys your age don’t know what they want,” he leans back from the driver’s seat to tell you — hair wild and brown eyes warm. “be careful.”

and you want to ask him if he knows what he wants. if it’s you. you don’t.

the two years where yuuji is in college before you can join him are the worst. he hardly visits, off on his sports scholarship which takes up all his time and you miss him more than anything — hopelessly in love and endlessly yearning. your best friend gets a boyfriend and suddenly life doesn’t feel like how it was back then, no more ice pops made with red fruit and juices that run down your arm, no more scraped knees and hospital rooms for sprained wrists and broken bones. no more late night drives in yuuji’s truck after curfew. it hurts, and the boys at school suck — they’re not kind like itadori is.

when you’re in college yourself, it’s all the same. boys still suck except they major in business or economics or compsci and party instead of studying. your best friend is at a college two hours away and you take turns visiting one another every weekend — she barely brings up yuuji, but the little fragments she shares of him still makes your heart flutter. you ask if he has a girlfriend. he’s never brought anyone back home for winter break. once the weekends end, you’re back on your own again rolling through the mundane with your heart tucked under your sleeve until you see it. him. pink hair and brown eyes, his laugh catching in the spring breeze — yuuji is there. on your campus for some kind of away game and when he sees you. everything clicks. it feels right.

after practise that day he takes you for a drive, still in his truck from high school — couldn’t get rid of her, too many memories. your laugh is woven into the seatbelts in the back seat and your tears are probably soaked in the material too. yuuji drove down ahead of his teammates to visit a friend, not a girl. he adds. the whole drive your heart hammers in your chest so loud you think he might be able to hear it and if he does — yuuji says nothing. though he looks at you every five seconds, gaze flickering away from the road to watch your face. the silence broken into pieces by the small, aimless questions he asks you. how’ve you been? are you liking your classes and …

“can i kiss you?”

he asks once you’ve stopped, hidden somewhere in the back of a fast food parking lot. your conversation had lulled, but the tension had grown thick — so much so that not even a knife could slide through. the fries the cinnamon twists itadori had ordered for you both cool on the console between you, brown eyes are hazy and hooded with an emotion you can’t quite place — striking nerves through your heart almost like cupid’s arrow. you’ve wanted nothing more for a decade and a half. To be looked at by yuuji in the way he’s looking at you now. to be wanted by him.

“why?” you ask.

yuuji leans closer, the palm of his hand sliding to cup your face. “i’ve missed you, is all.”

he says back.

a million thoughts rush through your mind, the longing you’ve always felt. the stupid, teenage girl crush that’s always lingered in the back of your mind. the guilt you’d feel hiding this from your best friend, his little sister — his only sister. she’s all you have left, a constant in your life … but your selfishness overrides anything you feel towards her. the promise you’d made in crayon on a4 paper as a child disintegrating into dust as you nod eagerly, shyly, leaning into yuuji’s touch like someone might rip it away from you all too soon.

“please?” you blink slow, doe like in a manner that makes itadori groan as though he’s been shot in the chest. it’s needy, hungry and it makes you melt in your seat. “please kiss me, yuuji…”

within a heart beat his lips are on yours, searing feverish like glass that’s been heated to the highest degree. there’s so much feeling behind the way yuuji moves, tender love and notes of longing and maybe lust that no longer feels like it’s one sided. when he kisses you everything sort of… clicks into place, this is what you’ve needed and dreamed of for years and it’s everything you wanted. his hand slips to the back of your neck, comforting and possessive as though he doesn’t want you to slip through his fingers, and he pulls you further into the messy lip lock. his tongue swipes over your bottom lip, tasting the strawberry lip balm you’d slapped on earlier — yuuji asks, he doesn’t take. waiting for you to open up to him like a flower in bloom.

your own fingers tangle in messy, windswept hair that reminds you of the cherry blossoms across campus — they tug at and tighten in his locks bringing him further into you to the point where you think itadori might crawl over the console just to have you. he tastes like red-juice popsicles and feels like the summer sun beating down on your skin. yuuji feels like home against you and it’s something that you didn’t even know you’d missed.

things progress faster than you realise, not that you mind, and it should feel wrong, so , so wrong to be kissing your best friend’s older brother like this — to be letting him pull you into the back seat, hands sliding under your worn out high school hoodie to settle on your hips as he tugs you onto his lap. you should feel sick to your stomach every time he moans your name like it’s a sin he’s been waiting to taste his whole life.

you gasp itadori’s name back almost rehearsed — like you haven’t pictured him with you like this before. and when he rocks his hips up against yours, concealed hardness straining against his jeans with the touch material hot on your clit through your denim shorts, the world stops just for the two of you. “waited so long,” yuuji mumbles, lips swollen, breathing ragged and hands everywhere. “never thought you’d let me…”

“i’ve wanted this,” you breathe into his mouth, tongue curled against his and your salvia smeared across his rosy lips. yuuji blinks up at you like you’ve just given him the whole world and you lazily sling your arms over his broad shoulders — hiding in your own bicep, suddenly shy. “i’ve always wanted you.”

smiling to himself, yuuji’s hands map their way up to your ribcage, feeling for your thrumming heart — dizzy from the heat in his car and the confession on your lips. carefully, he pulls you back and forth over his lap, watching you fight and lose your own battle of holding back dulcet mewls and whimpers. “you have no idea how happy that makes me, to hear you say that.” he kisses your cheek, much gentler than before. his forehead presses into your cheek and itadori grinds harder, faster making sure there’s a constant delightful pressure against your throbbing clit.

his long lashes flutter against your cheek like angel’s kisses — barely there, unlike the thickness of his clothed erection against your soaking mound, as it drools between the layers of your clothes. he lets you hug him close, lets you swivel yourself down on him and take what you need in the back of his car. the one where you’d laughed with your best friend, cried against his little sister.

casting her from your mind, you screw your eyes shut and focus on the blistering bliss that brews in your lower belly. chanting his name as though it’s all you’ve ever known. “yuu, yuuji — ah! it feels…” you whisper, brain miles behind the pace of your hips as they buck down against his. when yuuji pushes up, you push down, that little pleasure nub tucked between puffy pussy lips catching on his rock hard girth. “feels so—”

wrong. so good. so insane and crazy. but you can’t stop, wanting him, needing him, grinding on him.

“i know baby, i know,” yuuji whimpers, pet name slipping out like its natural — too far gone. “feel it too, you got me. ‘m right here. promise, i’m with you.”

itadori hugs you close now, the strength of his arms tugging you across his lap and his length until you’re both panting messes slumped against one another — the tensions and the highs you’ve been building stacking so high there’s no choice but for all of it to come crashing down. you’re all curses and cumming, orgasms that rip through space and time in sync, soaking your shorts and running his jeans. it’s messy, has you trembling but yuuji is in no better state, lips dropping to your collar bones as you sniffle into his hair. both of you ruined for everyone else but each other.

regret should follow fast, you should push him away and have him drive you home because you’ve betrayed the only other person in your life to have cared. your best friend, mere miles away — expecting to see you this weekend, ready to greet you with her adoring smile and big heart she’s always kept you in. you should feel like shit for fucking her older brother.

but you don’t and you don’t care what happens beyond tonight, because you’ve wanted yuuji for longer than you’ve ever known and maybe naively you think this’ll work out.

this falling in love and fucking your best friend’s older brother behind her back thing.

end. reblogs and comments are always appreciated! just liking doesn't do anything. so leave a comment to motivate this writer if you'd like to see more!!

"Yuuji..." you start slowly, shuffling to sit a little more upright on the bed. "I-"

"It's my hands, right?"

You blink at him. Your mouth opens and closes several times but your brain refuses to put together a coherent sentence. Yuuji can only chuckle at your expression, wide eyed and trembling, like he caught you doing something you weren't supposed to.

"I've noticed you staring," he begins slowly, lifting one of his hands and turning it over, studying the details he's never really taken a second to inspect. "When I'm talking, or eating, or fingering that pretty pussy."

You make a weak sound that's half moan, half whimper.

"You like staring at my hands, don't you?"

Before you can try and stutter out some weak excuse that would be far from convincing Yuuji gently nudges your hips with his own, flipping you over so you land with your back against the mattress, settling between your spread thighs like he's done a thousand times before.

Despite the grin on his face there's something darker, almost feral flashing behind his eyes that tells you he's going to enjoy exploiting this new discovery he made. "Nothing to be shy about, baby," he murmurs, trailing a knuckle up your hip, letting it tease the edge of your shirt before two of his fingertips tap at your bottom lip, slow and patient. "Open for me like a good girl."

You take both digits without complaint. Yuuji's fingers are slightly thicker than your own, long enough that they can press down on your tongue, drawing a muffled sound from your mouth which pleases him. "Yeah... That's it. There we go."

When he pulls them out they're shiny with your spit. Your eyes are dazed as you stare up at him through hooded lids. He licks his lips once before dragging his fingertips down from your mouth, to your chin, your neck... slowly, oh so slowly inching downwards until he reach the fluttering pulse in your neck. He studies your expression, taking in the way your brows draw together slightly, how you tilt your head back and arching your neck into his touch like an offering.

"Fuck..." he curses. It sounds strangled in his throat, low as it vibrates right through you. "I knew you were fucking dirty. I didn't think you'd be this dirty."

Slowly, one for one, each of his digits slide around your throat. Not gripping, not forcing, just contact that sends a bolt through your entire body. You moan, lashes fluttering as you feel the heat of his palm wrap around the column of your throat. With him slotted between your thighs you can feel the exact moment he hardens, cursing under his breath when you moan again.

"Dirty fucking girl," he whispers, leaning down to nip at your jaw. You whimper, low and needy and he knows exactly now how to spur you on. His grip tightens just in the slightest, your pulse hammering underneath his thumb. "I knew this would get you wet."

It’s been some time since you’ve crossed paths with a mirror or glass to view your reflection. But you’re sure the image staring back at you would not be a pleasant sight.

The City of Steel, on the other hand, looks quite beautiful—paradoxically soft—covered in the thick blanket of snow. Snowflakes land on your lashes and the tip of your nose, and you wonder if it’d be all that bad to stay outdoors in your remaining moments.

Maybe not. It wouldn’t be so far a leap from what you’re used to. You’ve always been an outsider and are used to the cold—to being iced out. You walk instead of run because you’re tired, and no one will notice or care that you’re gone.

Empty streets littered with a path of your footprints converge to a park where the warm lamp lighting does anything but warm. Before you can sit on a dust-covered bench and stain it crimson, you see a man approaching ahead.

He's aged, grizzled, weary but handsome and walks with either purpose or a long gait because of his lanky proportions. His coat is incorrectly buttoned, as if haphazardly thrown on, his thinning hair a mishmash on his head from brushing his fingers through it one too many times.

He turns his head up from his boots, sees you, stops in his tracks—then his speed hastens as his limbs recover from their momentary lapse. Straight away he’s in front of you, holding you by your elbow, and telling you with concern etched across his face—

“Hey, you’re going to be okay.”

His grip tightens as he examines your wounds but slackens and hesitates when he examines your features (sees something he likes, something you thought no one ever could, perhaps?). Then he turns his head over his shoulder to eye the entrance of the hospital he just walked out of.

It only occurs to you then how close you are to safety. But the man got to you first. Primus inter pares.

He returns his gaze upon you, and his hesitation breaks. Something good inside of him breaks.

“Let's go. I'm taking you somewhere else. Hold on for a little longer.”

The sad, cow-eyed man on the wrong side of fifty decides to pluck you up off the street. You have to walk a little more before you make it to where you’ll be calling “home.”

Robby doesn’t do this. Not like this.

He’s picked up a mutt here and there, the occasional feral feline—nurtured them, then sent them on their way—but never a pretty, young—twenty-something—thing like you.

And this time, he thinks he’ll keep what he’s found.

He had the opportunity to do the correct thing. Walk the few yards back into the hospital with you and admit you as a patient.

But he didn’t want to hand you off to his colleagues. Or give you the opportunity to slip through his fingers. He didn’t want to be later filled with regret if he let you go, either.

He was as resolute in taking you as he was shameless in doing so.

He didn’t and doesn’t plan to ask what circumstances led you before him. They don’t matter to him. Your past will be overwritten.

You’ll only know… Robby.

Because as he leads you into his home, strips you of your tatters, bathes you, clothes you, licks your wounds, feeds you, allows you into his bed to rest beside him—he’s begetting you anew.

Fathers are meant to be everlasting. All-encompassing. The good ones are. A forever imprint left upon their progeny that defines who they are and who they’ll become.

Who you are is his. And who you’ll become is his to care for.

Caregiving suits him. Fatherhood... suits him.

Your eyes peel open against the harsh winter rays filtering in through the carelessly drawn blinds. Winds rap the window on the far side of the room, naked branches tap against the glass; both noises are a nuisance to you now that you’re awake. You sit up in bed, finding yourself in a much clearer state of mind than the night prior.

It’s to do with the lumbering man snoring softly beside you.

You don’t remember all of what occurred. But you do remember the important bits—the ones that cemented him as your salvation.

He stripped and bathed you. Bandaged you thereafter.

He pushed your hands away when you tried to pry your rags off on your own and instead did it for you. Filled the tub and sprinkled in bath salts in lieu of roses you remember whispering you wish someone would do for you. He said he’d remember it for next time. You fought hard, writhing beneath his heavy hands as he scrubbed his wash rag over your dirt-caked and bloodied skin.

He wrapped loose pieces of gauze over your bigger wounds—band-aids everywhere else—and kissed them reverently when you flinched in the instinctual fear that yet another would hurt you.

His words were like a lullaby—calming your racing heart.

"I’m just trying to make it better. Let me.”

He changed you into his clothes.

You remember his lithe fingers dancing over the skin of your ribs as he slipped his large cotton T-shirt over your head. The same fingers trailing up your legs as he settled his sweats over your hips. The hesitation in both actions when your breasts and pussy were exposed, wet with drops of bathwater, enticing before his eyes. Something you’re not used to—being wanted. Lusted after.

At least, that was what you told yourself his eyes were communicating to you.

He fed you.

Though he doesn’t seem to be the most gifted cook, the food, while visually unappetizing, came to life when he himself dug his fingers into the slop to slip it in between your lips. Your gums, teeth, tongue, the space he could reach past your uvula without choking were thoroughly examined and memorized by him by meals’ end.

He told you, “You don’t know how precious you are, do you? Even on the inside,” to which you responded with heat rushing to your cheeks.

He led you to bed.

He fluffed your pillow, tucked you in before slipping under the covers with his chest pressed to your back. Caged you in his arms and littered kisses over the nape of your neck before whispering, "Goodnight, sweetheart."

Sleep seemed to come easy for you, as you hadn’t had much of it in the days, weeks, years, or life prior—prior to him. And when you fell asleep, you think the man finally did too.

You cut to the now as the man stirs beside you, pulling you from your musings. But the memories linger, their effects having taken root in you.

He was so kind to you. Too kind, to no one less than a stranger.

You owe him your life.

Robby wakes to you staring down at him, sitting on your knees, hands clasped in your lap. His shirt is loose at the collar, exposing your bit of shoulder he would like to leave bite marks on.

An idle morsel of thought. One he shouldn’t feed into. It isn't something a father does to their daughter.

He has a conscious desire to share his depravity with you, invite you to indulge in his dreams of being so needed by someone that even his faults can’t push them away. Bestow upon you the knowledge that he's who you should consider your keeper. But you’re still too fresh off your bender.

Who knows how you’d react if he asked you to call him “Dad?”

A good sign, though, that you’re still in bed with him. In this large, lonely house. In a prayer position like he’s your heavenly father.

He knows he’s not God. Nowhere near close. And God knows not of Robby, as their line of communication was severed too many years ago now. Still, if it’s you—and only you—who views him this way, he’ll allow himself to pretend.

Fatherhood. Godhood. One could argue they’re similar states of being.

He reaches a hand from tucked under his pillow to cradle your cheek and thumb away the tears that dried down overnight.

Poor thing, crying away your pain, knowing you were safe with him to do so.

In all his years of treating patients, animals, he’s never encountered a living being like you. People yell, scream, kick out their feet, refusing help. Animals whine, nip, bare their teeth in fear of it.

Not you. No war was fought with him. Structurally unsound, you effortlessly buckled under his concern. He pulverized your only choices—to die or to be saved by another—in the palm of his hand when he held you by the nape of your neck to guide you home.

Your eyes rake over his face with innocent curiosity, in appreciation, and maybe in guilt that you might be burdening him. He’d never think that.

He barely registers your words when you suddenly say—

“You never told me your name.”

He’s too busy admiring your features: your eyes, the slant of your nose, your lips. He's engrossed, enraptured; pride blooms in his chest for who he’s been gifted.

You proceed to place your palm over the back of his hand while he continues to rub your cheek, snapping him back to reality.

Pondering for a moment, he responds, “What I want you to call me isn’t something you’re ready for yet, honey. But why don’t we start with Robby?”

Your brows furrow, but you don’t press for an explanation. “Rob-ee. Robby. Okay. It’s nice to meet you, Robby.”

You must find his name odd. Unassuming for the man you placed your utmost trust in in your time of need.

But ‘Robby’ is all he’s willing to offer at the moment.

His name is like overcooked meat sliding between canines; it takes some time to chew and break connective tissue before you can taste the savory flavor hidden and packed within.

After you’ve had your fill of him, he volleys back, “What’s yours?”

He didn't have time to ask, nor were you able to offer it to him last night. His heart breaks when you seem surprised—as if you don’t think it’s worth anyone knowing your name.

You tell it to him anyway—beautiful, he thinks—then chew on your lower lip. Robby abhors that—sees it as a way of covering yourself up. He thumbs your lip free and rests his hand by his side again. Yours slips back into your lap to join the other.

“What now, Robby?"

It's Robby's turn to furrow his brows. “Stay,” What else? “that's all you need to do. Stay and forget last night. I'll take care of the rest.”

Forget last night and beyond. But remember him.

You hum, nod, and he pats your knee. The matter’s settled.

Your life passes you by in twelve-hour intervals.

From when you wake to sundown—when the space between every wall is tinged blue from the frigid cold outside—you wait for Robby.

It isn’t as isolating as one might think. A far cry from a past life when you were kicked out, abandoned by the people who you thought loved you but only ended up hurting you.

They’re long forgotten now.

The gap Robby's employment creates is filled with literature: many words collecting dust in his library consumed by the fireside on days when you miss him, feeling the flames lick against your skin as you curl up in his reading chair and flip through pages.

You run out the clock with the mundane. Chores around the house and the occasional walk to the corner grocery store so he can fail in making you yet another recipe that you devour in delight anyway.

"Make sure you’re bundled up, baby. And be careful. There’s bad people out there. Get yourself something sweet.”

You always find something to do. And when he finally comes home, you drop those somethings and run barefoot across the hardwood floor into his arms.

“What’d you do today, sweetheart?”

His rare time off is spent in bed with you. Tracing geometry into your back and counting the number of lashes on your lash line.

When your stomach grumbles, so does he, and he makes the arduous journey from the bedroom to the kitchen to attempt his next dish for you, with you nipping at his heels the entire way.

If he’s feeling up to it, some days he takes you both somewhere. Anywhere. For him to get away from the sterile hospital air, which he swears he feels inflating his lungs even from home, and for you to get away from the monotony of it all. Though, you’ve yet to complain.

The force of your weight upon the blade of your ice skate melts a thin layer of the glacier beneath, allowing for an easy glide across the rink.

Robby's content in watching you from the sidelines—bouncing like a water strider from rink fillet to fillet, occasionally stopping to stare at the large Christmas tree planted in the center.

It’s not as fun without him. You skate past beginners and experts alike to stop in front of him, spraying the glass boards with powdered ice.

"Robby, why don’t you join me?" you pout as you clasp the board directly in front of you.

He scoops your hands in his and warms your gloveless fingers. "I like watching you, honey. You're so good at this.”

You pull your hands free from his and say before resuming your skate, "Join me, Robby. Please?"

He does because he can’t say no to you. You have to hold one of his hands while his other clutches the boards as you slowly make your way around the perimeter.

You feel as though you have a new lease on life. You’re cherished and cared for after believing for so long you were undeserving of love.

You want for nothing. Money matters little to him when it comes to you—the expensive clothing and jewelry and skincare products he buys for you make you certain of that.

But… it isn’t long before you start to feel a dull ache deep inside the innermost layer of your heart. The money, the material, the nourishment, the warmth he provides you have developed a rot that harrows its way inside of you. Robby's spoiled you rotten. You want more of him—

More more more more more

As weeks pass, the malady intensifies and your heart is eaten through. Degenerated. You’re bedbound, shackled by chains of linking tears. You miss him too much. Time spent without him is too much. Starting and ending the day with him in bed isn’t enough. Nor are the platonic hugs and kisses he dares not indulge in.

Despite never having known this kind of love—never having experienced it—your affections for Robby have evolved into a marrow-deep, soul-crushing craving that can only be described as romantic.

Something has to give. He has to give.

Robby leaves the hospital after a double shift he had no choice in working. He follows his routine path home through the park, faltering when he notices you sitting on one of the benches.

It's spring now. Early spring. Fuzzy sepals encasing flowers on the verge of bloom are coated in ice—as temperatures are still below freezing. Especially now, not too long after dawn has cracked.

He jogs up to you when he sees you shivering.

How long have you been sitting out here waiting for him?

Leaning down to meet you at eye level, he asks, with admonishment in his tone, “Baby, what’re you doing here?”

“I—I was waiting for you, R-Robby. Y-you’re late,” you say with chattering teeth, then pout as you wrap your arms around yourself.

Robby huffs, shakes his head, and looks to the ground at your boots. He'll need to have a discussion with you about this once you both get home, but for now…

He glances back up at you and warms your cheek with his palm. “I’ll make it up to you. But let’s get you out of the cold first, okay?”

He offers you his free hand, and you take it.

Once through his front door, he hangs up your coat on the rack, gets down on a knee to unlace your boots, shimmies them off, and directs you to turn on the fireplace.

He comes over just as you’re setting aside the fireplace lighter and poker, taking a seat in his reading chair and patting his knee with a curt “sit.”

As you place yourself comfortably in his lap, he asks, “Why’d you wait for me out there? Freezing your butt off for no good reason.”

“I missed you,” you sniffle.

The wood slowly burns—the promise of heat yet to deliver—and in the meanwhile, you unzip Robby's sweater so you can warm your hands under his shirt and on his soft, furry belly.

You’ve been downcast as of late—your heart fond and aching in his absence. He’s so attuned to you, he couldn’t turn a blind eye to the change if he tried. While he understands your plight, he’s responsible for your well-being. He can’t let what you did slide and allow it to become common practice.

“You can’t do that. You’ll get yourself sick. I want you to wait for me at home.”

“You were gone too long this time, Robby.”

Fat tears well up in your eyes, and you bury your face to cry into his shoulder, the feel of them landing heavy on him tugging at his heartstrings. He cradles the back of your head with one hand, the other settling low on your hip.

You continue, voice muffled, “All I ever do is wait for you.”

He turns his head to whisper directly into your ear, “You don’t think I miss you too, sweetheart?”

A downpour of tears before you respond, “Then why am I the only one crying?”

Something akin to remorse clips him, tears a hole right through him. He wasn’t expecting the guilt to come now... or ever.

Ample time has passed since that fateful night he met you. You're conditioned to him. Robby has you wrapped around his finger—so much so that you’re stretched thin.

Despite the pang of guilt he feels, it invigorates him to know you need him so wholly. This is what he wants from you.

Sweet for him. Helpless without him. Like any daughter should be without her father.

He can’t go back—rewrite history. He doesn’t want to do that.

He does think, however, that maybe now is a good time to prove how devoted he is to you. Reassure you you’re his sole purpose in life. That he can’t imagine going on without you.

It’s time to bring you in on the fantasy he’s been watching play out so perfectly.

“I have something I want to try with you. Will you hear me out?”

You look up from his shoulder, furrow your brows from the sudden change in topic, but nod. He shifts the hand cradling your head to thumb away a few of your stray tears, then sucks the appendage into his mouth, humming at the salty tang.

A wet pop, then his lips are free to ask, “Remember when you first asked me my name? How I told you there was something else I wanted you to call me?”

It takes you a few harsh blinks to recall the memory. “I remember. You said I wasn't ready yet.”

“That's right. But I think you are now,” he takes in a deep breath, flaring his nostrils, and on the breath out asks, "what if… what if you called me Dad, hm?”

“D-Dad…?”

“Yeah, baby. Dad.”

A head shake before you respond, “But—but you… you aren’t my dad.”

“Really?” he cocks his head in faux confusion, “I thought I took care of you. Keep your belly full and your hands warm. You don’t think I do that?”

“No—I mean… of course you do, but—"

“—So Dad it is then.”

Your instinct to chew your lower lip makes itself known as you consider his response. Robby despises that. Hasn't he told you that already? But he doesn’t get the opportunity to do anything about it because you ask,

“You’re not Robby anymore?”

He chuckles lightly, forgiving and forgetting your crime. An innocent question from such an innocent girl. “I am. I will always be Robby. But when it’s just you and me, call me Dad, okay?”

Like a curtain being paged to reveal a prized jewel at an auction, the uncertainty in your eyes washes over, revealing what Robby can only interpret as pure, magnificent acceptance.

“Okay... Dad,” you giggle as the title rolls off your tongue.

He praises, “Good girl," then squeezes your hip harshly, making you yelp. He can’t help himself. Hearing you call him Dad triggers a cuteness aggression in him like no other. Makes his cock sinfully twitch and his balls throb too.

The princess has crowned her king, and all feels right in Robby’s world.

With the flip of a switch, Robby's back to getting his point across to you. “I know you miss me, sweetheart—but I gotta work so I can keep taking care of you. And just because I'm not a crybaby like you doesn't mean I don't miss you. I don’t want to see you out there waiting for me again.”

You laugh lightly at his teasing and nod, looking down to where your hands move beneath his shirt, stealing his warmth. "Alright, alright. I won't do it again. I promise."

It seems you’re appeased and think the conversation is finished, because your head dangerously jerks back up to meet his eyes when he says,

“Good. Now give me a kiss, and we'll put this behind us.”

Robby thinks you deserve it after holding back from acting on your urges for so long.

He doesn’t miss how you lean into his touch whenever he graciously gives it to you. How you rub against him like a pampered cat in bed. Or how your sweet pecks of hello and goodbye linger and feel more charged than they should between a dad and his girl.

And with every day—since the day he met you—he too feels the gnawing inside of him grow. A hunger so profound only you can satiate it. He does his best to be fatherly with you, but perverted thoughts pass him uncontrollably by, and all he can do to tamp them down is stroke his cock and pump his load into the toilet or shower.

Only one kiss. It should relieve you both. After months of pining, of being such a good father to you—and you such a good girl to him—you both could benefit from something a little... forbidden.

Both of his hands reappear on your hips, and he waits for you to claim your reward.

When he sees your hesitation as clear as day on your face, he urges, "Go on, honey. I know you want this."

The gears start turning, and you slowly lean in, Robby willing himself not to close the distance. Your breaths mingle—his controlled and yours hot and heavy—and then your lips are on his.

The kiss is chaste, innocent—a peck in disguise. You soon pull back but immediately plant another one on him in regret for not taking advantage of the opportunity he’s giving you.

The second time, you press into him more forcefully, pillowy breasts to chest, nails dragging down and low near the waistband of his pants, mouth opening slightly against his as he loses himself in you and returns the kiss with fervor.

You pull back again—almost as quickly as the first time—he thinks to tease, but in honesty because you’re overwhelmed with joy and paralyzed by nerves. But you just as quickly kiss him again. And retreat again.

And you repeat the pattern again. And again. And again—

And suddenly (he doesn’t know if it’s you or him that takes it further), he’s nipping your lower lip, you’re sucking on his tongue, and you’re both swapping too much saliva.

But it’s Robby whose fingers dimple your ass as he gropes one cheek, his other hand holding the back of your head to stop you in the event you want to separate again.

Robby's hunger only seems to grow with the kiss, not abate. Breakfast needs to be prepared soon, but it isn’t food he’s keen on devouring.

He’s aware enough to know this is an appropriate time to stop.

But... your lips are so soft, your whimpers are like a medley of his favorite music spinning his head and spurring his groin, your hands sear him as they bravely dip fingers below his waistband—

This needs to stop immediately. Because if you dare touch him, even barely, you both will go—no, he'll take you both—to a place you can't come back from.

He lets the back of your head go and breaks the kiss, fanning your name across your lips. He'd like nothing more than to take this further. Much, much further, but he's decidedly being good.

His voice rattles out of him, gruff and a little breathy, “Okay, that’s enough.”

“Rob—Dad, please. I missed you so much today," your sneaky fingers dance along his pubis area as they tug on his bottoms, ruffling the untamed tuft of dark hair there, "I—I think if you let me kiss you a little more, I'll feel better."

He huffs a laugh as he encloses your wrists with his fingers, pulling them away from him. He finds delight in your neediness and humor in your clumsy attempt at manipulation, but he’s already made up his mind. “Don’t be greedy, honey. It isn’t proper.”

He shifts and adjusts you so that you’re the one sitting in the chair and he’s standing in front of you.

The sight of you before him nearly makes him fall to his knees. You look wrecked: eyes blown out, lips swollen, sweaty and flustered, and not because of the burning logs right behind him.

He doesn't fare any better. Besides the blush he feels creeping down to his chest, he also—

Robby excuses himself, “Gotta start on breakfast. Let me shower and get changed first, alright?”

But your eyes quickly shift from his down to his crotch before he can step away. “D-Dad, your—your…”

He glances down at the dark spot on his cargos, then palms himself through the thick material, catching how your eyes widen in his periphery. He feels his cum start to leak down his shaft and balls, sticky and plentiful, and winces,

“Yeah, baby. Hence why I gotta shower. You made your dad fucking come in his pants.”

Robby hasn’t kissed you since then. But you don’t protest. He was right before.

It isn’t proper for you to want more with your dad. You should be grateful you had the opportunity to share breaths and feel his thin lips capture yours.

Your malady’s healed. Or rather, has stopped spreading. The little bit of intimacy Robby gave you was enough to block it from eating the rest of your insides.

For now. But one day not so far in the future, you know it will return with a vengeance.

You’re greedy for Robby. You need him like you need air. Your feelings for him are absolute—as guaranteed as the sun rising every morning. He’s unwittingly made your yearning for him worse, despite the improvement in your ailment. He’s given you an inch, and at some point in time, you’ll be wanting a mile.

Luckily for you, one evening, against his better judgment, Robby decides to take advantage of your desires.

The front door slams shut. Robby's home. And you can feel the fury radiating off him in waves.

You greet him by the foyer with an uneasy smile. He doesn’t normally allow himself to be upset around you. Bad shift after bad shift, and the worst you’ve ever seen him afterward is tired, maybe on a bit of a short fuse, but not like this:

He's red in the face. Pupils blown out—eyes darker than the cozy brown you’re familiar with. His hair is a mess as per usual, but even the skin around his graying beard looks raw with how much he’s pulled it.

He callously tosses his bag onto the floor, toes off his sneakers, and tromps toward you. When the bulk of him is only a hairsbreadth distance away from you, he looks down into your expectant eyes.

You’re not sure what he sees, but you notice the dark clouds in his eyes lift, as if enlightened. The wrinkles around them soften, and his shoulders loosen.

Maybe his change in demeanor is because the weather’s finally right for the season: spring is well underway. You're out of his sweaters and sweats and in a flowy shift dress. He likes you barefoot around the house, and your toes are manicured in a shade of his favorite color—blue.

One long look at you—all of you—and his hard exterior is shucked, leaving behind his warm, gooey center.

Still, it’s plain to see Robby's had the kind of day that needs a little good to offset the lot of bad.

He greets you, cupping the nape of your neck with his large paw and weighing you down, “Hi, sweetheart. My angel. I just had a shift from hell. Wanna do me a favor and make me feel better?”

You nod adamantly, replying breathlessly, “Yes, Dad.”

He curses a quick "fuck" beneath his breath at your eagerness, then urges you down onto the floor. “'Kay. Get down on your knees then, baby.”

As you do, he emphasizes, “This isn’t a thing you should be excited to do with your dad. Remember that. It’s just this once.”

Your knees hit hardwood floor as you nod your agreement, and Robby directs you, “Pull out my cock. Get the tip wet.”

You unbuckle his belt, unzip his pants, all while thinking to yourself: he’s being… crass.

Robby’s trademark is to be appropriate with you. He’s your dad. Of course, there have been times where exceptions were made, but it’s only as of recently as the kiss that you’ve noticed a dramatic shift toward something he always reminds you is wrong.

Settling his hands under your nightgown to rest low on your warm belly overnight, you wake to find a hand cupping your sex.

“Your cunt’s warm, sweetheart. That's all. She’s like my little hand warmer.”

Joining you in the shower after a shift that ran long one evening, he rubs your nipples and spreads your ass under the guise of rinsing you.

“Sorry Dad was late today. I know I interrupted your shower, but it’s faster this way.”

Again, you don’t protest. Even if Robby's being unfair.

Pathetic and desperate as you are for him, you take what little he decides to give you and ask for naught in return.

Even now, as you pull him from his briefs and wet his glans with your tongue, you won't take more of him into your mouth unless he says to do so.

Seeing you kitten-lick his cockhead appears to spur him on, and he’s run dry of patience.

Instead of guiding you, letting you do all the work, he grabs the sides of your head and starts a relentless pace, fucking your throat with the sole purpose of bruising your esophagus—forcing himself so deep you'll have no choice but to swallow when he comes.

Your eyes sting with tears and your nails claw into Robby's thighs, yet you moan and feel yourself slicken by being used like this. The sound of your chokes and his wet thrusts in and out of your mouth make you forget the bite of the floor sinking into your knees.

This is what you want from him. For him to use you. To find pleasure in your body. To treat you like you're more to him than his to care for.

All it took was one extremely awful shift for Robby to allow himself to be taken care of by you instead. He deserves your worship—he saved you. But he’s been too good of a dad to allow himself to seek solace in you.

Until now.

One of Robby's hands moves from the side of your head to your throat, feeling himself distend the delicate skin there with every harsh snap of his hips.

“Fuuuck,” Robby, close to coming, rasps, “your mouth is… fucking—amazing. Shit, Dad’s going to… come.”

Your throat muscles constrict around him as you fruitlessly attempt to breathe, careening him over the edge. He pushes you into his pelvis, your nose landing heavily against his musky, sweat-soaked pubes as his cum floods your throat.

The scent of him is heady, salty and dirty yet addicting, and makes your eyes squeeze shut to isolate your senses and focus solely on it. As predicted, his cock is shoved so far down your throat you’re forced to swallow his spend.

After what feels like minutes of Robby unloading in you, he extricates himself from your warm mouth—a mixture of saliva and cum leaking from his shaft to the floor—and hooks your mouth with a single finger, forcing you to loll out your tongue and open wide.

The sight of his cum coating your tongue and stringing between your set of pearly whites makes his eyes roll into the back of his head and his softening cock spasm against his thigh.

“Fuck, sweetheart. I—you don't know how badly I needed that. You did so fucking good for me. I—I love you.”

Be still, your beating heart.

You've known you've loved Robby since the day you met him, and he's confessed it to you too... but not like this. This seems honest. Beyond parental.

Where will things go from here, you wonder?

You can only hope that soon enough... he'll give in and take you to bed. If he really loves you, he'd help offset your insecurities with the promise that what you have is more than transactional.

While you need Robby, Robby needs you to need him. Beyond that, can you say for sure he loves you?

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and giggling, you say, sweet and saccharine, “Anything for you, Dad. I love you too.”

It’s the cusp of summer.

And Robby has done everything under the blazing sun with you except slam you down onto his cock. Barring the single, ultimate stone, every other sexual act has been unturned.

He lied to you.

After you sucked his cock, he couldn’t fathom going back to how things were: laughably "virtuous"—laughably "familial." He’d punish himself, berate himself, and say he’s been a bad father, but who’s he kidding?

Things were always going to lead here with you.

You’re more to him now than the first someone who stuck around. More to him now than his sick need to care for someone other than himself because it’s easier than facing his own problems.

No… he loves you. He'll forever be Dad to you, but he also wants to be your beloved. He wants to introduce you to his colleagues as his wife, kiss you in public—not paying mind to the insurmountable age gap—and when you're both home, hear you call him Dad when he fucks you.

His last thread of restraint is pulled when he comes back home after his last shift before his and your vacation together.

You’re not by the door waiting for him like you usually do. He settles in and makes his way upstairs. Maybe you’re packing.

You’re both getting away from the City of Steel for a week, heading out west to explore the north rim of the Grand Canyon. It’ll be your first time out of state, let alone out west. He's more excited for you than himself.

Though your loneliness has abated since the start of your sexual escapades, he knows it’s not completely disappeared. A vacation with no one else but each other to keep company will do you some good but is not a permanent solution.

An invasive thought has been rearing its ugly head as of late: knocking you up.

A more permanent solution that may solve both of your problems. Robby doesn’t want you to be lonely, but he can't quit work. He’d love to be a daddy to a fat baby, and he reasons you’d have a purpose beyond waiting for him to come home every day.

But this isn’t something he can force upon you if it isn’t what you want.

He trudges up the stairs. The loud sound of the soles of his feet connecting to the floorboard should alert you to his arrival, but you’ve yet to make an appearance.

Odd. Even if you were packing, you’d have come out by now.

The door to your shared room is closed. Another oddity. He opens it, and the sight before him makes his insides feel like molten lava.

No... you're not packing. You’re masturbating. Not even under the covers through your clothes, but completely naked and exposed on the bed, comforter thrown to the floor.

You whimper with eyes squeezed shut, “D-Dad… Dad, please, fuck me.”

You don’t even realize Robby's watching you fuck yourself pathetically on three fingers.

He considers himself a lenient father. You're a good girl. Rarely does he have any trouble with you. But he’d be stupid to think you don’t touch yourself when he’s gone. He's never enforced any rules saying you can’t, but he never thought you’d have the gall to do it like... this.

Still, he isn’t upset. Rather, this perfectly tees up the opportunity to discuss with you his solution to your problems.

He crosses his arms over his chest as he stands before you by the foot of the bed. "Whatcha doing there, pretty girl?"

You unsurprisingly gasp upon hearing him, shooting up from the bed and glaring at him while knuckle-deep in your own cunt.

“D-Dad? You’re—you’re home?”

Robby jerks his chin toward the clock on the nightstand.

You should know he gets home around this time. And if he were running late, he would’ve told you ahead of time.

He’s already learned that lesson.

“I’m usually home at this time. You know that. Now answer my question. What’re you doing?”

You wince as your fingers pull out of your wet, twitchy, tight—

“I—I was just…”

Robby sighs, shaking his head. “You miss me again today? Even after ate your cunt last night? You’re spoiled rotten, sweetheart.”

You sniffle and gather yourself up to hug your knees. Your legs fall open the slightest, and he can get a peek of his shangri-la, the eighth natural wonder of the world—and far better than the Grand Canyon—right in between your legs.

Your essence seeps out of you onto the bed, and all Robby can think about is licking you clean.

“Are you disappointed in me?”

“No, honey,” he coos, “in fact, this is good timing.” He pulls you closer to the edge of the bed by the ankles, and you squeal. Now leaning over you and caging you in by his arms, palms resting by the sides of your head, he asks, “What say you to us having a baby?”

Your eyes go wide, and he chuckles. “A-a baby?”

“Yeah,” he pokes his tongue into his cheek before expanding, “think you’d be less lonely with a little us running around. Wanna make your dad a daddy, sweetheart?”

You lungs collapse on an exhale, and you whimper, the prospect of it apparently appealing to you, which Robby is happy about, but then—

“B-but… I thought you said dads don’t fuck their little girls.’”

He cocks his head and exhales through his nose with closed eyes, “I know what I said. Dad isn’t supposed to be touching you at all, remember? But we’re past that, pretty. You gonna let me fuck a baby in you or not?”

His eyes open to you nodding, a bright smile adorning your face, and he chuckles, mumbling, “Giving me lip when you’re the one who wants this as much as me.”

Robby doesn't do you the justice of stripping. You both have to sleep early tonight for your trip tomorrow, and there’s plenty of packing and check listing to do until then.

He hooks his hands in the crooks of your knees and lifts until your legs dangle in the air, allowing him space to get between them.

Your cute—paid for by him—manicured feet hang by either side of him, and he can’t help but lean down and kiss each delicate arch, regretful he can’t pay them any more attention. Not since your wet hole winks at him, punily stretched open on your fingers that don't compare in length to his, begging for his fat cock to fill her up.

He instructs you, “Get your dad’s cock out. Put it in that sweet pussy of yours.”

There’s plenty that Robby doesn’t know about you still. Most mysteriously, the circumstances that brought you to him bloodied and on the brink of death all those months ago.

He stubbornly refused to pry—and you stubbornly refused to open up—but… he can admit to being curious of your past as of late.

He doesn’t need to know if you’re a virgin, though. He can make do with pretending you are. It doesn’t matter. As far as he’s concerned, you haven’t had sex if it wasn’t with him.

“Letting Dad take your virginity, honey? Ohoho,” he chuckles, “you’re bad.”

You don’t confirm or deny; simply smile as you reach a hand to pull him out of his pants, then rub his length over your viscid folds to lubricate him. Your hand is wrapped around the thickest part of him as you guide him into your dewy entrance, and he slowly pushes inch by inch in.

You release a shuddering gasp as you feel Robby punch past your inner walls, stretching you to your limit. He’s impressed you haven’t scooted up the bed to run away yet and have managed to take him this far.

He’s had partners in the past who were, frankly, too scared to allow him to stick his dick inside them. Amusing as it may be, it’s affected him—marked special moments like these with shame and embarrassment.

You’re truly his one and only.

Once his cock is sheathed inside you, and his cockhead is nestled comfortably against your cervix, you gift him his ninth natural wonder:

The sight of you coming untouched, moaning unabashedly, legs quaking in his grip, toes curling, death gripping the sheets, only the sheer size of his pulsing length inside of you making you reach your peak.

He coos sweetly while shifting your legs so they wrap around his waist and his hands are free to grope your tits, “My angel, my cock feel that good inside you, huh? Who knew you’d come. So. Fucking. Easily. It’s okay, enjoy it. ‘S what I’m here for.”

Your pussy clamps down on him, sucks him impossibly deeper inside of you, and even he can’t help but lose his grip a little.

You feel like fucking heaven.

"Fuck—shit. I gotta start moving, honey, or I’m gonna come inside without having fucked you."

And he can't have that. He’ll never forgive himself if that’s how you get pregnant. Simply dripping his seed into you without having put a little effort to fuck it into you himself.

Robby tweaks your nipples one final time, earning a whine from you, then settles his palms on the globes of your ass to ground himself but also to lift you up slightly from the bed to adjust for your height difference.

“I’m gonna start slow, okay? I’ll be gentle.”

At your slight nod of approval, Robby withdraws from your hole just so his cockhead is still stretching your lips, then eases back in until he’s to the hilt.

He repeats the process a few more times, each time easier to sink inside you than the last.

All the while, he makes sure to take note of your facial expressions, your noises, the way your pussy loosens around him—and greets Dad like he’s coming home.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

“Y-yes, Dad. Please—go f-faster.”

Robby is not one to disappoint.

He speeds his thrusts and grips your fleshy ass so harshly he’s sure he’ll leave bruises, just so you don’t rock up the bed.

Your hands have disappeared from where they were clutching the sheets and reappeared on his biceps, clutching the fabric of his sleeves, stretching them to their yield point.

“D-Dad… ngh—fuck—holy—it’s—it’s too much!”

Robby’s spine tingles with his impending orgasm—buzzes in combination with the sound of your voice and his heavy balls slapping against the curve of your ass.

Though still fresh off your previous orgasm, Robby pays ample attention to your clit, forgoing squeezing one of your ass cheeks to blaze a trail to the swollen nub, massaging it with the pad of his coarse thumb.

You have a lapse in thinking and nearly call him by his name as your mind moves a mile a minute trying to keep up with his rough pace and his incessant rubbing.

“Rob—Dad… fuck! Pleasepleaseplease—”

To think that someone he took in to be a father to is beneath him, asking him for his babies, drunk on lust and sober in love, is beyond what he’s ever imagined for himself.

Fuck, he loves you. And he knows he had a major part in shaping your love for him, but seeing you out there, bleeding in the snow… you needed someone like him to sweep you off your feet.

Every dog has its day, and that was yours.

Your dumb babbling suddenly silences, and he has to look up from where you’re connected to understand why.

You’re biting your lip, muffling the pretty noises he likes so much. He loathes that. It’s the last time he’ll allow it.

He neglects your clit in favor of forcing his thumb into your mouth.

“Stop fucking biting your lip. You need something to do with your mouth? Ask me. That’s what good girls do.”

Your eyes shut in pleasure as you suck on his thumb, tasting yourself on him, and he grins.

Pretty. And impossible to stay mad at.

Once you’ve cleaned your juices off his thumb, he abruptly pulls it from between your lips to grip the side of your face, his huge hand encompassing your entire cheek and chin.

“I’m getting close, sweetheart. Want to hear you say it.”

He doesn’t have to explain what he means.

As you clamp down on him, you squeal, “Fuck—Dad, please! Please come inside me! G-give me your babies!”

"Christ, sweetheart. Okay. Touch yourself. Want you to come with me."

Hearing you call him Dad, hearing you beg him for his babies, does unspeakable things to him. It hurtles him over the edge—his care for what’s right and wrong long gone—and comes inside his sweet girl.

He makes sure to fill you as deeply as he can, grinding his pelvis into you so it’s more likely you take, enjoying the feel of your walls sucking him in and pumping him of all his cum.

Balls empty, he pulls out of you and lets you go after unhooking your legs from his waist and depositing your ass back onto the bed, where you soon follow with your own orgasm—after swiping a few fingers over your twitchy, pert clit.

Robby watches in awe as you let it wash over you. You're a spasming, sweaty, gorgeous, cock-drunk mess, and he can feel his cock stirring again.

Remnant dribbles of his cum and your essence have creamed around the base of him and lead up to his glans, where his tip is ruddy and swollen.

He winces as he swipes a finger over his slit, smears the juices over your parted lips, then scoops you into his arms and flips you so you’re lying over him in bed.

Many exhausted, shared breaths later—

"We still gotta pack, sweetheart. Big day tomorrow."

You make a noise of complaint in the back of your throat. "I know. I'm sorry I didn't finish while you were gone. As you already know, I got distracted doing... other things. But can we just lie here for a little longer first?"

He chuckles and kisses your sweaty forehead. "Sure. Just a little longer."

For the first time in what's been a while, you fully address Robby by name, surprising him. "Robby, do you... do you actually want to have a baby together? And not just because you want to give me something to do?"

"Yeah. I do. Because I love you."

You wrap your arms tighter around his neck, shivering from the sweat drying down on your bare skin. Robby holds you closer to him.

"We could've started with a dog or something first," you joke, "but, um, a baby works too."

The corner of his lip twitches into a smirk when he feels your smile forming against his chest. "We have a whole week to make sure it happens."

You deadpan, "It's our vacation."

Robby huffs a laugh and explains, simply, "A few loads in you a day won't take away from our vacation, baby. And we can talk about getting you a pup too. I have a habit of picking up strays."

 He always did this, swearing that it was only one more game, ‘one more game and then I am all yours, babe’ followed by that swift kiss that never really made you feel better. It felt like more of a cheap substitute for the affection you really wanted. It was really un...fucking-believable. Today was no different. Coming from the Livingroom, was the familiar- “He’s right there! He's literally cracked, bro!” He’d been at it for hours now, yelling obnoxiously into his headphones with Megumi on the other line.

​

You’d tried more than once to get him off the game, flashing him a tit (that earned at least a cheeky smile), but even then it wasn’t enough to drag your boyfriend from the flattened couch cushion. You considered the repercussions of walking over and powering off the ps5, wondering if maybe then he would snap out of the warzone haze, but you knew better than that. That would have been a suicide mission at best. No, you would have to pull out the big guns. He wanted to play games, well, two could do that, and you were determined to win.

​

With quick, efficient steps, you walked past him and flopped down onto the end of the couch, propping your feet into his lap. Yuji subconsciously lifted his arms to make space just for you, because even if he wasn't the most attentive boyfriend, he was always conscious of you. “On me, on me, he's right there on the roof. See him? Bro, he’s fucking cheating-” Yuji huffed, frustratedly. Sparing a quick glance at the TV, you could see him running around, trying to place a shot on whoever it was on the roof. Stupid. As he continued on, you started your own game, pressing your foot gently against the soft bulge of his dick.  Nothing. You wanted to see just how far you had to go to get his attention. Trying again, you made sure to add a little more pressure, using your foot to tease his crotch, watching as the fabric of his sweats began to strain just a little.  

​

“For fuck sakes he was right there!” Yuji exclaimed, dropping his controller with sheer annoyance at the fact that he died due to Megumi’s aloofness. He ran his hands over his face, unaware that at that moment, you were hellbent on stirring his dick to life. “This fucking game,” he groaned to himself, picking up the controller the moment he was brought back.

​

It wasn’t working; his dick was semi-hard from just the gentle friction, and yet he wasn’t budging. It’s like he couldn’t feel his own body begging to be touched. It was time for a different approach. Your mouth had always done the job before, sometimes you wondered if he preferred it more than anything, always gagged to slip his dick down your throat and either fuck your face, or to let you lazily suck on him till he blew his load.

​

With a slick efficiency, you slipped off the couch to sit on the floor in front of him, head in his lap as you looked up at him. “Yuji….” A simple whine of his name, and all you got in return was a grunt, followed by a ridiculous shout about his game once more. Fine. He wanted to leave you high and dry; you were gonna have to return the favour. Turning onto your knees, you planted your hand firmly against his corded abdomen and pushed him back against the couch. He looked down at you, brows raised at the sight of you on your knees, perched beautifully between his muscular thighs. “Whatcha doing there, babe?” He hummed, eyes falling lidded as he watched you tug at the strings of his sweats, loosening them before you reached down past the waistband and wrapped your hand around his thick length, pulling it out. Working beads of precum out of his tip with each gentle stroke of your hand. He was always so pretty, his tip a pretty shade of pink. Hard and heavy in your hand, curving just the perfect bit upwards.

​

Not bothering with a response, your actions were a response enough, you figured. You leaned forward and ran your tongue up the long, thick vein on his cock. Stopping only to kiss up the sweet-salty beads of precum, watching him through your lashes, daring him to keep playing his game. Yuji sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, his head falling back on the couch, his hips bucking slightly as you wrapped your pretty pink lips around his sensitive tip. “Fucccck,” he gasped, his words dissolving into a pleasure-filled groan. “Babe…you can't-” he mumbled, only loud enough for you to hear. One of his hands instantly found your hair, and you weren’t sure if he wanted to push you off or pull you closer.

​

He could feel your tongue swirling around the thick length of him, stroking that vein with a relentless precision, mouth stretching over him as you began to take him deeper, like you were desperately trying to make him lose his damn mind, and fuck was it working. Yuji let out soft, strangled groans as he thrusted his hips into your mouth, trying to keep Megumi oblivious to the best of his ability. That was until he hit the back of your throat, feeling it constrict around him. His mouth fell wide open, and his head fell back; he was powerless to contain the loud groan that left his lips. You smiled around him as best you could, saliva pooling in the corners of your mouth.

​

After a moment of dazed pleasure, he pulled his gaze back at the screen, his controller vibrating at his neglect. “Huh oh uh no yeah, I see-fuck…I see him…mhm,” he mumbled, lazily picking back up the controller to give it his best shot. His eyes were hazy as he pulled his gaze from the sinful sight before him and back to the screen that was starting to lose his interest. “No, I uh, I'm fine, just getting frustrated with this game is all...think it might be my last one…” Yuji mused over the coms, giving a half assed shot at the game once more, but his hand stayed half on the controller and half in your hair, keeping you sucking on his cock as best as he could.

​

It was no use really. The moment you cupped his balls and squeezed, giving them a little massage, his care for the game was gone. The controller fell out of his hand onto the couch beside him. The call ended, and his headphones had fallen off his head. Fuck the game, this was heaven, having his cock wrapped up by the warm, wet pull of your mouth. “Fucccck, just like that, baby…shit that feels s’good..” he groaned, watching as his cock, disappeared inch by inch into your pretty little mouth.

​

Your eyes met his, watery but focused, watching him fall apart right there in front of you, because of you. Normally, that would have driven you on, made you want to watch as you pushed him over the edge, hear those sweet moans and whines of pleasure, but since he’d been neglecting you as of late, it only gave you a sweet satisfaction knowing what you were going to do about it.  Humming your approval at his praise, you felt his dick twitch, the first of many tells that he was about to blow his load straight down your throat. And god did he want to.

​

You waited, watching, licking, and hollowing out your cheeks, watching as he pulled the hem of his shirt up to tuck it between his teeth. Perfectly sculpted abdomen on display. His head fell back as he thrusted up into your mouth, pushing himself to the back of your tight throat once more, before you tore it away from him. Pulling yourself off of him right at the precipice of his release. You gave his tip one last teasing lick as you stood up, looming over him as you watched it dawn on his face what exactly you weren't going to give him. His eyes shot open, mouth agape, hips twitching as if he'd find some relief, but nothing. The moment he saw you, the smug yet annoyed grin on your face, he knew. Knew that he would be getting nothing from you tonight….

​