Robby listened to your breathing, slow and steady.

He felt your chest press against his arms, where you hugged it to your front with every breath you took. Sometime during the evening, his fingers had curled around your thigh, though you didn’t seem to mind, and Robby found himself unable to let go of you.

He never wanted to lose you.

He almost did.

He could already feel you slipping through his fingers. He was never going to let that happen again.

You suppressed a yawn and let your head drop against his shoulders. Robby reached for the remote and shut the TV off. You emitted a weak sound of protestation.

“That’s enough for today.” Robby tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and because you made no move to get up and go to your room, he chuckled and picked you up.

You still fit so well into his arms. You were heavier than you used to be at six years old, but you still melted into him, still rested your head against his chest and let your eyes fall shut again the same way you had when you’d pretend to still be asleep in the back of the car so Robby would carry you to your bed.

He set you down on the mattress and the new sheets he bought for you - purple, because girls liked purple, right? - and reached for the duvet to tuck you in when you stopped him.

“Can you help me?” You plucked the jar of hypoallergenic cream from your nightstand. “I hate touching it.”

“You’ll have to get used to doing that yourself, sweetheart.”

You peered up at him with big, pleading eyes. Robby sighed.

“Fine. Okay. Just tonight, though. Let me wash my hands and grab some gloves.”

You scrunched up your face in an adorable scowl. “I’m your daughter, not a patient. What nasty disease do you expect me to give you that you need gloves?”

“At least let me wash my hands. I’ve been eating chips all evening.” Robby chuckled and brushed a kiss to your forehead before getting up. The counter of your bathroom was littered with toiletries, brushes, make-up and a sheer endless number of skin care products he could not remember having bought you. It had taken you no time at all to restore the chaos he’d defeated during your absence.

When he stepped back into your bedroom, you had already undone the buttons of your pyjama top and were staring at the ceiling where the residue from the glow-in-the-dark stars he hung up when you were little still clung to the plaster.

“It’s so ugly.”

“It’s not ugly.” Robby said and sat down next to you. He unscrewed the lid of the jar and gathered a small amount of cream on his fingertips. You winced when the cold cream touched your skin. Robby shot you an apologetic smile.

“It totally is. So much for prom.” You grumbled. “Or a boyfriend in college.”

Robby bristled at the comment. Something ugly, possessive far beyond any reasonability, stirred in his chest.

“College is for studying.”

You had your hands braced against the mattress behind your back, inadvertently pushing your chest out - not that Robby should notice - your top parted in the middle to reveal the scar while keeping your breasts covered. You sat casually next to him, legs crossed, head tipped back, entirely unaffected by the quiet of your room or the suddenly vulnerable, intimate atmosphere your request and state of undress had created.

Of course you were. He was your father.

“Pretty sure college is for getting away from overbearing parents, copious amounts of alcohol, experimenting with illicit substances, bad decisions and STDs.”

“Keep talking like that and I won’t let you go to college.”

A small smile stretched across your lips. You shrugged. “I don’t know if I’m actually ready for college. I wanted to start at the same time as my friends, but now that I’m thinking about it… I don’t want to move out.”

“You don’t have to.” Robby’s voice felt raw. His eyes were pinned to your sternum, his glasses sitting low in his nose as he massaged gentle circles over your scar and the skin surrounding it. “You can stay here with me until you’re old and wrinkly.”

“You’re going to be old and wrinkly before me.”

“I already am.” He smirked up at you, finding your eyes already trained on him. Goosebumps had spread across your skin, and a gentle flush was creeping up your neck. You bit your lip and looked away.

“You can go to college in Pittsburgh, you know?” Robby continued, forcing his eyes back onto your scar. His fingers slipped down along it, abandoning your sternum to spread the cream further. He felt the soft flesh of your belly under his fingertips and pretended not to notice the way you shuddered when his breath brushed across your skin.

“There is no rule that says you absolutely have to move across the country. You can study here, stay here, save on rent… keep your support system.”

“My therapist said the same thing.” You hummed.

Comfortable silence spread between you, with only the noise of traffic slowly dying down outside your windows and the sound of your even breaths interrupting it.

Robby took his time spreading the cream over your scar and massaging the scar tissue. He told himself he only did it because he cared about you so much, because you struggled with the visible evidence of what had been done to you - not because you were vain, but what girl on the edge of being a young woman and going out into the world for the first time wouldn’t be insecure over such a big scar?

Massaging the scar would break down scar tissue and help it flatten out while promoting more flexibility and reducing pain. It was important this was done twice a day, and thoroughly, for the next several weeks.

Two years could pass before a surgical scar was fully healed.

Your fingertips brushed along the back of Robby’s head, nails skimming his scalp as they ran through his soft hair. Robby fought down a shiver at the touch.

“I’m really glad I’m home, Dad.”

“Me too, bug.”

“I missed you.”

Robby screwed the lid back onto the jar, sighed and looked up. “I missed you more.”

He looked at you with those sad brown eyes you’d adored your whole life, that you’d looked for in search of guidance and protection more times than you could remember - that you looked for in the audience during school plays and dance recitals and always, always found - and that you’d never wanted to see fill with such fear and heartache as they had in the SICU.

Your hand stayed at the back of his head.

Robby didn’t move to tuck your shirt closed. He didn’t take his hand off your bare knee.

Your insides fluttered, clenched and did a somersault, all in the span of a second. Perhaps the oxygen flow to your brain had been cut for too long after all, while you were being resuscitated, because why, why would that be your body’s reaction to looking at your father?

“Dad…”

“Yes, sheifale?”

You couldn’t quite remember moving. Perhaps dying - being clinically dead for over two minutes - had stripped you of impulse control and just decency, or maybe you simply weren’t willing to not taste life to the fullest after you had to realise just how easily it could be taken from you.

Your lips brushed against Robby’s, against your father’s lips. His beard tickled your skin. Your hand at the back of his head tensed. His fingers around your knee curled into your flesh.

It was just a peck, really. Nothing world-changing, but your insides felt like mush nonetheless, and your lips tingled and prickled.

Robby whispered your name, a tone stuck somewhere between chastising and lost.

“It was just a kiss.” You murmured, trying to ignore the heat encompassing your cheeks. “I used to kiss you on the mouth all the time.”

“When you were four, baby.”

Your voice shrunk further until the words slipping over your lips felt like barely more than exhaled air. “So what?”

Robby stared at you over the brim of his glasses. He tried not to let his eyes flick down to the gentle swell of your breasts visible where your shirt was still parted. He shouldn’t have to even try, but apparently, sleep deprivation had reached a new height.

Perhaps all of this was just a hallucination. One where he noticed his daughter’s breasts and his daughter kissed him, one where he wanted her to do it again…

He wet his lips. His throat suddenly felt dry and raw. “You can’t do that, kiddo.”

“But I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, sweetheart, but we can’t-”

“I’ve never been kissed.”

Robby closed his mouth. You peered up at him through your lashes. Even sitting next to you on the bed, he towered over you. The scent of his fading aftershave hung thick in the air between you. Every breath you took, you breathed him in. His smell was so familiar to you, but the weeks and months away from home and subsequently away from Robby had made you realise just how used you had gotten to it, to having it around you every day.

You leaned forward until your nose brushed against his neck. Above you, Robby took a quiet, shuddering breath.

He didn’t stop you when you tipped your head back, when your lips ran along his jaw - stubble tickling against your sensitive lips, when you touched the corner of his mouth with them.

“You have plenty of time for those things.” Robby murmured. “You’re so young. No need to think about any of that yet, sweetheart.”

“I almost died, Dad.” Your whispered words came out hoarse, and the reminder reverberated painfully in his chest. Wetness gathered in your eyes, not quite tears, but Robby noticed. His brows furrowed. His hand found the side of your neck, so large against you, swallowing up your neck with his long fingers framing your ear and disappearing in your hair. His other hand didn’t leave your knee.

“I’m your father.”

“Yeah. There’s no man I’d ever trust more than you…”

Robby bit back a groan. He had no idea what had come over you - or him that he was still sitting here. That he wasn’t shutting this down, whatever this was. His eyes flicked down to your chest, to your collarbones and the scar starting a few inches beneath them. He thought about you in the trauma room, you on the operating table, your chest cracked open - his little girl, cut open, ribs broken, sternum cracked, your insides visible to the whole damn operating room while you bled out from injuries inflicted on you by some boy you were just trying to be nice to.

You were too sweet for this world, too kind and gentle, and Robby was terrified of losing you.

And why should he?

You were his.

Why should he ever trust another man to treat you right? He saw the shit men did to the women they claimed to love all the time. How would he ever find a second of peaceful sleep knowing you’d begun to crave something a father couldn’t - shouldn’t - give you, knowing you might be with some scumbag instead of someone who loved and respected you? Instead of him.

You were his. His little girl. His greatest joy, his treasure, his whole world. Why should he share you and trust that hands that were not his wouldn’t break you just because they could?

“Okay.” He whispered into the narrow space between you. “But just this, baby. Just a kiss.”

You nodded, your best impression of prim and proper, shirt still open, eyes still fixed on his, pulse fluttering under his fingertips.

Robby bent down to you. You inhaled a sharp breath when his lips touched yours. Your body stiffened, then melted against him, your free hand coming up to grasp at the collar of his shirt.

Your inexperience made itself abundantly known, but you responded to him so sweetly. You mirrored the way he moved his lips and sighed into the kiss, a sound so goddamn enticing Robby almost forgot himself.

He let go of your knee to cradle your waist with his big hand, fingertips flexing against your soft flesh through the flannel of your pyjama top. You parted your lips to trace the tip of your tongue along the seam of his lips, and something in his brain must have short-circuited because he opened them for you. 

Despite you initiating, it was Robby who deepened the kiss when you didn’t take things further. He slid his tongue into your mouth and groaned at your taste. He could taste the honey you put in your homemade iced teas on your tongue, with a hint of that disgusting violet syrup - though for some inexplicable reason, he did not hate it right now. He chased the lingering taste, licking into your mouth with a renewed fervour. His body moved on its own accord, pressing close to you, which you seemed to understand as a hint to lie down. Robby followed you. He climbed the rest of the way up onto the bed, arranging his long limbs next to you while the hand on your neck travelled down your body, tracing softly along your scar and hesitating just at the button border of your shirt. His hand stayed there, fingers splayed across the space between your chest and belly, radiating heat.

You tried to match his movements, letting your tongue slide against his and trying to find the courage to push on, to lick into his mouth the same way he did yours, to trace the inside of his cheeks, but you couldn’t quite get there. 

Your insides were a fluttering, twitching mess. Your panties clung to your soaked folds like a second skin. Shame lapped at the very edge of your conscience, but the fear still living deep inside your bones fuelled your yearning to be close to your dad, as close as one could possibly be and overrode any rationality or basic, common sense.

Robby pulled away first. 

He rested his forehead against yours as he struggled for air, glasses crooked on his big nose. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, a featherlight touch that made you shiver. You pressed closer to him, closing the distance between you that felt like a gaping, insurmountable thing, and you didn’t want that.

You almost lost him.

Robby stared down at him with those perpetually sad, big brown eyes, and a distant part of you wondered what you were doing to him. You saw the pain in them, the shame and regret, but also the mounting need. A living, breathing, writhing thing. Something dark and despicable, something that should never see the light of day, never be fed - like vermin that would only infest the house once one let down one’s walls around them.

His thumb touched the corner of your mouth, ran down, dragging across your bottom lip, glistening with his saliva softly in the low light of the street lamps falling into your room.

You didn’t know who moved first, you just knew you collided.

Like two objects drawn to each other by forces entirely beyond their control or even basic understanding. Your lips moved against his. His nose pressed into your cheek. Teeth clicked together.

Robby plucked his glasses off his nose and tossed them aside onto the mattress carelessly. His hand returned to your neck immediately. He lapped into your mouth once before breaking away to trail wet, uncoordinated kisses down your jaw and neck. You grasped at the back of his shirt, head tossed back against the pillows, while Robby’s beard scraped along the sensitive skin of your scar.

No other person you would have allowed as much as to see your scar - much less kiss it, but this was different.

This was Robby.

Your Robby.

The one person in your life genetically predisposed to love and protect you, to care for you, even if some of that programming had been fucked up with your mom. It wasn’t in Robby. Robby, who valiantly bit back laughter when you were four and crying because you decided to cut your own bangs one afternoon while playing in your bedroom. Robby, who put on a brave face and gave you two thumbs up when you started experimenting with make-up, even when it looked awful. Robby, who sat through every cringy, torturous play, recital, debate and whatnot parents were asked to attend.

Robby, who had taken care of you in the SICU, feeding you when even the simple act of picking up a spoon and a pudding cup felt like too much, cleaning you so very gently with a sponge while you were bed-bound as if he didn’t trust the nurses to treat his little girl right.

His fingertips, rough from callouses and dried out skin from all the antiseptics, slid across the bare skin of your belly, slipping beneath the edge of your shirt.

He hesitated for a heartbeat before pushing the fabric aside. The overwhelming need to feel you were alive won over all moral objections, all reason and sanity. He had to feel your skin - warm, alive. Feel your heart - beating relentlessly beneath mended bones. 

He almost lost you, and a part of him still sometimes wondered whether this was actually real, or maybe just an elaborate lie his cracked mind conjured up because the reality of you not being here anymore was more than Robby would ever be able to handle.

He cradled your ribcage in his hands, so very gently, achingly tender despite your ribs and sternum being mostly healed. His lips ghosted over your heated skin, feeling the life thrumming through your entire being, straying further and further from the line your scar cut down the centre of your chest-

“What the fuck are those?”

You ripped your eyes open. Your skin buzzed pleasantly from his touch. Your lips still tingled, insides twisted into a tight knot of need and desire that had already infected your brain to the point that forming coherent sentences required more brain power than it was currently capable of.

“Uh…”

Somehow, even with you only half-dressed and Robby kneeling above you, one hand braced against the mattress next to you, he managed to make you shrink back in anticipation of some (probably well-deserved) parental rebuke.

“It’s- they are fake?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t get cute with me.”

“But I am cute.” You fluttered your lashes at your father in an attempt to distract him. You brought your hands up to your breasts, framing your hardened nipples with your fingers, playing with the metal rod going through them and the cute gemstone bows suspended beneath them with a filigree chain. “And they are really cute.”

Robby exhaled a long-suffering sigh through his teeth, but his eyes, fixed on the wall above your headboard, strayed, sliding down until they settled on your exposed chest. You squirmed beneath him, restless with arousal that screamed for release, for friction, for anything at all. It only got worse the longer he looked at you.

Your eyes fluttered shut when it got too much, when looking at him stoked hunger and unfulfilled, desperate desire, until they were a raging inferno about to consume you whole. You squeezed your breasts before letting a hand trail down your body and disappear beneath the waistband of your shorts and panties.

“What else are you hiding from me?” Robby’s voice was low and so close to your face that you felt his breath brush against your skin. Your back arched, pressing your front into him. His shirt felt soft against your bare skin, and you wished he’d settle between your legs, wished he’d force your legs open to make room for his wide frame and crush you into the mattress. Your lips parted around a silent moan, fingers swirling furiously across wet, hot skin.

“I didn’t think we had secrets from each other.” A slight chuckle played around his words, softening his voice until it was a melodious, deep, rumbling purr that all but liquified you. It rushed along your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind in its wake and sank deep into your body, thrumming through your veins like molten lava.

You were too out of it to realise he moved before it was too late to stop him.

“No! Dad!”

He’d already pulled the drawer of your nightstand open. A violent, burning flush encompassed your neck and cheeks, and you wished your pillow would wrap around you and drag you into the suffocating depths of cotton fibres to save you from this embarrassment.

Robby held your lilac vibrator. The curved, lilac vibrator you bought after weeks of obsessing over the idea, a furious blush on your face while the nice alt-girl working the counter of the sex shop smirked at you, all smug and supportive. You were terrified that somehow every person you met on the walk home would just know what you had buried at the very bottom of your backpack. Or that Robby would find it. You were so meticulous about keeping it hidden from him. You never even used it at night, too afraid he might hear the buzz and come into your room to investigate.

“I-”

Robby didn’t look angry. You never expected he would. He looked amused. His eyes twinkled, the creases around them deepening with the smirk twitching across his lips.

“No need to be ashamed, princess.” He purred. “It’s healthy. It released oxytocin, endorphins, dopamine - all the good shit. It can boost confidence-”

“Dad, I really don’t need the health lecture right now.” You whispered into the pillow you’d drawn over your face to hide. A silly, stupid, weird reaction considering the entire circumstances you were in, but one you could not escape nonetheless.

“What do you want me to say instead, mh?” Robby whispered in your ear. “Do you want me to scold you? Say, how I thought my sweet, perfect little girl would be above such filthy, lecherous base desires? Hm?” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, beard hair tickling your skin, making you shudder. “Or do you want me to ask you if you used this? Filled your little cunt and made yourself feel good while I slept down the hall, entirely unaware? Do you want me to ask you how it felt? How hard it made you come?”

You exhaled a breathy moan. Robby grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand from your panties and drawing a whiny protest from your lips. He pinned your head to the mattress next to your hip. The vibrator lay on your belly, cool and heavy. Suggestive in a way that had your cunt clench around nothing.

Robby brushed his knuckle over your cheek, brown eyes pinned to you, darkening with depraved desire he should have never felt for you - and you should never match.

“I- haven’t actually managed to- uh- make it fit…” You muttered without looking at him. Instead, you stared up as if trying to catch a glimpse of your own hairline.

Something flickered across Robby’s face. Not concern, not exactly, but your words seemed to speak to the endless protectiveness he felt for you, and that had only seemed to grow since the shooting.

“What?”

You shrugged, desperately trying to ignore the way your blush burnt on your cheeks.

“Is that the only thing you struggle to insert? I buy you tampons, I assumed you’re using them-”

“Oh my god, Dad!”

“Yeah yeah, I know, gross, Dad. How dare you feel comfortable discussing a totally normal part of my biology with me. I’m serious, sheifale. This could indicate a medical condition.”

Robby’s mind was racing. Had he missed something? The vibrator was on the bigger side, sure, but not too big, not so big that you should struggle with it.

“Does it hurt? When you try to insert a tampon or a finger?”

You shook your head. You couldn’t talk. This was too much, too strange, too uncomfortable. You didn’t want to talk. Talking about this now only left the gate open to talk about the other thing. About the kissing and the fact that you were currently half naked with your dad hovering over you, the skin of your chest still wet from his greedy kisses.

“Did you use lube when you tried it with the vibrator?”

You shook your head.

Robby sighed. “Why not?”

“Um- I thought- I thought that’s just for when… when you can’t get wet enough…”

“I’ll go ahead and scratch sexual education off the list of things I thought I aced.” He muttered, more to himself than you. “Silicone is not exactly the most slippery material, sweetheart. Did you stretch?”

You just blinked at Robby. You had no idea how you ended up here. You were in the hospital earlier today. You got discharged finally. You ate indian takeout on the couch and watched Pretty Little Liars before almost falling asleep on Robby.

Were you asleep?

That could explain the absurdity of this all. You had some trippy dreams while doped up on morphine!

“Stretch?” You asked, dumbfounded.

Robby sighed again.

You shrank into the pillows. Embarrassed.

“Are you a virgin, sweetheart?”

His eyes softened at the way your eyes widened in silent panic.

“It’s okay if you aren’t. Just as it’s okay if you are.”

“I- I am.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Then you can’t just expect this to fit, sweetheart. Lubrication is important, relaxing, and using your fingers first to loosen yourself up. Taking your time… going slow.”

“Can-” You grasped at the sleeve of his shirt, grabbing the soft material between your fingers gently, almost hesitantly. You stared at his throat, unable to make yourself meet his gaze. “Can you?”

Robby wet his lips. “I shouldn’t.” His voice sounded hoarse, hollow almost.

“Please.”

He whispered your name, a broken little sound that should have put right whatever neurons were misfiring in your brain to the point they started all this - but it didn’t.

“Please, Dad! What- what if something is wrong with me?” You would be lying if you said the thought hadn’t already occurred to you. That it wasn’t something that worried you.

“Nothing is wrong with you, baby. Nothing.” 

He couldn’t stand to see the tears gathering in your eyes.

You’d been in too much pain already.

You had suffered too much.

Robby just wanted you to never know suffering and pain and agony again. He wanted you to forget everything. Forget the shooting and the ICU and the many operations and hours of gruelling physical therapy.

“I’ll show you.” He murmured with his lips pressed against your temple. The walk to his room should have set his head straight, cleared his mind of whatever the fuck was causing things to go so monumentally wrong. The act of grabbing the bottle of lube out of his nightstand. Walking back to your room. Finding you still lying on your bed, surrounded by rumpled sheets, shirtless…

It didn’t.

He pretended he was driven by parental worry. By his experience as a physician. By the trauma of seeing his little girl suffer so much. There was nothing else fuelling his actions. He was helping you. He wasn’t indulging you, spoiling you as any father would after what you’d had to endure. None of this was about him. None of it was for him. His dick wasn’t achingly hard in his pants.

When he tugged your shorts and panties down, his gaze didn’t linger on your perfect little cunt. He didn’t stare at the wetness gleaming on your soft, warm flesh. He didn’t have to bite back a groan at the tantalising scent of your desire filling the air between you. He didn’t stare at the way your piercings sat against the soft tissue of your breasts. He didn’t notice the way you watched him with unabashed, greedy lust in your eyes.

Eyes you had because of him.

Everything you were, your entire existence was possible because of him. He had created you, raised you, protected you as best as he could in this travesty of a country - was it not his duty to make sure you knew how a man should treat you? To show you just what it meant when he said a man should take their time with you? Be gentle and patient? To show you that real men would want more than just to get their dicks wet? That your pleasure would be as important, if not more important, to a real man than his own brief release? That your pleasure was something beautiful, something worthy of nothing short of worship?

Robby knelt between your spread legs, ignoring the way his ageing knees ached and protested against the position, towering over you, your favourite pair of pastel pink fuzzy socks the only piece of clothing left on your body.

“Relax.” Robby sealed the murmured word against your ribcage with a kiss before pressing his finger against your dripping hole. You shuddered from the sensation of cold lube touching your hot skin, but Robby’s hand on your inner thigh urged you to stay still.

You were tight.

Robby muffled a moan by pressing his lips against your skin. His cock throbbed in his pants. Crushingly tight, scorching, sopping heat encompassed his finger. Your walls fluttered around him, breath hitching in your chest, and whatever reservation he had still clung to so desperately vanished.

His sweet little girl was so tense and tight… how could he ever let another man take care of you? How could he ever trust another man to treat you the way you should be, the way he would? He couldn’t. He couldn’t walk away now and leave you to gather your first experiences on a fumbling boy in the back of a filthy car after prom, leave you to lies that the first time always hurt girls, that girls just didn’t enjoy sex as much as men, that girls didn’t experience lust and arousal like boys.

Breathy, quiet moans tumbled from your lips. Your hips moved, shifting, rolling, your body lost in the sensation of that squirming, burning need finally being sated.

“How does that feel, princess?”

“G-good- please don’t stop.”

As if he could have.

He moved slowly, making you feel the even drag of his finger against your inner walls and making sure he met no resistance before adding a second. You tensed again. Robby slowed down even further and peppered soft kisses onto your ribcage in between watching your face. He watched your expression relax, eyelids fluttering, lips parting around whiny, quiet moans.

Robby grabbed the vibrator and turned it on, pressing the rumbling tip to your clit. You cried out, feet sliding against the bedding as your hips rocked up, trying to escape the vibration assaulting your most sensitive part, but Robby held you down.

Your arousal dripped down his knuckles and over the back of his hand onto the sheets as he thrust his fingers inside you at an ever-increasing pace. Your walls fluttered around him, pulsing from pleasure and desire. You squirmed and moaned, hands grappling for purchase helplessly, clutching at the sheets, your pillow, your breasts, Robby-

Your nails scraped over his neck and shoulders. Fingers dug into his shirt, tugging and pulling. You tried to close your legs, but Robby merely pushed forward, forcing them back open with his broad shoulders. You curled them around him, feet clad in fuzzy socks crossing behind his back.

Robby added a third finger. A shudder rippled through you. Tears clung to the corners of your eyes. Robby’s head dipped down to chase a droplet of sweat rolling down your straining chest. He mouthed at your skin, traced your scar with his tongue, oh so careful with the sensitive, raw flesh still working so hard to heal.

His tongue found one of the places where a bullet ripped through you. A gnarly, round patch of fresh scar tissue right beneath your ribcage.

His little girl.

His brain still could not quite fathom what had been done to you, could not make sense of such senseless violence or the fear you must have felt standing in that cafeteria and facing a boy you’d only ever been kind to, only ever tried to befriend.

How could he trust a boy with you ever again?

When this was how you reacted to one showing you his real face? When you had placed yourself in front of a rifle to protect your fellow classmates, your teachers and principal?

“Dad-” Your fingers slid beneath the collar of his shirt. Your nails scraped along his spine, making him shiver. You sat up and bent forward, burying your face against the crown of his head. You inhaled the scent of his shampoo and aftershave in greedy, gulping breaths, panting for air that never quite seemed to reach your lungs. Your heart was beating rapidly in your chest, frantic, as if it feared that soon it would stop again and was determined to get in as many beats as it possibly could before that.

Robby peeled one of your hands away from his neck and pushed it down, urging you to hold the vibrator yourself. His now free hand immediately found your chest. He palmed at your breast, kneading and squeezing, rolling your nipple between his calloused fingers while sucking the other one into his mouth.

You sobbed and shuddered, brain-numbing, crushing waves of pure, blissful, ecstatic pleasure crashing into you with all the force of a tsunami. You felt your muscles tensing, your legs clamping down around Robby.

“Dad!”

“I’m here, baby.” He groaned against your jaw, teeth nipping your skin. “Right here, baby… always. Just hold onto me. I’ve got you.”

Robby curled his fingers, digging them into you on every thrust. The vibrations cut through you with vicious strength, making your swollen clit numb, yet somehow overly sensitive at the same time. He rolled his hips against the mattress, chasing any little bit of friction he could find to get some respite from the raging fucking hard-on threatening to tear through his pants.

You made such lovely noises. Whimpery moans and whiny mewls right into his ear that seeped through his ear canal and right into his bones. He felt your heartbeat against his chest, a steady, racing ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum.

Alive.

Alive alive alive.

He hadn’t lost you. Despite all the fear and pain and terror - you were right here. Skin warm, hard beating, body moving and living.

“Dad, I’m gonna- I’m gonna-”

“I know. It’s okay. It’s okay. Come for me, princess. I’ve got you.”

And he’d never let go again.

You cupped the side of his face, dragging your nails through his beard, and it was the most delicious fucking thing Robby had ever felt. His head tipped forward, towards you, the distance between you closing much quicker than his brain could have caught up with the proximity. His lips slanted over yours, pressing into you with nothing short of feral, pathetic need. Need to be close to you, as close as he possibly could, need to feel the heat of you, feel your breath against his skin, need need need-

You moaned into the kiss, parting your lips for Robby, who seized the opportunity with a ferocity as though he expected this to be the last chance he’d ever get to taste you. He sucked on your tongue and groaned when you pushed forward eagerly, causing your teeth to click together.

The cramp in his wrist got much worse suddenly. He cursed and pulled his fingers from you. You whined and sobbed, yanked back from the edge of release violently by the sudden emptiness cutting through you. You clawed at Robby’s shoulder, emitting a series of needy, desperate noises that sent prickling shivers down his back.

“I know.” Robby groaned against your lips. He pulled the vibrator from your hands and fumbled for the bottle of lube. “I’ll make you feel good, sweetheart.”

You bucked your hips, whether to push into the sensation of the vibrator’s blunt head pressing into you or to get away from it, you didn’t know. Robby put his hand over your throat, long fingers curling around you without applying any pressure, just holding you in place while he licked into your mouth and forced your cunt to yield to the intrusion. You threw your head back and tugged on Robby’s shirt, thighs quivering. Your feet slid helplessly against the sheets, toes curling.  Moans tumbled from your lips in a ceaseless stream. Robby was not deterred when you stopped reciprocating his kisses. He lapped into your mouth with all the hunger of a starving man. His palm felt heavy against your throat. His broad frame kept your legs spread. The rough fabric of his jeans chaffed against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He rocked against you, making you feel the hard line of his cock against the juncture of your thighs. The vibrator rumbled furiously, shaking your insides until everything felt numb and overstimulated, tense and mushy at once.

“Dad-” Tears rolled down your cheeks. Not that Robby couldn’t let that stand. He chased them with his lips, kissing them off your skin and tasting them on his tongue.

He wanted to taste every part of you, take every tear from you, lift every worry and concern from your shoulders and make it so you’d never feel any sadness or fear or pain ever again.

He just wanted you to feel this, uninterrupted, mindless bliss - for the rest of your life. He wanted to make you feel such elated ecstasy that you forgot all the horrors of the shooting and the reanimation and the surgeries and the physical therapy.

“You’re doing so good for me, kid.” He muttered against your cheek, voice deep and rough, full of desire and hunger.

The vibrator dragged against your inner walls, finding more and more resistance the closer you got to release.

“Don’t push it out.” Robby chuckled. “Come on, princess. You don’t want me to take this out, do you?”

“Dad- dad, please-”

Robby squeezed his eyes shut and hid his face against your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo and other hair products with every panting breath he took. His movements grew more and more uncoordinated, his mind hazy with need and the delicious sounds you made for him.

Hearing you call him that should not light up his inside with twitching, prickling shivers as it did. It should not make him press his hips harder against you. He should not moan when he pressed his pelvis against your core and felt the vibrations of the toy against his aching cock, your heat melting through the thick fabric of his pants so effortlessly-

Robby rested his forehead against yours, big brown eyes trained on you. You blinked through the blurry haze of tears and immeasurable pleasure eating away at your brain.

He had such pretty eyes. Framed by all the years of laughter and joy he’d lived, even though nowadays his eyes were always sad.

You hated to see how sad he was.

“Feel good?” He murmured, voice so soft, so achingly tender.

“Yeah.” The word was barely more than a breathy exhale. “So good, Dad- please- I have to-”

Robby pushed the vibrator deeper, as deep as it could go. You felt the pressure deep inside you, insistent, unyielding. The vibrations intensified. The movements of his hips grew more frantic, and you matched them, rolling your hips against him, feeling the hard edge of his cock digging into you-

“Ah- fuck- Dad-”

“I’ve got you.” Robby groaned, lips dragging across your cheek, beard scraping over your sweaty skin and making you shiver. “I’ve got you, kid. Always. Oh fuck- my sweet little girl- my perfect little princess. Come for me, baby. Show your dad how pretty you are when you fall apart-”

“Dad Dad Dad-”

Your muscles tensed. Your insides twitched, shudders tearing at your frozen limbs. Your moans died in your throat, crushed into tiny, broken, wheezing groans. Twitching, pulsing waves of pleasure rolled through your insides, making you clamp down around the vibrator, your muscles trying to push it out, but Robby’s body kept it in place. The vibrations rumbled on undeterred. Robby’s hand fell between your bodies, thumb pressing into your messy clit, the calloused pad of his fingers rubbing hard circles over the swollen nub until you were whimpering and shivering beneath him. White spots danced in front of your eyes for a moment.

It seemed to go on forever, and at the same time, it felt as though it ended as quickly as it had begun. You collapsed beneath Robby, moaning weakly when the vibrations continued to assault your overwrought nerves.

Robby panted against your neck. You felt his weight on top of him. His belly pressing into you, his grip around your throat easing after it had, apparently, tightened. He smeared a half-hearted kiss across your lips as he moved down to lap at your sweaty neck, muttering quiet, incoherent praise in Yiddish intermixed with whispered ‘my little girl’s and ‘my sweet princess’s.

Robby shut the vibrator off and eased it out of you, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. It caught your gaze, the way it was glistening with your juices...

Robby wanted to get up.

You felt his body preparing for the movement, and it poured a blind panic into you.

You didn’t want him to leave.

Your hand on his shoulder tensed, nails digging into his flesh through his shirt.

“Gotta get you cleaned up, sweetheart. You are still recovering. You need lots of sleep.”

“Not yet.” You croaked and, under great effort, lifted your torso off the bed to smash your lips against his.

You reached for his trousers with trembling hands.

Robby followed the motion. You expected him to slap your hands away, but instead, he unbuckled his belt and pushed the layers of fabric separating you from him down.

As if he had only been waiting for you to make a move, for you to let him know you wanted more - wanted him.

“Wait-” You forced your head to the side and dragged a heavy breath into your lungs in a feeble attempt to clear your mind a little. “You said- I have to always use a condom.”

“It’s okay.” Robby pressed a needy kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’m your father. It’s okay. You can trust me.”

“Said never to trust a boy.”

“‘m not a boy.” His tongue dipped into your mouth. You dropped back down into the pillows. Robby followed you down. You felt him - hot and heavy and so hard - draped across your sore cunt. “‘tis okay, sheifale. I’m not gonna get you sick. I promise. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I can’t- can’t leave you now- fuck- I have to- I need you-”

Your name off his lips sounded like the most sinful, most delicious thing ever. It rushed across your body in waves of prickling shivers and made you arch into him. His cock throbbed against your sopping folds, and whatever little flickers of rationality you might have scrambled together in a brief moment of post-orgasmic clarity were gone.

“I trust you, Dad.” You whispered and pressed your mouth to his jaw. His beard scraped against the sensitive skin of your lips deliciously. “Always. I always trust you, Daddy.”

Robby groaned. A guttural, barely human sound that seemed to all but liquify your insides.

The blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance. You braced for a sensation comparable to the vibrator, but you got a lot more than you had bargained for. The moans at the tip of your tongue withered into broken whines. He spread you further, and further, and further. Your eyelids fluttered, eyes rolling to the back of your head, and the stretch still continued.

Robby was thick.

“Dad-” You gasped, hands finding the back of his shirt. Robby had buried his face against your neck. He was peppering uncoordinated, sloppy kisses across your skin. “Oh my god, Dad- wait- fuck- that’s- that’s a lot, Dad-”

“I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Daddy's so sorry- but I have to- jesus you feel so good... so tight for me, sheifale.” 

Little lamb.

You certainly felt like a little lamb. You felt tiny beneath your father’s large frame, his broad shoulders and big belly pressing into you, his strong arms curled around you as if he feared you might slip away, as if his life depended on this, on you - and you weren’t so certain about that being an exaggeration either.

Your legs strained around him, spread so far around his wide hips pressing into you.

“Dad- wait-” Your insides clenched around the fat cock splitting you open, but Robby didn’t stop. He wasn’t brutal. He took his time, moving as slowly as he worked his fingers and then the vibrator into you, but it was insistent. A constant drag of hot, hard, throbbing skin forcing your inner walls to make room for him. You felt everything. You felt how heavy he was inside you, how deep he reached, how much your body struggled to accommodate him.

And he didn’t stop.

It just got more and more and more. The stretch never eased - if anything, he got wider towards the base. And every time you thought this would be it, this would be him finally seated fully inside you, it just kept going.

“I know I'm big, sweetheart, but you're doing so well.” He groaned, mouthing at your jaw. “You're taking me so well, kiddo. I know, I know. It's okay. Your dad's here. Dad's taking care of you, baby. Fuck, you're tight- so tight for your dad- fuck, you feel like you were made for me, sweetheart. Come on, that's it, relax. Just let me in, just let the cock that made you in- yeah, I made this cunt... made this cunt myself, of course it would fit me perfectly- would feel so perfect-”

“Dad!” You cried out, clinging to his shoulders, fingertips white against his dark shirt.

He rocked into you, setting an even, slow pace that still knocked the air from your lungs due to his sheer size.

Two, three thrusts, and you fell apart, shaking and crying out, and Robby kept fucking you. He groaned at the way your cunt fluttered around him, at how hot and wet you were, how good you felt.

His perfect girl.

Alive and well and safe in his arms.

He buried his nose in your hair and inhaled your scent in greedy gulps, his cock plunging into you again and again until your moans devolved into quiet, needy sobs, until the sensation of your wrapped around him like a vice became too much, until he came, hard, spilling inside you. Filling you with the same seed that had created you.

His little princess.

His greatest joy, his biggest pride, his treasure, his whole goddamn world.

He stayed inside you even after he came, even when his cum and your arousal dripped down his length and onto the sheets. You were limp beneath him, boneless and completely fucked out - the most delicious, stunning, tantalising sight he’d ever set eyes upon.

You blinked up at him through wet lashes and hazy eyes, a tired smile tugging on the corner of your mouth.

“I love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, kid.” Robby murmured, brushing some sweaty hair from your face to tuck it behind your ear. He’d look at you basking in the fuzzy, delirious state of sated pleasure for a moment longer, indulging a little while longer in the most forbidden fruit, the most shameful, disgraceful thing he’d ever done before he surrendered to the shame and guilt already lapping at the edge of his consciousness.

That was for him to deal with, not you.

Robby pressed a gentle, featherlight kiss to your temple. “I love you so much.”

Next Chapter

A/N: I don't know yet how much I'll write for this, but at least one more chapter with Jack/Robby/reader.

The corner of his mouth pulls into a sleepy half smile at the sweet drawn-out mention of his name, bare feet meeting the floor as he begins to rise and leave the bedroom behind.

“Making me breakfast? and what did I do to deserve all this?”, he calls out to you playfully as he heads over, stopping for a moment to squint at the newspaper that’s been left folded on the arm of the couch but giving up when he remembers that he’s left his glasses behind.

“Don’t want you skipping breakfast again, Mister”, you call out a little less sweetly.

The man scratches at his beard meekly at that. “Ah…”, he lets out, reminded of how often you’d made it known that you dislike him leaving home for his morning shift with nothing but a couple of energy bars stuffed into his pocket to get him through it.

“Mmhmm. Now have a seat, I’ve got everything ready for you.”

“Baby, thank you. That’s so- “

Robby makes it to the entryway to the kitchen but not further than that, freezing in place when he gets a look at you in front of the stove. By your side you’ve piled a small stack of fluffy, browned bacon pancakes on a plate. You pick it up and turn around with a second plate of fried eggs fresh out the pan in the other.

“C’,mon”, you urge him again casually in your little apron.

Only in your little apron.

It’s secured around you nicely. Crisp white with the straps tied behind you in a tight, dainty bow. Its edges are cute and frilled, just flared out enough to keep everything technically covered. So long as you face him this way. Turn around and he’d get a good look at your bare ass again.

“…Honey?”

You pout, looking a little disappointed in yourself as far as Robby can guess and it only adds to the confusion. “No…, maple syrup. Isn’t that what you usually prefer?”, you glance at the glass bottle full of sweet amber syrup that you’d already placed on the table when you first set it.

“No- nononono”, he flusters away the misunderstanding.

“Why- and believe me, I am not complaining in the slightest but, why are you dressed like that, honey?”

“Oh”, you reply, resuming your path to the table and setting both plates down by Robby’s seat. The cutlery's already been set out too and his mug, full of bitter black coffee, releases tendrils of curling, steamy vapor into the air.

“To incentivize you”, you state bluntly. “You know I don’t like how you don’t eat right in the mornings. Or ever, really. Honesty, what is with you doctors, Robby? You all act like you’re allergic to the same healthy habits you harp about to your patients.”

On a normal day he’d answer. Some dismissive excuse wrapped around a bad joke to diffuse the tension. But now? Nothing. He’s caught in the snare of your stern gaze, arms crossed which only helps to push your breasts higher and strain against the top of the apron. That displaces his focus back to your state of dress and Robby pays silent thanks to every thread that makes up that little apron of yours, never having paid stricter attention to anything else like he is right now.

He could get used to this.

“I’m going to look extra pretty for you and treat you even better, but only if eat a proper meal”, you point a finger at the food finitely.

“Now. Sit.”

Promptly, Robby takes his seat, not unlike a dog trained to behave for a treat. It happens so quickly and he has no urge to question it any more. If his girl wants to take care of him while wearing something skimpy then why the hell not?

“Baby, let it never be said that you don’t come up with the best ideas”, he chuckles, picking up his fork and knife, ready to cut into one of the thick pancakes first.

“Good, I’m glad you think so because-"

Just when he thinks he’s caught the gist of it, just when he thinks the surprises have come to an end, you stun him into silence again. Dropping onto Robby’s lap, you place each leg on either side of his thighs to straddle him as you begin to pull at the strings of his sweatpants. He can’t help but choke on nothing, yet to even take a bite with both hands still suspended in the air, uselessly clutching his cutlery as you slip your hand inside. With no boxers to wrestle with, you begin to wrap your fingers around his cock as easily as you have every time before. Lazily, you pump at it, now much less soft after finding you in here with your nude back turned to him while fixing him breakfast.

“I know you, Robby. I’m not letting you scarf some of it down and run out the door either. You’re going to stay right here-"

You rise when you think him firm enough in your grasp, carefully lining his cock up with your wet entrance and then easing all the way down onto his base. The thought of performing the very act had kept you damp down there all throughout preparing the meal. So, you share in relishing the feeling of being joined again and full.

“And finish eeeeevery last bite. Nice and slow. Right here in this seat, until I say you can go. Okay?”

The words jumble and tangle on Robby’s tongue like an overgrowth of vines, never quite getting past his lips. One moment he’d settled down, aroused, yes, but mostly incredibly endeared that you’d gone through all this effort just to make sure he’d be taken care of. Now, he’s inside you. You’d put him there, mounted him with a quiet and casual confidence that he’s still reeling from. His mouth feels dirt dry but it’s hard to care when you’re keeping his cock so deliciously warm and wet.

Your arms wrap around his neck next, tucking your chin on his shoulder.

“Go on. Eat”.

The man’s trapped, essentially. Not that he’s opposing. Not one bit.

Pancakes first, Robby pretty much hits reboot as he sticks his fork in and runs his knife through the softness, evenly distributed cuts of salty, chopped bacon in the mixture. “So good”, he comments through a mouthful, chewing well. Hearing it makes you clench around him, pleased and excited. “Yeah? New recipe”, you gleam.

Working his way through the food, he gives you much praise, both about the tasty meal and how good you feel around him. Every few moments you feel him buck up into you too, the kind of thing he can’t help but follow through with despite wanting to be good for you. You feel kind enough not to tease him for it. And when you sense him slowing down, pancakes done and just one more fried egg to go, you make sure to whisper; “Finish it all and I’ll let you finish inside me”.

Just like that the man’s vigor is replenished with comical swiftness, stuffing the last half of the egg into his mouth, swallowing once he’s chewed through it well enough. Clearly eager for his reward, he grabs the still hot mug of coffee despite knowing better, bringing it to his lips and practically chugging it down.

“Don’t burn yourself! I’m not driving you to the center to be a patient. Or would you like to explain to your colleagues exactly how you singed yourself?”, you reprimand him though you’re not surprised one bit when you feel his cock kick up and twitch inside you at that.

“Oh yeah? You’d like that, huh? Want to tell them how your girl dolled up and dressed down for you? Then sat on your cock while you filled up on what I made for you? Hm? Dirty old man”, you chide, teasingly taking his earlobe between your teeth and biting lightly.

Setting the empty mug down a little harder than necessary with a loud clink, Robby gulps down the contents, a thin rivulet of caffeine making its way through his beard as his hands coming to fix on your ass.

“All done. Do I get my reward now?”

You can’t help but giggle at this particular type of raw eagerness in a man of his age.  

“Yup. You’ve earned it”, you pull away from where you’d had your face tucked between his neck and shoulder, making eye contact with him again since he’d taken his first bite. Without another word, you press your feet to the ground and begin to bounce in his lap.

Robby helps, hands strong on your ass. One of them is still warm from clutching the hot mug of coffee he’d swigged down, pulling you down hard to his base with every bounce.

“Never skipping a meal again. Any of them. Breakfast, lunch, dinner- fucking brunch even. Not if I’ve got you like this in my lap”, he grunts and groans through the silky drag of your walls around his cock like it’s the first time he’s ever felt it.

“Oh fuck…oh fuck…oh f-fuck.”

You chase your own pleasure too, grinding the bead of your clit against him with a fluid roll and snap of your hips.

“Robby, baby, I love you so much. Just want you to take b-better care of yourself, okay?”.

It’s the plain, honest core of the sexy little routine you’ve introduced to him today. That desperate consideration for him, the kind he’s never known from anyone else, is what sends him over the edge, a splash of heat shooting inside you, thick and plentiful.

In the midst of it you shudder through the shaky, pulsing wave of your own release when it hits, trembling and whining in his lap.

“Promise…promise I’ll do better. For both of us.”

The words come seconds after, settling on you like some sort of years long-awaited closure.

“Good. That’s all I want. For you to keep trying”, you reply truthfully.

Resting, your head against his shoulder again, arms around his neck, you cuddle into Robby as he rubs sweetly at your back. Giggles are exchanged as he pulls at the edges of your apron, wondering where you’d got it and when and if you might consider trying out a few more designs and colors going forward. Charged to his card, of course.

 The playful banter softens a little after that as your tired bodies slump into each other, wordlessly recuperating before it’ll be time to pull his spent cock free from you and separate. He’s only got 20 minutes left before he’ll need to leave for work. As another surprise you’ve even got a proper lunch packed and ready for him. You’re keen to hand it to him before he’s out the door and then, later, you’ll decide on what you’ll be making for dinner. The silence lasts a little over a minute, a pleasant pause before coming to an end when he speaks up.

When a sleepy Robby came to you one morning, head nestled in the crook of your neck as you poured coffees for him and yourself, and asked what you knew about somnophilia and free use, you resolved to check his search history - not in some overbearing, sneaking, nosy way, it just hadn’t occurred to you that your boyfriend knew anything about new age pornography, and this had admittedly thrown you - the second he left for work.

You hadn’t known what to say in the moment, the sun was only just starting to seep through the slits in the curtains with a slow, sleepy good morning, the birds barely beginning to chirp, too early even for them to make any commotion, and you were feeling much the same.

You asked Robby to give you the day to think it over, not wanting to answer straight away purely out of some need to appease him, or to immediately oppose the idea before actually giving it some thought. He obliged you with a soft, measured on the lips and a murmured take your time, and then he left for work.

His iPad was easy enough to find. A staggering thirteen inches, encased in what you could only describe as military grade armour. The case was a giant fucking brick shithouse, just in case I drop it, had been his excuse in the store.

The device was nestled neatly into his bedside drawer, not covered or hidden in plain sight, in the way you might imagine, but right at the top amongst the rest of the items in the dresser, resting, like it was waiting to be found.

You bit your thumbnail now, a nasty habit, but you allowed yourself the comfort as you contemplated the ethics of breaking into your boyfriend’s iPad to scour for porn. You resolved yourself and picked up the giant tablet, innocuous on the outside, resembling something a grandad might have to play online community poker on, and unlocked it.

The old fuck didn’t even have the device password protected, so the iPad simply unlocked as you swiped with the pad of your thumb. You scoffed to yourself, rolled your eyes at the unbridled confidence of this man, the sheer arrogance, to leave something like this lying around. You blatantly ignored the facts - that the iPad was literally in a drawer, hidden away from prying eyes - yours, in this case.

You found it somewhat comforting, and generally a good sign, that the screen didn’t immediately open to hardcore porn, where he could have scrounged up some otherwise untapped kink. You checked the volume on the device anyway, just to be safe, not wanting to be on the receiving end of some pornographic jump scare.

Sighing softly, you start with his photos. You find nothing unkempt in there, nothing debeaucherous in nature. He must have his phone’s camera roll linked to the iPad because you find cute photos that he’s taken of you, and occasionally him, or the both of you, on breezy weekend mornings spent on walks and breakfast dates; hazy nights you don’t remember in bars and clubs, all reflected back at you now.

You tap on a particularly cute selfie Robby had taken, your arms strewn over his shoulders from behind and head peaking over - your mascara is streaked and your foundation smudgy, but you look happy, and he looks ecstatic, in an unguarded way that knocks the air from your lungs.

Fucking guy, you grumble wetly, sending the photo to yourself before returning to the camera roll.

You scroll a while longer, finding nothing promiscuous, save for photos you had sent him, early on in your relationship. You note to yourself to take more, the idea of Robby having taken the time to save your photos to pore over later, had affected you more than you would have liked.

Stray fingers accidentally tap a video, and it feels almost like you’ve struck gold. Not wanting to linger, and already feeling compromised that you’re invading Robby’s privacy, you only give yourself a few seconds to absorb the scene unfolding in front of you, to really take stock of what you’ve just encountered.

It’s Robby, recording on his phone, and he looks so sweet and cozy soft, bundled up in an old hoodie and grey sweats (whore), talking to the camera about something. You leave the volume muted, and fast forward the video a bit. Decidedly, you’ve skipped too far, or maybe you’re watching a different video entirely - you’re not, you checked - because the video now shamefully plays a naked Robby, holding up his iPad displaying a nude you sent him on full screen brightness, violently fisting his cock through callused fingers.

It undoes you, honestly.

You close the app, feeling a little too bothered for someone whose initial mission was to find their partner’s spank bank.

Your phone dings, a message from Robby lighting up the screen. Fuck, he knows, the irrational voice in your head screams. You unlock your phone to alleviate your fears.

Big daddy 😛😩: Don’t forget to eat today, there’s leftovers in the fridge. I love you 🥰

The message lights you up on the inside, warms your core and spreads outward like honey.

You: worry abt yourself, big daddy. I love u too

His reply comes instantly.

Big daddy 😛😩: Honey, don’t tell me that is still my contact name in your phone…

You: fine, I won’t tell you that

Big daddy 😛😩: What am I going to do with you…

You: decisions, decisions. go save some lives before i tell jack ur sexting me on the clock again

You grin, watching the three dots cycle as he probably very vigorously types a response.

Big daddy 😛😩: I think I owe Santos an apology. Should’ve known the leak was my little brat. Be a good girl until I get home x

You ignore his message, unlocking the iPad again and opening his Youtube app. He’s old! Maybe he thinks that’s where people go to get their rocks off.

Your phone dings again.

Big daddy 😛😩: I feel like you’re pointedly ignoring my message, which never bodes well for me

Big daddy 😛😩: Be a good girl or I’m not letting you sit on my face for a week

Big daddy 😛😩: A month

Big daddy 😛😩: Three months

You: WHOA WHOA WHOA

Big daddy 😛😩: There she is

You: didn’t realise this shit was internment camp. no need to bring out the big guns, big daddy

Big daddy 😛😩: I love you too, baby

You scoffed at his message, the sound fizzles out when another one comes through. No written word this time though, it’s a video attachment. You open it hastily, eager to see what he’s deemed important enough to send to you in the middle of the day.

In the video, Robby’s standing in the bathroom as far as you can tell, recording himself in front of the mirror, but you think it might be in one of the on-call rooms, for privacy, you guess. You pitch forward in interest.

“Hi, baby,” Robby’s voice crackles through your phone speakers, you feel yourself grin.

“Just wanted to give you a little something as uh… motivation, to behave until I get home, yeah?” His tone has that teasing lilt to it, the one that renders you completely fucking useless, putty in his strong, capable hands.

He pans the camera down, not letting you see the smug curve of his mouth, you feel its sure presence nonetheless, especially as he halts the camera's movement on his arm and pauses to roll up the sleeve of his hoodie. Fuck.

His forearm’s all tanned skin, prominent veins, and corded muscle underneath it, not from any strenuous exercise routine, but from years of heaving and lifting and saving lives. You salivated at the sight, and held in a whimper as he flexed, just for you.

“You like when I do that, huh, baby…. Yeah… My girl loves watching my forearm flex when I’ve got my fingers curling inside her sweet little cunt,” Robby taunts you mockingly through the camera. You pant uselessly, helpless to his teasing.

His fingers trace down his clothed tummy, not stilling until his hand is resting over his thickening bulge.

“Don’t have long, sweetheart, probably not gonna be able to give you much more of a show… Can already hear people asking where I am,” Robby sighs, and encloses his fingers around his engorged cock.

He chokes on an unfettered groan, and then the video cuts out.

You type out a frustrated little message, fingernails clacking against the screen hard enough to be audible.

You: ur actually unwell and I’m putting you in a nursing home tomorrow

Big daddy 😛😩: Don’t be like that, sweetheart 🤭 Big daddy’s going to take such good care of you tonight x

You: dont big daddy me

Big daddy 😛🤭: Why, is it working?

You: oh gotta go jacks calling me bye

Big daddy 😛🤭: He just text me “Paris is closed this time of year”. Wonder what that could mean

You: Paris is never closed, big daddy. open your heart to baguettes, two of ‘em, big and throbbing from all the cheese

Big daddy 😛🤭: Ignoring you now. How the tables have turned

You set your phone down and slide it across the room.

Having cleared Youtube, mostly on account of it being all of your videos in the recent history, you close the app. You try the calculator app, lest it be one of those fake calculator apps that’s actually a locked vault for porn, and come up empty.

God, you even try weather, Apple TV, maps, stocks, the goddamn apps store, notes. It all comes up empty.

You brave safari, which you kept for last, as a large part of you suspected it to be the culprit. But unless he was deleting his tabs and clearing his history after visiting the adult sites - you doubted it, considering he could barely work an air fryer - you were unable to find any trace of what you’d been looking for. The app came up clean as a whistle.

You huff at the state of your failing reconnaissance mission, not having found anything, save for the accumulation of honeyed slick in your panties.

You’re about to give up entirely, resign to the fact that maybe somnophilia and free use found Robby through the unmitigated determination of vibrational energy, or maybe he dreamed up the concept and named them himself, in the original Latin, just to provoke you, when the iPad gets an iMessage notification from Jack Abbot.

Snapping your eyes shut, you will yourself to exercise some self-control. When that immediately doesn’t work, you scold yourself and Robby for being so lax with you. The man would let you get away with murder, frankly. He likes to think of himself as a strict dom, some kind of rule enforcer, a keeper of order in all manners. In all likelihood, he’d probably coo at you about the mess you made, tell you to go wait for him in the bedroom while he made it all go away, and then come upstairs, all clean, and make you come apart on his tongue for your troubles.

You tap on the notification, and immediately snap down the keyboard, lest either one of the two men see that the device is typing, or both, really.

Jack’s message is innocuous enough.

Abbot: You talk to her about it?

Robby’s reply comes through straight away.

You: She said she’s thinking it over, but I already know it’s going to be a yes.

Abbot: What makes you so sure?

You: She’s never said no to a sex thing before.

Abbot: Getting fucked in your sleep is a little different, brother.

You: Why are you so worried?

Abbot: I’m always worried about you, freak. You might get a herniated disk or pop a hip when you wake up to your girl riding you.

You: Fuck off, how’s your sex life going?

Abbot: Mila says hi 😀

You: Please stop calling your left hand, Mila 💀

Abbot: Christina also says hi

You: I’m going to block you

Alright, that was enough of that.

Of course, of course Jack Abbot had been the one responsible for bringing new kinks into your home.

You set the iPad back in Robby’s drawer, hoping it was placed exactly the same way you had found it, and then took yourself downstairs to heat up yesterday’s leftovers.

—————————————————————————

When Robby comes home at the end of the day, it’s kind of like when the air conditioning in your house finally kicks into gear, like the unit’s been stalling for a while, preparing for one final moment to whoosh into action.

You feel his presence, like a warm caress of air after a cold, red-tipped nose-running kind of day, and your body rushes to him like a magnet to true north before your brain even realises you’re moving.

“Hi, baby—“ Robby greets you, exhaustion etched in the crinkles around his eyes and in the firm set of his mouth, but his voice is soft, always so gentle with you.

You wrap your arms around his neck and thread your fingers together while burying your nose into the corner where his shoulders and neck meet.

Robby had told you the correct term for the body part on many occasions, ones exactly like this one.

He knew as sure as rain that your cute little nose would go sniffing him out in that exact spot after a day spent apart, like you physically needed him to recentre yourself, allowing yourself to fall into baser instincts to do it. Despite this, you refused to commit the term to memory, referring to it cheesily as your happy place.

You inhale his skin now, taking in the woody, masculine scent of his soap, the sharp chemical twang of antiseptic, and the residual scent of musky, sweat-dried skin. It all mixed together in your brain headily like soup, Robby soup. Your insides turned gooey at finally having him back in your arms.

“Missed you,” you sigh into his throat, taking in his scent unabashedly like a newborn puppy.

Robby lets out a soft chuckle, sets his backpack on the floor so his hands are free. He uses the newfound access to both hands to lift you into his arms and stalk toward the couch, you wrap your legs around him like muscle memory, stamping along his neck, throat and shoulder with wet, slobbering kisses.

“D’you have a good day?” Robby asks, more to himself, to fill the silence, while you drink in your fill of him.

Mm, is all he gets in response, sighing as you nip and suck at his collar bone, tongue laving over the marks you leave, attempting to soothe the irritated skin.

He’d long forgone questioning this routine of yours. You needed physical contact after being away from him for 14 hours (at least) like you needed oxygen.

This maybe went a bit deeper than that, but Robby was more than happy to oblige the way you doted on him like a mother lion to her cub. It felt like devotion, was the thing, to you and to him, and once Robby realised this, and accepted it, the better it became.

It wasn’t inherently sexual, although the rapidly swelling cock in his scrubs may have begged to differ, but sex had never resulted from this act. That always came later, but never from this. You’d told him it was kind of like grounding to you - where some people recited 5 things they could see hear touch feel taste, others splashed themselves with ice water; you sniffed, licked, mawed, bit, sucked, nipped, and rutted at your boyfriend until you whetted your whistle, got your fill of him, whatever it was.

You finally collapsed against his chest after a while, having tired yourself out from your exertions.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” Robby murmured softly, lips pecking along your scalp.

“Yeah,” you answered, a little gruffly.

“You hungry?” You ask, a moment later, like you’re coming back to yourself. Robby says something noncommittal. Sure. In a minute. Which you know means Yes please, I’m sooo hungry but am being really polite about it. You have ten minutes before I’m a different person.

You wedge your body apart from his, having had the unwelcome reminder that your limbs and his are altogether separate, two beings in two bodies, no matter how hard you try to fuse yourself to him, and make your way into the kitchen, smiling to yourself as you hear Robby trailing behind you.

It wasn’t until Robby was clearing plates off the table, wiping down surfaces and loading the dishwasher, when he finally asks, “d’you have time to think about what I asked you this morning?”

You clack your nails against the oak of the table, subconsciously building suspense while you internally construct what you want to say. Robby knows you, knows you take time to process questions so that you can provide thoughtful answers, unless you’re being a jackass - this seems to be reserved almost exclusively for him, and Jack.

You clear your throat.

“Uh huh, and I have two questions.”

Robby turns to look at you, accusingly points a dish brush at you.

“You? Have questions? No way,” he says in mock disbelief.

You ignore his teasing. “One, how did you come across somno?”

Robby huffs a laugh. “Somno, huh? Didn’t realise I was dealing with a refined pervert here.”

You raise a taunting brow at him. A smouldering yes you did, now answer the question set into the perfectly waxed arch. He rolls his eyes.

“Jack read something about it in an article, told me about it, then heavily suggested that since only one of us was actively having sex, that we should try it out and report back to him for… research purposes,” Robby supplies honestly, although a little unhelpfully.

“Right, so we’re having sex now… to sate Jack’s scientific curiosities….” Robby sighs.

“Don’t say it like that, it makes it sound bad,” the older man complains. You laugh.

“Two, have you thought about the mechanics of this? Would you be waking me up, would I be waking you up?” You ask, attempting to move the conversation along before you both got bogged down by the idea that you were resolving to the idea of fucking because Jack asked, because he wanted to know what it felt like.

It was verging on dangerous territory.

“I don’t like the idea of waking you up… like that. It doesn't feel right. I probably won’t change my mind on this, please don’t ask me to. So, I think you should wake me up. Because I would be overjoyed to wake up inside you. That’s like… going to Disneyland.”

You giggle fondly.

“My pussy is equivalent to Disneyland?”

“Happiest place on Earth,” Robby laughs, wiggling jazz hands at you.

Robby falls asleep before you, cradling you like an emotional support plushy in his arms. Before you also succumb to sleep, you flick out one final message to Jack Abbot.

You: pervert

His reply appears instantly.

Winter soldier leg 😵‍💫: bless you, though I think the correct term is gezundheit

You: trust you will be dealt with, Abbot

Winter soldier leg 😵‍💫: im feeling so sleepy all of a sudden 🥱

You: I hear Mila is lovely this time of year

Winter soldier leg 😵‍💫: …who is Mila

You: you tell me 🤨

Winter soldier leg 😵‍💫: I think we all need to work on our boundaries

You: too late. night freak

Winter soldier leg 😵‍💫: night crawler*

You: night, freak*

Winter soldier leg 😵‍💫: goodnight, sweet cheeks

————————————————————————

A few nights later, Robby’d been tuckered out from a long day, and had passed out around 9. Too early for you, as you were something of a night owl.

You hadn’t joined him initially, and this greatly vexed him, a whined need my girl in my arms otherwise I can’t sleep leaving his lips when you had fought his grabby hands from around your waist. Clearly, exhaustion had won out over his stubbornness, as you heard the soft rumble of his snores after 10 minutes - at the absolute maximum.

You’d tried to watch a movie, got bored mostly, eyes darting up the stairs to your slumbering boyfriend, God, when did you get so needy, and then got engrossed in your phone. By the time you looked up, it was well after 1am.

Robby had the day off tomorrow, he had told you over dinner slyly. You had nodded, mouthful of noodles, as if he’d just told you something innocuous like I had a muffin for lunch today or someone got towed for parking in the ambulance bay. He changed the subject after that, seemingly not finding the answer he’d been looking for.

But sitting here alone, you realise that he may have been hinting at you that he wanted to try out the sleep sex thing tonight.

The thought has you a little dizzy, heat recirculates through your body directly and repurposes itself to your core like a zap, your clit throbs in anticipation. You realise very quickly that you’re going to have to do all of the grunt work to get yourself ready, something you haven’t had to do, as Michael lemme do it wanna take care of you, honey Robinavitch hadn’t allowed you to in, well, ever.

You mentally scold yourself for becoming so reliant on a man to give you your own pleasure, and then open your phone again. You’ll have a self care night and rediscover self-pleasure in a meditative, slow way another time. Right now, the pulsating of your clit hits so intensely you feel like it might burst from your body and run upstairs, traitorously yet unsurprisingly, to its real owner.

You trace light, teasing fingers along your inner thigh as you pull up some porn video on your phone, ignoring the irony of the situation. With the volume on low, you watch the screen distractedly, moreso using the sound of whimpers and grunts to get yourself off enough to work your cunt open on your fingers.

You gasp as you manage to reach that spot inside of you that usually only Robby can reach, and pull out your fingers, feeling like you’ve sufficiently prepped your pussy to take him.

Righting yourself, you turn off the TV and slink upstairs to bed, toes sinking into the plush carpet as you go. You stall in the doorway, admiring Robby in his sleep. He looks so peaceful, untouched by the harsh realities of the outside world, cocooned by sleep and warm blankets, you almost don’t want to interrupt him.

He turns over from his belly to his back, unperturbed by your presence, you can’t help but interpret the action like it’s an invitation.

An idea comes to you all at once. It might err on the side of depravity, you think, and if Robby doesn’t approve then you’ll delete it, but you have this little demon on your shoulder telling you that it’ll be fine, and so you resign to it. Fishing your phone from your pocket, you open your camera and start recording after positioning it on your nightstand.

The shot isn’t cinematic by any means, but it’s… viewable. The angle is fine. It works.

Climbing onto the bed, you crawl on all fours until you’re perched on his lap. He sighs in his sleep, like your weight was the missing puzzle piece and he could finally rest. You muffle a laugh with the palm of your hand, and slide the blanket down, tucked beneath Robby’s balls, with the other.

You rest your palm over the crotch of his sweats, rubbing along the length of his flaccid cock. It twitches in interest, but doesn’t get any harder. Huffing under your breath, because you’re not used to this happening. Robby is almost always hard in your presence - his cock standing to attention like the royal guard, rigid and stiff-backed at all hours, ready to strike with a moment’s notice.

You slip your thumbs under the waistband of his sweats and tug them down as well. While not hard, his cock flips up against his tummy, landing with a soft plap. Leaning forward on your perch, you drool a string of spit down onto his tip, moreso for the camera, the red dot on your phone feeling more like a stage light than a signal that you’re being recorded, urging you to perform to a captivated audience.

You wrap soft, manicured fingers around his slick tip, smearing your spit and his pre over the bulbous head until it was sticky with it. His cock fills a bit now, blood rushing from other areas of his body to supply his growing erection. You can’t fight your smile as his cock swells in front of you, feeling a little too proud of yourself, as though you’d brought Frankenstein’s monster to life, rather than your boyfriend’s penis.

Robby grumbles softly, but doesn’t wake. You spit into your hand before wrapping a gentle fist around his dick again, stroking up and down the shaft with intentional care, not forgetting to flick your wrist as you near the tip. Robby’s hips rut subconsciously into your touch, you coo and hold his hips down with a hand over his stomach, soothing him back to sleep.

Deciding he’s fully erect enough now, based on the way his cock throbs and jerks in your hand, you pull your sleep shorts to the side and position his cock at your weeping hole, sweeping his tip through your slick cunt to soak him a little more before he fucks you… or you fuck him.

You sink down on his tip, shuddering an exhale as he breeches your hole. You clench once, twice, inhale deeply and then breathe out steadily as you sink down to the base of Robby’s cock.

“Shit,” you whimper, the fullness taking you by surprise, you weren’t much of a cowgirl kind of girl, preferring to be on your back, or on your knees, or all fours, or any position Robby could manhandle you into, really.

You just didn’t like being on top, and he would never push you to do it.

But here, now, with Robby crossing the lines between conscious and unconscious, your pussy gushing and aching to be filled, and your phone recording the two of you, you have no choice but to put on your big girl pants and ride your boyfriend’s fat cock.

Your slick leaks lewdly out of your cunt and drips down, coating the hairs at the base of Robby’s cock. You ignore the thatch of gooey pubic hair even as it tickles your clit, trying to focus on the undulating rise and drop of your hips against Robby’s.

You’re so focused, actually, brows furrowed in concentration, sweat building on the tip of your nose, that you don’t notice Robby’s stirring. You let out a pornographic moan as his tip smacks your cervix, rutting faster at the same depth to try and emulate the motion at a more consistent rate.

Robby huffs a soft laugh, grabs the plush fat of your ass as it bounces up and down on his cock.

“Well, good mornin’ to me,” he says smugly, alerting you to his presence.

“hnnnng, morning, daddy,” you whine, the pace a little too exerting on you to sustain for much longer.

Robby takes stock of all his bodily functions, for when Jack holds him hostage and presses him for answers regarding sensation and sensitivity and blood flow and… ejaculate quality, or something.

Because his brain’s fuzzy and half asleep still, he’s finding he’s a little slow on the uptake, but his body seems to be moving of its own volition. Sensation is a little water-logged, like he’s being fucked underwater, hot tub sex comes to mind, but for some reason his cock feels super sensitive, in a way he doesn’t recall ever having felt before.

“Just couldn’t wait, could you, baby? Needed daddy’s dick that bad?” Robby taunts, voice retaining that early morning quality, thick and sluggish and gritty.

You babble pathetically, brain turned to mush as Robby’s cock pounds your cunt, both from your riding and his own thrusts, rhythmic in a way that shouldn’t have been possible from his state of consciousness. You supposed that being a doctor had prepared him to be overly competent even while barely awake.

Robby shouts, Fuck, just as you feel his load fill your fluttering cunt. You look down in shock as his cum leaks out around your hole while you continue your ministrations. He hisses, grips your hips to halt your gyrations.

“Too… sensitive, shit.”

You sit atop Robby’s cock, feeling the erection ebb away inside you, his leaked spend starts to dry over your pussy.

“Did you just cum?” You ask, a giggle escapes you.

“I don’t even know how that happened, just came outta nowhere,” Robby huffed in disbelief.

He’d never been a premature ejaculator before, had always prided himself on his stamina and endurance, and didn’t want to start being one now, he had a fucking reputation to maintain - mainly for your sake anyway, and his ego.

“So sexy,” you smile, bending down to peck Robby on the lips. He holds your face to his, two hands cupping your cheeks as he licks at your bottom lip, begging entrance into your mouth.

You pull away, giggling at his groan as you sit back up.

“If I recall correctly, I still haven’t cum,” you frown mockingly.

Robby hums thoughtfully. “We can’t have that now, can we, sugar?”

He rests his hands on your hips, sinks long, thick fingers into the soft, plush skin tightly. You sigh at the claiming touch, relishing in it, when he hefts your body atop his face.

“Robby!” You exclaim, a blush dusting your cheeks.

“You wanna cum or not, huh?” Your smartass reply is effectively interrupted by Robby dropping your cunt down to his mouth. And he makes good on his word.

————————————————————————-

Robby spots your phone first. You’d long forgotten about it after he’d drawn orgasm 3 and then 4 out of you, had forgotten your own name after 5.

He stops the recording, and raises a thick, arched brow at you. “What’s this?”

You look at him, glassy eyed and floaty. “A phone.”

Robby laughs softly, curls you into his side with your head on his chest. He knows you need skin to skin after sex to come down.

“I gathered, baby. Why was it recording?”

You frowned, as if trying to recall, well, anything. “Oh, wanted you to see… ya know? Like, watch the whole thing. You can just delete it if you don’t wanna, s’fine.”

Robby kisses the top of your head. “That’s very thoughtful, sweetheart, thank you. We can watch it later.”

You hum in response. “Could send it to Rabbit too. Jack… Rabbit. No. A—Ra— oh no.”

You sit up, panicked. Robby watches you in amusement. “What is it, honey?”

“I don’t remember… his name,” you choke down sobs, fat globs of tears streaking down your cheeks.

Robby tuts and shushes you, wiping away tears. “You’re fine, baby. You’re fine, just having big feelings cause your body’s coming back to baseline after cumming so many times, you just need to rest, okay?”

You nod wetly. “S’all your fault.”

“I know, I’m the worst,” Robby agrees softly, pulling you to lay back down on his chest.

“We should still send it to Jack,” you say after a while, Robby jolts, having thought you were asleep.

“Whatever you want, honey. Maybe we should wait till the morning, though.”

“Okay, daddy,” you yawn, and then finally fall asleep. Robby goes not long after you.

————————————————————————-

Breakfast passes in almost silence.

It’s not awkward, per se, just loaded.

Robby chalked it up to you still coming down, you sometimes got very pensive and thoughtful after intense sex, not saying much, or anything really.

He sometimes worried that you were worried he was going to leave. It was something you had shared with him in the past, guys would fuck you like they loved you, and then leave, not even bothering with aftercare.

He had assured you that he wasn’t going away, that he loved you, and would spend as many quiet mornings with you as you needed, before you finally realised he was here to stay.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe you wanted him to go away, wanted the space, not knowing how to act with him there, as opposed to the absence.

You were just worried that you had taken advantage of him, even if he’d wanted it, even if it’d been his idea.

“About last night—“ you both started, and then laughed softly.

“I had a great time, if me cumming prematurely wasn’t evidence enough,” Robby says. You scoff lightly.

“I thought that was hot,” you giggle.

“You think everything I do is hot, sweetheart, it doesn’t count.” Robby’s eyes twinkle mischievously.

“Someone’s very sure of himself this morning,” you rebut teasingly.

You move across the table, sitting in Robby’s lap with your phone propped up against his cereal bowl.

“I’m eating that!” He exclaimed, laughter on his tongue.

“Funny, you said that last night too.” He pinched your thigh in response, and you pressed play.

When the video ends, Robby whistles lowly, his head tilted slightly. “I had long suspected it, but we have great sex,” he announces smugly, like he was bragging about a successful surgery, or being proven right in an argument.

You swat his shoulder. “Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not being gross, that was objectively great sex! Should we start an onlyfans?” Robby laughs as you groan, he was definitely being gross, but you liked it.

You send the video to Jack in your group chat with him and Robby.

When you don’t get a response straight away, it’s expected, he’s probably still doing handover with day shift.

You and Robby lay entangled on the couch, you on top with your legs tucked between his, your arms wrapped around his torso. One of his hands trace shapes up and down your spine with skilled fingers, the other playing with your hair, scratching your scalp in the way you love.

At some point, Robby falls asleep, you follow soon after, his slowed heart rate impressioning yours until you drop into a deep sleep on his chest.

There’s a knock at the door. You stir.

Another knock. Robby groans.

Your phones buzz.

Dang Flabbit, It’s Jack Abbot: Hey so it’s actually a well documented, long respected societal expectation that when someone knocks at your door, you answer it.

You: sorry, sleeping. come back never

Dang Flabbit, It’s Jack Abbot: Is that what the kids are calling it these days?

You: wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?

Dang Flabbit, It’s Jack Abbot: I’d like to be let inside so I can yell at both of you for sending me a sex tape during handover.

You: that’s not a sex tape, it’s the conclusion of your scientific research

Robby crankily opens the door, revealing a flushed Jack, arms crossed in a way you always characterised as specific to him.

The action is stern and commanding, intimidating even. It made you feel like a wayward child, an inferior, having to explain your actions to an unimpressed parent or an expectant authority figure. It spoke directly to his experience, his history.

And it was honestly super hot, not that you would ever admit that out loud.

The corner of his mouth tilts up, having caught you staring.

“Since this is for science, we should watch it on the big screen, like scientists,” he says, in lieu of a greeting, managing to sound authoritative and horny at the same time.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a pervert?” You ask pointedly.

“Mila does, on Tuesday’s,” Jack supplies smugly, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

You and Robby both groan.

“Funny, that’s how you both sounded in the 5 seconds I got to watch before Gloria rounded the corner on me… D’you think she heard?” Jack tilts his head inquisitively.

The three of you settled around the couch, leaving next to no space between you. It feels altogether like a prelude, the anticipation sitting amongst the group unsaid, an eager fourth participant taking up largely too much space on the couch. You make a joke about leaving six inches for Jesus, which goes blatantly unanswered, unimpressed faces glaring back at you.

When you try again, a weak, “should I get popcorn?” The bow snaps, Jack lurches forward, and in the blink of an eye you’re pinned to his side, a restrictive, muscular arm around your shoulder holding you in place. Robby watches approvingly. Traitor.

Suddenly sheepish, you press play on the video, feeling like what Gloria does or does not know should stay between her and God.

They were together for a decently long time, they started dating when you were 18 and fresh out of highschool. Making it until your last year of medical school before they ended things. Which made starting your clinical rotations at Robby’s hospital just slightly awkward.

But now you’re 26 and a second year resident in the PTMC ED. However, things were still slightly awkward between the two of you. This was mostly in part because your mom had cheated on him. But the other part was the fact that you had been harboring a massive crush on the man since he had started dating your mom. Something you had told no one but Trinity, who then told Dennis. Who then accidentally let it slip to Javadi who had been with Samira when he said it.

So everyone knew. But everyone also knew that Robby looked at you the same way you did him.

Which meant that when your clearly drunk text came through reading ‘SOS drunc hornyyyy ned ridee’, no one questioned Robby’s immediate response of being on his way. You weren’t sure who responded to your message barely paying attention to names, but you at least saw the response of whoever it was being 5 min out.

Heading out of the dingey building with your arms around your body for any type of heat you could generate you regretted the decision to wait outside. Your jean microskirt, black tank-top, and sheer lace over shirt did nothing to keep you warm. But you sure as hell looked hot. Scoring at least three phone numbers, including one coming from a bartender who’d given you free drinks all night.

And it was that same bartender who was calling your name while walking out to where you stood on the curb now.

“Hey! I saw you standing out here and figured I’d see if you wanted to head out together?” His proximity was way too close for your liking now that you were just wanting to go home.

“Oh uhm, no thank you” you attempted a step back, “a friend is picking me up, I’m sorry”

Whatever distance you gained was instantly lost as he followed closely. Even going as far as grabbing your wrist fairly tightly.

“Oh come on don’t be like that” he scoffed pulling you closer by where he held you, “you’ve been flirting with me all night. You can’t just lead me on like that and not expect me to want something”

His words had sobered you up in record time, words no woman wanted to hear when they were alone on a dark street. The only self defence ideas you had going for you was the fact someone was on their way, and four moves Jack had taught you when you picked up a night shift once.

“Hey look here buddy! I don’t owe you anything asshole-” you didn’t get a chance to finish your sentence before a familiar scent enveloped you from behind, at the same time your arm was freed from the bartender's grip.

“Touch her again and it’ll be the last thing you do I can promise you that” Robby’s voice wasn’t loud, but his tone told the man and everyone around that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Whatever” the bartender was quick to scoff trying to seem unbothered as he shook out his arms, “the bitch isn’t hot enough for this type of effort anyway”

“The fuck did you just say to her!”

You grabbed Robby’s arm in an attempt to stop the situation from going any further. Granted you skidded a few steps in effort but you were able to at least slow him down. But he only stopped at the sound of your soft and slightly wavering voice.

“Michael please, it’s fine I just w-wanna go home” you rarely called him by his first name, so you knew it would grab his attention.

With a reluctant nod he rested a hand at your lower back guiding you to his truck that he had left at the curb. The bright flashing hazard lights caused you to stumble just a bit seeing as you still had a slight wobble to your step. Your body seemingly not as caught up on sobering like your mind had.

Attempting to step up into the truck you felt a sharp tug on the hem of your skirt holding the material down. Now that you were out of the highly stressful situation you were able to process the feeling of confusion. You weren’t exactly sure why Robby out of everyone was here, or how he even knew you needed help getting home in the first place.

“How did you-”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing out here like this?” His sharp words cut you off, “do you know how worried I was when that text came through, and even worse when I tracked your location”

“You still have my location!?”

“That is the least of your goddamn worries right now,” Robby was pissed that much you did know, “and then you had to go and wear nothing but see through strips of fabric out here, you could’ve gotten hurt, you almost did get hurt!”

He wasn’t truly pissed about your clothing choice, you had the freedom to wear whatever you wanted. Robby was just pissed that other people got to see you and touch you like he wanted to. Even now he was trying his hardest not to stare at the way your skirt rode up your thighs, or how your breasts we’re spilling over the confines of your top.

You were his ex’s daughter for god's sake! He shouldn’t be thinking of how your soft skin and pouty lips would feel. Nor should he think about how much better you would be than your mother. But he had, he had thought about you one too many times with his fist tightly wrapped around himself. Imagining it was your hand or mouth around his aching cock choking him down instead.

So he couldn’t help but feel a little overprotective and angry about the situation he found you in. But you didn’t bother fighting back after that, you refused to be scolded like a child. Even though you ended up crossing your arms and slouching like one in his passenger seat. Going as far as to give him the silent treatment while only looking out the window the rest of the ride. Completely ignoring him until you realized the neighborhood he had pulled into was nowhere near your own.

“This isn’t my home” you grumbled, leaning forward to put your address in his GPS. Not getting very far as he slapped your hand away

“Yeah no shit sweetheart, I know where you live and you’re staying at mine tonight”

His sentence barely finished before he pulled into his driveway, reaching over and unbuckling your belt before he hopped out. Your jaw dropped open in disbelief of his curt behavior, one you hadn’t truly experienced outside of the hospital. Pulling out your phone your thumb was poised at the uber app when suddenly your door flew open. Robby stood there with an expectant look on his face.

“I’m not getting out” you refused to move, typing his address into the phone so that you could order a ride.

“Either you get out like a big girl or I make you”

You didn’t believe his words, thinking he wasn’t going to follow through and that he would just give up. But before you could hit submit on your screen, your body was manhandled out of the seat and onto your feet. A large hand gripping your bicep as he pulled you towards his front door before you could get a word out. He all but threw through his door and up to his bedroom before you were able to find the ability to speak.

“What do you think you’re doing!?”

“Take a shower, change, bed”

“You know you’re not with my mom anymore right? You don’t have to play hero with me.” You go to walk past him and out of his room, but Robby stays rooted in the doorway as an immovable statue.

“Do not make me repeat myself kid”

“Kid, seriously? I didn’t ask for your help Dad”

You were pissed that after all this time he still only saw you as a child. A realization that made your attraction to him feel so much more humiliating. But what you failed to notice in your anger was how his jaw clenched and his pupils dilated at the name you called him. No, you were too focused on his choice of words for yourself.

So out of spite you decided to listen to his previous statement, but carried out his request with an attitude. Turning to his closet you began riffling through his drawers. Throwing pieces of clothing on the floor until you found a shirt you wanted. Doing the same with his other drawers until you found a pair of boxers you felt was acceptable.

And Robby just stood there, arms crossed with a hand pinching the bridge of his nose. He was doing his best to keep his eyes on your face and not anywhere else while you bent over. But he just couldn’t help himself when a small strip of red lacy fabric caught his attention. However he quickly averted his eyes when you straightened up and turned towards the bathroom.

Stomping the whole way into his adjacent bathroom you made sure to slam the door closed, rattling the objects on his desk. If he was going to treat you like a child you were going to give him the whole act. You made sure to take an extra long shower. One that had the water running cold and condensation dripping down the mirror, and you used all of his products out of spite (desire). You also might have poured some down the drain so there wasn’t much left.

Stepping out of the now cold water you took the towel you assumed was his and wrapped it around your body, while making your way to his sink where you used his toothbrush. The heat from the shower had helped you sweat out most of the alcohol you had consumed, making you fully aware of the situation you now found yourself in.

You were alone with Robby. Something that you had been actively avoiding since he and your mom broke up. Especially since she had cheated on him and then blamed Robby for her cheating. You never understood your mom. She had a strong, handsome, well established man who treated her well and she just let it slip away. You weren’t surprised though, she was always reckless with her choices not caring who she hurt.

You wouldn’t do that to him, you would make sure he knew how much you wanted him. So with the opportunity all but dropped into your lap, you decided to take it. Drying your hair with the towel, you look at the items of clothing you brought. A worn grey northwestern shirt and a pair of boxers. Slipping on the worn piece of clothing you chose to forgo the boxers and bra before walking out in just his shirt.

Walking out of the bathroom you saw the clothes you had thrown on the floor were already picked up and Robby was nowhere to be found. But your confusion was stopped short when he came through the door carrying Tylenol and a glass of water. An action that had you feeling slightly guilty for being such a brat.

Wordlessly he went to hand you the two objects, and to his surprise instead of grabbing them you tilted your head back and opened your mouth. Robby knew what you wanted only hesitating for just a moment before dropping the two pills in your mouth and tipping the water glass to your lips.

You kept your eyes on his the whole time, watching how his own tracked the movement of your throat as you swallowed. Tracing the path rivulets of water took with his gaze as it dripped from the corners of your mouth. With a sharp inhale of breath through his nose he hurriedly took a step back. Seeming to realize just what you were doing.

But true to your original intentions, you weren’t about to let him go. For every step he took back you took one forward. Right up until his back hit the door and he had nowhere else to go.

“W-what do you think you’re doing? We can’t, c’mon kid you gotta stop” His voice shook just slightly in questioning, rising into mild panic when you dropped to your knees and ran your hands over his body.

“Again with the kid?” You roll your eyes while lifting his shirt up slightly and undoing the button on his bottoms. Nuzzling your face into the thick patch of dark hair that trailed his soft stomach, “relax dad, moms not here anymore and I am not a child”

Pressing featherlight kisses to his now exposed skin, you watched as the bulge at the front of his underwear grew and jump at the name you used once more. Running your nose over the coarse hair, you took a deep inhale before pulling his boxers down. His heavy cock bobbed up when released from the fabric. You paused for just a moment as you studied him. He was bigger than you imagined, his flushed and angry tip was trailed by a large vein that disappeared into dense and unruly curls at his base

“So fucking big dad” Tucking the band behind his balls you wrapped your hand around him while looking up at his face.

Pressing a kiss to his cock, Robby hisses at the sensation clenching his fists to stop himself from pushing you down further. He was almost refusing to look at you, not allowing himself to give in. So you lifted his cock up, making room for you to take his balls into your mouth. Suckling the smooth skin and rolling them around with your tongue.

“Oh fuck, please” you weren’t sure what he was begging for, but you knew he was finally breaking.

Releasing his balls you dragged your tongue, broad and flat, from base to tip in one smooth motion. Running your tongue under the ridge of his cockhead, watching a shudder flow through his body.

“Did mommy ever touch you like this?” You ask wile collecting his leaking precum and spreading it over his length as he shakes his head, “no, I didn’t think so, she never took care of you like I will. I can take it, I’m a big girl now, remember?”

He opened his mouth to reply, whatever thoughts he had quickly dissipated as you finally took him into your mouth. Taking him as far as you could manage, which to his surprise was all the way down until your nose found its way tucked into his coarse hairs once more. Robby couldn’t control how his hands flew up into your hair holding you there as your throat tightened around him when you attempted to swallow.

“Holy fuck, just like that sweetheart”

His hold loosened for you to move off and take a breath, trying his best to let you set the pace. Almost releasing your hair all the way before you moved his hand back into your hair, silently giving him permission to use you.

With both hands now rested against the back of your head he started off slow and shallow. But when your hands that rested on his legs pulled him forward in a jerking motion, he understood what you were telling him. It didn’t take him long to build confidence. Hitting the back of your throat with each thrust, drool leaking from the corners of your mouth.

One of your own hands let go of his legs and came to your throbbing clit. Rubbing tight circles as your cunt clenched around nothing. Moans vibrated from your mouth and onto his throbbing cock pushing Robby close to the edge. He quickly yanked your mouth off with a curse. A small whine left your own mouth from the absence. You went to complain but his hands scooped you from under your armpits and threw you onto the bed.

“Shit sweetheart, you trying to get yourself off while sucking dad’s cock?”

He stepped out of his pants and threw his shirt to the other side of the room, you doing the same with your own. Gripping the back of your thighs Robby lifts your bottom off the bed with a renewed fervor he didn’t have before. A moment passed of Robby just taking in the sight of your glistening cunt before leaning forward and sucking your clit into his mouth with deadly accuracy.

“Oh fuck Robby! Just like that !” A cry sounded around the room as he pulled off and gave a stinging slap to your puffy cunt.

“Don’t call me Robby, not now, not after you’ve been playing out your little fantasy this whole time”

“M’sorry, p-please don’t stop!”

“Then what do we say sweetheart?” Robby caressed the back of your thighs with his hands as he waited for your answer.

“I-I’m sorry dad”

You watched with wide eyes as he smirked in approval before spitting onto your clit. Taking two fingers to spread it around, and plunging those same fingers into your entrance with no warning. The absurd squelching noise that came from where he shoved his fingers into you made your cheeks bright red.

“All this for me?” Robby’s words were followed by the crook of his fingers, as he watched your cunt greedily swallow his fingers “such a dirty girl, practically begging her dad to fuck her. What would your momma say if she could see you now?”

You shook your head playing into the idea of getting caught, Robby chuckled watching you. Leaning forward he placed his mouth on your clit once more. His beard adding a delicious friction to your already sensitive skin. The combination of his movements had your impending orgasm building at lightning speed. He was hitting a spot you could never reach yourself, over and over again.

With your toes curled and hands twisted into the sheets, an unfamiliar feeling followed the tight flutter of your walls. You didn’t think much of it assuming it was because you hadn’t been with someone in a while. But by the squirm of your body, Robby knew exactly what was happening. Doubling down in his efforts he was the only one not surprised by the rush of fluid that coated his tongue and beard when your orgasm finally took over.

You on the other hand had no idea what just happened. At the first release of your peak, pleasure had completely overtaken your senses and ability to process your surroundings. So when you felt an obscene amount of wetness soak your thighs, all you could do was let out the most pornographic moan you had ever made. Mouth babbling nonsense as Robby kept fingering you. Not stopping until he felt your cunt relax around his hand.

Slipping his fingers out he set them into his mouth and licked them clean, savoring the taste. You however, were already halfway fucked dumb laying silent on the bed in an attempt to catch your breath. But before you could fully get comfortable Robby gripped your hips and flipped you onto your front. Arching your back as he manipulated your knees under you. Feeling his fingers trace your sensitive and overstimulated flesh your body tried to pull away.

“Ah ah ah, you’re the one who wanted to be treated like a big girl, but after only one orgasm you’re already falling asleep?” he chastised your behavior as you struggled to keep your eyes open, “gotta stay awake if you’re going to prove you can take it”

“Please d-dad, I-I can d-do it” your words were hiccuped and sluggish as they left your lips.

“Then take a nice big breath for me sweetheart”

Notching his cock at your cunt, as soon as he heard your lungs fill with air Robby pushed the entirety of his length into you. Smirking at the sound of that same air leaving your lungs at the impact. You had never felt so full before. He was bigger than any other partner you’ve had and you were struggling to hold onto your sanity.

Robby, noticing your intense focus, pulled back until only his tip rested inside you. Letting you catch a false sense of security before thrusting his cock back into you. Doing this a handful of times before creating a consistent deep and brutal pace.

“Feel so fucking good baby,” the new endearment slipped from his lips, “so much better than your mom, taking me better than she ever could”

Your cunt clenched at his words, choking his cock as he bullied it through your walls. His thick cockhead pressing against your cervix with each thrust, almost painfully so. But you were determined to show him that you could handle it. Robby knowing just how much you wanted to prove yourself pushed just a little harder than normal.

With one hand at your hip and the other pressing between your shoulder blades, he created a deep arch in your spine. Your noises were muffled by the mattress with every thrust, but just when you were starting to get comfortable in this position Robby once again effortlessly maneuvered your body. This time ending up on your back once more, but this time with both legs hooked over his shoulders.

Barely getting a breath in before sinking himself into your heat. This new position had you swearing that you felt him in your stomach. Low moans clawed their way up your throat as words were unable to form under the sheer pleasure that filled your body. Each snap of his hips sent a lewd reverberating smack throughout the room as his balls hit your bottom

“Would you look at that, poor thing can barely fit me but you’re doing so well sweetheart” his tone was slathered in honey but still slightly condescending.

You didn’t understand what he meant until he set a hand at your lower stomach, as he pressed down just slightly there was an increase in the pressure you felt as he fucked up into you. Peeking your eyes open you saw what he was so mesmerized with. A fairly prominent bulge was puffing up in your lower stomach with every single movement.

Throwing your head back, you reached a hand down placing it on top of his. A moment later you felt his pace pause just a moment and the stretch of your thighs pulled as he leaned over for just a moment. Eyes screwing shut while his cock pressed against the deepest part it could reach as you heard him grab something. You didn't think much of it before he resumed his movements, restarting at a rougher pace.

“Tell me how good you feel right now” Robby’s voice rattled around your otherwise empty brain.

“S’good, feels s’good”

“Now tell me, fuck, whose the only one who can touch you like this from now on”

“Y-you dad, o-only you” the clench of your cunt began building as your second orgasm crept up. Robby angling his hips to bullying that one spot he knew would have you waking the neighbors.

“That’s right baby, and your gonna let dad fuck a baby into you aren’t you? Give your momma a grandkid with her ex”

A resounding ‘yes please’ came in a high pitched mewl, as his words were paired with the start of a thumb circling your clit at the same pace his cock was moving.

“Open your eyes and say it to the camera baby”

Your eyes flew open watching how he moved the phone from where it had been recording the slick movements of his cock up to your face. That was the exact moment that your body decided to tip over the edge. Seizing up every single moral you could’ve possibly held onto and threw it out the window.

“Yes please, I want dad to give me a baby so bad!” Your sentence was spoken straight to the camera as he zoomed in.

He held it there for just one moment before setting it to the side while still recording. Grabbing your hips with both hands he brought your hips back to meet his thrusts. Your mouth hung open in a silent ‘o’ as his motions prolonged your orgasm. You were on the verge of tears when he finally let out a graveled grunt.

“Fuck baby! That’s it keep squeezing just like that ” he pressed forward bending you in half before seizing your lips with his for the first time that night. You felt the white hot ropes of his cum coat your walls as he lets out his own noises, letting them get swallowed up in your kiss.

Pressing himself deep as his hips continued with shallow thrusts, lips never leaving yours. Swiping his at the seam of your mouth you opened up, tasting the slight tang left over from yourself on his tongue. It was a long time before either of you came up for air. And an even longer time before he shut off the recording and went to grab a warm damp cloth from the bathroom.

After cleaning the both of you up, Robby settled in beside you promising to talk more in the morning about what this means. He made mention of how he didn’t deserve you, how it was wrong for him to do this and he should be the better example. Shushing his doubts, you told him that no one would have to know. The two of you fell asleep not long after that.

However, you had woken up at around 3am to the sound of soft snores leaving Robby's lips and the low volume of the tv in the living room. Getting an idea you sat up you searched for his phone. Unlocking it you saw how the old man didn’t have a lock on it, so you didn’t feel bad when you rifled through his photos and sent yourself the video he took.

“I promise to keep you safe, my love,” Baelor placated kindly, cupping your cheek and pulling you in close to press a soft kiss to your forehead. You preened at the attention, smiling at the coarseness of his beard against your skin, and you reached out to splay your hands over his sides, holding him close and taking deep breaths of his wonderfully spicy scent.

“It is not you keeping me safe that I worry about,” you replied in a mumble, nuzzling your nose against his chest before pulling back and glancing at the pretty steed standing calmly a few paces away, saddled and ready. “But rather my own clumsiness and the unknown actions of the creature that worry me.” 

Baelor huffed a chuckle at that, shaking his head just slightly before pressing another kiss to the top of your head and pulling away, leading you to the horse and calmly petting at the mare’s face and neck, cooing to her. You felt almost jealous. He petted and spoke to you that way. But you refrained from making a comment for you feared how teasing he might be at your jealousy over a horse… 

“She is calm and gentle,” he cooed, petting over her neck one more time before patting the saddle and looking back at you. “She will do well for your first horseback ride, do not fret. And I will be with you every step of the way, that I promise you.” 

You finally nodded, walking over and gently offering your flat palm to the horse. She stamped her hooves a little, but then settled once more, bending her head to snuffle at your palm. You giggled softly at the ticklish feeling, whispering to her that she was a good girl before passing your hand over her silky mane and neck. Baelor allowed you a few moments of this, watching you carefully grow your bond and trust with the horse before nudging his head toward her saddle once more. “Alright,” you sighed, “alright, alright,” nodding before stepping up and waiting for him to guide you. 

“I shall do the heavy lifting for today,” he said simply, before grasping you by the waist and hoisting you up into the air. You clenched your mouth tight to stifle your squeal, hurriedly grasping onto the saddle before you went toppling over the other side. He chuckled, pressing one of your legs to the side before telling you to swing the other around carefully. He held you at the waist as well, watching with keen eyes as you did what he said. You clung tight to the saddle, heart pounding, feeling too far off the ground. 

“Well sat,” he praised, patting your thigh once before telling you to scooch forward. He made sure your feet were far forward from the stirrups before he hooked his foot in and hoisted himself quickly onto the horse behind you. You gasped again as the mare naturally shifted forward a little, but Baelor was already well situated behind you, his cloak gathered properly just behind him. 

Your eyes fluttered a little as you leaned back into him, shivering at the pleasured hum he let out. You could feel it, could feel him, right against you, all around you it seemed. He was warm, as he always was, but it felt the way it did when he engulfed you in bed. Yes, that was the right word, engulf. You were engulfed in him. His arms had come around you to hold onto the reins, caging you in with all the muscle. You felt you did not pay enough attention to the muscle of his arms. Firm from wrist to elbow, veined, swathes of tan skin, fine black hairs, so perfect to hold you, to lift you, to just wrap around you. 

Baelor clicked his tongue and gently nudged the horse forward, his hips naturally shifting against your behind, and you gripped the edge of the saddle a little tighter. His scent, whatever spicy mix from Dorne that he still favoured, seemed to stick to your mouth, nose, and tongue, inescapable in a pleasurable way. You would not want to be anywhere else. 

You could feel his stomach and chest against your back, pushing and pulling with every breath and the natural roll of his body from years of practiced horseriding. He was firm there too of course, though his stomach had softened with age, it was all still the tightly packaged body of a warrior. Oh but he was your warrior. A pleasant shiver went down your spine at the thought. 

“Are you cold, dearest?” He leaned down and asked, his hot breath whispering over the shell of your ear, over the softness of the lobe. 

You almost felt mad for a moment. Had you become one of those people, sex-crazed, thinking of nothing but this? But you knew it was only because of Baelor. You would not feel half this way for anyone else. It was simply him, his presence and his closeness, that sent you mad in this way. 

“No, not cold, dearest,” you responded in a fluttery voice, smiling softly to yourself. He hummed simply, nudged the side of your head with his nose, pressed a kiss to your temple that made you warm all over, then leaned back to focus on the ride once more. 

You stayed silent for a little while, enjoying the simple motions of the horse beneath you, the beautiful scenery of the Godswood around you. The birds chirped, the sun filtered through the leaves, and Baelor’s soft breaths brushed the back of your head. 

“Do you understand the beauty of a ride now?” He finally asked in a whisper, utterly contented. 

“I do, but it is not because of the horse,” you answered teasingly, turning your head just so to smirk at him. 

“Oh?” He asked quizzically, though his eyes shined. He raised an eyebrow at you, “do elaborate.” You just giggled at first. 

“I do not wish to be indelicate,” you mumbled, still giggling around the words. 

“Oh dearest, but I wish you to be indelicate,” he retorted, shifting in his seat a little just so he was pressed even closer to you. The thought hit you that he must be perfectly nested against the plush of your behind. Your insides went hot. 

“Hm, well, let me simply say that it is because of the rather handsome man sat very close behind me,” you continued, biting your lip at the flattery. 

“Do go on about the handsome man,” he nudged, pressing his chest even firmer against you, but you dissolved into a fit of giggles, curling into yourself with your laughs. Baelor wrapped his arm around you at the waist and held you tight to himself, chuckling lightly at your antics. 

You straightened up and leaned back into him, relaxing your body and sighing, when he bent his head down and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Innocent enough. Then another, a little higher up, his lips creeping toward the collar of your riding coat and tunic. Then another, now half his mouth was perched on the skin, warm and just a little wet where he had licked his lips. A shiver went through you, a tingling arising right at the spot where he kissed you. You were not laughing anymore. 

Again he kissed you, this time on the neck, properly, your braids giving him ample space to mouth at your neck. His breath was warm there against the wetness of his saliva, and his teeth nipped, softly at first, then a little more forceful. You gasped, hands clenching tight on the edge of the saddle, and you pushed back against him. You felt more than heard him grunt, his hand splaying flat to your waist before beginning to traverse your front. 

“Rather adventurous for your first ride,” he mumbled by your ear, tracing his nose against the shell of it, and your eyes fluttered shut, your weight leaning back against him even more. 

The hand not holding the reins carefully undid the front of your riding jacket and slipped inside, splaying against the thin tunic. He traversed his palm and fingers over the fabric, over your tummy and to each side, carefully rubbing there, your skin going warm and tingly despite the barrier of your clothes. You felt hot all over, like you had been laid just high enough above a fire not to burn at its touch but to feel its wrath all the same.  

You panted as his palm went upward, as it cupped your breast through the tunic, as he kneaded it in his palm and fingers and pushed it up a little before releasing it once more. His thumb rubbed over your nipple, back and forth until he was satisfied at the hardness poking through and the way you twitched relentlessly at each electric little swipe. 

“Baelor,” you murmured his name, half moan and half plea, and he simply cooed, nodding against the back of your head and pressing his lips to your neck again, careless of the possible marks. 

“Yes dearest, yes,” he breathed, “I know,” he cooed. You whined a little, but simply clenched your hands tight on the edge of the saddle again. 

Baelor’s hand slid down and under the waistband of your trousers. You felt his fingertips first, creeping over your soft skin, then down until he hit the wetness that had begun to smear along the lips of your cunt. He grunted at that, lips firmer against your neck. He pressed his middle finger there, splitting them and coating his digit with the slick wetness of you. He pulled back up a little, rubbing the slickness against your clit, and you twitched, the pulsing throb beginning already. He slid it back down, the glide of it against your clit warming you all the way up to the inside of your throat. 

Then, with the careful but sure intent of someone who had become rather an expert at this very activity, he pushed both middle and index fingers into you. You moaned, loud and uncaring. The intrusion was hot and persistent, made worse by the pressure of the saddle, inescapable. 

“Baelor,” you moaned again, and he hummed against you, his tongue lascivious against the skin of your neck, long stripes and drags, tasting endlessly. His beard rubbed to the point of overstimulation, and you felt like you were made of lightning. 

“Yes, dearest, yes,” he panted, pulling his fingers out just a little before pressing up into you again. The heel of his palm smushed into that swollen little nub that made you see stars and you twitched, keened, thighs tightening as everything suddenly began climbing much faster than before. 

“Yes, my darling, yes,” he repeated. "You look so lovely like this,” he breathed, “perfectly ruined, just for me.” You shivered, eyes clenching shut and hands tightening. Your hips rolled of their own accord, your body responding only to the pleasure and his voice, whispering into your ear. “You are breathtaking, go on darling.” 

You mhmed through tightly pressed lips, nodded back against his neck and chest, leaning into the rub of his beard against your neck and jaw. He kissed you there, bit lightly, and his hand moved faster, back and forth, rubbing at the sensitive and wet flesh inside of you. Even just the feeling of his fingers moving at your entrance, pressing there, made you tighten and tighten. The pleasure coiled so thick now, reaching up inside you until you were overflowing with it. 

You moaned, loud and long, going stiff and then trembling all of a sudden. You pushed back yet curled in, writhed yet froze, a body made up of contradictions as you went blank with the pleasure of it all. 

Baelor kept his fingers pressed inside you until your panting slowed enough for you to speak again. You leaned your weight fully back against him, trusting that he would hold you up, and he simply hummed, slowly pulling his fingers from you and up out of the waistband. You huffed at the feeling, clenched your thighs a little (though that did nothing), then watched his hand disappear behind your head before the sound of him sucking along his own fingers entered your ears. You trembled, eyes fluttering shut as he hummed and then slowly pulled them out, resting the same hand on your waist once more. 

“Delectable,” he whispered by the side of your head, and you were no longer capable of forming coherent thoughts. Your lips parted but nothing more than a breath came out. “We shall come upon a clearing soon. I believe we should stop and… take rest.” 

Again, all you could do was nod hurriedly.

The crowd there was the worst he’d stood in front of, and he’d grown up in Smurf’s living room, so that was a measurement that meant something. Men who bet money they needed and meant to take the loss of someone’s skin. The air thick enough to chew, smoke and sweat and the bitterness of a room full of people who’d collectively decided this was the night their luck was going to turn. 

Pope wanted to lose just so they’d fuck off. 

It was run by a guy named Leo who’d met Craig at a party, late, both of them lit and certain they were about to make each other rich. Leo had the basement, the crowd, the connections that made cops uninterested, and a way of talking that made one-track-minded guys like Craig feel like they were cut in on something even as he was lifting your wallet. Pope didn’t trust him. Pope didn’t trust anybody, but he distrusted Leo with a specificity that felt like respect. 

Leo ran the place like a man who’d thought about every cent in a dollar twice. Nothing in that basement was there by accident, which was how Pope knew, eventually, that you weren’t either. 

The first night he didn’t put it together. He came up out of the third round with his ears ringing and his knuckles screaming and somebody pressed a wet rag to the back of his neck, and his body did what it always did. He came around with his elbow up and the words already out of his mouth. “Get the fuck off me.” 

You went still. You were crouched down close enough that he could see you’d done your eyes earlier in the night and they’d worn through, smudged soft at the corners, and that should have made you look tired and instead made you look like you’d been left out in the weather, gentled by it. There was a smear of someone else’s blood drying brown along your jaw—not yours, you didn’t have a mark on you, you were the only clean thing in a room built for ruining people—and you hadn’t wiped it off because your hands had been busy all night being careful with men who were far from deserving it. 

“Okay,” you said, and that was all. You stayed crouched in front of him, an arm’s length back now, holding the rag out where he could take it himself if he wanted it. 

He felt like garbage. It all arrived once, the way it did with him, fine one second and then sick with it. You couldn’t have been much more than a bucket and tape to anybody else in that room, just the girl who patched them up, and he’d snapped at you like you were one of the men in the room baying for his blood. 

He took the rag off your hands. 

And you just went back to it. You pulled his hand into both of yours like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just shown you the worst of himself in the first ten seconds of knowing you, and started cleaning the wreck of his knuckles with a little furrow between your brows. Devotional, almost. Like his hand had been lent to you and you were supposed to return it in good condition. 

It was then he realized Leo had gotten way too lucky with you. He was sure you were used as nothing but a front. You were something soft to put at the edge of all that ugliness so men had a reason to keep their money in the room a little longer. A girl who patched up fighters, sure, but mostly a thing for them to look at, to crowd, to reach for between rounds. 

Pope wouldn’t admit it to Craig, or any of his brothers, ever, that the only reason he came back the next time was to see you again. He knew his words and then his sudden muteness probably made you read him as one more man to be careful around. He’d handed you that impression himself, and now he had to live inside it. 

The second night, you didn’t tend to him. There was another girl near the bucket—older, harder, a cigarette tucked behind her ear and no softness in her hands at all—and she did his corner between rounds like she was wiping off a dusty counter. Pope sat there and let her and looked for you over her shoulder the whole time, which was how he found you across the room, working the cash, the cigar box against your chest as your lips moved over the count. 

Pope hardly believed in coincidences. He was sure he’d snapped and you’d adjusted by putting a body between yourself and the man who’d shown his teeth. It was the smart thing. It was exactly what he’d have told you to do if he were anyone other than the man it was being done to. It sat in his chest all night like a swallowed stone, the understanding that he’d gotten precisely what he deserved and hated every second of it. 

He won. He always did; that was the whole problem with him, the thing that made his Craig rich now and him useful to Smurf and left Pope standing in basements full of people who wanted to watch him hurt somebody. The crowd howled, money changed hands, and Pope barely heard whatever Leo was saying because he was watching you seal the night’s take into a zip bag and press the air out of it with the flat of your hand carefully. 

He found you after, by the stairs, when the room had thinned to the stragglers and the smell of it had gone stale. He came up slow, hands where you could see them. 

“You drew the short straw last week,” he said, the words coming out of him too rehearsed, because that’s what he’d been doing since he noticed you and while getting his guts punched. “Patching me up.”

You looked up at him. Up close, your worn-soft eyes were tired. “I just asked Kate to take your corner tonight.”

So, not a coincidence. He’d already known, yet it did something ugly to him. He already had people who he’d known his entire life scared of him—brothers who were career criminals—and he’d made peace with it, like he had to with everything he couldn’t change. But it landed differently from you, because you didn’t have the years to back the wariness up. 

“Right,” he said, because what else was there to say?

You tilted your head, just slightly, and scanned his face like you were checking it for swelling. He knew there was none, not today. He still held still. He realized he’d have held still for anything you wanted to do to his face.

Whatever you were looking for, it seemed like you hadn’t found it. Or maybe you had. Your gaze caught on his mouth, under his jaw, and you clicked your tongue. 

“You’re not —” You shook your head faintly. “It’s easier,” you said finally, “to not get in the way of guys like you. That’s all. It’s nothing personal.” 

Guys like you. Jesus. He wanted to ask you what that meant, even though he knew. He was guys like him. He’d spent thirty-some years being exactly that. But he wanted, with an intensity that made no sense, to be not that to you. 

Any other guy would have let it go. A smarter man, a less stupid one, would’ve said that was a fair enough explanation and left you to your transparent zip bags and never come back to you unless you did to him. 

“It is though,” Pope said, voice too rough. “Personal. I wasn’t—right, after the third round.” The words, his voice, everything came out clumsy, and he briefly wondered if his eyes had dropped down his face and his nose had turned upside down. “You don’t have to put Kate—or whoever there. I’m not gonna—” He wasn’t sure how he wanted to end the sentence. “I’d rather it was you.” 

He suddenly felt like a complete idiot all over again when he watched your brows furrow slightly and your lips press together as you looked at him almost sadly. Then you let out a disbelieving chuckle as you shook your head as you twisted your neck slightly to look around. 

“Is this gonna be a problem?” you said, lowering your voice, glancing off to the side. Checking, he realized, who was still on the stairs, who might be close enough to hear. 

That was its own answer to a question he hadn’t been able to ask yet. It told him there were people you didn’t want knowing this, even though there was hardly a ‘this.’

“What?” Pope asked, playing dumb just so he could hear the words from you.

“You.” You brought your eyes back to him, and he felt slightly shaken as you pinned him with a glare that seemed almost gentle. “Saying things like that.” Your voice stayed even, but there was an edge working into it now. “I do my job here. I keep my head down—that’s better for me, okay?”

He didn’t get that. Not really. But he heard the need in it. 

“Nobody’s gonna bother you,” he said roughly. It came out flat and certain, it always did when he was truly sure of himself. “Not while I’m here.” 

You just looked at him like that again. “Go home, Pope—”

“Andrew,” he said, and he didn’t even know why he did. 

He hated that name just as much as Pope. It was just another thing Smurf had handed him that never fit anywhere in his growing life. To the room he was Pope. On the cards he counted, he was Pope. He’d been Pope so long he sometimes forgot there was anything under it. But he didn’t want to be Pope to you. Pope was guys like him. Pope was the thing on the cards coked-up wishful men put their money on. He had no clean self to offer you—God knew he didn’t—but he had the name hardly anybody used often, and so he gave you that, stupidly, like it’d be worth something to you. 

His pulse climbed into his throat. He had the sick, racing feeling he got right before things went sideways, the one that had been wrong about as often as it was right and that he'd never once been able to switch off. 

“Andrew,” you said, testing it quietly in your mouth, where Pope felt everything landed differently for some reason. And then you looked at him again, and said, “Go home, Andrew.” 

Thankfully, by some grace of God, Pope realized he may not have done it all wrong when you came to patch him up after the first round the following week. You dropped down onto the concrete in front of him with the bucket and the brown bottle and a roll of tape gone soft at the edges from your thumb. 

You took his hand like nothing had been said, as though the conversation on the stairs had been filed somewhere and this was the conclusion you’d come to on your own time, and Pope felt that he should let that be, instead of pointing it out. He’d learned that much, and tamped down the feeling like his entire week had paid off. 

“You lead with right too much,” you said, looking at his hands. “When you’re tired. You drop the left and lead with the right. That’s how they got your eyebrow.” 

Pope parted his lips and blinked. “You watch me?” 

“I watch the cash.” You pressed the tape down over his knuckle. “Fights are what make them move, but yeah.” You shrugged, and it was stiff. “You drop your left.”

Pope stayed silent for a moment, then asked, dumbly, “You a fighter?” 

It was meant to land as dry, a joke, but it never quite did with him. 

You let out the smallest of chuckles. “I watch men get hit everyday.” 

Pope swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. So he watched the top of your head instead, the part in your hair, the concentration you put into doing a job that probably paid no extra if you did it well. You wrapped him efficiently, all business now, and Pope felt that you’d closed a door he hadn’t realized you’d opened. 

It should have frustrated him. Instead, it made him want to earn that inch back slow, the way you’d coax anything that didn’t trust easy. He knew that wanting. He had it about a dog once, a half-feral thing that lived in the corners of the Cody Compound for a summer, that he’d fed in silence for weeks before it let him near. He’d never told anyone about that dog. He thought about it now, crouched-down you and careful tape, and didn’t enjoy what it told him about himself. 

“You’re done,” you said, and stood briskly. 

“Hey,” he said, the word coming out before he could think it. “Thanks.” 

You looked at him a second, and whatever you found in him, it earned him the corner of a smile. You must not have been used to being thanked very often. Pope flexed his wrapped hand, feeling something close to proudness. He wasn’t sure for what, exactly, but it felt good for the moment.

For three weeks, you rationed out small jokes that he was almost sure you didn’t realize were jokes, taped him up, and left Pope driving home with whatever you’d given him that night turning over in his chest. 

His fight hadn’t started yet. He leaned up against the support post by the stairs, hood up, trying to do everything he could to make himself look very still and very boring so the crowd would forget to look at him. From there, he had a clean line of the cash table, which meant he had a clean line on you, which was the actual reason he’d stood there. 

There was a man at your table. Big, going soft in the middle, a Lakers cap on backward and loose, oozing the sleazy confidence of someone past four beers and good judgement. He’d been talking to you a while, Pope noticed. You were wearing a smile aimed past his shoulder—a small, pleasant, and all around absent thing—and Pope watched you do it with a protective switch under his thumb. 

The man reached over and tucked a bill into your bra, slowly, like it was funny. Two fingers folded the bill below your collarbone, and you went rigid, smile staying in place while everything behind it moving.

You went somewhere way back behind your own eyes the way Pope had watched you go a dozen times, and the man laughed at his own joke and left his hand there a beat too long. 

The trouble with Pope was that most of the time, he never decided. One second he was against the post and the next he had the man’s wrist in his hand and he was bending it back off you, almost politely.

“Wrong,” Pope drawled, plucking the bill out of your collar with his free hand and pressed it to the man’s palm. He closed the man’s fingers over them. “Cash goes in the box.”

“The hell’re you —” The man turned to get a real look at him, and got the whole of him. The hood and the wrapped hands and Pope’s uncanny stillness, and Pope watched the recognition arrive, and the bluster went out of him like the air on your sealed bags. “Pope—hey, man. No harm. No harm.”

“Sure.” Pope let go of the wrist and the guy immediately melted back into the crowd. The whole thing had taken maybe nine seconds and Pope’s pulse hadn’t even climbed, which it should’ve, but some animal thing under him had considered this easy. 

“Why would you do that?” you said, voice quieting. 

“He had his hands on you.” His voice came out defensive, which he hated, because it made him understand that he’d done something wrong before he could even process it. “I’m not standing here watching some creep—”

“That was Reyes,” you said, like it meant something. It didn’t, not to Pope, and your face did something between fury and despair as he realized this. “He runs paper for Leo. You just—” You pressed your lips together and looked around quickly, the same way you’d done on the stairs except this time he could see real fear attached in it. “I don’t—I don’t need people thinking a Cody’s got a thing for me,” you finished, quieter. “You don’t.” 

“What if I—”

“You don’t, okay?” It came out sharper than you’d intended, and he saw how you caught it. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.” You were already looking away, gathering the cash box against your chest, busying yourself. “I really am better when people don’t worry about me, Andrew.” 

You tucked a piece of hair back, gave him a quick, tired ghost of a smile that didn't reach anything, and stepped back into the crowd with your box like the last nine seconds could be put away with everything else you put away.

There was that horrible feeling tightening in his stomach again. He knew he’d done the right thing, but there was a frustration in him of being right about the wrong thing. The thing he’d done to help you had immediately become another thing for you to be frightened of, clean up, another man’s decision landing on your plate.

You’d probably spent your entire life cleaning up after other people’s choices and he’d just handed you one more.

He fought ugly and won ugly, which was somehow worse than losing altogether. The crowd got what it paid for and then some, and Pope walked out with a rib that clicked when he breathed and a cut over the eye he’d earned by leading with the right all night like the idiot you’d warned him not to be. 

He collected off Leo without a word. Pope wasn’t even sure why the guy even bothered to grin and laugh and talk to him while he counted the money; Pope had said around two words to him and won him more than two grand.

He didn’t bother hearing the compliments—the fake, complimenting bit to make sure he came back—and took his roll of cash and shoved it inside his pocket and left out the back. 

He went up the concrete steps, into the lot behind the building where the air was at least air instead of four hundred people breathing the same lungful. 

He leaned against the cinderblock wall in the dark, in the orange wash of one working lot light, and pressed the heel of his hand under the bad rib and breathed shallow and concentrated on not being anywhere, on going behind his own eyes the way he'd watched you do it, somewhere the night couldn't reach him.

The door opened and shut carefully, and the latter action made him not need to look to know. 

“You walked out without letting anybody look at that,” you said. 

“I’m fine.”

“No, I can tell,” you said drily, almost amused. Your footsteps came across the lot and stopped a few feet off, not crowding him—you never crowded him—and giving him the room he hadn’t asked for and needed anyway. “I basically heard your ribs.”

He huffed something close to a laugh. It pulled at the rib and he stopped. 

Your hands hovered around his body, like you were asking for permission to take a look without saying the words.

“Are you okay?” he asked, forcing the words out roughly. Because he needed to, it’d been gnawing at him for too long. “Is he hurting you?”

Your hands when still where they hovered. You took the rag instead, wet it from the bottle, and reached up to the cut over his eye as though he’d never asked the question. 

“Hold still,” you said. 

“That’s not—” He caught your wrist, palm loose around it, but he caught it. “I asked you something.” 

In the orange light, Pope could see the smudge of your makeup, dark and worn through around your eyes, and the rings on your fingers catching the light each time your hand moved. You let him hold your wrist without pulling away, your eyes dropping to his chest like you’d decided against looking at his face.

He could feel your pulse under his thumb, thrumming. He let go of your wrist with a sigh, and you stepped back into the work, dabbing at the cut, close enough he could feel the warmth coming off you. 

You said, after a moment, evenly, “Don’t try to help me.”

“Don’t try to help me.” 

“I didn’t say—”

“It’s written all over your face.” 

You pressed the rag a little harder than the cut needed and let you, kept his face still, watching yours. You narrowed your eyes at him when he didn’t react to the pressure, as though his stillness annoyed you. Pope didn’t know how you hadn’t realized he’d let you do anything. He’d let you press the rag as hard as you wanted and he’d sit there and take it. He’d stopped having a choice about it a while ago.

That, and the fact that your hands, so small compared to the enormity of him, were the furthest things from the worst he’d taken. 

“Are you trying to hurt me?” he asked, amused despite it all. 

“If I were, you’d know.” But the corner of your mouth tugged, just barely, before you caught it and put it away. You eased up on the rag. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.”

For a second, it felt easier between you two again. Then, you remembered yourself, and he watched as your lips pursed. 

“I mean it, though,” you said. “Don’t. Whatever you’re sitting there cooking up.”

“You don’t know what I’m cooking up.” 

“Andrew,” you said his name flatly, and he felt like a dog at how quickly it got his neck to tilt up to meet your eyes. You hadn’t even spoke and he was looking at you like you’d asked him a question he wanted to get correct. 

“You’re not the first one to try this,” you said softly. “It always goes the same way.” 

“Yeah?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell me, then.” 

“Either he gets in over his head and screws up.” You wiped the last streak of blood from his brow, your hand coming to rest light against his face to hold him still. He leaned into your palm, the warmth of your hand and him moving into it like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done. 

One of your rings sat cool against his cheekbone and he felt that, too, the small contrast of it, cool metal and warm palm, and he was very aware you were still talking and he was having trouble with that. 

“ —or he sticks around for long enough to figure out it’s too much trouble, gets bored, and quits. He leaves, and either way I’m standing here worse than before,” you said, conversationally, and he did believe it was a tale as old as time for you. 

“I won’t get bored,” he managed to say. “I’m good at what I do.” 

“They all say that, too.” You smiled that sad, soft smile again. 

You took your hand back off his face and he felt the loss of it like air. He was already thinking about how to get you to put it back, which was probably the most pathetic thought he’d ever had, and he’d had some bad ones.

“When do you fight next? You shouldn’t, for a while. For your ribs.” 

He let you change the topic. He noticed you did that often.

“Next week, probably,” he said. “My brother’s already running his mouth about it.”

“Tell your brother your ribs are hurt.” You crouched to gather the bottle, the rag, the soft-edged tape, packing them back into the bucket.

“Where do you go? After this,” he asked.

He watched the careful machinery turn—watched you weigh whether it was a real question or a way in—and then something in you must've been too tired to keep the door shut, because you let it swing.

“Home. My mom’s,” you said. “She’s around, just—not a lot.” You gathered the bucket against your hip. “So it’s me and my brother mostly. He’s eleven.”

The whole shape of you tilted and resettled in the space of the word. Why you watched every dollar like it held something up. You weren't just keeping your own head down. You had a kid behind you, in the blind spot, where the room couldn't reach him.

“He know you’re here?” Pope asked.

“He thinks I wait tables.” The corner of your mouth went up, rueful. “Thinks I’m terrible at it. The tips are all over the place, so.” You shrugged. 

Pope cleared his throat. “Are they?” 

“This week, yeah,” you said. 

“Do you want to?” Pope found himself asking, “Wait tables.” 

You looked at him for a long moment that he almost thought you wouldn’t answer. “It’d be nice, I guess. To have steady cashflow and all that.” 

“Leo pays you enough?”

You shifted the bucket against your hips. “He doesn’t really—” You stopped yourself, then started again. “The tips are what they are.”

Pope hummed. “That cover everything?”

You looked at him sideways, catching what he was doing. “Most weeks,” you said hesitantly.

“This week?”

You looked off past him, and he watched you decide whether to say it. “My brother’s shoes split,” you said finally, and it’d come out in a small voice. “Bottom’s gone right through it, so.” You shrugged, making a small face as you pinched your eyes shut, like you hated saying it.  

Pope took the roll out of the jacket, thumbed off a fold of it without counting and held it out.

You looked at it, then at him. “No.” 

“For the kid.”

“Andrew.” 

“Take it.” He kept his hand out. “It’s shoes.” 

“That’s not—” You stopped. Your jaw worked. He could see all of it going on behind your face, the pride and the rule and the thing you'd spent the last few minutes telling him. “That’s just what I told you not to do.” 

“You said not to help you.” He pushed his hand further toward you. “This is shoes for a kid I never met.”

He watched your eyes rise to look at the sky and you shook your head. “You’re making this really hard.” 

He tipped his chin down. “Just take it. I don’t need it.”

You took it slow, your fingers closing over his for a second before they took the bills, and you didn't say thank you—he was glad, thanking him would’ve made it a transaction—you just held on to his hand a beat longer than you needed to, and breathed out, shaky, and let it go.

“Please don’t make this a thing,” you said, voice thick. “I can’t—I can’t say no to the money. I wish I could.” You looked at the bills in your hand. “I don’t wanna take things from you.” 

He felt himself shrug, eyeing the top of your head as you looked down. “I’d let you.” 

He’d meant to keep that to himself. Or he hadn’t. He didn’t really care, though. The money itself was nothing; what he’d just handed you was a rounding error, less than what his brothers dropped in a single night without blinking. It was the kind of number that moved in the Cody household without anyone thinking to count it; money they’d find between the cushions from five years ago. 

He had more coming in than he knew what to do with and nowhere clean to put it. You had a kid to help out with and yourself to take care of, and the situation was so simple it almost made him angry. 

It became a thing without either of you calling it one. It was a thing, in Pope’s mind, obviously, but he was sure that telling you would’ve spooked you and he wasn’t ready for that. 

You’d started taping him differently. Early on you’d wrapped him all brisk and businesslike, done before he’d thought of anything to say. He had to watch his words in general, but he had to try even harder with you, for he never wanted to say the wrong thing. Somewhere in those weeks, you slowed. You took longer than the wrap needed—smoothing the tape down twice when once would’ve held just fine, turning his hand over in both of yours to check the knuckles you’d already checked—and Pope started to pretend he didn’t notice. 

He’d sit on the folding chair with his hand lent out to you and watch the top of your head and feel his pulse come down out of his throat, slow, the dog talked off the thing. One night, he let his thumb find the inside of your wrist while you worked, resting there against the thrum of you.

He started taking on more fights and ending them earlier. He told himself it was because of his ribs, the cash, any of the reasons a man might want a thing over with. All of it when the reason was that when the basement emptied after, it was just the two of you, and Pope had started living for the after the same way men lived for the fight.

You started watching the fights now—not the cash, him—and he knew because one night he had a bad one, a hook he missed that snapped his head around. He looked for your face before he looked for anything else, and found you already wincing. 

Your hand had come up halfway to your mouth. You caught yourself and dropped it. But he’d seen it and carried it home for a week, a proof of what, he didn’t know.

Pope really, really hated asking Craig anything. He knew that he’d make him pay the toll one way or another. Sometimes by talking for forty minutes about something nobody asked about, or remembering the question to bring it up at the worst possible time. So Pope sat on it for a week; he iced the rib, didn’t fight, and drove past the ring twice without going in. He knew it was fucking pathetic.

Pope found Craig by the pool, sunburnt and shirtless and rolling something on a paper plate. 

“You know the girl,” Pope started, “at the ring, the one who does the cash?” 

He found that he wanted to keep your name to himself, in case Craig hadn’t already caught onto it. 

“Which one?” Craig asked without looking up.

“The one that does the cash, man.”

“There’s like three girls.” He licked the paper and twisted the end. “You gotta be more specific. There’s the older chick, the mean—”

“Younger. Quiet.” Pope forced his voice to stay even. “Patches people up.”

Craig looked up at him then, a slow grin spreading. “Ohhhh.” 

“Don’t.”

“No. No.” Craig held his hands up, waving them slightly, delighted. “Can’t believe you’re asking me about a girl, man.” 

“Forget it.” Pope turned to go.

“Hey—hey,” Craig said, standing from the lounger. “I’m messin’ with you. C’mon. What do you wanna know about her?” 

“Why’s she there?” 

Craig shrugged. “Pretty sure she owes Leo.”

“She owes Leo?” Pope asked, letting the surprise show in his voice. “For what?”

“Pretty sure she’s collateral.” Craig lit the thing, talking around it. “Some guy that was around. Dad. Stepdad. Who knows?” He waved the smoke out of his face. “Pretty sure she’s just workin’ the square until it pays itself off.”

“How much?” Pope asked immediately.

Craig rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid, man.”

“Just say it.”

“I’m not his accountant,” Craig said. “And she’s not worth it. It won’t work, and I’m pretty sure she’s been working there longer than she hasn’t.” 

Pope ignored that. “It’s not even hers,” he said, quietly, almost to himself. “She’s down there holding it for a guy who took off. Kid at home, no money, and she’s—”

He stopped talking once he noticed the amused and incredulous expression on Craig’s face. 

Craig’s hand moved to the side, waving vaguely in confusion. “She’s got a kid?”

“It’s her brother.”

“Jesus—how much have you talked to this chick?” Craig dragged a hand down his face. “Real talk. You go pay the guy off—say you even can, say he gives you a number and it’s a real one, which it won’t be—you know what happens? He realizes Pope Cody just dropped twenty grand on a girl who pours drinks and puts bandages on people.” He spread his hands. “Best case. Best case, man. We don’t know what else the guy’s got her doing. She’s been there a long time. Girls don’t stay in places like that just counting cash.” 

Pope felt his teeth grind. “She counts cash and she patches people up,” he said, tipping his chin down slightly to pin Craig with a glare. “That’s what she does.” 

Craig looked at him for a moment and shrugged. “Alright, man.” 

“And even if she—she doesn’t just do that. It doesn’t—” 

Pope’s jaw worked, and he had to look away from Craig. He had no words for it. It didn’t matter what you did in the basement, what Leo had you doing or what Craig was implying. You were still you, and Pope knew that. 

If the situation was larger, then Pope saw it as more of a reason to get you out, not less. That was the thing Craig wouldn’t understand. 

“It doesn’t change anything. For me,” Pope said flatly. “She shouldn’t be there, that’s all.” 

Craig’s lips opened like he wanted to say something, then caught the look on Pope’s face, and said, “Yeah, man. She probably shouldn’t.”

He’d hoped that Craig would never have to meet you, at least not in the way he did. 

It happened on a night Craig hadn’t wanted him there at all. Craig had come for the first few of Pope’s fight, and realized he actually didn’t have to see his older brother take down a man twice to know the money was good. He could simply hand over the bet and go do anything else with his night. So most weeks, he dropped his cash with people and disappeared upstairs and reappeared only to collect. 

This week, he hung around the edge of the ring, three beers in, restless, and that was how he was standing right there when Pope took a cut over the cheekbone bad enough you came down to the corner with your supplies before the round was properly called.

Craig noticed it. The dumb piece of shit. One second Pope had your hands on his face, turned away from the crowd so nobody would notice your closeness, and the next he could feel the exact attention of his brother sharpening as he moved down to catch the interaction.

You were too deep in the work to notice Craig, lips pressed flat, that furrow between your brows, going fast because the round was coming. “This one’s gonna scar if you keep splitting it open,” you murmured, tipping his head toward the light. “You’re doing it on purpose at this point. You’re gonna ruin this face.” 

“What do you think about this face?” Pope said before he could think the words through. 

You rolled your eyes, lifting a hand off his face just to smack his shoulder lightly before it went right back to the cut.

“You talk too much when you’re losing blood,” you lied, but the corner of your mouth had gone soft. “Hold still.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“You’re fishing.” You pressed the butterfly closed over his cheekbone, your thumb lingering there a half-second past the job, warm against his face, and you dropped your voice even though there was nobody close enough to hear. “Ask me again when you’re not bleeding on me and I’ll think about it.” 

He felt his mouth want to move closer to yours then, and he tamped down the urge. But he must’ve let something through because when his eyes flicked up over your shoulder, there was Craig, beer halfway to his mouth, forgotten. 

You followed his eyes, found Craig, and Craig found you. Your hand came off his face and your spine went straight. “You know him?” you asked, quietly, gathering your bottle and tape as you stepped back to a safe distance. 

Pope caught your wrist. “My brother. He’s nobody. He’s dumb.”

Your eyes went over the crowd that was distracted. “You tell him anything?”

“There somethin’ to say?” he asked, raising a brow that made him wince. 

You gave him a flat look, unimpressed by the deflection. “Don’t try to be cute.”

Pope generally blamed his anger on a rage that had been planted in him from a tender age. Smurf had put it there the way you put a seed in dirt—patient, deliberate, knowing exactly what it’d grow into—and then spent thirty years acting surprised at the sheer size of it. He never thought about it. Thinking about it wouldn’t beat it away. It was just there—low and perpetual—like a pilot light he’d learned to turn down because the alternative was what happened in the ring when he forgot to. 

He forgot to that night. It had nothing to do with the guy across from him. The guy was a nobody—some gym rat Leo had matched him with, all shoulders and bad footwork—and Pope would, on any other day, put him down clean in two rounds because there was no reason to make it ugly. But Pope had spent a week with a number he didn’t own and a plan he couldn’t run with yours and Craig’s voice saying ‘don’t.’ The whole impossibility of you had stacked up in his sternum with nowhere to go, and when the guy clipped him, caught him good across the mouth first, something in Pope just opened the valve. 

He didn’t remember most of it after, and that was how he knew it was bad. The parts that came back later were wrong-angled and too bright (the kid’s head snapping, the wet sound, the way the crowd’s noise changed, going from hungry to something quieter, pulled back). Crowds like this roared throughout all of it unless they were watching a man go somewhere they wanted to stay back from. 

Somebody got between them. There were hands on his chest and a referee he had no idea even existed shouting something and the guy on the concrete not getting up the way he was supposed to. Pope was standing over it with his chest heaving and knuckles split open through the wrap and no memory of the ninety seconds at all.

The crowd parted for him when he started walking and that should’ve told him something, the way grown men stepped out of his way. He'd looked for you on the way through.

He'd looked for you the way he always did, automatically, and he'd found you at the edge of the cash table with the box held up against your chest, and you'd been looking right back at him.

Pope was distantly and too closely—both at the same time, two things too large for him—able to register you hadn’t looked at him the way you usually did.

You'd looked at him the way the crowd had. You’d gone still and careful, your eyes wide and fixed on him like he was the thing in the room, the dangerous thing, and you'd held that box to your chest like it could go between you and him. Just for a second. Just one. Then you'd caught yourself and your face had closed over it, gone professional. 

He went upstairs, and into the gap behind the stairs where there was a cot and a mop sink. It smelled like bleach. He put his head against the cinderblock and slid down it to the floor and tried to get his breathing under whatever was happening in his chest. 

Pope let himself sit on the floor with his hands ruined, the pilot light still guttering too high, and he let the worst story about himself tell itself all the way through. You’d finally seen the actual thing. You’d patched him up and made jokes and told him things about yourself, and then you had to watch him nearly kill somebody over nothing, and now you knew. Now you looked at him the way everybody did, just the way his mother had intended. 

He heard the door open, and he had to shake his head even though he wasn’t sure you could see it. 

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out wrecked. “You don’t have to help me or anything. Go help the guy.”

“Andrew—”

“I mean it.” His hands hung between his knees, split and shaking, and he kept his eyes on them. “Go check on him. I don’t—I don’t need it.”

He heard the door shut behind you, and then your footsteps came across the little room. “He’s up,” you said. “He’s fine. He’s got people. Concussed, probably, but he’ll be fine.” You paused, then added, “I came back here for you.” 

That made his chest pull tighter. “Shouldn’t have.” 

You set the bucket down by his feet, and then you were crouching in front of him, and he could see the toes of those wrong gray shoes in the edge of his vision and still couldn't make himself look higher. “Can I have your hands?” 

“No.”

“They’re split to the bone. Andrew, give ‘em here.” 

He didn’t. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he sat there, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Are you scared of me?”

You stayed silent for a second, and he felt his chest seize. Then, he felt your hand—cold to the touch—against his face, turning it gently so he’d look at you. He kept his eyes trained to the ground. 

“Look at me,” you said quietly. When he refused again, your thumb slid against his cheekbone. “I’m not.”

When he said nothing, you continued, “You scared me a little out there. But look at you, you’re hiding behind the stairs. C’mon. Scariest man alive.” 

He huffed and let his eyes come up anyway, finally, and you were just looking at him. “You mean that?” 

Your bottom lip pushed the top, and you looked at him as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I mean it.” 

The plainness of the words got him. You said that as though it cost you nothing to mean it when it was the most expensive thing anyone had handed him in years. You had no idea the things he’d done so many times they stopped feeling like anything at all. You’d seen one bad night. And he wanted to tell you that maybe you should have been scared.

He kept his mouth shut. He looked at you looking at him and decided, quietly and completely, that he was going to spend whatever time he had making sure you never had a reason to find out you were wrong.

You were close. You’d been close the entire time, crouched between his knees with your hand cold on his face, and he’d been waiting for you to flinch that he hadn’t realized how close you were.

He felt it now. Like always, he didn’t decide. The same broken wiring in him was pointing somewhere new, because one second he was looking at your mouth and the next his hand had come up, ruined knuckles and all, and curved around the back of your neck. 

He stopped a breath short to give you an inch, some last careful piece left in him left it up to you, hung there close enough that he could feel your breath go uneven, waiting to see if you’d close it. 

You did, soft, slower than he’d expected. He’d always been waiting for quickness and hardness, things that got over with, and instead your mouth settled against his and stayed. Your hand came up light along his jaw, and the split in his lip stung but he didn’t move away from it. He was sure he couldn’t have this without paying for it. 

His hand was still at the back of your neck, knuckles wrecked, and he held you there carefully, just keeping you close. His thumb moved once behind your ear. You made a small sound against his mouth and he felt it more than heard it, felt it go down through his chest.

Your fingers curling at the collar of his shirt, your breath warm and uneven against his cheek between kisses.

His rib ached when he leaned into you. He leaned in anyway. He could feel the warmth of you all down his front, your weight tipped against his knees, your other hand finding his ruined one where it sat between you and holding it. 

It felt like such a stark difference to how you usually held his hand, to clean it, Pope distantly thought.

You broke off to breathe, but neither of you went far. Your forehead hovered over his, and your breath stayed uneven against his mouth. He let his hands hesitantly drift down to your waist, letting his palms run over the shape of you. 

You let them, your waist, the dip of it, the warmth coming up through your shirt, and you watched him do it with your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“Do you like this?” Pope asked, hesitance creeping into his voice despite how hard he tried to push it out. He hated how it came out, like he had no trust in himself. But he had to know—had to hear it—because he’d just spent too long thinking you’d seen the worst of him, and now you were warm in his hands and he couldn’t quite square the two.

Your mouth curved, soft, and you tipped your forehead down against his. 

“Yeah, Andrew,” you said, like it was obvious. “I like it.” 

Your thumb moved along his cheekbone, and he let his lashes flutter slightly at the feel of your skin against so many parts of him all at once. 

“Been liking you a while,” you added, lower, a little dry, a little shy. “If you wanna know.”

Pope’s hand tightened at your waist. “How long?” 

“Not saying,” you said, smiling when you kissed him again, and he felt it against his mouth, and that was better than the answer would've been anyway.

He kissed you slow at first and then not slow, his hand sliding up your spine to press you closer, the other still spread wide and certain at your hip. 

You shifted down into him and he broke off with a rough breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his grip going tight to hold you still.

“Hang on,” he managed to say, low against your collarbone. All the wanting you stacked up behind his ribs with nowhere left to go, and you were so warm and so real on his lap, and he was trying not to be what he always was, too much, too fast. 

“We don’t have to—” you started.

“I know,” he said, voice rough. He lifted his head to look at you. “I wanna. I just—” He pushed his lips around, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want you doing anything back here. In this building.” His thumb moved at your hip. “You’re better than this place.” 

Your hands pressed against his chest, and he registered the smallness of them against his broad frame, and you pulled yourself back slightly and let out a staggered breath. For a second, you looked at him. Stunned, almost, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere familiar, like nobody’d ever told you that before. He watched it cross your face quickly.

One of your hands left his chest and slid up, slid back, fingers pushing slow into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your nails digging light against his scalp. Your fingers worked through his hair and curled at the base of it, and the newness of the touch—the pure uselessness of it, a touch that wasn’t for anything—went through him like a current. 

It got a low and rough sound out of him and his eyes slid shut. His face went hot at the helplessness of it, a man his size coming apart under fingers in his hair, but he couldn't stop it and he didn't pull away. He pressed back into your hand instead, into the slow drag of your nails, chasing it.

“So are you,” you said quietly after a moment.

He fluttered his eyes open halfway. 

“Better than this place,” you clarified.

Pope’s mouth twitched, wanting to tell you he wasn’t. He wanted to tell you every single bad thing he’d ever done. He wanted to lay all of it down between you so you'd see he didn't belong anywhere clean, least of all up against you, you who had never chosen to work in this shithole, you who’d probably never hurt a goddamn fly. 

The words stayed sealed, because he had a feeling you’d hand them all back if he tried. 

“Come on,” he said instead. He shifted under you, wanting to ease into the position while having to force himself to move. “Get your stuff and clock out. I’ll drive you.”

You blinked. “Where?” 

He let out a short-lived laugh. “Wherever you want to go.”

You looked at him like he’d just done a trick. “I have to be home,” you said slowly. “My brother waits up.” 

“Alright.” Pope eased you off his lap, and got a hand against the cinderblock. “So I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t have to—” You were saying from the ground.

“C’mon.” 

He held a hand out to you, then you took it and let him pull you up.

Pope was uncomfortable about everything. His entire life, he’d been uncomfortable, whether it was in his own skin, in his house, in rooms full of people. So it came as no surprise when he had no fucking clue what to do with you. He hadn’t thought this far; he’d wanted to get you the hell out, not get you. And now you were here—or as here as you could’ve been—and he didn’t have the next part. Nobody had ever handed him a good thing and let him keep it. He kept waiting for the catch, turning his pockets out for the cost of it, and the cost wasn’t coming. And that was uncomfortable, waiting for a hit that never landed. 

So he did the only thing he thought he could’ve done, which was keep it quiet and keep it close. 

The cab of his truck. The back room after the basement emptied. Your mouth on his, his hands learning you slow, because he wanted to—Pope wanted to learn you the way other men wanted to win. It was the only ambition he’d ever had that belonged all to him. He wanted the map of you. He wanted to remember the exact spot in your ear that made your breath catch, that he’d found once on accident and gone back to like a man returning to the one warm room in a house that was freezing. The way you said his name, the real one—Andrew—that fit in nobody else’s mouth but yours. 

Pope had to be clear with himself about the fact that it was nothing like a life, even in his own head, because hoping for more than the thing in front of him was how you got hurt. 

When the basement ran late and your house was a long quiet drive, sometimes you’d let him take you back to his place instead, and you’d sleep there. You would actually sleep, hard and deep, in a way you’d once told him you couldn’t at your own home. 

He watched you sleep. He knew it was a strange thing to do but he did it anyway; propped on an elbow in the gray lights off the blinds, because it was the only time your face went all soft. Awake, even with him, you kept some of it back, the watching, the careful, the part of you that—like him—was always waiting for the next bad thing. 

Asleep, you let it all go. You looked younger, and Pope thought this was how you would’ve looked all the time had the world dealt you a different house. 

He must’ve shifted, or his breathing must’ve changed, because your eyes cracked open. You found him in the dark, found him watching you, and your mouth curved, slow and sleep-heavy.

“Creep,” you mumbled into the pillow. 

“Yeah,” Pope said in a whisper. 

You shifted toward him, unhurried, still half in sleep, and your hand came up to his jaw as your fingers traced the line of it. 

“You don’t sleep,” you murmured. You’d noticed it weeks ago.

“No.”

“C’mere, then,” you said, rough, tugging lightly at his jaw, and he came. 

He kissed you slow.

He always started slow—it was the only speed he trusted himself at—and you let him have it slow for a minute, warm and half-asleep against his mouth. Then you weren’t half-asleep anymore, he felt the change in you as your hand slid back into his hair and curled and pulled. The sound that the pull had dragged out of him was embarrassing.

“Quiet,” you breathed against his mouth, throwing his own word back at him—I can be quiet, he’d said once—and he huffed a rough laugh into the crook of your neck and got a hand spread wide and certain against the small of your back to pull you flush against him. 

Your leg hooked over his and your breath went uneven against his ear, and Pope allowed himself to stop thinking.

He dragged his mouth down your throat, slow, to the soft place that made your breath catch, the spot he'd mapped weeks ago and gone back to since like the one warm room in a freezing house. Got there. He felt you go boneless and then not boneless, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips shifting against his, and he made a low sound into your skin and pressed you down into the mattress with the careful weight of him.

“Andrew,” you said, rough against his collarbone. 

“Yes?” He lifted his head to look at you, and found you already looking at him. 

Your hair was loose around your face and your lips were swollen and your eyes were dark. Pope felt a sort of satisfaction he’d never felt before knowing he’d done that, that you’d come to his bed neat and composed and he’d taken you apart this much already.

Your hand still in his hair tugged him down to your ear. “Take my shirt off.” 

He went still for a second, eyes closing at the words, then he regained himself and pulled back enough to look at you. 

You lifted your arms. He got it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then he just stopped, brain short-circuiting as his body immediately reacted, shifting underneath you. His hand came up and hovered over your bare waist, not quite touching, just close. Deciding where to start.

His hand settled finally, warm and certain against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breasts. He let out a shaky breath. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured. 

You let out a soft breath, and he let his thumb move, again, slow, up and he rubbed over the swell of your breasts through the bra, watching your face with his whole attention.

He pushed himself up onto one elbow to get a better look at you and you let him, lying there with your hair spread out and your eyes on his face. He took his time, and he could tell it made you want to squirm, and his free hand settled on your hip, holding you still. 

“Come here,” you said softly, reaching for him. 

“In a minute.” His thumb traced the underwire of your bra, following the curve of it. His eyes followed his own hand and his jaw was tight the way it got when he was concentrating. 

“Andrew.” 

“Give me a minute.” His mouth came down on your sternum and pressed there, warm, just breathing for a second, his hand still moving over your ribs, your waist, the dip of it. His lips moved to the curve of your breast, the soft skin at the edge of the fabric, and you felt his breath go unsteady against you.

“Can I—” he started.

“Yes.”

He reached around you, unclipped it with one hand—slightly clumsy, which was so unlike him—and drew it off you slowly, and then he just stopped again, forgetting how to move when he looked at you.

His mouth found you properly then, warm and slow, and you let your head tip back and your hand tighten in his hair and he made a low sound against you.

He worked his way back up to your throat, your jaw, found your mouth again, and kissed you slow until your hands were pulling at him and your hips were shifting and you’d stopped being patient entirely. 

You pressed at his chest. He went, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, and you sat up over him in the gray light and watched his face as you settled your weight down against him, and his hands went to your thighs and gripped and his eyes went briefly shut.

You leaned down and kissed him once, soft. Then his jaw, his throat, the way he'd done to you, finding the places that changed his breathing.

His hands moved up your back, down again, restless, unable to settle. You felt him swallow when your mouth reached his collarbone.

You moved lower. His stomach tightened under your mouth and his hand came up to your hair, resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything when he was trying to hold himself back. You looked up at him from where you were and found him already looking down at you, jaw tight, throat working.

“Are you—”

“Mhm.” 

You got his briefs off and he lifted his hips to help you without being asked, which made you press your lips together against a smile. You settled between his thighs and took him inside your hand first, and he let out a shaky, breathless sound as your fingers tightened around his length, small fingers tugging slightly. 

You shifted down, and pressed your lips to the inside of his thigh first, just to feel him react, Pope understood. His whole leg went rigid under your lips. You stayed there a moment, and his fingers curled in your hair out of impatience he wasn’t proud of at all.

“C’mon, hey—”

You did it again, the other side, taking your time, and heard him exhale hard through his nose.

Then, you started from the bottom, tongue gliding over him, base to tip, and Pope’s jaw dropped open and stopped pretending he wanted any sort of control in this situation. 

His hands fisted in your hair. Not pushing—he wasn’t going to do that—but holding on, because he really, really needed something to hold onto and you were it, you were all of it, had been all of it for months, and now you had your mouth on him and your small hand wrapped around the base of him while looking through your lashes at him like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—you absolutely did—and he wanted to do nothing about it except lie there and take it.

You took him into your mouth properly and his hips came off the mattress before he caught them, hand pressing down against his own stomach, jaw locked.

“Christ—” It came out mangled, just sound.

You set a pace that was sure to kill him, so deliberate with everything and focused attention on him entirely, and he had the distant thought that he’d never been on the receiving end of attention like this. His thighs tensed around you and his free hand found the sheets.

You pulled off just enough to say ‘don’t’ when his forearm moved toward his face, and he dropped it back, exposed, staring at the ceiling, throat working. Your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t, and he felt his vision go slightly sideways, hand in your hair tightening involuntarily, fingers curling against your scalp. 

“Let me—” He stopped when he noticed how wrecked he sounded, barely his own voice. His grip tugged you up. “Can you—Can I—”

He stumbled over the words, but you still moved up. 

You settled over him, knees either sides of his hips, and he got his hands on your waist immediately. His chest was heaving and he was sure he looked completely undone.

“Can I—” he tried again. His thumb moved against your hip, pleadingly. “I need to—” He tried again. “Will you—”

You looked down at him. “Are you asking me something?” 

“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Trying to.” 

“So ask.” 

He took in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. “Can I be inside you?” 

You held his eyes a second. “Yeah,” you said. “Yeah.”

The sound he let out at that was quiet and involuntary and you felt it in your sternum. His eyes closed for just a second, like he needed that, you saying it had done something to him before anything had even happened yet.

You reached between you and his breath caught audibly, hands tightening on your hips, feeling it happen, needing to feel it happen somewhere in his palms.

You sank down onto him slow and his head went back and his throat worked and his hands on your hips pulled you down the last inch with a low, helpless sound that he clearly hadn't planned on making.

He’d never felt this way before, so all-encompassed. You were so warm and close in way the months of wanting had never prepared him for, your hands braced on his chest, your weight settled on his lap, and he could feel your pulse where you were joined and his own pulse and everywhere else.

He stayed there a second, both hands spread wide on your hips, breathing. 

“You okay?” you asked, quiet.

“One second.”

You gave him the second. He sat up after that, and his arm banded around your waist and pulled you flush against him and that made you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders, his neck.

He was so much bigger than you like this, your knees hardly finding the mattress either side of him, and he held you there, mouth finding your throat.

“Do you like this?” he asked into your skin.

“Yes—yeah,” you said, slightly breathless. 

He bit down lightly at your pulse point, just enough, and your nails raked down his back in response, and the sound that got out of him was dark and satisfied, his hips rolling up into you slow and deliberate.

His hips set a pace after that, one hand spread flat against your lower back holding you exactly where he wanted you, the other gripping your hip, guiding you down to meet each roll of his hips. You could feel everything. He made sure of it, and he knew by the way your walls clamped down on him.

“Andrew—”

“Feels so good,” he said through a groan, mouth set on your throat. “You feel so good.” 

Your nails found his back again and he groaned into your neck and his hips stuttered, losing the rhythm for just a second before he found it again, deeper this time, and you made a sound against his shoulder that you felt him collect, felt him file away, his arm tightening around you in response.

“That good?” he murmured.

“It’s—” you started, breath catching. 

“Yeah?” His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, adjusting the angle, pressing you down onto him, and whatever you'd been trying to say dissolved entirely into something that wasn't words at all. “There?” 

“Jesus, Andrew—” you said, a punch in your words as he pushed you down onto him. “Where’d you learn this?”

He pulled back to look at your face, and the look on his was almost amused, almost, underneath all the want. “Just wanna make you feel good,” he said, “with me.” 

Your hands coming up to his face without deciding to, cupping his jaw, and he turned into it immediately, that same helpless lean he always did when you put your hands on his face, like he couldn't help it, like you'd found the one soft spot in him nobody else had ever found.

You kissed him then, different from the others — slower, more deliberate, saying something you didn't have words for yet, and he kissed you back the same way, his pace going slow and deep and unhurried, like the night had gotten longer suddenly, like neither of you were going anywhere.

His forehead dropped to yours when you broke off, both of you breathing uneven, his hand moving up your spine, vertebra by vertebra, just feeling you.

“You with me?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

His hand pressed you further into him, like there was any space. “Promise me.” 

It came out rougher than he meant, needier than he'd have liked, and he felt it land between you in the dark and couldn't take it back and didn't try.

You looked up at him. Whatever you found in his face made yours go soft. “Promise,” you said.

He exhaled against your mouth and his hips rolled forward and you made a small sound and your hands slid up into his hair, pulling, and whatever had gone tender between you tipped back into heat, his pace picking up, deeper now, one hand gripping the headboard above you and the other finding your hip, holding you where he wanted you.

Pope had come to the basement earlier, before his fight. He had no good reason for it—the fight was in an hour, the place was half-empty, the crowd still trickling in—but he’d gotten restless at the apartment and figured he’d find you early, steal a few minutes before the room filled up. 

He came down the concrete stairs and heard Leo’s voice before he saw anything, and the sound of it stopped Pope three steps from the bottom. Pope had never once in his life heard the guy yell, lose control, and the voice coming up was low and almost patient, like you’d talk to a child or a dog. 

“ —count it again,” Leo was saying. “‘Cause I counted it, and I’m coming up short. That’s a problem, you know that, right?”

“I counted it three times,” you said, your voice flat and so, so careful it gnawed at him. “It’s all here. I swear, it’s all—”

“Don’t swear to me, sweetheart. Count.” 

Pope came down the last steps quiet. You were at the cash table with the box open in front of you and your hands unsteady on the bills. Leo was standing close to you, like that was the point—looming, using the size of himself—as he crowded you back against the table. He was making you do the math all out in a flat, dead voice, your shoulders up around your ears, and Pope watched you flinch when Leo shifted his weight even though the guy hadn’t done anything.

“You’re light,” Leo said, soft. “You’re light and you’re trying to swear. You know what happens to my count when one of my girls gets light.” He let his words hang, tilting his head. “It comes out of the square. Adds to it. You’re going backwards, sweetheart, after all this time. Going the wrong direction.”

Leo reached and took your jaw in his hand—almost gently, tipping your face up out of the count—and your body went still, and that was the second you saw Pope behind Leo’s shoulder. 

“Don’t touch her,” Pope said, without thinking about it. 

Leo turned, unhurried, his hand still loose at your jaw before he let it drop, on his own time. He was making a point of it, Pope realized. “It’s off.” He spread the hand, easy, showing him. “See? We’re just talking. Business.” 

Then, he turned to look at you, chin tipping down. “You really messing around with this guy? I thought it was just people making shit up.” 

“People talk—” you started to say.

“You were just waitin’ around for some rich guy to come along?” He looked at you, shaking his head. “That it?” Then, he turned to Pope. “She could’ve gotten out a lot earlier—you know that right?” He shook his head, like he was disappointed. “Could’ve taken the back room, cut the number down to nothing in a couple months. Easy. Plenty of guys asking. But no, she just wanted to do it the long way.” He tipped his chin at Pope, lazy. “—And then go and give it away to you. For free.”

Pope’s pulse should’ve been climbing. It had gone flat and slow and cold. “Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” He asked, almost fond. “You gonna—”

The gun was out before he decided to pull it. His hand went to the small of his back and came around and then the thing was there, level, steady, muzzle a few inches off Leo’s forehead. 

The guy stopped smiling. He didn’t flinch—Pope gave him that—but he went very slow, very careful, his hands drifting up off his sides. His palms were loose and open.

“Okay,” Leo said, quiet now. “Okay. Easy.”

“Are you kidding me?” Pope muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t have a damn gun on you?” 

“I don’t need a gun in my own place,” he said through gritted teeth. His eyes flicked to the stairs, then back to the muzzle. “You wanna put that down before you get stupid over nothing?”

He’d half-hoped that Leo would’ve been carrying, show any sign that he felt afraid. “Her number. Say it.”

“That’s not—” He huffed, almost a laugh, disbelieving. “That’s not how—there’s a process to this, there’s people I gotta answer to.”

Pope’s lips flattened, eyes flicking to the ceiling, annoyed. “You know I’ll do it, man. I don’t care enough not to.” 

Leo’s smile dropped then. “Half the room’s had their hands on her, you know that? She’s not somebody’s girlfriend, man. The second she doesn’t need either of us, she’s not looking back at you any more than she’s looking back at me.” 

Pope let out a short chuckle. “Now you’re getting whatever I’ve got in my pocket or I’m shooting. Your call.” 

“You’re making a mistake,” the guy said, his last call, Pope realized. “You can’t pull a gun on me and —”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem.” Pope’s hand stayed still. “Right now, you take the money, she’s square, she walks.” His head tipped, slight. “Say yes, man. You’re a smart guy. Say yes.” Pope nudged the gun slightly further into his head. He leaned his head closer to the guy’s ear, voice dropping into a register that would’ve been too low for you to hear. “I’ve put people down for less than this. You know that.”

Leo took a beat. “Fine.” The word came out flat, bitten-off. “Fine. The money. She’s square. Get it out slow, I don’t want your fucking hand movin’ fast near me.”

Pope reached into his jacket with his off hand—the gun never leaving Leo's face—and pulled the roll, the whole fight roll, thick and rubber-banded, and tossed it onto the table by the box. It landed heavy. Leo didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on Pope, and his hands stayed up, and the deal sat there in the dead air between them, made.

Leo looked at it, and a long moment passed. He let out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. “That’s it?” 

“You should’ve said yes the first time. You knew I was good for it,” Pope said. “Say it,” he added. “She’s good. Tell her so she hears it.” 

“You’re square,” he said to you, the words ugly. “You don’t owe me shit. Don’t come back.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Either of you.” 

Pope held the gun where it was a beat longer than he had to—long enough to make it clear the leaving was his idea, not Leo's permission—and then he lowered it, slow, and stepped back, and reached out without looking and found your wrist.

“Let’s go,” Pope said roughly to you. 

You didn’t move at first. He had to tug your forearm once, and then you came, stumbling off the spot you’d been rooted to, and he put himself between you and Leo and walked you up the concrete stairs and out the side door into the lot, into the air that was finally air, with the gun cooling against his back and your pulse hammering under his fingers where he still had your wrist.

Pope let out a shaky breath as he tipped his neck back to look at the sky. He’d assumed that one day, he would’ve figured it out, how to help you—it would have been cleaner, probably, and wouldn’t have happened right in front of you—and he hadn’t thought it’d be fucking today. 

He still had your wrist. He made himself let it go, and turned to look at you. You were looking at nothing, at the chain-link past the lot, your arms coming to wrap around yourself, holding your elbows.

“Get in the car,” he said to you. 

You stayed still.

Pope shook his head once, pressing his lips together. He nodded at the truck. “C’mon. Just get in the truck.”

You stayed rooted there in the orange light, arms folded over yourself, shaking your head faintly—not at him, not a no exactly, just somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't reach you. He felt the impatience climb in him, the adrenaline still draining, the gun still warm against his back and the tomorrow-problem already stacking up behind his ribs, and it came out rougher than he meant.

“Just—get in the damn car.” He dragged his palm down his face and exhaled. 

You went around to the passenger side and shut the door. He got in beside you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. He pulled out the lot and drove the way he always did with you, to his apartment. You sat against the window with your knees pulled up and your arms still around yourself, and he kept glancing over, waiting for it, the thing he could feel build up.

“You mad at me?” he asked, the words coming out choked, almost like he was forcing them out. 

You took in a breath and looked out the window. “Are you gonna be fine?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m safe.” 

You nodded, even though he could tell you didn’t believe it. He wanted to tell you that he was probably the most safe guy in Oceanside, part of a family that would make sure nothing happened to anyone in it, even if they all may hate each other deep down. 

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you said a moment later. “I wanted to do it myself.” 

Pope knew what you meant, but he wanted you to talk more, just so he could justify it. “Yeah?”

“I was gonna work it down to nothing,” you continued. “And one day it’d just be done, and I’d—walk out. And it’d be cause I did it. Me. The one thing that was gonna be mine.” 

“You weren’t getting out.” When you snapped your head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, he forced to keep himself looking at the road. “I’m sorry, but you were never getting out. Don’t be dumb. I know you wanted to.” 

“Don’t call me dumb.”

“Then don’t be.” He shook his head. “You’re paying off a debt that’s not even yours when you could be—what? Working anywhere that gives you an actual paycheck. He wasn’t gonna let you have that. There’s no fucking contract making sure he lets you out.” 

You looked back at the window, jaw tight. “I didn’t want you buying me,” you said quietly. “That’s exactly the thing I didn’t want. Now I’m—I don’t want to owe you, Andrew. I like you.”

“You don’t owe me,” he said, voice rough, trying to ignore what the words did to his chest.

“That’s not how—”

“It’s how it works with me,” he said flatly. “I didn’t buy you. Don’t say shit like that. I bought you out.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “There’s nothing you owe me.”

“I wanted it to be clean,” you said, and Pope almost wanted to shut you up. “Us. I wanted to get out and just be—someone you liked. Not somebody you had to save or something like that.”

“Well, that’s too bad, then,” he rasped. “You can come with me. You can go wherever you want. You’re out, you can choose.” He killed the engine as the car reached his apartment. “You are someone I like already. I never liked who you had to be, but I like you—this, whatever it is. Alright?”

A part of Pope knew he shouldn’t have taken the job. Robberies were always a mess, but Baz had a fondness for them. And Baz had a kid and a whole life balanced on not going inside, and Pope had a girl who he wasn’t even sure was his girl, and no good reason in the world to be holding the bag when it went wrong.

So now there was a phone bolted to a cinderblock wall and a line of men behind him and a number he’d memorized. Thank God he’d memorized. 

It rang twice. 

“Hello?” 

The sound of your voice did something itchy to his sternum. He’d last heard it three weeks ago, before the job, when you’d been half-asleep against his shoulder in the truck outside your place. You’d told him to call you when he got home. 

“Andrew?” you asked immediately, like just an exhalation of his breath, you could recognize. “You’re in jail?” 

He forced out a dry chuckle, because the opposite would’ve gotten him kicked. “Folsom County.” 

“Jesus—why?”

“Robbery. It was a—a family thing—” He kept it short. The line was recorded; half of what he wanted to say, he couldn’t, and the other half, he wouldn’t. Especially not to you, not like this, with a guard at his back and a clock ticking somewhere. 

“Can I visit you?” you asked immediately. The hope in your words tightened something in his chest so hard he had to close his eyes to loosen it even a fraction. “How long are you in there for?” 

“No—don’t. Hey, listen,” he said, voice shaking and he hated it. “You—you gotta be safe, okay? If anything happens, I need you to look for—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t take care of you from here,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need to make sure you’ll be okay.”

“How long are you in for?” you asked, weary, like you’d read somewhere between the lines and realized that you were going to hate the answer.

“Six years,” he said, letting out another sigh. Then, because he couldn’t help himself when he heard you go silent on the other end, he said, “I’m sorry.” He pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if that did anything. 

“Fuck—fuck, Andrew. Six years—?” you said, voice so sharp he could feel it cut through him. He heard you breath, trying to collect yourself. “Okay. Okay—I can come there, to you. Visit you and stuff, alright?”

“You’re not living the next six years meeting me behind a glass, alright?” 

“I don’t care about that.” 

“I do.” It came out rougher than he’d intended. He pressed his forehead to the cold block, eyes shut as his free hand came up to tug at his hair. The line of men and the guards and the whole gray space fell away from him for a second, and it was just your voice in his ear and him trying, failing, to do one right thing for you. “You just got out—I’m not putting you back in. You got out, and you—you can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t want it without you,” you said, voice breaking clean down the middle, and it about took him out at the knees, standing there in his county blues with a telephone crushed to his ear. 

“You’re not thinking right,” he said, trying to get the words out slowly, like saying it that way would make you believe them. “You’re not waiting for me for six years. You know how long that is?” 

Pope was at a loss in this; he’d never had to push someone away before. Every person he’d needed gone, before he even knew he did, he’d made himself ugly enough to push it out. He didn’t have the ugly to use on you; he’d used up every bad thing in front of you already and you’d stayed anyway, and now he had nothing left to drive you away with except the truth, which was that Pope loved you too much to let you do this to yourself.

He couldn’t say that either because maybe then you’d really never leave.

You only breathed on the other end, and he could hear the hitch of your voice when you started to try saying something, then stopped. 

“I won’t like it,” he said, quieter now, “if you wait for me.”

It was a lie and you both heard it. He didn’t try to sell it harder and let it sit there, all wrong, and moved on before you could call him out from it, because he had something he needed you to have more than he needed to win the argument.

“Listen,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “You got something to write with? Or open something on your phone to get it.” 

“Andrew—”

“Please.” 

Something in his voice must’ve reached you, because he heard you shift. 

“Okay,” you said, voice thick. “Okay.”

He recited the number, slow and twice, so you’d have it right. “That’s Baz. Alright? Barry Blackwell—write that down, too. My brother.” His teeth gritted. “You don’t ever have to call it, but you keep it. And if anything ever—” His jaw worked, and he pinched his eyes shut at the horrible thoughts. “If money gets tight or if people come sniffing around even though they shouldn’t. If you get caught up in anything—somebody gives you trouble, or anything, the car dies, whatever it is. You call him. You say you’re mine, say Pope said to call. He’ll help.” 

“I don’t want your brother to—”

He didn’t want his brother to, either. Baz had a bad track record with people Pope considered his, people Pope loved. He pressed his molars together at the thought of Baz with you, of all people. Despite how much love he held for his brother, he didn’t like the thought. Six years was a long, long time. 

Six years was long enough to forget a voice, long enough for the thing you’d been holding in your hands to shift without noticing, long enough for a warm and present man to become more real than a memory behind a glass. Baz wouldn’t. But he can’t imagine Baz ever meeting you and not seeing what Pope loved about you, what everyone could love about you. 

“It’s the only way I can do anything for you,” he said quickly, making sure you’d understand. “It’ll make me happy.”

He heard you choke slightly on the other end. “Can you call me, then? If I can’t visit you.” 

He wanted to say yes. It would've cost him nothing in the moment and it would've ruined you slow, six years of you living from phone call to phone call, your whole life arranged around fifteen minutes of a recorded line, waiting on a man in a cage. And he knew he’d rightfully deserved to be caged. He’d seen what waiting did to you. He’d pulled a gun to get you out from under exactly that.

“No,” he said. “You stay out. You got out. Stay out of all of it, including me.”

And a part of him believed he was doing you a favor, despite it all. He’d never quite gotten you all the way like he’d wanted—merged your life into his and his yours—and maybe that was for the better. As long as you were wrapped up with him, you would’ve been wrapped up with his family, the jobs, the heists, the next county lockup waiting for him somewhere down the line. 

Your little brother deserved a sister who could come home clean, someone who didn’t have a Cody-shaped problem following her through the door. He’d been told he was the worst of them; he was built up for a purpose and it wasn’t the kind of thing you brought home. Pope cared about you enough to know that; it was hard not to realize it, standing in prison. 

He heard you say a jumble of words in one breath, and he couldn’t quite catch any over the ringing in his own ears. The guard said he had sixty seconds left.

“I’d do it again, I swear,” he said, fast, before your voice cut off. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—it was short.”

Your breath stopped for a second, then you asked, forcing an even voice, “How will I know you’re okay?” 

“I’ll be fine. I got people watching my back, I swear.” 

“Please, just—”

“Bye,” he said, forcing his voice gentle. “Take care of yourself, okay? And the kid.” 

The sound you made—wet and broken, landing like a wound he’d probably carry for six years—was the last of you he let himself take. He set the receiver down slow, like slow made it kinder, before you could say his name again. Because he never would've managed it if you'd said his name again.

The line went dead under his palm.

You made him his meals- breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with snacks included, based on the diet that his trainer provided for you both. The week leading up to a fight night was the worst for his diet and mental health- because that’s when his cut would start. His usual meals were cut in half or replaced by a protein shake altogether. Andrew even measured how much water he drank because by Friday he had to lose 10 pounds to make weight. The first day of his cut would be fine- he’d wake up before the sun even peeked through your windows and go to the bathroom to weigh himself before texting the weight to his coach. He stretched- did nothing to promote strength anymore so much as to promote sweating and get his movements down to a science before his fight.

You would find him shadow boxing outside in the heat- eyes closed so he can get the motions right in his head while you made breakfast. Andrew went from almost 4,000 calories down to maybe 1,500 just to maintain his energy- his breakfast was now egg whites and fruit with black coffee 6 oz., you watched him pour it into the measuring cup beforehand. After breakfast it was back to training while you made sure hotel and flight was booked properly- that cars were rented and interviews were scheduled while you watched him jump rope for nearly 15 minutes straight before practicing his footwork. His coach said he was using too much force- too much tension so Andrew was making sure he stayed on the balls of his feet to preserve his energy and strength if the fight went too long.

It was maybe two days of that routine until his cut started. Anger and sleep deprivation started to set in. Andrew was mentally drained- he was hungry, dehydrated, and deprived. Because another thing his coach believed in?

Abstinence.

No big distractions the week of a fight. You would field all his calls and appointments, you would handle the business and make sure nothing stressed him that wasn’t dire until the actual fight night. You wouldn’t even kiss him. Not even a peck before bed because you knew if Andrew had a taste then he’d breakdown and inhale you for as long as he could. You almost had to sleep in the guest bedroom a few times because you’d feel him at your back in the middle of the night and somewhere between grinding in his sleep or you moving around in yours- he got hard. Painfully so and sometimes he was so pent up that you’d feel his hips press into your ass for some relief and you would have to pull away. Force yourself from him because you were just as needy and desperate.

Cold showers for both of you would help. Andrew’s was spent letting the icy water rain down on his sore muscles- achy body desperate for some relief but his coach would tell him to not even jerk off before a fight. That was just as bad as sex. The pent up testosterone and anger would be fuel for Andrew- it would become the driving force and power that would help him win. Cumming would help him relax and the last thing he needed was his star athlete relaxing before a fight. But you didn’t have the same rules- you would spend your freezing showers biting your fist and using your fingers to rub your clit and help dull the ache in your pussy. But it never helped. You would cum- panting and shaking but all you would want was Andrew to be the one who made you cum.

What’s worse was that Andrew could tell- maybe it was to torture himself more on his end but Andrew knew the look you had. When you’d watch him come back from his jog dripping with sweat- the way you would bite your lip and how your eyes would hungrily stare at him while you watched the beads of sweat drip down his chest and melt into the waistband of his shorts. When you’d sit by the pool and listen to the way he would grunt while holding a plank until failure- heavy breathing through his nostrils and soft grunts that sound similar to the way he did when he was on top of you. Sliding between your pussy and forcing your leg a little higher up his torso to get the angle that makes you see stars just right. Andrew knew the look you had- so he followed you after you said you were going to shower. Stood outside of the door and listened to the little whimpers you bit back while you attempted to quell the need you had for him.

God it was fucking torture. But Andrew couldn’t touch you. Right? You knew better than to ruin his fight over being a horny bitch for your boyfriend- but Andrew didn’t want you to suffer along with him. He wasn’t fucking selfish, if anything- Andrew was a fucking giver and maybe that was the worst part about denying yourself the pleasure of his touch during fight week. He left you more than satisfied. And it was torture to Andrew- that he couldn’t fuck you but- he could still bring you pleasure even if he couldn’t stuff you full of his cock and feel the way you clench and spasm around him when you cum. It was fucking torture for the both of you and Andrew wasn’t going to let you suffer any longer when the fight was still days away and he knew he’d be sore and bruised and bloody after that you’d be too scared to touch him- but he saw the way you bit your lip and how your leg shook with anxiety and pent up sexual frustration while you both sat and watched his opponent’s last few fights on opposite ends of the couch.

God you wanted to slap him- how fucking dare he walk around in nothing but his boxer briefs that hugged his thighs so well. That showed you the swell of his ass that you wanted to bite and gave you an uninhibited view of his soft dick that was still fucking huge and made you clench around nothing when he passed by to sit and watch along with you. From the corner of your eyes you saw how wide he sat- how this thick fucking thighs took up the entire end of the couch and the ripple of his abs moving like waves every fucking time he took a breath. The stress ball in his fist was clenched within an inch of its life from how hard Andrew worked to keep himself concentrated on the tv but dammit he could feel you watching him. The way you bit your lip and finally you stood with a pathetic excuse of- “I’m gonna take a shower,” so you could rub your pussy and cum but his heavy hand grabbed your wrist to stop you.

“C’mere,” he grunts- tugging you into his lap with no effort at all while you’re left dazed. Gasping his name and struggling to get out of his hold because you know what he’s doing- you know what he wants. Pathetic little whimpers of his name followed along with ‘we can’t’ or ‘baby wait’ while he ignores your halfhearted attempts to pull away from him- because the second you were in his lap? The second you felt his cock stiffen underneath you from the way you wriggled and moved about? You melted. Moaned pathetically into the hot air while Andrew nipped and licked at your neck- heavy hands that were sore and bruised pawed at your body. “You need this,” it was simple. Andrew knew you needed to cum. Andrew didn’t care if he couldn’t cum. Andrew wanted you to cum. “Been so good for me sweetheart,” doing everything you can to keep him healthy and keep him on track- maintaining his schedule and sanity while neglecting yourself. Taking care of him- reminding him to take his vitamins and even measuring out water for him and making his meals and not eating in front of him because you knew how hard it was for him to eat plainly while you got to eat what you wanted.

“Let me take care of you,” he keeps cutting you off- silencing your protests with his slightly chapped lips and swallowing your whimpers with his tongue against yours. God it felt so fucking good- his rough hands dragging your shirt up so he can lick and suck at your chest with needy until you start to grind in his lap. Your clothed pussy catches his hard-on just right- rubbing against him to relieve yourself of the ache and you could feel how thick and stuff he got with only a few minutes of kissing and touching you. Twin groans breaking the kiss- tongues no longer tangled together but you continue panting in each other’s mouths before you try to pull away. You can’t- you’ll make him cum like this- you know how stressed he is and when you try and tell Andrew that you’re fine and you can wait another week or two he’s already manhandling you onto one of his deliciously thick thighs.

“Ride,” it’s a command- Andrew isn’t asking you anymore. He’s not waiting for you to ask permission or waiting for you to leave the bed late at night for you to stuff your fingers into your pussy and give yourself a pathetic orgasm that won’t stop the burn between your thighs. Andrew wants you to take it from him- to grind your covered pussy over the thick quad muscles of this thighs and give yourself whatever pleasure you want since he can’t fuck you the way you deserve.

“Andrew- b-baby no I-” you’re sputtering- shaking your head because you need to deny yourself the pleasure and he shuts you up with two strong hands grabbing your hips to drag you up the meat of his thigh. “Fuck!” You probably scream it in his ear but the way your panties rub against your needy pussy lips felt too fucking good and Andrew was moaning- panting right alongside you. Your pleasure was his pleasure- he unfortunately got off on you getting off and- god this was bad. This could go bad so fast but you were weak- useless to stop him from manhandling you up and down his leg. Your warm pussy was intoxicating to him- he swears he could already feel your wetness seeping from your panties and onto his skin but even more perfect was the way you whined his name. Little broken and choked off gasps of “ah~ Andrew!” into the tiny space between you both.

“Please baby- I need you to cum,” it was like he was living vicariously through your orgasm- mumbling against your chest before his lips wrapped around your nipple to suck and scrape his teeth against. He should’ve taken your panties off first- should have rid you of all your clothes before forcing you to grind on his thigh like this so he could feel your wet folds catch the soft waves of his muscles. Both of your arms grab onto Andrew- one hand threading through his soft curls to pull and grab onto while the other claws at his back. The wide expanse of his shoulders getting attacked by your nails and there’s no way he’d be able to tell his coach that you didn’t do it- no way to deny that he wasn’t between your perfect thighs when the evidence was on his body but god he couldn’t give less of a fuck that he does now.

“Like that- just like that pretty girl,” he can feel the way your thighs clench- how you’re already so fucking close with the way your breathing gets shorter and the way you can barely finish saying his name without cutting yourself off to moan. “Please baby- little more okay?” Muffled- mumbled into your skin before he resumes licking your other nipple into his warm mouth. Every drag of your cunt across his thigh sends electricity straight through your body- your clit catching the fabric of your underwear perfectly and you’re so fucking close. You just- god you felt so fucking empty. Pussy clenching around your own wetness and nothing else while your body moves itself back and forth- Andrew tensing his thigh to give you a little more to use for your own selfish gain. Every roll of your hips and scrape of his teeth give you just that much more and you’re about to beg him to fuck you until you finally feel his hand at your hip slide down to grab the meat of your ass before going lower. The tips of his thick fingers just barely brushing at your entrance-

One more grind- maybe you even try go a little too far but you desperately need to sink back onto Andrew’s fingers that tease at your wetness. He wants you to use him- wiggling his digits a little with every glide of your pussy until finally you go back just a little more and you whimper when he’s finally inside you. “That’s it,” like it’s what he wanted all along- like it makes him feel better to feel how wet and fucking needy you were for him. Such a good girl- neglecting yourself for him? “Better?” Almost sounding condescending- taken to fucking you with his fingers now because the feeling has you already riding a high that you can’t even keep rolling your hips anymore. You feel it- blinding heat and pleasure bubbling up with every drag of his thick fingers through your leaking pussy.

“Keep going,” his lips dragging along your jaw- biting your skin because he knows you’re close and he wants to feel you cum. Your sweet pussy juices drip down his hands- loud wetness making the room sound fucking nasty and all it does is encourage Andrew to use his thumb to circle around the right hole of your ass. His other hand continues forcing your hips to roll over his thigh- your clit dragging back and forth and when you tighten around his fingers you all but cry out when you finally cum after he runs again that perfect spot inside you.

“Yes! Andrew- fuck!” Finally- you’re cumming- your body gives into the pleasure he’s forcing onto you. But he doesn’t stop- if anything- Andrew is drunk off your body. He’s high off the way you sound and feel- how your skin tastes and he needs more. “W-wait! Andrew-” standing with you in his arms- tongue back in your mouth to silence your pleas. He needs to taste your pussy- he needs to bury his tongue inside you and hopefully he can go back to concentrating on his fight this week.

➻ taglist (UPDATED! click to join!):