ash | writer?

Henry is sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his jeans, smoking. You come out of the bathroom in one of his oversized shirts—nothing else.

He watches you cross the room. His eyes travel down your bare legs, the way the shirt strains across your chest, the shadow between your thighs. He takes a long drag, the hungry burn in his chest rising, and not from his cigarette.

"Come here."

You climb onto his lap, straddling him. His hands find your hips immediately, squeezing. His cigarette is still burning in one hand, held away from you.

He kisses you—slow, deep, tasting of smoke. His free hand slides under the shirt, palm flat against the warm curve of your belly. He groans into your mouth.

His hand moves lower, fingers finding you slick and ready. He groans again, deeper this time. He uses both hands to grip your hips, guiding you against his hardening cock through his jeans.

"I need to be inside you.." he says, voice strained. "Now."

And he means it. He pushes his jeans down just enough, lifts you, and sinks you down onto him in one slow, devastating motion. Your head falls back. His forehead presses to your chest.

"Fuck. Yes. That's—u-uh-huh keep g-..."

by three in the evening, henry feels hollowed out.

he’s not dramatic, or devastated. he’s just exhausted in a way that reaches the bones. every interaction feels slightly too loud. every inconvenience feels larger than it should. he can feel himself slipping into that familiar place where everything becomes difficult. where even simple things like going home and taking off his shoes seem to require careful planning.

he stays at school longer than necessary. papers spread across his desk. computer screen glowing. he isn’t working anymore. he’s just sitting there. staring and thinking. trying to convince himself to move.

eventually he stands, he grabs his coat and heads home. and, because apparently the universe enjoys commitment, it’s thundering and hailing when he’s about to go home. because of course it is.

he laughs once under his breath, it’s a short, humourless sound. “why not.” nobody answers. the universe has already made its position clear.

by the time he reaches his apartment building, his head hurts, his shoulders hurt, his everything hurts. he wants silence, and he wants darkness. he wants approximately twelve hours where nobody needs anything from him.

he unlocks the front door, and when he steps inside, he freezes. the light is on. for one horrifying second he thinks someone has broken in. then he sees you curled up on his sofa. a takeaway bag sitting on the coffee table. your shoes kicked off near the door. a book resting upside down in your lap.

you immediately look up, “oh!” you smile, “there you are.” henry just stares, because suddenly none of the exhaustion feels quite the same. you set the book aside. “you didn’t come home at your usual time.” you say as you stand. “i got worried.”

and that is it, it’s the final thing. the thing that breaks him. because all day long it has been one disaster after another. one disappointment after another. one reminder after another that he is tired and overwhelmed and failing at things he should be better at.

and then he comes home, and you’re here. waiting. worried. because you noticed he was late. because you care. because somehow, impossibly, after all these years, you still care.

henry lets out a shaky breath, and stares at you, then says quietly, “there you are.” you blink, “what?” and he laughs again. except this time it sounds awful, and frayed and unsteady. his voice cracks before he looks away. henry tries to get himself under control, which fails immediately. “the one thing that’s keeping me together.”

the room goes silent. your expression changes instantly. all traces of confusion disappearing and getting replaced by concern. real concern. the kind that always makes his chest hurt.

“henry.” you take a step towards him, but he shakes his head. not because he wants you to stop. because if you come any closer, he’s not entirely sure what happens next. unfortunately for him, you’ve never been particularly good at obeying his self-destructive instincts. you cross the room anyway, and wrap your arms around him.

just like that. with no hesitation and no questions. just warmth that’s solid and immediate. henry makes a sound he has never heard himself make before. something broken, or wounded, or maybe even desperate. and then he starts crying. properly crying. they’re not quiet tears. he’s just crying. his entire body folding in on itself.

years of carefully maintained composure collapsing like wet paper. he buries his face against your shoulder. and cries. you don’t even look surprised. you just hold him tighter. one hand moving up to the back of his neck. “hey.” soft and gentle. “hey, it’s alright.”

it absolutely isn’t alright, and that’s the problem. henry can’t stop. everything hurts. his head hurts, and his heart hurts, and his life feels impossible. and worst of all, you’re being kind to him. which somehow makes everything worse. because he loves you.

oh, he loves you so much. and he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t. years convincing himself friendship was enough. that being near you was enough. that having you in his life at all was more than he deserved. and now you’re holding him like he’s precious. and he can’t do this anymore. he simply can’t.

“i’m sorry,” he says into your shoulder, the words muffled. “i’m sorry.”

“for what?”

“this.”

you snort softly, “you’re apologising for being upset?”

“yes.”

“that’s ridiculous.”

“i know.”

you sigh, “henry.” his name always sounded different when you said it. so much warmer and a lot safer. he closes his eyes. wishes he could stay exactly here forever. and then, because his judgement is entirely gone, he says the worst possible thing.

“i’m in love with you.”

silence. absolute silence. henry immediately wants the floor to open beneath him. perfect. excellent. wonderful. he has ruined everything.

after years of careful restraint, years of protecting the one friendship that actually mattered, he has finally destroyed it because he had a bad day and apparently all emotional regulation has abandoned the premises.

he pulls away instantly. “horrible timing.” his voice sounds hoarse. henry wipes at his face to avoid looking at you. “ignore that.”

you stare.

he continues spiralling. “actually don’t ignore it, because that’s not really possible now, but perhaps we could collectively pretend—”

“henry.”

“—that i didn’t just say—”

“henry.”

“—the worst thing imaginable—”

“henry!”

he finally looks up.

you are staring at him like he’s completely lost his mind. which, in fairness, he probably has. “what?”

“are you finished?”

he opens his mouth, then closes it again. “possibly.” you nod. “good.” then you take his face between your hands, and henry’s brain stops functioning. completely. not a single coherent thought remains.“you absolute idiot.”

he blinks, “what?”

“you absolute idiot. i love you too.”

everything stops, the room, the rain outside, time. replaced by blank, stunned disbelief. henry stares at you, and you stare back. just waiting. eventually he manages, “…what?” and you laugh, actually genuinely laugh. a little incredulous, and a lot fond.

“henry.” your thumbs brush against his cheeks. “i love you.” he genuinely looks like he might faint. “no.”

“yes.”

“no...”

“yes!”

“that doesn’t make any sense.”

“why?”

“because!”

he gestures vaguely, “look at me!” you immediately smile. “i am looking at you.” which is somehow worse. because you’re looking at him like he’s something wonderful. “i thought,” he says quietly, his throat got tight, “i thought you just cared about me.”

you stare, then burst out laughing again. not mean laughter, just disbelieving laughter. the kind people make when confronted with overwhelming nonsense. “just cared about you?” he shrinks slightly, “yes.”

“henry, i brought takeaway to your flat because you were forty-five minutes late.”

“…yes.”

“i have memorised your coffee order.”

“…yes.”

“i know which jumpers are your favourites.”

“…yes.”

“i spent three weeks trying to convince myself i wasn’t disappointed when you cancelled dinner because i knew you genuinely needed time alone. i know your favourite artists and paintings, i know your favourite songs, your favourite colours to paint with. i know which type of paint you’ll choose even if it’s the shame shade by the same manufacturer.”

henry blinks, slowly.

“oh.”

“oh?”

“oh.”

another pause.

“that does sound a little romantic.”

you stare at him. “you think?” he actually laughs. a real laugh this time, small and shaky. and suddenly you’re both laughing. because the alternative is crying again. because apparently you’ve both spent years being complete idiots. because somehow neither of you realised the other felt exactly the same way.

eventually the laughter fades, and the room growing quiet and comfortable. you reach for his hand. he lets you. without hesitation. which, in a way, he has. “you really love me?” he asks. the question is so sincere it nearly breaks your heart, because knowing henry, he definitely thought that it was impossible for someone like you to love someone like him.

you squeeze his hand, “yes.”

“why?”

“that’s your first question?”

“it’s an important question.”

“henry.”

“i just mean—”

“henry.”

he goes quiet, so you move closer, and rest your forehead against his. “because you’re kind.” his expression softens. “because you’re thoughtful and you’re brilliant.” he immediately tries to disagree. you squeeze his hand harder, and he stops.

“because you care about people.”

“i worry about people.”

“same thing.”

“not always.”

“close enough.”

his mouth twitches, and you continue. “because you’re funny.”

“i’m not funny.”

“you absolutely are.”

“that’s objectively incorrect.”

“see?”

he groans, you grin. “and because you’re you.” for a moment neither of you speak. henry’s eyes are suspiciously bright again. but these tears look different. “that’s a terrible answer,” he says quietly.

“i know.”

“alright.”

“alright?”

he nods, “i’ll accept it.” you laugh, then pull him into another hug. and this time, when his arms wrap around you, there is no uncertainty left in them. just sweet relief, and it’s deep and overwhelming. the kind that settles into places that have been hurting for a very long time.

outside, the rain is still falling, and his day is still terrible. his shirt still smells like coffee and deadlines still exist. his problems haven’t magically disappeared. but somehow none of that feels quite so impossible anymore, because you’re here. because you’re holding him. because when he finally told the truth, the world didn’t end.

kisses before leaving/going anywhere are mandatory!! it doesn’t matter if he’s just going outside to take out the trash- he needs to kiss your forehead or cheek or lips to say ‘hey! I’m leaving but I’ll be back!’

gets very quiet and distant when he gets angry at you or claire. immediately backs off when claire gets mad at him and says that he’s not her dad.

is not good with apologies- will buy claire new records and leave them in her room after they fight. will do small chores for you (wake up early to make breakfast, refilling soap bottles- little things like that) after you two fight.

is surprisingly good at fixing things around the house

extremely protective. double checks locks. glares at and takes note of anyone who stares for too long.

^if something’s wrong with you or claire he just. will not sleep. mostly to look after either of you but also because he knows he’ll probably have a nightmare if he does go to sleep

not a crier. not at sad movies or books or anything. gets mad before/rather than sad.

one of his favorite things to do is sit in claire’s room with her and you- and just listen to records

also loves a movie night in (with ice cream ofc)- which is usually how afternoons on days claire has checkups/treatment go

^his go to is mint chocolate chip but he also likes bubblegum or regular chocolate

doesn’t like scary movies though (makes him nervous about claire’s heart)

one time claire fell asleep on the couch after a long movie so court carried her to bed.. then came back to see you all tired and carried you to bed too :)

he gets a tattoo for you and claire once you’re all safe n settled down somewhere quiet (I’m thinkin maybe both of your birthdays in roman numerals on the back of his upper arm above his elbows? maybe something from an inside joke between the three of you? is also down to get matching tattoos with you)

sleeps on the side closest to the door. can only fall asleep once he’s put claire to bed/knows you and her are asleep and has to be touching you (it could be just a hand on your waist or him spooning you)

keeps a knife tucked into the mattress frame of the bed and a gun in the drawer of the bedside table

has sensory issues that he does not give a fuck about. like no he does NOT like soggy fries- will he eat them if he gets them? yes obviously.

has some.. totally minor control issues (lots of issues in general)- you and claire both have trackers in your phones. will always be the one driving. prefers to make claire’s appointments/needs to know when you have something planned- even if it’s just grocery shopping.

and now some more nsfw hcs…

I’m aware that he has/had love interests in the books but virgin court is very dear to me </3

idk the fact that he was sent to jail at 15 and then recruited for the sierra program at 23?? he had no time for sex between all that and never really found a reason to go out of his way to do it

but I do think that he’s a quick learner and he is definitely not one to shy away from something new.. while he may let you take the lead at first he’s still very much in control

at first he make you show him how you like it- asks if what he’s doing feels good not because he wants the praise but because he genuinely wants to know

will get rough w you if you try him- he knows his strength! if you’re being shy and looking away he’ll grip your chin and tilt your head to him but if you’re just being a brat?? he’s squishing your cheeks with one hand and glaring down at you telling you to behave

if you’re into it he will also use his leg to lock you in place while you deepthroat or even just cockwarm him

^he’ll even fuck you in a headlock if you ask nicely

more on his oral fixation.. he needs to have his mouth on you during sex. it doesn’t matter if he’s kissing your neck, cheek, forehead, or lips- he just needs to have his mouth doing something

I JUST KNOW HES LOUD WHILE YOU GIVE HIM HEAD.

^(you can shut him up or at least get him to be quieter by stuffing your underwear in his mouth..)

That is the entire arrangement. That is the whole plan. He is inside you, and you are simply sitting there, and the rule, the single rule he himself laid down with the gravity of a man chalking an equation onto a board, is that nobody moves.

It was his idea.

You want that on the record, because in about ninety seconds it is going to stop being relevant to him that it was his idea, and you intend to remind him.

His hands are resting on your hips. Not gripping. Resting, the way you rest your hands on something you are trying very hard not to touch. His glasses have already gone askew. You did not do that. He did that, somewhere in the last eleven seconds, by frowning thoughtfully at the middle distance over your shoulder.

"Okay," he says.

You wait.

"Okay, so," he says, and stops again, and his hands tighten by maybe two millimeters, and you feel the whole length of him go a little harder inside you in a way that is involuntary and that he absolutely registers, because his breath catches and then he says, with enormous dignity, "that's just data."

"That's data," you agree.

"That's the experiment working."

"Mm."

"The experiment is going great."

The experiment is going great the way a soufflé is going great in the thirty seconds before it isn't.

—

It started, as a frankly indecent number of things start with him, with an article.

You don't even know where he finds them. He surfaces from his phone roughly twice a week with some new fact lodged in him like a splinter, and you have learned to recognize the symptoms: the eyebrows go up, the phone comes down, and he turns to you with the expression of a golden retriever that has found a second tennis ball.

Three nights ago the symptoms had presented over dinner.

"Did you know," he had said, around a mouthful of the pasta, which is a sentence that has preceded some of the strangest conversations of your adult life, "that people do a thing where the guy just. Stays in. On purpose. And nothing happens."

You had put down your fork. "I'm familiar with the concept, yeah."

"You're familiar with it." He had pointed his own fork at you, delighted, betrayed, thrilled. "Okay, see, this is the thing about you. I bring you a fact and you already have the fact. How do you already have the fact."

"It's a fairly well known fact."

"It is not a well known fact, it is a fact I just learned, which by definition makes it cutting edge." He had leaned in. "But okay, here's what I don't get. Walk me through the appeal. Because as far as I can tell the appeal is, and I want to make sure I'm reading this right, the appeal is nothing. The appeal is that nothing happens. You go to all this trouble to get into a position where historically a great deal happens, and then, on purpose, like monks, you make nothing happen."

"It's about closeness," you had said. "Being close. Staying connected. It's not about the friction, it's about the. You know. The being."

He had stared at you for a moment with the specific stricken wonder of a man encountering a foreign cuisine he has decided he must understand from the inside out.

"The being," he had repeated.

"The being."

He had set his fork down entirely at that point, which is how you know a thing has truly taken hold of him, because Ryland Grace abandoning food mid-meal is a seismic event.

"Okay, but here's my problem," he had said. "And it's a methodology problem. Because everything I'm good at, everything, the whole skill set, it's all about doing. You give me a problem, I poke it, I take it apart, I build a worse version and then a better version, I run it twenty times. Right? That's the move. That's the only move I have." He had gestured with both hands, knocking the salt over, ignoring it. "And you're telling me there's a whole, a whole discipline, where the entire point is to not do the thing. To just hold still and let it happen to you. That's. I don't even have the wiring for that. That's like asking a shark to stop swimming and appreciate the ocean."

"Sharks do have to keep swimming, though."

"Exactly! Thank you! That's my entire point! I'm a shark!" He had been thrilled to be a shark. "I would die. Conceptually. If I stopped."

"It's not really a swim-or-die situation."

"Everything's a swim-or-die situation if you think about it hard enough," he had said, which is the single most Ryland thing he has ever said at a dinner table, and you had married the idea of him a little further in your head right then, the way you do about twice a week.

"I need to try this," he had said, the way other men announce they need to see a specialist.

So here you are. Being.

—

"It's basically thermal equilibrium," he says now, twelve, thirteen seconds into the quiet, because he cannot leave a silence the way some people cannot leave a hangnail.

"Is it."

"It's totally thermal equilibrium. Okay, imagine, no, okay. You've got two objects, right, two bodies, different temperatures, and you put them in contact, and heat flows from the hot one to the cold one until they hit the same temperature and then. Nothing. Net zero. No more heat moving. That's equilibrium. That's us. We're two bodies that have reached the same temperature and now there's no net flow and it's peaceful, it's the most peaceful thing in the universe, it's the heat death of the universe except cozy."

"You've made cockwarming about the heat death of the universe."

"I've made it cozy," he says, wounded. "Were you listening. Cozy heat death. That's the whole pitch."

You shift your weight. Just barely. Just enough to settle a little deeper, not even on purpose, the kind of small adjustment a body makes on its own when it's getting comfortable.

His hands clamp down on your hips like he's bracing for reentry.

"Don't," he says, strangled. "Don't, that's, you can't do that, that's against the rules, those are my rules."

"I didn't do anything."

"You did a thing."

"I breathed."

"You breathed with intent."

You hold very still, and you let your face do nothing at all, which you have discovered is the single most devastating weapon in your arsenal where he is concerned. Ryland Grace can survive almost anything except an audience that refuses to react.

He looks at you for a long moment. His glasses are now at a genuinely impressive angle. There is a flush coming up his throat that you can feel more than see, the warmth of him radiating where your chest is against his.

"You're really good at this," he says, and it comes out almost accusatory.

"At sitting still?"

"At sitting still. Yeah. You're a natural. It's annoying. I'm the one who proposed the study and you're out here being zen about it and I'm." He swallows. "I'm having a lot of thoughts."

"What kind of thoughts."

"Scientific ones."

"Uh huh."

"Rigorous ones," he insists, and then his hips do a thing, the smallest unconscious flex upward, barely a centimeter, the kind of motion a body makes entirely without consulting its owner, and you both feel it, and he says "okay that wasn't me, that was an autonomic response, that doesn't count, the brain didn't authorize that."

"The brain's not really running the show right now, is it."

"The brain," he says with dignity, "is collecting valuable data."

The thing about him, the thing you fell for somewhere around the second month, is that he cannot do anything without trying to understand it, and he cannot try to understand a thing without poking it.

So of course he starts adjusting variables.

It begins almost innocently. His hands, which have been gripping your hips like handles, gentle, and start to move. Not anywhere scandalous. Up your sides, slow, mapping. You recognize the touch. It's the same touch he uses on a problem, the same patient curious pressure he puts on anything he's trying to figure out, and the fact that the thing he's trying to figure out is you makes something low in your stomach pull tight.

"So like," he murmurs, and his thumbs have found the dip of your waist and settled there, "the interesting thing is the anticipation, right, because nothing's happening, so your nervous system is just. Idling. It's revving. It's like sitting at a red light with the engine going." His thumbs stroke once. "Everything's primed and there's nowhere for it to go."

"You're narrating," you tell him.

"I narrate, it's a whole thing, you knew this going in." His mouth has wandered to your jaw. Not kissing. Just resting there, breathing you in, talking against your skin so you feel every word as much as hear it. "The question I have, the real research question, is whether the stillness amplifies sensation or dulls it, because there's an argument both ways. Like on one hand, no new stimulus, so you'd think it'd fade. Habituation. You stop feeling your own socks after a minute, right. But on the other hand."

He goes quiet.

You wait.

"On the other hand," he says, and his voice has dropped about half an octave, "I can feel your pulse."

You go still in a different way.

"Right here," he says, soft, wondering, the wonder doing the thing it always does where it stops being funny and starts being unbearable. "I can feel your heartbeat. From the inside. I didn't, I didn't know I'd be able to feel that. It's going kind of fast, by the way. For someone so zen."

"Shut up."

"I'm just collecting data."

"Collect it quietly."

"That's not really my strong suit," he says against your throat, and you can feel him grin, and then he goes thoughtful in the specific dangerous way that means he's had an idea. His hand slides up your spine to the back of your neck, cradling. "Okay, new variable, hold on, I want to isolate one thing." And he tips his head and kisses you. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that has a thesis. The whole time his other hand stays flat and still on your hip, anchoring you down onto him, so the only thing moving anywhere between the two of you is his mouth on yours, and somehow that makes it worse, makes the stillness everywhere else roar.

When he pulls back his pupils are blown and he looks genuinely rattled by his own findings.

"Yeah, that's, okay, that did something," he reports, a little hoarse. "That changed the readings. The readings are way up. I felt you do that thing, the clench thing, you did the clench thing when I kissed you, don't tell me you didn't, I have direct evidence."

"That's not fair."

"Science isn't fair," he says, delighted and wrecked. "Science is just true."

"That's not what that means."

"It's what it means tonight," he says, and then, because he is who he is, because the curiosity is always going to win, his hands slide around to your back and pull you in that final fraction so there is no space left anywhere between you, and he exhales like a man who has just understood something. "Oh, that's the appeal. Okay. Okay, yeah. I get it now. I get the being."

And the worst part, the part that undoes you, is that he means it. He's not performing. He has genuinely, in this moment, with his glasses crooked and his heart hammering against your chest and himself buried as deep in you as he can get without moving, arrived at a real understanding of why people do this, and the understanding has cracked something open in him, and the something is tenderness, and it is pouring out of him at a rate his mouth cannot keep up with.

"You're a menace," you tell him, but your voice has gone unsteady.

"I'm a scientist," he says, and kisses you.

That's where it starts to come apart, and it comes apart on his end first, which is exactly how you both secretly knew it would go.

Because once he's kissing you he can't stop talking into the kisses, and once he's talking he's getting worked up, and once he's worked up his hands won't stay still, and his hands not staying still means his whole body wants to follow, and the entire structure of the experiment is now resting on the willpower of a man who has never successfully resisted finding out what happens next.

"The hypothesis," he says against your mouth, breathing hard, "the hypothesis was that I could just. Be. Be in the moment. Very enlightened. Very still."

"Mm hm."

"I want to flag that the hypothesis is in trouble."

"Is it."

"It's in serious trouble. We may need to revise the hypothesis. The hypothesis may need to be that I have the self control of a, of a, I don't even have an analogy, that's how bad it is, the analogy generator is offline."

You almost laugh, and then you make a decision, and you do not move at all.

You stay completely, perfectly, infuriatingly still. You let him do all the wanting. You sit there, warm and soft and unhurried in his lap, and you watch the experiment he designed turn around and start running him.

His hips flex again. He catches it. Stops.

His breath shudders out.

"Okay, I'm controlling for breathing," he announces, to nobody, to the ceiling, in the voice of a man clutching the last shred of his methodology. "If I just regulate the breathing, right, box breathing, in for four, hold for four, the Navy SEALs do it, I read a thing, I can bring the whole system back down to baseline and then I can. I can just." He takes a slow, deliberate, theatrical breath in, and you feel his chest expand against yours, and you feel exactly what that does to the rest of him where he's seated inside you, and so does he, because the breath comes out as a wreck instead of a four-count. "Okay, the breathing makes it worse. Filing that. Breathing is contraindicated. Who knew. Everybody, probably. Everybody knew."

"You're doing great."

"I'm doing terribly, and we both know it, and the cruel thing, the genuinely cruel thing, is that you're enjoying watching me do terribly."

You are. You make absolutely no effort to hide it.

"You could just," he tries.

"Mm?"

"You could just move. A little. Hypothetically. For science."

"But it was so peaceful," you say. "The cozy heat death. I was really getting into the being."

He makes a sound that is not a word.

"You said nobody moves," you remind him sweetly. "Those were the rules. Your rules."

"I have done extensive research since I made those rules," he says, very fast. "There's new data. The rules are out of date. I'm issuing a correction. A formal correction. I was wrong, the original parameters were flawed, I'd like to move now please, I'd really like to move, I think about thirty seconds ago I would have said I could do this all day and I want to retract that, I want it stricken from the record, please."

"You're begging."

"I am peer reviewing," he gasps, and his hands are gripping you again, white knuckled, and the flush has gone all the way up to his hairline, and his glasses are so far gone they're practically vertical, and he is the single most undone you have ever seen a fully verbal human being get, and he has not moved an inch, because the one thing more powerful in him than the wanting is the part of him that will not, ever, be the one to break a rule he set for the experiment, even as the experiment dismantles him in real time.

It is, you decide, the most him thing you have ever witnessed.

So you take pity on him.

You lean in, your lips against the shell of his ear, and you feel him go rigid with hope, and you say, very quietly, "Okay."

And you move.

The sound he makes when you finally roll your hips is not dignified, and you treasure it, because Ryland Grace has been talking for what feels like a geological age and you have rendered him, for one perfect second, completely silent.

It lasts exactly that one second.

"Oh thank god," he breathes, and then he's moving, finally, hips driving up to meet you as you sink back down, and the first real slide of him is so much after all that holding that you both make a noise into it. His hands clamp on your hips and drag you down onto him, all the way, deep enough that you feel it in your stomach, and the relief in him is so total it's almost a religious experience. He's laughing, breathless and a little wild, the way he laughs when something works. "Oh, okay, yeah, no, this, this is the appeal, I had it backwards, the appeal is when you stop, the stopping is the appeal because then there's the. The." He loses the word as you grind down hard and feel him twitch inside you. "The starting. God. The starting is the whole thing. Don't stop, do not stop, that's an official finding."

"I thought it was about the being."

"It's about the becoming," he says, which is either profound or completely meaningless, and you don't care which, because his hands are everywhere now and his mouth has found your throat and the careful, agonizing stillness of the last however-long has wound you both so tight that every drag of him in and out of you lands like something much bigger than it is. You're slick enough that there's no friction left to fight, just the slow obscene ease of taking all of him and lifting off and taking him again, and the wet sound of it fills the quiet where his voice used to be.

You set the pace. He lets you. That's the deal you've worked out over months, that he can run his mouth about variables and equilibria all he likes but in the end he goes pliant and grateful under your hands, follows wherever you take him. So you take him slow. You ride him in long unhurried strokes, drawing all the way up until he's barely inside you, until he's panting and his fingers are flexing helplessly against your skin, and then down again, slow, slow, watching his eyes roll back. The contrast, the manic brilliant chatterbox going soft and obedient and wrecked underneath you, is something you will never, ever get tired of.

"You held out," you tell him, rolling your hips in a slow grind that has him gasping. "You actually held out. I'm impressed."

"I'm a professional." His voice is shredded. "I'm extremely. Professional. I had a hypothesis and I tested it and the hypothesis was that I'd die, and I was right, I'm dying, this is what dying is, write it down," and the last word breaks in half as you clench around him on a downstroke, deliberate, just to watch it happen.

His head goes back against the armrest. "Okay, that's, you can't just, that's not in the protocol, you can't do that," but his hips are snapping up into you now, losing the rhythm, chasing it, all his careful method dissolving into want. One of his hands leaves your hip and slides between you, thumb finding you exactly where you need it because of course he knows, he has studied you the way he studies everything, and the first slow circle he draws makes your whole body jolt down onto him.

"There she is," he says, ragged and delighted and reverent all at once. "Okay. Okay, I've got data on this, I know what this does," and he does it again, steady pressure in time with the way you're riding him, and the two sensations stack and stack and you stop being able to keep your pace even. "Yeah. Yeah, there you go. You're allowed to fall apart, that's, I'd actually really like to observe that, for science, please, I want to feel it."

"You're going to make me," you manage.

"That's the entire research objective," he gasps. "That was always the objective. Come on. Come on, I've got you, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere, I'm cozy heat death, remember, no net flow," and he's babbling now, half nonsense, his thumb relentless and his hips driving up to bury himself in you again and again, and the wound-tight pressure that's been building since the very first still minute finally crests and breaks. You come hard around him, clenching tight, and you hear him swear, genuinely swear, the fear-gauge profanity he saves for when the floor drops, because the feeling of you tightening on him is the thing that finally takes him too. He pulls you down flush and holds you there and lets go with a broken sound against your throat, hips stuttering up into you, spilling deep while you're still pulsing around him, both of you locked together at the exact point where neither of you can tell whose shaking is whose.

For a long moment there is no net flow at all. Just the two of you, joined, gasping, finding the same temperature.

When you finally lift your head he's looking at you with his crooked glasses and his blown pupils and that specific expression he gets, the one underneath all the noise, the one that you don't think he knows he makes. The one that says you are the most interesting thing that has ever happened to him and he cannot believe his luck and he is a little bit scared of how much he means it.

He gets there late. He gets there sideways. But he gets there.

"Hey," he says, soft, and for once there's no preamble, no analogy, no okay-so. Just: "I'm really glad it was you who already knew the fact."

Your heart does something complicated.

"Why's that," you manage.

"Because I would've been embarrassed to be this bad at sitting still in front of anyone else," he says, and grins, and ruins the moment perfectly, on purpose, the way he always does the second a feeling gets too big to hold, and you love him so much in that instant that you have to close your eyes.

---

You stay like that for a while, the two of you, not moving for an entirely different reason now. He's still inside you, softening, and neither of you is in any hurry to change that, which strikes you as funny given that not moving was the whole problem twenty minutes ago. His hand has found the back of your head again and he's just holding it there, thumb tracing slow shapes you don't think he's aware of, his heartbeat slowing under your cheek from a sprint to a walk to something steady.

"You okay," he murmurs into your hair. The voice has gone soft and low, the post-disaster voice, the one that comes out after the engine cools.

"Mm."

"You went somewhere at the end there."

"I did."

"Good somewhere?"

"Very good somewhere."

He's quiet for a second, and you can feel him deciding whether to make a joke, and you can feel him choose not to, which is its own small miracle.

"I think I had the appeal backwards the whole time," he says instead, slow, working it out the way he works everything out, sideways and out loud. "I kept thinking the still part was the experiment and the moving part was the reward. But it's not two things. It's the same thing. The staying still is just. It's trust, right. It's me sitting here doing nothing useful and you letting me, and neither of us going anywhere." A pause. "That's the whole experiment. That's all it ever was. Everything else was just me being a shark about it."

You lift your head to look at him, because that is dangerously close to him being cleanly self-aware, and you want to see it before it evaporates.

It evaporates. He sees you looking and the grin comes back, sheepish, reflexive, the shutter coming down over something he showed you for exactly one second.

"Don't write that down," he says. "That one's not for the record."

"Too late."

"You can't publish that, it's not peer reviewed."

"I'm publishing it everywhere."

"Devastating," he says happily, and pulls you back down against his chest, and you let him.

After, much after, when the experiment has reached its actual conclusion and you are both a boneless tangle on the couch with the good blanket half on the floor and his glasses somewhere that is going to be a problem to find later, he is quiet again.

Genuinely quiet. The rare kind. The kind that means he's run out, fully, that the engine has finally idled all the way down.

You give it eleven seconds.

You count.

At twelve, predictably, gloriously, he stirs against you, and you feel him take a breath to say something, and you brace for it.

"So in conclusion," Ryland Grace says, to the ceiling, with the deep satisfaction of a man filing a final report, "the appeal is real, the methodology was sound, and I think for the next round we should isolate some additional variables."

You don't even open your eyes.

"Go to sleep, Ryland."

"I'm just saying. For science."

"Sleep."

He goes quiet. He lasts almost thirty seconds this time.

⤷ Tardiness Is Not Polite, Dear President。

‘I swear on the beautiful rose hedges that adorn my lawn, I will sue all of your asses off. Do you hear me?’ Tabitha threatens–once again–in her shrill voice. 

She looks at the board members daring them to respond until her eyes fix on you, sitting in the middle at the president's chair. Tabitha has been going on since the start of the meeting and her tirade seems never ending. 

Court watches in amusement as her statement echoes through the room. He is quite entertained. Court sits in the front row of the homeowners association meeting as he does every time. The former military man has perfect posture as he lounges, one leg crossed over the other, his large hands folded in his lap. 

He is wearing a white button today under a gray suit jacket with matching slacks and his favorite brown shoes. The trained eye may notice the faint red stain of lipstick just barely on his collar. 

However, you can spot the way his blue eyes dance with delight and the occasional twitch of his lips. Court keeps a neutral expression on his handsome face, a leftover habit of his former life.

Inside, the man is having a jolly good ol’ time.

Afterall, Court has the best seat in the house to watch this ludicrous affair unfold and most importantly to keep a very close eye on–you.

Several board members are squirming uncomfortably and glance towards the head of the table, where you sit. To most everyone in the room, you look bored, you appear unphased as if Tabitha is making commentary about the weather. 

When in reality Tabitha is ready to bring full legal reckoning–she claims anyway.

Yet, somehow despite the endless barrage of threats Tabitha has leveled… You stay steadfast since the meeting began nearly twenty minutes late. Of course, nobody knows it began late because of Court.

‘Cause he was busy fucking you hard into the plush carpet of your office despite knowing very well you had somewhere to be. Not that you had complained at the time.

‘Yes, as you’ve said in a multitude of ways, quite frankly we do not need a reminder, Miss Saxon.’ You reply bluntly after a moment. Two fingers press into your temple as you speak. 

‘Maybe you do, courtesy of my lawyer.’ Tabitha bites back with a smirk. She stands behind the long mahogany table that is used for meetings. She is smug and enjoying every minute of this..

Meanwhile, only one person in this room knows you're in a private hell. You find this entire situation utterly ridiculous and humorous, yet stressful because the board is looking to you for guidance.

‘If you feel so inclined, sure. Perhaps your lawyer can explain we are fully within our rights to investigate the recent claims that you have violated the Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions of this HOA. It does not matter that you are on the board, you can still be investigated by the board.’

Your words cause a commotion and Tabitha lets out a string of curses. The woman seems to practically seethe as she glares at you now. 

'Everyone that has reported me for violations is nothing but a jealous sod! They're envious because I bring the best food at potlucks, have the best lawn, and an amazing pool!’

Couch watches as you purse your lips, clearly resisting the urge to laugh at this. Your shoulders tremble slightly and he figures it's time to throw you a life line. He stands smoothly, one hand brushing over his pants as he does. He lazily walks over to the mic stand in front of the table that is for residents to speak their piece. 

‘I apologize, but if I may interject?’ Court asks politely, the picture of utterly graceful innocence. 

'No, you may not.' You answer swiftly, eyes narrowing at Court. 

Court has the audacity to look perfectly chastised and tilts his head in what appears to be confusion. "Oh, have I broken a rule somehow or..? Please do correct me properly... President.'

You blink owlishly at his words and glance around at the slightly confused expressions on the other board members' faces. Right, they believe Court is genuinely about to pose a serious question.

‘I-I just mean we have not opened the meeting to the floor yet, Mr. Gentry.’ You clarify, trying to explain away your particular behavior.

Only Court properly understands the hidden meaning behind your words. The man had already teased you incessantly during your little office quickie about this entire predicament. As he held you down and fucked you just right, earning each delightful squeal and moan, these words were whispered to you:

'Gonna go out there and be nice and professional for me? With my cum still drippin' from your pussy as you sit in public? Everyone's already out there waiting for you, but you're back here taking my cock, isn’t that right?'

'Actually, I know the meeting started late due to the tardiness of your arrival, but the floor was supposed to open for members nearly ten minutes ago. If you consult the schedule, I'm sure you'll see... Dearest President.' Court says with mirth dancing in his cobalt gaze.

The glare you give Court as he finishes is enough to stop most men cold in their tracks. Unfortunately, for you, it only nudges the slightest smirk out of Court.

'Right.. Thank you for that reminder.. I suppose,' you say with a lip twitch, 'but unfortunately this meeting has been entirely derailed by its agenda. I fail to see how we can properly attend to the needs of the community whilst such aggressive in-fighting occurs between the board. Thus, I call this meeting to an end.' You say the statement matter-of-factly and nobody else on the board disagrees. In fact, everyone in the room looks relieved to be let free of the tension.

Well, except one person in particular. Tabitha voices her protests right away.

‘Excuse me? Absolutely not! What kind of President are you to simply try to run away? In fact, I can’t even believe I’m under threat of investigation while we have an incompetent icicle president that could care less and has all the warmth of winter!’

At her words you actually pause and a genuine frown graces your lovely face at her insult. It is gone in an instant and you shoot back. ‘Resorting to personal insults is quite bottom of the barrel, no? Perhaps, next meeting you should consider staying home whilst the adults discuss.’

 With that you stand abruptly, grab the black portfolio you always bring, and march away in retreat. Tabitha looks stunned and nobody rushes to her defense. Instead, people hurry out as if they are concerned they left the oven on.

Court adjusts his suit jacket as his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. Oh, you had handled Tabitha wonderfully, but there’s a knot in his stomach. Were you actually upset? You tended to adore the little game the two of you played during these meetings and easily brush off any annoyances from petty people.

Yet, as he watches your form disappear into the back offices of the HOA office.. Court is concerned.

⤷ Don't Forget What It Is, Sweetheart

Later that night you are stressed, upset, and utterly overwhelmed as you sit on the edge of your bed. All of this nonsense is not why you volunteered to be the president. And how dare Tabitha personally insult you in front of everyone.. 

Saying you are some type of cold fish person.. Pfft.. So, you are reserved and prefer to keep calm–at least in front of most people. Is that not the proper behavior of someone in a position of power? You didn’t even want to be president to begin with. 

Hell, you only even started attending the meetings because they are catered and you love free food! 

On the nightstand table, your phone buzzes on and off intermittently. You do not even have to look to know you must be getting emails from Tabitha and the other board members. Too bad, you are off the clock and NOT answering! 

You reach over and turn on Do not Disturb mode quickly. A sigh leaves your lips and your shoulders sign in frustration. You are just thankful to be here at home, wearing your cozy pajamas, and spending some time with your favorite resident.

Court is currently lounging on your bed behind you, watching you with that same unreadable expression he always has. Clarie is staying the night with a trusted friend and so he is once again, all yours tonight.

The man looks simply dashing sitting against your mahogany bed frame. The picture of sin as he has pulled off his button down in favor of just some gray sweats. The bulging scarred muscles and utterly masculine frame of his body are causing your thoughts to jumble, anytime you glance back at Court.

All of the stress lately has made you so insecure and anxious. Usually, you're so certain about all things in the bedroom with Court. Tonight you flounder. The weight of everything is playing tricks on your mind.

Maybe you couldn't be a good president or a good lover to him either. After all, you and Court are not dating.. Simply fucking reguarly and playing teasing little games constantly for your own mutual amusement. 

The man rails you night after night and then takes pleasure in reporting you for noise infractions. Court will purposefully schedule private meetings with you right before the scheduled larger ones. Just to pleasure you mercilessly until you show up a flushed mess. 

As much as you adore all that and did want more than this, you were sure Court did not. So, you keep those feelings locked tight, yet tonight...Your hands grip the satin sheets under you and your bottom lip wobbles. Your head is hung down and your eyes are downcast.

'You know, maybe we should skip this.. If you have other places you could be tonight or.. don't wanna, we don't have to…' You trail off as the smooth fabric between your digits anchors you. You don’t say what you really want to say–that you need reassurance. That you wonder if he has any other lovers like you.

Before you can open your mouth to say another word, Court moves–fast. The dirty-blonde haired man pulls you against his body in an instant with his strong arms. You gasp as he brings his hand up and grips your chin firmly, forcing you to look at him in those steamy eyes.

‘You have the nerve to question my desire for you? Even as I sit here patiently waiting for you to allow me to make love to you?” Court rasps.

Heat flares beneath your cheeks and you are momentarily rendered speechless by his actions. Court doesn't plan to let you slide though.

‘Speak. Now.’ He commands. 

‘I-I just wanted… to give you an out…” You whisper, unable to look away from the intensity of his gaze.

‘An out…?’ Court lets out a sharp chuckle, shaking his head once. 'Sweetheart, you look so fucking ravishing. The only desire I have tonight is to be with you and only you. Unless you tell me–I’m staying right here.’

Your eyes squeeze shut and you nod slowly. It’s a bit hard to respond. The warmth of his body and words fill you with the familiar feeling of his alluring affection. You inhale the musky fragrance of his cologne.

It takes a moment, but you find your center. This is Court after all and through the haze of stress, you know he only speaks the truth.

‘I just want you too.. I need you.’ You say, meeting his gaze once again.

Court lightly strokes your cheek with his thumb and hums lowly in satisfaction. 

You never realize how beautiful, sexy, and enthralling you are to him. He needs to show you once more. And then however many times you might allow him the singular delight of you. 

'I know, baby. You need my touch ardently, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Please.” Desire coats every word you speak.

In response, Court presses kisses to your temple, nose, and cheeks, before finally drawing you in for a proper kiss. His lips move against yours devoutly. As if saying all the words he suspects you may need to hear, but he can’t quite voice just yet.

Court does not waste any time. He knows you need to get out of your head and oh, he can give you that escape all night long. He unwraps his arms and pushes you down onto the bed with a firm hand.

An excited shiver runs through your body as Court now hovers you with his massive form. Unfortunately, an annoying layer of clothes still separates you from him. Not acceptable.

Your pajama bottom and top are made quick work of and Court is happy to see you only left in a single pair of black undies. 

The man positions himself next to you, his lips finding yours needily again as he runs a hand down your form. He finds your chest and squeezes greedily. Your nipples are lavished with attention, being pinched and pulled beneath his rough fingers.

Court releases your mouth only after biting down on your lower lip and earning a soft whimper. Ah, the first sweet sound of many tonight. He’ll make sure of that. 

Your perky nipples catch his gaze then and Court shifts to take your right bud into his hot wet mouth. Court sucks hard. Adoring the wanton moans that follow like clockwork as he switches between your twin peaks. 

‘Perfect, so supple.’ Court mutters as he pauses to give both a firm massage with his hands. 'You're so lovely, you realize?’

You watch his every movement as he lavishes you with attention.

'You're being so sweet tonight.’ 

Court looks up at you at your comment and smirks.

'I'm always sweet.. sometimes it's just mixed with the rough, but you love that, right?’

To emphasize his point, Court brings a hand up and slaps your left breast just hard enough. You let out a small yelp at the sudden action and another when he does the same to your right.

‘Court!’ You whine, bashful about how much you actually liked that.

Your adorable reaction causes Court’s already hardening cock to twitch. And before he can help himself, his arm reaches out and slaps your pussy through the thin garment. That sends you over the edge and you feel a wetness pool even more between your folds. Oh god, you need his fingers or his tongue. 

Your lover is well aware as you meet his gaze and he offers you a smug grin. The feeling is mutual as Court has been longing for the taste of you all day. 

He leans down and places two tender kisses to your hardened peaks as his hand tenderly rubs your clothes core. He'll be giving you much needed attention there soon.

Court begins to slowly trail kisses and licks down your body until he gets to your hips. He rises and positions himself so he's in front of your lovely, but very closed legs.

‘Open for me, sweetheart. Need to see you now.’ He commands, placing his hands on them and caressing gently. 

You pout and stubbornly do not. ‘I-Im feeling a bit embarrassed.’

Court raises a delicate dirty-blonde eyebrow.

‘Embarrassed by what, my angel? I've seen your pussy so many times I dream of your silk folds.’

The wet dream admission stuns you and your guards let's down just enough that your legs part slightly. Court takes the chance and pulls your limbs apart with his strong hands.

Your already soaked core is exposed to him in all your majesty and Court unconsciously licks his lips at the sight.

The sight of him so transparently mesmerized causes you to tremble. Yet, you still open your mouth to softly protest just to be a brat, but it is too late.

‘Christ, I'll never tire of this, you are fucking all mine. Nobody else can see you like this.’ Court growls. 

With that said, Court dives down into your pussy like he hasn’t tasted your nectar several times this week. He is not patient tonight either. He sensually runs his tongue up and down your core. 

You're already so wet. 

Legs automatically wrap loosely around Court’s thick neck as his hands move to grip your thighs in place. Cry after cry is already leaving you. Simmering blissing racing through your body, so overpowering, so fucking addicting.

He's so pleased he latches on and sucks on your sensitive nub with a trained precision. 

Court eats you out like a priceless delicacy as his tongue slides through every inch of your pussy. Your hands find purchase in his locks, pulling and tugging without care. 

You know he likes that, relishes in every little sign that he's pleasing you. Fuck. Court is a man of layers after all and your praise is high on his list of priorities.

That tongue of his should be illegal because all too soon that familiar urgency flares through your body. You rock against his face in response, wanting to draw out your high, but so in need of the friction. 

It's all so overstimulating, but Court finds just the right balance for you. Always so attentive. 

‘Court… fuck.. ohhhh god, please, please.’ You beg, legs now around his shoulders like a vice.

Your moans are heavy now and you imagine that if Court wasn’t busy coaxing an orgasm out of you, he would mock your volume. 

The thought is fleeting though as your climax crashes through you and a long sigh of ecstasy escapes you. You're in utter heaven. 

Immediately, Court fingers dig into your hips and hold you down as he flicks your pulsating nub. Court wants you to feel as amazing as possible, needs you to see how dedicated he is to you.

The two of you have never defined this arrangement, but there is only you. Nobody else could catch his attention. Nobody else gets this intimacy or his affectionate teasing. And nothing compares to this feeling between the two of you; he finds it utterly intoxicating.

As your high wanes like a fading flame, Court slowly pulls back and releases you. The man shifts off the bed as he watches you with satisfaction. Your juices cling to his beard, your unique scent marked on him, but he does not mind. In fact, he looks incredibly proud.

Meanwhile, you lay there, eyes squeezed shut, so wrecked. The feeling of finishing so spectacularly is still radiating through your body.

Court’s eyes over you and taking in your beauty and feeling so pleased with himself for being the one to have you in this position. He is a lucky man indeed. But, now he must have you in the most primal and intimate way. Your pussy is practically calling his big cock and he needs to fill you to the brim. 

The pants and boxes he still wears are yanked off and the bed dips as he practically throws himself back on it. 

‘Hands in mine, darling.’ Court demands impatience in his tone. 

Your eyes open at that and you peer up to see the desperate expression on the face of your lover. You know better than to tease him with your bratty ass right now.

Raising your hands, Court takes them and moves you like a ragdoll. He has you sprawled out under him, sideways on the bed. He loves to manhandle you and put you into whatever position entices him that day. 

Those legs of yours spread automatically for him. You're still so overstimulated and in a haze from your climax. Court hovers above you. His strong muscled back is straight as he grips his thick cock that is already leaking with precum. The head is bulging and red. 

You let out a low whimper as his dick slides through your folds, a mixture of his saliva and your juices to lubricate himself.Court takes a breath, his ocean eyes clouded with lust and desperation. Your hands now grip the satin sheets under you in preparation.

And then Court is painstakingly guiding himself inside you inch by inch until he bottoms out. He gives you both a moment to adjust, your sweet sounds filling the air. 

‘Fuck, y-you always s-streach me out so goddam good..’ You manage to get out, your eyebrows furrowed, pleasure written across your face.

‘Of course baby, this pussy was made for me,’ Court murmurs back as he slowly begins gliding in and out of your pussy. 

The lewd sounds fill the air and excite you both. As always you’re so fucking tight and wet. Just right for him. Court can’t help but to lose control from the way you grip his thick cock. And just on cue, begins fucking into you with rough abandon.

Court’s hips slap into yours roughly while with both strong hands he holds your legs up. It gives him just the right angle to slide in and out of your needy core. It also allows him the full naughty breathtaking view of you. 

Your full body exposed to him, chest trembling, face pinched in please, and so so perfect as his cock moves in and out of you.

‘You love this, don’t you? Can't enough of the way I fuck you, huh? Tell me you'll never take another. Say you're fucking mine!’ Court demands roughly.

‘I-Im yours, baby, all yours,’ you call out through the passion of his frenzied actions.

‘That's right. All of the dirty things I do to you feel so fucking good. Just look how you take me so well. We were made to fuck each other, sweetheart.’

‘Oh Court…’

The dirtiness of his words as you make love is just too much. All of him is so much and yet not enough.

'You were so disobiedent earlier, cutting me off before I could finish teasing you at the meeting. Next time, you'll listen to my every word, just like you take every inch of me, alright?’

‘N-No..’ you protest weakly, crying out.

Court shifts then, letting your legs drop and leaning over you. The change in angle makes your eyes widen and you immediately reach to wrap your arms around his neck. He is so overpowering. Your legs encircle his waist, hugging him to you as he thrusts punishingly.

Every stroke, every sensation overwhelms your body.

‘No? Shall I stop fucking you, flip you over right now and spank that ass until it aches? Or would you rather I did that in front of everyone else..’ He taunts.

‘N-no, I have a r-reeputaation to uphold and that would be most u-unneighboorly.’ You squeak out, walls clenching at the thought of everyone knowing how rough Court takes you.

You’re surprised you have it in you to tease him again. But as one hand moves to his back, your nails dig in slightly. Court’s resounding groans of pleasure encourage you.

His eyes are closed in deep concentration as his cock hits the spot that makes you gasp in too much pleasure. Every fiber of his body is focused on pleasing you and chasing his own high. Why do you always have to make him come undone so fast?

Court can barely even look at your face currently. The sounds you’re making combined with the erotic bliss that crosses your beautiful features as he fucks you is too much. He is already struggling to hold off his own climax.

 You already feel like heaven, must you look like an angel too?

The words come out before Court can really process what he is even saying. 'Fuck that, everyone should know you belong to me.’

Court’s words cause you to gasp and before you can question him his thrusts speed up vigorously. His climax approaches and like a symphony reaching its momentous conclusion, the urge to cum fills him.

As always, Court pulls out and lets his heavy load paint your stomach. A string of muttered curses follow as he grips his softening cock and sighs in relief.

‘Fuck, that was intense.’ He pants, as one hand comes up to run through his tussles locks.

‘Y-Yeah, but you made me feel so so good..’ You murmur, sleepiness already tugging at you. Nothing puts your ass to sleep faster than good sex. 

Court offers a rare soft smile as he appraises your thoroughly fucked out form. He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead and before climbing off the bed.

Your body is limp, exhausted and fatigued from the physical and cognitive weight of being throughly fucked. You lay there across a bed, the only visible movement of your chest slowly rising up and down as you caught your breath.

Court leaves for a moment, but when he returns he has a damp cloth as always. He is gentle as he slowly parts your stunning legs once more and lays eyes on your now aching core. Slowly, he cleans his release off you until your clean.

‘There we go, you’re okay.’ Court coos. Just for you.

He moves once again to throw the used towel in the hamper before you have all his attention again. Court helps your tired body reposition on the bed, so your head falls against the plush pillow and he pulls the warm green comforter across your naked form.

You let out a yawn and close your eyes before turning on your side. Court slips into bed next to you and pulls you into his warm broad chest.

‘Tell me how you feel.’ He says after a moment of simply snuggling with each other. 

‘I feel good.. How about you?’

‘Amazing, baby.’

“Mm .. did you like that?’ The question is one you always ask during aftercare. Just something you need reassurance on. 

Court is more than happy to provide that.

‘I loved every second of it. You did so well for me, pleased me so much, and I already want more.’

“Really?’

‘I swear it.’ He answers solemnly.

A sleepy smile graces your face, but the long day and night are now catching up with you. ‘Mmm.. I’m tired, Court.’

In response he places a kiss on your shoulder and holds you tighter.

“I know, sweetheart. Let’s get you some rest now.’

“Mkay, goodnight.’

“Sleep well in my arms, angel.’

And you slowly drift off, feeling safe, sound, and secure in the arms of your Court.

⤷ Allow Me to Clear That Up, Angel

The morning after you are still laying in bed. Court is already up and moving around to room, gathering his things. He’s already showered and has to be off soon. You do not mind, you quite like watching him get undressed. Or naked. Either is hot when it comes to a beautiful man like him.

‘You okay?’ Court asks, looking up at you as stuffs something in his overnight bag.

You think it over for a second before shrugging. 

‘Yeah, I’m good.’

He nods, but doesn’t seem convinced.

‘You were genuinely upset yesterday about Tabitha’s antics.’

The thought of Tabitha made you sigh.

‘Yeah, it is a lot deal with. But it’ll be okay.’

‘Hmm. You know you could always resign.. You do not have to deal with this. It shouldn't be such a heavy burden.'

‘It’s fine, I wouldn’t want to abandon the others either. They are good people.’ You say genuinely. ‘Besides the meetings can be fun when they aren't litigious.. just light and occasionally flirty.’

You giggle thinking of all the little secret ways Court has teased you at them. Yeah, they weren’t half bad. Maybe once Tabitha sued your ass off, you might disagree though.

Court lets out a chuckle too. 

‘I find it all rather amusing. The complex issues I’ve seen in my past.. Yet people are here bickering about potlocks and pools. It’s surreal.’

Surprise crosses you. ‘You never really talk about your past.’

‘I guess not.’ He answers, his jaw tightening slightly.

The tone in Court’s voice says not too push that subject, so you pivot to something else on your mind. 

‘Don’t worry about last night, by the way.’

‘Worry about what?’

‘All that ermm.. Dirty talk.. What you said last night about me being all yours. I know you didn’t mean it.’ You assure sheepishly.

Court looks at you blankly for a second. His blue eyes squint and he looks deep in thought as he tugs on his wrinkled suit jacket.

‘Perhaps, I have not been direct enough and for that I do apologize.’ Court starts as he finishes fixing himself and walks over to you.

‘Hmm?’ You ask, but before you can question him further, he leans down and captures your lips in a sweet kiss. His hand comes up to caress your face lightly as he does so. 

The intimacy of the action causes your face to heat up and you kiss him back slowly. You grip his suit jacket in return and bask in this moment.

When Court finally pulls away he simply says, ‘We play and have our fun, but I meant every word of last night. I know you and you know me in ways nobody else does. You are mine, is that understood?’

Part of you wants to ask Does that mean…

Yet, the intensity of Court’s gaze and the way he’s still lightly stroking your cheek seem to be the answer.

You give a simple nod and release him as he stands back up.

Court strides away confidently and glances back when his hand is on your bedroom door handle.

‘I’m glad we’re on the same page. I’ve got a busy week, but I’ll make sure to see you before the next meeting. Goodbye, sweetheart.’

With that he is gone, leaving you utterly shocked and on cloud nine. When your phone beeps once again to signal another new email, not even that can wipe the smile off your face.