Ché

"Dodge, your shoes—" You start to protest, but he silences you with a kiss. Well, hard to argue when his tongue is already in your mouth and his big, firm hands are squeezing your hips. Thank god you're home alone.

“Doesn’t matter. Need you.”

He breaks free to shrug his jacket off his shoulders. It gets discarded onto the floor of your hallway, and his shirt is next to go as the pair of you stumble blindly through the threshold of your kitchen. He hardly gives you time to ogle the muscled expanse of his chest before his mouth is descending on yours again. There's no method to it, just intent. The intent to devour you, apparently.

Your back hits the marble counter behind you. You cry out at the sharp pain, but the sound is swallowed right into his mouth. He'll have you crying out for other reasons in the next few minutes, no doubt. A heartbeat later and his hands are beneath your own shirt. No time to be wasted, clearly, as he gropes your breasts and groans in satisfaction at the feeling of flesh beneath his palms. No bra? Oh, this is exactly what he needed.

"Perfect fuckin' tits," he mumbles, the words slurred into your mouth. He presses you harder into the surface; the pain is hardly a dull throb when you're so aroused.

"What's gotten into you?" You ask breathlessly as one of his hand snakes down beneath your waistband. Fingers find both your clit and a nipple simultaneously, and you jerk forward a little with a pitiful whine. Not that you can move much, mind you, when you're sandwiched between the kitchen counter and the hard planes of his body.

He rolls the sensitive bud between his fingers, relishing in the way your back arches towards him as your nipple hardens. "Just a bunch of assholes at the diner."

Awfully vague explanation. Why are men so bad at speaking about anything? You have to concentrate hard to get out a breathless follow-up question. "Yeah? What'd they do?"

"You gonna grill me or just let me fuck you?"

Oh, that really does it for you. You clench around nothing as his fingers tease your clit and nipple. You've never seen him like this, but you're far from complaining.

"Well, I just—" A finger slipping into you cuts you off with a gasp at the sudden intrusion.

"Rhetorical question. You're gonna let me fuck you."

All you can do is nod wordlessly as another finger slides in to work you open. He's back to swallowing up your pathetic little moans again, crooking his fingers against that sweet spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back.

"Wet enough," you hear him mutter to himself, half-spoken against your lips.

"Wha—?" His fingers withdraw and his hand leaves your shirt, and then you're being manhandled around. Panties and underwear yanked down to your knees, cheek pressed into the cold, smooth marble of the counter. He's too impatient to strip you properly.

You can hear the sound of his belt buckle being undone, followed by the unmistakeable zip of his jeans. "Not... not here, Dodge."

He scoffs behind you. Not here? You're home alone, for Christ's sake. And he's fucked you in places much worse than bent over your dad's kitchen counter.

"Don't make me use this," he warns, the cool metal of the buckle pressing against your lower back where your shirt has ridden up. He's joking, you think. Not that you'd be opposed to it in the first place—whether he means wrapped around your wrists or to redden one of your pretty little ass cheeks, you aren't sure. Both?

Another wordless nod. He can't tell whether that's consent for the belt to be used or you just agreeing that you'll stop your whining, but he's too impatient; you can play around another time. Right now he just needs his cock stuffed inside you and his exhausting shift to the back of his mind.

The belt clatters to the floor, and his jeans and boxers drop to his knees. Normally he eases himself into you—he's such a tease when he wants to be, making you beg for each inch and goading you with little comments of "you sure you can take it all?" But now, he presses into you with one snap of his hips.

It punches all of the air out of your lungs. You cry out beautifully at the sudden stretch, fingers curling around the edge of the counter.

"Oh— W-wait, need a second—"

"You can take it, baby." It's the exact opposite of what he normally tells you. You can't tell if he's comforting you or telling you that you will take it, either. He has the grace to give you a few seconds to adjust, but after that he's moving. Deep strokes that have little bitten off moans passing your lips.

"C'mon. Tell me you can take it," he instructs, one hand on your hip and the other in your hair to hold you in place as he ducks down to murmur in your ear. You can feel the pressure of his front against your back, the warmth over your rucked up shirt.

"I can— ngh— yeah, I can take it," you choke out.

That earns you a smack to the ass in approval as he straightens back up. "That's my girl."

He's decidedly not nice about it anymore. Focused entirely on taking out all his frustrations on you, slamming into you with the most obscene sounds imaginable as his skin slaps against yours. He's done with talking—no time for words when your cunt is squeezing him so perfectly.

One of your hands releases the edge of the counter and tries to make its way down beneath you to pay attention to your neglected clit. He catches your wrist, holding it in place before it can stray away from the surface.

"No. This is for me," he grunts. "You just lay there 'n' take it for me."

Well, that's a little mean. But... extremely hot. "O-okay, I can— ah— can do that."

The only way to describe it is him fucking you absolutely senseless. You're practically drooling onto the counter with each rough thrust, babbling senselessly about wanting to take it for him and make him feel better.

All you can hear through your haze is his balls slapping against your ass, the slick sound of him burying himself into your heat, your own desperate mewls and Dodge's grunts of effort. You have no doubt he'll make it up for you later with his head between your thighs after he's cooled off. Hopefully in your bed, and not making a mess of your dad's kitchen.

His other hand moves to push your shirt up a little further, calloused fingers skimming along your spine. A surprisingly gently touch considering the brutal pace he's set, tracing over the spot where you'd hit the benchtop too hard. You'd think it was an apology if it weren't for the little hum of satisfaction he gives.

His grip tightens around the wrist pressed into the hardened limestone, and the occasional stuttering of his hips signifies his oncoming climax. "Wanna cum inside. Can I?" His voice sounds rough, strained.

You just whimper in reply, fingers clenching fruitlessly into a fist. The way you rock back onto him should be an answer in itself, but it doesn't stop him from groaning—

"C'mon. Say it."

You aren't even sure you're capable of speaking right now, voice raw from crying out with each sharp thrust. "If it'll make you feel better," you manage.

"Feeling charitable, sweetheart?" He sounds amused, but the little smirk is wiped right off his face when you clench around him. Yeah, no, he's not lasting any longer at all.

A few more thrusts and he's burying himself to the hilt to spill into you with a ragged groan. "Ah, fuck, take it—" And you do. You take it all with a moan at the warmth filling your cunt, face still pressed into the marble.

The silence that follows is only broken by Dodge's pants of exertion as he comes down from his high. You can't bring yourself to ask him to move, either, even when your cheek is no doubt imprinted and your legs are trembling.

Eventually, though, in a rough voice: "Needed that."

You can't help but smile. "Yeah. I can tell."

“Sit up, sweetheart.” “Uncross your legs.” “Laptop higher.” “Relax your jaw.” 

He knows he’s a perpetual nuisance, aware he sounds like someone’s dad, can practically hear the eye-roll you swallow every time. 

He also knows it embarrasses you, especially at work, where your face goes warm when he corrects you within earshot of other people. And it isn’t that he sets out to make you squirm, though he’d be lying if he said he got nothing out of that quick little fluster he can pull from you with a word, a hand, a look. 

It’s just that once he notices you folded in on yourself for too long, something in him firms. His voice drops into that clipped, authoritative register, flipping a switch to brisk certainty and command, and by then it’s already too late to pretend you’re not going to listen. 

So when he catches you slouched at the station again, practically kissing the monitor, he doesn’t hesitate.

Steps in behind you. His palm fits against the ridge of your upper back, heat seeping straight through the thin cotton.

“Up.”

You mutter, “I hate you,” eyes never leaving the vitals grid, and Jack takes it as the green light it is.

His thumb glides from back to shoulder to nape. The opposite hand curves under your jaw’s hinge, guiding your head until your spine clicks back to neutral while the entire nurses’ station pretends their screens are riveting. 

Public proof that your posture, and maybe the rest of you, answers to Dr. Abbot’s touch far faster than to your own irritation. 

“There’s a whole skeleton under all that,” he observes dryly. “Try using it.”

You bat at his hand, a half-hearted slap. “Stop manhandling me at work.”

He ignores that, drops the chair one notch (ignoring your surprised squeak too), angles the monitor to proper eye level, then squares your shoulders with both palms. A measured squeeze follows, equal parts reassurance and warning.

“Better,” he decides. “And if I catch you bent over that phone again, I’m taking it.”

He likes the line of you best when he’s the one arranging it. 

You figure that out later, breathless and flushed, forehead buried in his sheets while he kneels behind you, two sure hands repositioning your ass in the air like he’s smoothing kinks from an instrument only he can tune.

“Uh-uh,” he grunts, and you’re too far gone to know what he means until his palm presses between your shoulder blades and eases you down, down, down, your hips staying high as your face sinks into the pillow. “Arch for me — c’mon, deeper bend, don’t cheat your lower back.” 

Your breath catches when he palms the dip he’s just created, fingers splaying and then he’s sliding his cock in your folds slow. It earns a pleased mewl from you, angle perfect because he’s engineered it that way. 

Every push has a tiny corrective tap — shoulders down, knees wider, perfect girl — until your pussy clenches and drips all over his rigid stomach and he finally lets you break form, hips snapping while his palm settles, triumphant, at the very spot that first straightened you hours ago.

MARIA NOTE hello this is my trying out little blurbs/drabbles bc this random thought rlly evoked something in me... don't know how to feel it ab. it feels naked without my fun graphics but alas! and the tiny text??? what do we think?? yes or no i'm in the middle right now so feel free to share opinions... it looked a little strange as regular but idk i'm lowkey having an existential crisis over this ok bye

"D-Dodge—"

He hardly flinches at the collision, smiling so innocently at you that you're almost convinced it never happened. "What?"

"You can't—" You take a moment to collect yourself. Swallow thickly. "Too much."

"Why?" His head tilts.

"Because it's a sin," you reply, as if he's stupid. "You can't touch me there. The... the good Lord's watchin'!"

"He watches everything else we do. Why's this any different?"

He has to swallow back a laugh when he watches the way your brows pinch together as you think that through. Logic is very hard to come by when his hand is still resting on the inside of your thigh.

"Well, it's almost—" You pause, lowering your voice to a hushed whisper, "—sex."

Dodge smiles. How cute.

"It's not sex, sweetheart," he says, mimicking your hushed tone. His other hand moves up to pet the back of your head as if to console you. "Don't count unless there's penetration."

You eye him warily. "What do you mean?"

"Well, what's the Bible say about it? No sex without intention to procreate 'n' all that bullshit?" He ignores your pout at the way you call the teachings bullshit. "Can't even be sex if my cock—"

"Dodge."

"What else am I supposed to call it?"

"Just don't say it at all!"

He sighs. Starts over again. "What I'm tryin' to say is that a little bit of touching ain't a sin. No penetration. Not even like our..." He pauses to search for the most appropriate word he can think of. "Parts... will be touchin'."

You frown a little, mulling that over in your head. Well, it makes sense to a certain extent. Besides, if touching in any capacity is a sin, you're already going straight to Hell for how many times he's had a calloused hand cupping your breast or squeezing your ass. It still just seems like a little much though...

"But the sin is lust, not the actual— oh—"

His fingers brush over you again, and the innocent smile from earlier isn't so innocent anymore when you meet his eyes. "Stop worryin' your pretty little head, darlin'. I promise you it's not a sin. Right hand up to God." Funny, considering his right hand is currently the one snuck under your dress and touching your clothed cunt.

You try again. "But Dodge—"

"But what?" He says, fingers dragging back and forth against you in a way that has your thighs pressing together instinctively. "You don't trust me?"

You shake your head. "No, no, I trust you."

He hums. "So, what, you don't want it? Is that it?"

The truth is, you do want it. He's hardly doing more than lazily rubbing you through your panties and there's already an unfamiliar stirring in your gut. Like the build-up of something that could be absolutely explosive. The Big Bang, your brain traitorously supplies. Now you feel even worse. You've never even tried to touch yourself before—considered it, sure, but any time your hand ended up toying with the inseam of your sleep shorts it was quick to retract. You've had to apologise to the picture of Mary overlooking your bed a few times for the almost-slips.

"... No," you lie, straight through your teeth.

But he laughs. He's no idiot. He can see the way your gaze is fixed on his forehead rather than his eyes. Can feel the way your thighs clench tighter with each drag of his fingers, your cunt pulsing a little too eagerly for someone who doesn't want this. "No?" He repeats mockingly. His mouth moves to hover right by your ear, and you shiver at the warm puff of air against it. "Then why are you so wet?"

"Well, that's... that's natural!" You insist weakly.

"Is it?" He muses. "You always walk around with your panties damper than a horse's back on a summer's day?"

You wither under the amused look he gives you. You know he's just being an ass now. But there's a glint in his eyes—not quite mischief, something a little darker than that. Something that makes any thoughts of the fiery depths turn to mush.

"... Promise it's not a sin?" You ask tentatively.

Dodge offers you the pinky of his other hand, and the one between your legs stills for just a moment. Your lip catches between your teeth, indenting the soft flesh as you weigh up the truth behind his words. Deep down, a part of you knows that he's just bullshitting you to get his way. You could be about to commit the most heinous sin imaginable and he wouldn't give two shits.

... But then his hand starts back up again, and before you know it, your pinky is looped through his.

It doesn't take long before your dress is hitched up and you're on your back, hair spilling over his pillow. Your panties are discarded somewhere on the floor, a leg hooked over his shoulder as his mouth laps at your sensitive parts. What started as kitten licks and gentle circles of his fingers quickly turned into something else.

Now you feel as if he's trying to devour you.

"S’that good, sweetheart? Feel nice?"

"Nggghh, yeah. Oh my goodness—"

There's been a few times where he's been tempted to slip a finger in. Ease you open, feel the way you tighten around his digits when you climax for the first time. But he'd said no penetration, and Dodge has a feeling you'd be on his ass about semantics. He'll work you up to that eventually, he's sure of it.

So he sticks to working you over with his mouth. Eagerly lapping up the sweet juices your cunt provides him with every time his thumb flicks over your clit just right, his other hand threaded through one of your own. Thumb reassuringly rubbing over the back of your knuckles despite the faster pace his other hand is taking.

And despite the fact his mouth is mostly occupied, he doesn’t stop talking you through it the entire time. "Just like that, angel. Keep makin’ those pretty sounds for me. Y’sound so sweet. Taste so sweet."

Or he tuts. "Keep your legs open. That’s it, uh huh. That’s my girl."

A groan this time. "Fuck, can’t believe I waited so long to do this. S’heavenly, baby."

Neither of you even notice the credits of the movie rolling. All you can hear is your own keening moans and the lewd sound of his tongue lapping at your pussy. The feeling is foreign, unfamiliar, but the peak of ecstasy you're approaching has you thinking life in eternal Hell might not be so bad if this is what you get to experience down there.

That thought is quickly cut off when your orgasm crashes over you. Sudden, overwhelming, your back arching up off the bed as your entire body jolts with pleasure. You swear you black out for a minute, and he takes great pleasure in the way your lashes flutter and your eyes roll back.

The greatest part of all is the cry you let out. "Yes, Dodge, God, yes, yes, yes!" It's blasphemous, the way you worship both him and the Lord in one breath.

He works you through it diligently. Not a drop goes to waste, and he's still moaning against you when your own whimpers die down. When he's fully sated and some of the trembling in your body has subsided, a firm kiss is placed against your inner thigh before he rises back up your body to tuck your hair behind your ear.

All you can manage is a dopey smile, and he grins crookedly. "Worth it?"

"I think so," you say breathlessly.

When you drop to your knees by your bed that night, Rosary beads threaded through your fingers and head bowed, you apologise profusely. But you haven't been smote down yet, maybe you'll be okay.

... Maybe.

It becomes a bit of a routine after that. Whether it's in his truck with your leg hitched up on the dashboard or when he has the house alone, Dodge just can't get enough of eating you out. And every time, you go back to pretending it never happened. You're still daddy's little angel.

There's a pleasant buzz running through your body as Dodge tugs your underwear back up for you, looking just as smug as ever. Dimpled smile, chin still slick with your wetness, as he eases your skirt back down for you. One would think it'd get less intense over time... but God, he has your toes curling and legs trembling each time his mouth descends on your cunt.

"Y'know," he starts, sitting up on his knees and giving your dishevelled state an approving once-over. "I think I might go a lil' insane if I don't get some attention of my own."

It's enough to give you pause. Fair enough—he's spent the last few weeks nestled between your folds and never once asked you to return the favour. But you've never touched a man like that before.

He catches your hesitation. Reaches out to thumb at your cheek, gaze softening a little. "Ain't gotta do nothing, sweetheart. But the blue balls are killin' me."

Blue balls. You almost roll your eyes. "So... what, then?" You ask, shifting to sit up as your fingers curling into the soft fabric in your lap.

He doesn't reply right away. Tilts his head, gauges your expression. "Can I show you? Won't take much. You ain't gotta touch me or nothin'."

Don't even have to touch him... you cast a cursory glance to his door, even though there's nobody home. Your lip is already bitten raw from stifling sounds all evening, but you're back to biting at it.

"Okay."

"Okay?" His eyes light up. He leans forward, a hand braced on your knee. "You sure?"

"Doesn't count if there's no penetration," you parrot the words he told you weeks ago. He smiles. "And... you said I don't have to do anything, right? Bit of watchin' can't hurt."

"Just lookin'," he affirms. For now, anyways.

His hand leaves your thigh to undo the buckle of his jeans, and your eyes follow the movement. There's a lump in your throat and you know you're going to be repenting for this one tonight. Maybe it's time to find some other church to confess at. Certainly not your father's, but you need to get this off your chest somewhere.

His jeans are pulled open, the tension easing off the bulge that seems to be straining there every time he gets his mouth on you. It doesn't take much for his cock to be freed, jeans and boxers down just enough to put him on display.

You swallow. You're definitely going to Hell.

You've seen pictures of them in passing. Dicks, cocks, penises. Whatever vile name the youth has come up with these days. The kind of pictures shared between a few girls at a sleepover, or a cock shown during a movie your father wouldn't approve of you watching. You've never been close enough to see one like this, though. Aching and leaking under the weight of your darkened eyes.

He takes note of your expression. The lust mixing with guilt.

"A little different in person, huh? No camera lenses?" He teases.

"Dodge, shut up. Just... just get on with it, please."

He rolls his eyes but obliges. Can't have you suddenly changing your mind because he gets a bit too cheeky. A firm hand wraps around him, and he begins to stroke himself. Slowly at first, watching the way your lips are parted and the breaths you take seem sharper. The quick rise and fall of your chest doesn't go unnoticed to him.

Feels real fuckin' good to be watched, though. Each jerk of his palm smears pre-cum down his throbbing length, the slick slide obscenely loud in the quiet of his bedroom. A low moan escapes him. Rough, completely unrestrained, so loud it almost makes you jump.

Your gaze snaps up to his face to watch the way his brow pinches with pleasure. You've never seen him like this—is this how you look when he's between your legs? The thought makes you flush. God. He's pretty like this, head tilted back and eyes half-lidded as he watches you absorb every second of his pleasure like it's your own. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. Breath-taking, staggering, perfect—

Sacrilege. Blasphemous. Impious.

You swallow thickly, but you can't take your eyes away.

"You, uh, sure you don't wanna get in on this?" He asks, his voice rough in a way you've never heard before. You find your thighs clenching again as you look back down to the filthy way he's started to fuck up into his fist.

"Dodge."

"What?" He asks innocently, a breathy note to his words. "I'll let you in, sweetheart. Just a little touch. Wouldn't have to do nothin'. Let me do all the heavy-liftin', eh?"

You shouldn't. You've done enough sinning for a lifetime over the last few weeks. Cried yourself to sleep a few times, too. And yet you go against every value that's been instilled with you for years to just touch.

A tentative little brush of your fingers against the underside. It's careful, hesitant and soft. His breath grows ragged. "That ain't so bad, is it?"

You shake your head. "And the... the white stuff. That's a good thing, right?"

"Real good," he laughs. He can feel himself tensing up; you aren't doing much to help, not physically, but with the pressure of his own hand and the way your eyes are on him... Lord, he won't be lasting much longer.

There's a pretty pink flush to his cheeks now. Eyelashes fluttering with each heavy breath, and the way his neck is exposed is giving you the strangest desire to lean in and kiss it. Bruise it, even. Your eyes avert guiltily, hand back in the safety of your lap.

"No, no, no. C'mon. Eyes on me."

"I can't, this is—"

"Please," he rasps. The hint of desperation catches you by surprise. "Want you to see it happen."

Heavenly father, please forgive me. Your eyes are on him again, watching the way his hips lift off the bed. It creaks with each movement, each glide of his hand down his cock. And that little flicker of scrupulosity in your eyes is what sends him over the edge.

"Fuck, yeah, I'm gonna— ah, ah, ah—" His cock pulses, white ropes coating his hand and the hem of his shirt. Face contorted in pleasure, eyes screwed shut as he makes a sound you've never heard from him before.

A whine.

You shuffle back a little—disgusted or intrigued by the sight of the cum spilling out of him, you aren't sure. But you're completely enraptured by the look on his face and the gasps that escape his parted lips. The only sound in the room for a few moments is his heavy breathing as he strokes lazily through the last of his orgasm, pleasure still buzzing faintly through him.

And when your eyes finally meet, you both laugh. Dodge's is hoarse. Yours is a little tentative. And then your sides are shaking and eyes twinkling. God, you can't believe that just happened.

"That's never happening again," you tell him. He grins, like he knows you're lying.

You are. You do it again. And again, until you're bold enough to be the one doing the stroking. It's only a matter of time before his little no penetration excuse goes out the window.