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Split

When the spotlight is gone and all that's left is you and him, Lance can't resist indulging himself in you.

▸ PAIRING: Coach!Lance Tucker x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, somnophilia, age gap (both of age), thigh fucking, alcohol consumption, drunk making out, breeding kink, dubcon (?) creampie, penetration no protection (pls wrap it before you tap it), calls reader a slut but also sweet girl, calls himself an old man, mentions of his past exploits ▸ WORD COUNT: 5.7K ▸ A/N: wrote this in a frenzy after watching. it was meant to be spicier but seasonal depression made me soft. if you enjoyed, please like / comment / reblog (or all three!) <3 promise i read every single one. shoutout to @metal-armed-muse's gorgeous bucky somno fic that inspired me to write my own. special dedication tag to @phoenix-in-writing whose fics keep me alive in these dark wintry days!

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Being an Olympics gold medalist and an Olympics coach is all fun and games until he’s stuck doing one too many press events and interviews that leave him worse for the wear. By the time he drags himself back to his hotel room, all he wants to do is soak in the bathtub for hours before going to sleep.

Well, as long as those two activities include you.

You had finished your rounds earlier, whisked away by your friend before she left on the last flight out of town for the evening. Lance had smiled as you waved hurriedly at him on your way out, shooting a look of feigned annoyance his way. He only nodded in acknowledgment, knowing full well that you appreciate the gesture more than you’re letting on.

It’s the tryouts to make the national team after all. It’s important. But you usually had no one else in your corner to support you. For as long as he could remember, it’s only been you and the mat and the bars. And him, of course. He has been the steady, grounding presence in your life for a while.

The two of you met by chance when Lance did a hometown segment for Sports Illustrated. It had been his first real trip back home since his career took off. He had been bouncing from city to city; another day, another skyline. He had barely thought about his hometown until he was forced back into that place.

He bumped into you in the middle of his interview at a diner. Sulking in a corner, you had thrown a withering glare at his interviewer, then him, when asked what’s it like to be in the city that raised an Olympic champion? You were half his age but twice as cynical. By this time, Lance was well into his late thirties; a great age for a man, a terrible one for a professional athlete.

Still, there was a fire inside of you that Lance wanted to fuel. He introduced you to gymnastics, albeit very begrudgingly on your side. It took him some time to convince you that it’s a good place to channel your energy, your frustrations, but a better place to leave all your problems behind. The first few tries had left you grunting and screaming, but you didn’t give up.

He had to admit that he hadn't been entirely pure-intentioned. He liked your snark, that sharp tongue that he wanted to wrap around parts of his body. He had had his fair share of women before and you were going to be another on his list of conquests.

But it slowly changed. Lance hadn’t been entirely sure what it was about you but he stuck around. He coached you day in and out. His mornings started off with coffee and letting you into the gym grumbling at six, and his evenings ended with run-throughs of videos of your form at the diner down the street where he let you indulge only in celery, much to your displeasure.

When you turned twenty-one, Lance had just celebrated his fortieth. He was fully and happily retired from actual competition and has all his focus solely on you.

“I want to drink.”

Lance had blinked at you with a curious brow raised, the paperwork in his hand abandoned as he leaned back to appraise you. Your track jacket drowned you and softened the annoyed click of your tongue.

“Okay, you’re legal now. Get your own damn drink.”

You squirmed, eyes darting away, which piqued his interest. You never shifted your gaze. Ever. Even in the most grueling of exercises, you’d challenge his look right back.

His lips tugged into a humored grin. “Alright, sweet girl, tell me.”

A scowl descended on your face. You hated that nickname, which meant Lance used it constantly. “Asshole.”

He smirked, “You keep that potty mouth up and I’ll say no to whatever you’re about to ask me.”

Your lips clamped in defiance, before the ice chipped away slowly, your shoulders sinking. “I want to drink somewhere safe.” Lance quirked an eyebrow. “Come on, Lance. It’s my birthday. Give me this one thing.”

“You asking me out for a drink?”

“Lance.”

He only laughed. Only you could be frowning and pull at his heartstrings. He has never been good at saying no to you or those pouty lips. God knows he’s had one too many indecent thoughts with his fingers wrapped around his dick thinking about them. “C’mon, I got some stuff at my place.”

Another glare. “You’re not gonna try anything funny, are you?”

“Not unless I’m tryna make you laugh. Quit your whining and come with me.”

For once, you did trot after him obediently. Lance was being honest. He wasn’t trying anything with you. Yes, he had his fantasies but that’s all they were. You were a good kid who needed a guiding hand and Lance had a soft spot for you. He’s a dick to everyone but you — most of the time at least.

The ride to his place was quiet. “Sure your old man won’t mind if you come back late?”

“You know damn well he doesn’t give a shit when I come and go.”

“Worth an ask, pretty girl like you shouldn’t be out so late.”

Your lips twisted sourly again, a petulant look on your usually disgruntled face. “Stop bein’ so creepy.”

“I’m looking out for you,” Lance snipped right back as he parked right in front of his house. “You’ve got a good face, you’re building your name. Lots of men out there — men like me, sure — like that kind of thing.”

At that, you keep your lips sealed. Lance had let out a sigh and led you inside his place.

In the kitchen, he pulled out the bits and bobs to give you a first taste of lawful drinking. He sliced up a couple of limes and first poured the two of you a shot of tequila each, which you had sniffed suspiciously and crinkled your nose at. “Smells like shit.”

“It’s supposed to. Tastes like it too.”

“Why do you like it?”

Because it eased the sting of the loss of his glory days. Because it stopped him from thinking too much. “Are you going to keep yapping or are you going to drink?”

“Just like this?”

Lance forced your hand into a fist then sprinkled some salt on the side, doing the same on his. “Like this,” he flattened his tongue against his skin, keeping his stare fixed on you as your eyes widened with wonder. He then tipped the shot back before biting into the lime. He normally wouldn’t need the chasers, but figured it would be easier on you.

When he finished, he looked at you with arms crossed over his chest expectantly. There’s a crackle of tension in the air. Something brewing that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He brushed it aside to focus on you instead.

The gag reached his ears before he even processed that you had completed your drink. With your eyes watering and your face crumpled into unadulterated disgust, he couldn’t help but laugh. You threw a teary glare his way. “Fuck you. There’s no way this is the shit people drink.”

“Hate to break it to you, sweet girl, but this is my vice of choice.”

“Why do people make such a big deal out of turning twenty-one then?”

Lance smirked. Even after over a year of knowing you, he still couldn’t get enough of how your face rested in a state of perpetual annoyance. While people found it disrespectful, he found it endearing.

However, given the task at hand, he had half-expected this outcome so he tried something different. He tossed together the liquor with triple sec and lime juice, shaking it together in his mixer before he poured it over a few ice cubes. He pushed it your way.

“Try that.”

You looked at it with distrust once more and Lance had to bite back a frustrated grunt. Then you picked it up and took a tentative sip.

Now, there were very few things that could surprise him at that age. But the look on your face — the way you lit up, eyes shining with delight, had him feeling like he had been struck by lightning. Sure, you had your smug smirks and amused eye-rolls, but he had never seen a real smile from you before.

It softened you. Made you feel real. More tangible. Human.

Lance had always known he was greedy, but he didn’t know how greedy he could be until he met you. Until that moment. Until he realized that there was nothing more he wanted to see than genuine smiles on your face.

As quickly as it came, it went. You schooled your expression as you took another sip. “This one isn’t half bad.”

“Quit fronting,” he snorted. “I make a damn good drink.”

“What’s this?”

“A margarita.”

“I like it.”

“I know you do.”

He was met with another scowl. “Stop acting all smug and make me another.”

Lance raised an eyebrow at you. “First time drinking, sweet girl. Don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Lance. It’s my birthday.”

“And I’m not about to have it be your last.”

You shifted on your seat and pressed your lips together. “That’s why I’m here. Because I know you’ll do right by me.”

Fuck. If only you knew. The nights he’s spent thinking about those lips, the way your voice sounded, how your tongue curled around his name. How it would change if he had his face between your legs.

Stretching his students was part of his job description, but he couldn’t help himself with you. Lingering touches, pressing a little deeper, stretching you a little harder to draw out those groans that had his pants tightening.

But here and now, with you telling him that you trusted him, you’ve really got a way of making him feel real guilty. When Lance first met you, you were reckless and bratty, always picking a fight with someone new. Look at you now, actually being responsible and trusting him. Something inside of him beat his chest with pride, a nauseating concoction when mixed with the remorse.

He did that. He’s raised and trained a lot of kids, but none like you.

No, you’re special.

The first drink turned into two then three. By the time Lance checked the time, you were giggling. You were actually giggling. Your features had softened with every sip as your shoulders lost their weight, the one you’ve been carrying all your life. Lance had settled onto the kitchen stool next to you as you leaned your weight against him.

“Lance,” you hummed.

“Hm?”

“Ya smell good.”

He froze, the drink in his hand halfway up to his lips. He eyed your empty glass and quietly pushed it deeper into the counter. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you shower.”

“Quit bein’ an asshole when I’m trying to compliment you.”

His chest rose with a chuckle. “Alright, quit trying to flirt with me, kid.”

“Why? You don’t like me?”

His heart palpitated, hammering against his ribs in a rush of adrenaline. He turned to look at you as you shifted away from him, eyes a little hazy, a little sleepy, but no less alert. Your gaze dropped to his lips and you sloped towards him once more. Close enough that he caught a whiff of your citrusy shampoo.

Don’t get him wrong. Lance Tucker was no gentleman. He certainly didn’t fuck like one. He didn’t have a lot of honor. He’s fucked his trainees before, never caring about the aftermath of his actions. He’s fucked coaches and parents. He’s flirted with ten times more than that.

But you — you were different. You were his in a way that none of those people ever were.

Which is exactly why he couldn’t let this happen. “Kid,” he sighed and set a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I work with you and I actually like you.”

“So what? Is it because you’re old?”

Fucking brat. His lips betrayed his amusement. “No, you little shit. Because we have a good thing going and, when something like this happens, things tend to get fucked.”

“Could think of other things that could get fucked,” you muttered under your breath.

“Sweet girl.”

“What? Is it because you don’t think I’m pretty enough?”

Lance’s jaw clenched. His self-control is fraying at the seams. You smelled too good, you kept smiling at him, you kept making those snarky little comments that made him want to kiss you just to shut you up.

“You know damn well that’s not the problem.”

“Then what? Why won’t you kiss me?”

“Because I’m coaching you.”

“You coach everyone! And you kiss everyone!”

A sigh escaped his chest. Deep and honest. “But you’re not everyone, kid. You’re — not mine.”

“Then make me yours.”

He could feel himself slipping. Every second that passed, every word that left your lips brought him closer and closer to temptation. You were Eve luring him in to consume this forbidden fruit. He was a mere man. He barely resisted his impulses to begin with.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’ll remember tomorrow.”

“That’s not the point.”

“You’re fuckin’ frustrating, you know that. If you don’t want me, just say so. Don’t go aroun’ in circles because you’re scared of hurtin’ my feelings.”

Christ. Before he could think twice about it, he slid a hand behind your neck, cupping it and drawing you close, crashing his lips down on you. The moan you responded with was enough to have him groaning right back. You tasted like liquor and lime and that chapstick you’re always swiping on. You tasted better than any of the other girls he’s had before. Felt infinitely better and softer and warmer than anyone.

His heart was beating fast, loud. Echoing in his ears like thunder. He distinctly felt your fingers crumpling into the collar of his jacket to pull him even closer as you whimpered into his mouth. He remembered trailing his lips in a line of fire down your neck, nipping lightly enough to have you squirming, but not enough to litter you with any visible bruises.

It was only when your hand reached over between his legs that he finally broke the spell. He jerked back from you, eyes wide as he drank in the sight of you. Lips swollen, chest rising and falling with every stuttered breath. You were the manifestation of sin itself and Lance had just committed his gravest one.

“Fuck, kid, we can’t—”

“You can’t be serious. I’m old enough, Lance.”

“Not for me.”

Your face crumbled again. You did your best to pick up the pieces but Lance could see the cracks. “Fine, I’m goin’ home.”

“Not in that state. Take my bed, I’ll take the couch.”

“You’re not a gentleman, dick.”

“I fucking know that so I’m trying here.”

You rolled your eyes and Lance could see your usual self returning to your composure. The defensive stance, the inferno in your eyes, the rebellion in the curl of your lips. “Never asked you to be one. I know what I want, Lance. Might be drunk, but I’ve always known what I want.”

“Kid.” He started again, but his voice was weak. Both he and you knew that. “You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, I can see it. Don’t get yourself caught up in bullshit like this. You know what they’d say about you and me. I can’t keep coaching you.”

That seemed to pick at the strength of your resolve. “Why can’t I have both?”

“Because life doesn’t work that way.”

“We’ll keep it a secret.”

“No.”

“Lance.” Lance let out another deep sigh. Before he could say anything, you continued. “You were the one who told me from the start to figure out what I want to do. That if I set my mind on it, I could get anything I wanted. Well, I want both — I want this career, that Olympic gold, and I want you.”

Once again, he had never been good at saying no to you. Especially not this time. When for the first time since he introduced you to the sport, he could see you come alive again.

“Alright. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“You promise you won’t be a bitch and run away?”

Lance rolled his eyes but smirked. “Only if you won’t.”

Safe to say, Lance had given you an out that morning. Multiple times. In fact, he even tried to shove you out the door, but you had put your foot down. Now that the secret was out, there was no going back.

The two of you teeter in that dangerous balance of professional and personal. Sometimes, your arguments at home bled into training. Other times, the two of you would take work chatter to the dining table. It took some time to find the balance, but you got there.

It’s been years. You’ve qualified for the Olympics for the first time last year. You didn’t win, but the validation was enough to have you working harder towards that goal. Lance didn’t let up. He never went soft on you, and you would never ask him to.

In between practices and competitions, the two of you found time to be together. To explore parts of you that you had never touched before. Lance had plenty of experience but things felt new with you. Fragile at times. You remind him frequently that you’re not glass and you don’t break that easily, no matter how hard he fucks you.

That includes times when you aren’t even awake. There are days when you’re too bone-tired to even engage in sex with him, but you don’t want him to leave his urges unfulfilled, so you’ve given him explicit consent to use you whenever he likes. Even if you were asleep.

Really, you encourage it. You like the idea of being soft and pliant underneath his fingertips, that you were desirable enough to him that he couldn’t even resist taking you when you were at your most vulnerable. The first time you suggested it, Lance had gaped at you and told you a stern absolutely the fuck not. It sounds like a legal nightmare.

But you opened him up to the idea with time, especially when you wake him up with your mouth wrapped around his cock, your tits pressed against his thighs. “See how nice it is to wake up like this? Why can’t you do the same?”

So Lance had softened to the idea of it with time.

When he finally reaches his room, he finds you curled up in a white robe in bed. In the single bed in the room. He quickly showers, washing away the grime from the day. As much as he would like to enjoy a long, warm bath, it wouldn’t be the same without you.

Instead, he tucks himself behind you in his own robe, his nose pressing into your freshly-washed hair. He could smell that familiar shampoo, some tropical combination that you love. Your skin is soft from your own shower as he presses his lips against your neck.

He feels his cock stir in his pants and he curses himself for having zero restraint when it comes to you. He can’t help it. You’ve turned him into this. Whereas before he could at least go days without touching a woman, he can’t keep his hands off you now. He can barely resist when the two of you are training around his other gymnasts, or when you’re doing press events together. And especially not when he’s got his hands on you to massage you after a long day of training. All he wants to do is grope you all over.

You’ve turned him into this old pervert.

“Sweet girl,” he breathes in your scent, pressing himself deeper against you as his hand slips under the fold of your robe. He groans when he finds that you’re wearing nothing underneath, fingers finding the peak of your delectable nipples. He brushes your hair to the side as his mouth finds the side of your neck. His tongue darts out for a taste of your clean skin, smooth underneath his touch.

His fingers toy with your soft nipples, kneading your breasts. He can’t get enough of you. No matter how little space exists between the two of you, he can never get close enough. Now that he has had a taste of you, it’s impossible to cure this addiction. All he wants is to keep you with him at all hours of the day every day.

He knows that’s not possible. You’re not only his. You belong to this country. Your talents, your body. As much as he wants to be selfish, he has to hold himself back.

“My sweet, sweet girl,” he murmurs again, “look at you sleeping so peacefully. Leaving yourself so open for me. But this is what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted me to have my hands on you when you’re asleep. When you’re so defenseless. You want this old man to take advantage of you.”

Lance pushes in deeper against you, arms wrapping around your smaller frame to tug you closer. Your ass against his front. So soft. So flexible. His hand lands on your thigh and slowly slides up and underneath the flimsy fabric that does nothing to protect you from his touch. He has seen firsthand what these legs can do, how wide they can spread. He trained you to stretch and split wide open — whether it’s for the audience or only for him.

He hikes the robe up to your hips, the knot loosening as he continues to shift the fabric. He tucks his face into your neck again, the natural perfume of your skin intoxicating. “Going to take such good care of you, kid. Never gonna want for nothing with me. I’ll make sure you’re always warm, always full.”

His mind wanders into dangerous territory. There are many ways he could have you full, ways that have his head spinning with the possibility.

His hand slips between your legs and cups your warmth. You’ve gotten into the habit of sleeping without even underwear on at home. You tell him that it’s more comfortable, but he knows that you secretly love how you give him such easy access to touch you whenever he wants, wherever he wants.

God knows the two of you have christened every room in your now-shared home.

“You’re still so young, got so much of your life left to be giving it to me,” he whispers. He hears you moan a little as you nudge yourself back against him, then followed by soft snores as you settle back into your deep slumber. “Don’t worry, sweet girl. You can keep sleeping, don’t let me bother you. I’m just going to take care of myself, just like how you want me to. Gonna make sure you feel good too.”

When he slips a finger in between your folds, he finds you already damp. Fuck. Lance can’t help himself and he brings it up to his lips for a taste. Sweet as always. That sample only makes him hungry for more. He slides his finger between your pussy lips again, the slickness coating the digit to make it easier for him to stroke you slowly. At first, he only dips in and out lightly, shifting your body so he can push his knee in between your thighs to separate them. Your body shudders unconsciously as your mind slips in between worlds.

Lance groans low from deep in his throat as he pushes a finger in. Even after all this time, no matter how many times he’s fucked you, you’re always still so tight, like the first time. God, he thinks about that first time all the time. All that ice melting away and all that was left was you in a puddle in his hands. Wet and sweet and so undeniably his.

“Like a virgin,” he mutters to himself, “my sweet girl’s perfect. Not like all those other sluts I’ve fucked before. Not you. You’re fucking perfect.” Then he laughs to himself, muffling his amusement in your bare shoulder now that the robe has slipped down further. Half of you is exposed, bare for the taking. “But that’s not entirely true, is it? You’ve always been a slut, my slut. Perfect fucking girl for me. Always with your legs open, pussy so fucking wet just waiting for my cock to fill you up.”

A whimper rises up your throat and Lance swallows it up. The melody of your voice, the rhythm of your breaths, is imprinted on the back of his head. An engraving that will last history and lifetimes — this one and the next.

He strokes your insides, drawing a small quiver as you squirm a little in your sleep. He starts easy, slow. He doesn’t want to wake you. No, you did so well today, you deserve to rest. He just needs to deal with his little problem, then he will fall asleep right next to you.

When you scooch away from him, from the unknown intrusion, he growls and settles a hand on your stomach to push you back against him. His teeth sink lightly down into your shoulder, eliciting an adorable whimper that has him grinning. His lips graze the column of your neck again, vulnerable under his touch.

He shifts you further to splay almost half of you across his body so he can access more of you, so he can spread your legs to shove his fingers deeper inside of you. But Lance knows what makes you moan, what makes you wet. He alternates between shallow dips into your pretty, wet cunt and rubbing the softness of your pussy lips. He pinches the lips together before spreading them apart, letting the cool air touch the liquid gold between your legs.

Your answering whines only prove to excite him, thrill shooting through his veins like a drug.

“My sweet girl’s so responsive, you always liked my fingers inside you, especially when your cute pussy couldn’t fit my cock just yet. Don’t worry, I’ll get you nice and ready to take me.”

When he feels you nicely stretched out, he takes his fingers out and sticks them in his mouth. He licks each clean like it’s a treat, a reward for him having been so good to you. Then he sees your gentle, small hand flattened over your body, and he takes them in his as he loosens his own robe, pushing it off his shoulders.

With your delicate fingers, he slowly wraps them around his cock. Fuck, your fingers could barely cover him, barely circle his girth. So fucking tiny compared to his dick.

“Good girl, stroke my cock, will you? This old man loves to have his girl’s hand on him. So precious, so fucking cute. Could cum just like this all over your pretty fingers,” Lance moans as he continues to guide your hand along his length.

You’re still peacefully sleeping, completely oblivious to the fact that Lance is using every part of you to satisfy him — satisfy both of you, or so he tells himself.

Lance pants as he jerks himself faster, tighter, your fingers swallowed by his. He’s probably holding you hard enough to bruise but it doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t ever hurt you, he wants you to feel real good.

“Fuck, sweet girl. Can’t cum like this. Too soon. Want you and your cute pussy first.”

He carefully rolls you back to your side and lifts your leg to slide his cock between your thighs. Plush and warm. The heat engulfs him as your juices drip down along his length. He uses that wetness to fuck between your legs slowly, slipping and sliding between your limbs. The friction has his eyes rolling to the back of his head as an expletive leaves his lips. “Sweet girl, you’re so fucking warm. Fucking your thighs like this — you worked so hard on them. You feel so goddamn good. You can show these legs to others, but no one can use you like this. Only me. Only my cock goes between your legs.”

Every time he fucks in, his cock slips deeper and deeper between your lips. Soft and slick. At times, the tip of his cock would catch onto your clit, especially as it curves up towards your belly. He imagines how your belly would protrude every time he fucks deep. He would press down and feel himself inside you.

His patience wears thin and the next time he slides between your legs, he angles his cock upright to push between your pussy lips that swallow him up greedily. They clamp around him, trained from the months of fucking in between your sessions.

You feel fucking sensational, like a reckoning from the heavens that he will never be prepared for. Lance has always been a sinner but you may be his divine intervention.

“Cunt so tight. Fucking squeezing the life out of my cock, sweet girl. She’s eating me right up,” Lance grunts as he thrusts up into you. Your body jerks with every pump of his cock inside you but your consciousness is nowhere to be found. “Even when you’re asleep, your body knows me. It only knows me. Only takes me, my cock. Can’t let anyone else in.”

You’re such a pretty thing, fast asleep. You were a wonder on the bars, on the mat earlier. Your movements graceful, built on training and the confidence that Lance has instilled in you. Now your face is devoid of any of the makeup — no glitter, no colors, just you. His sweet, gorgeous girl.

He likes you just like this. Simple, beautiful. His.

Lance loves how brightly you shine. You’re a diamond in the rough that he polished. Your raw potential had been unmistakable; he just gave you the extra push to get you to where you are today.

However, the brighter you shine, the further you get from him. Like a constellation he can bear witness to but never hold. Not anymore. And he doesn’t want that. He isn’t prepared to let you go. Parts of him are torn — his love and admiration for you force him to support you every step of the way, but that green-eyed beast inside of him rears its head. It breathes down his neck and reminds him that he’s still inferior, that he’ll never have his moment in the limelight like all those before him and after him.

Like you.

All he wants to do is keep his precious girl close. His girl. And god, he knows you’ve been on birth control for a while, something about regulating your periods, so he knows you’re safe. But nothing is ever a hundred percent, is it? In the slightest possibility, in the very off-chance that he is part of that point-one percent, he wants to take hold of that thread of fate and tug on it.

So he fucks you deeper and faster, no longer caring if you wake up — in fact, he wants you to wake up. He wants you to feel it, to see it, the moment he seals your fate for you. The moment he plants his seed inside you. He grinds his hips in that way you like, and you respond in your sleepy state by pushing your ass back to take him in more. And he can’t help himself. He loves you, wants to take care of you. Forever if you’ll let him.

“Going to put a baby in you, sweet girl. Mark you mine forever. Everyone’s going to know you’ve got your coach’s kid in you. Everyone’s going to know you let this old man inside you, let him defile you. My perfect little slut.”

The moan that bubbles up your throat is the last straw. He pounds into you harder, the slick slapping sounds of his cock pushing up into your cunt bouncing off the four walls. The walls in this hotel are likely not entirely soundproof; someone on the other side will hear. Someone who probably competes in the same games as you. They’ll know how well he treats you, how he spoils his princess.

“I’m gonna cream inside you, going to mark you right up. You’re going to be leaking my cum for days, not gonna let you clean it out. I’m going to fuck more cum into you until that’s all you think about, until it takes. You don’t need to compete anymore, just need to be a good girl for me.”

Lance groans at the thought of you all knocked up, big-bellied, walking around at home. You’d look so fucking cute with his child inside you. He’ll keep his word and you’ll never want for anything.

Just you, him, and your kid.

“Lance,” you mumble, closed eyes fluttering as if you’re struggling to wake yourself up, “please.”

“Please what, sweet girl? Tell me what you want,” he gasps against your neck as he continues to rut against you, tongue lapping at your tender skin. “I’ll give you everything. Anything you want.”

The words coming out of your mouth are incoherent but Lance doesn’t need any more than that. All he hears is his girl begging for him and he does aim to please. Thrusting faster into you, Lance chases that high, that delicious peak that’s so familiar to him, yet no less electrifying each time. The heat builds inside his stomach, coils tight, until the string snaps and he feels his release spill into you with every stuttered breath and falter of his hips. He fucks the warm cum deep inside you, a silent prayer for something he can never say out loud.

Your body is taut with tension and Lance can’t tell if you finished too, your cum likely mixed with his if you did. No matter, he’ll take care of you again tomorrow — and the day after and the day after that. However long you’ll have him, he will always take care of you.

With that in mind, he nudges his cock deeper inside you, feeling the cum coat his length again, and curls his body around you. He presses a kiss to the back of your head and smiles. “Goodnight, sweet girl.”

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