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Infinity Smashed: Inside Girl
Inside Girl
Series: Infinity Smashed
Summary: Bob and Grey have their expose written up, and all hell is set to break loose. But first, they celebrate. NSFW.
Word Count: 2123
Notes: And this finishes off Found Wanting! February 16th is the 25th anniversary of Infinity Smashed, and in its honor, we have two announcements! The first is that we have completely unlocked the old archive; over a hundred stories and art are now publicly accessible, because if something happens to us, my ghost will be FURIOUS that I killed my own stories out of fear of social injustice whiners on the Internet. Most of the newly-unlocked archive, however, is no longer canon, on account of WE ARE REBOOTING THE SERIES. We hope to have new stories up for you soon, and we hope y'all like what we do with it! Stay tuned!
Series: Infinity Smashed
Summary: Bob and Grey have their expose written up, and all hell is set to break loose. But first, they celebrate. NSFW.
Word Count: 2123
Notes: And this finishes off Found Wanting! February 16th is the 25th anniversary of Infinity Smashed, and in its honor, we have two announcements! The first is that we have completely unlocked the old archive; over a hundred stories and art are now publicly accessible, because if something happens to us, my ghost will be FURIOUS that I killed my own stories out of fear of social injustice whiners on the Internet. Most of the newly-unlocked archive, however, is no longer canon, on account of WE ARE REBOOTING THE SERIES. We hope to have new stories up for you soon, and we hope y'all like what we do with it! Stay tuned!
It seems like after something that dramatic, they’d throw their bags into Grey’s car and drive off that very night, but it doesn’t work that way. They need to plan their escape, prepare their financials, prevent splash damage. Some of their cases can be dropped without care, but others would lead to vulnerable people getting hurt, more than they’ll accept, so their workload has to be dealt with in a way that won’t draw suspicion. (That proves to be the easy part—after all, the PIN wants Grey out of the field and are happy to wean her off.) They can’t tell anybody, not even Jenny or Larkin. When Bob and Grey leave, the fizzies will surely round everyone up, and ignorance is their best protection.
Bob is impatient, but he defers to Grey’s expertise… especially once he finds out what her filing cabinets are for.
“You’ve kept everything they’ve given you? Since 1976?”
As they dig into the papers and Grey starts explaining what she remembers of the context (and the jargon), Bob gets more and more interested.
“I don’t believe this,” he says from the floor, surrounded by piles of paper. “Grace, you have the exact notice where our memories become government property, long before the Patriot Act made it free wiretapping. All this time, you’ve had their downfall in your damn filing cabinets!” He looks up at her. “Do you want to go public with this?”
Grey has to think about it. When she says yes, they start spending every night at her apartment, shuffling paper, taking notes. She gets used to Bob’s sticky note tables and timelines on the walls, falling asleep to him clacking away on his laptop or to the screech of the scanner in the other room. Grey can’t write her way out of a paper bag, but she proves a good editor, catching mistakes he’s made. Other times, arguing how best to do something, they find a new, better way. It’s just as well that the escape plan takes months; this write-up dwarfs the one about Eugene Smedley. (Though Bob draws on those skills: “I can’t believe that piss-ant taught me something. Thanks, Eugene.”)
They finish clearing out Bob’s belongings and when his lease ends, he moves in with Grace and helps her clean out her things. Ideally, they’ll whittle it down to one van load. They start being careful at work again, but it doesn’t grate like before. If all goes well, soon they’ll never have to do it again.
Besides. On an ordinary day, Bob is golden. When he’s pursuing a beloved important goal, he’s incandescent.
One morning, Grey wakes up to her alarm alone in bed. She finds Bob at the kitchen table with his laptop and scanner, owl-eyed, unshaven, and surrounded by paper. When he sees her, he looks chagrined, checks his watch.
Grey leans on the door frame and crosses her arms mock-disapprovingly.
“I didn’t want to wake you.” Bob’s voice is fuzzy with fatigue. “Come see.”
She shakes her head but takes her reading glasses from his hand. Bob grins, slumps against his chair, and gestures at the screen with a flourish.
“It’s done. Well, this draft.” He stretches with a crackle and pop.
She undoes his collar and starts feeling down his neck and back for knots. Saturday or not, Bob knows better. He’s not twenty-five anymore either.
“320 pages, not including bibliography. I haven’t counted the sources we scanned, transcribed, and backed up,” Bob says as she starts kneading. “Even if we cut and run tomorrow, we have everything… mm, have I been good?”
She nods, kisses his neck, and he purrs and goes loose under her hands.
“My best girl,” he declares groggily and closes his eyes.
She rubs him down, works the kinks out of his neck and shoulders, then pats him so he’ll open his eyes and see her sign, “Go to bed, Bob.”
“Sure.” He gets up and wraps his arms around her waist. “Come with me.”
Grey laughs and lets him get up on his toes to kiss her, but when his mustache tickles her neck, her breath catches. “You’re half-asleep.”
“I’m not all asleep,” he croons, sucking on her collarbone. “And I want to celebrate before I pass out. Your place or mine, beautiful girl?”
From day one, Grey’s known that Bob wants inside more than her mouth; he’s filthily honest in bed, goes on a pornographic tear of everything he wants to do to her. What he doesn’t know is that she wants it just as badly. Her body just hasn’t cooperated, no matter how badly she aches for it.
But she doesn’t have to take him in her ass.
Before, she was too ashamed and too busy to ask, but now the write-up is done (or at least presentable), and forbidden things are everyday joys. The only words she has for what she wants are stuffy and disdainful, from her parents’ copy of Human Sexual Pathology (“perverse invagination of the inguinal canals”), but she doesn’t have to use words if they don’t suit her, not with Bob.
And she wants it. She wants Bob’s pretty hands inside her.
So she signs, “Something I want.”
Bob makes a pleased, sleepy sound. “Show me.”
He follows her to the bedroom and plunks down on a chair so he doesn’t fall asleep. Grey undresses, sits on the edge of the bed so she can spread her legs for better viewing, swallows, and reaches down to touch herself.
Since the accident, her clit is mostly numb, except for deep pressure and pain, but when she moves it out of the way, the unscarred side of her labia is okay. She plays with herself, warming under Bob’s eyes, feeling the heat rise in her face. She can see Bob working to still his hands, look but not touch.
Grey curves her fingers into position and slides them up into herself, sending an electric surge up her spine.
Bob leans forward, grabs his glasses off the dresser. “Do that again.”
Grey does, biting her lip to stay silent, but those passageways of her body aren’t visibly obvious, and Bob still looks puzzled.
“Can I…?” He reaches forward.
She’s starting to breathe hard now. She nods, takes Bob’s hand and puts it over hers so he can feel what she’s doing. It’s all she can do not to curl his fingers into place and start fucking herself with them. As it is, she keeps moving her fingers in and out of herself, pushing her hips into it a little.
Now Bob understands. “I didn’t know you could do that,” he breathes. “Mine are way too sensitive; I’d die…”
He doesn’t look repulsed or disgusted, just delighted at this new, wondrous discovery. Like of course Grey would enjoy this, why wouldn’t she?
“That doesn’t hurt?”
Grey shakes her head, even though the full sensation could be described as achingly good, like a deep stretch, a hard workout, Bob’s teeth in her shoulder and his nails in her back.
“Can you come like that?”
Grey chuckles breathlessly, nods. Oh yes, she can come like this. It was her favorite way as a child and again after the accident. Delicious shivers are going up her back now, making the yearning ache worse; it’s not her hands she wants.
Grey stops, pulls her fingers out of herself, and tugs Bob’s hand.
“Do this to me?” she asks with her hands. “Please?”
Bob’s expression is molten. He makes a sound like he’s trying to keep control and not just pin her to the bed. “Such a polite girl I have,” he says in that dark velvet voice, and gets up.
There’s no need for Bob’s glasses; he won’t see anything. He puts them back on the dresser and joins Grey on the bed, pressing against her back and sliding a hand down her front, chasing the edge of sensation with his fingertips. Grey pushes into it. She’s ached for this for years, she just never thought she’d find someone willing, never mind someone like Bob who’s breathing shivery and fast against her neck, whose belly fits perfectly into the curve of her back and whose clever, soft, beautiful hands—
Both are sliding into position now, toying with her. “Can you take both?” Bob purrs in her ear.
Grey squirms; she can, and oh, she wants that, to be stuffed full of him, but the scarred side is finicky, not something Bob should attempt on a first go, so she pulls that hand away and signs, “Later.”
Bob doesn’t protest. He rubs her thigh and toys with the edges of her scars where the numbness gives over to sensitivity. “Lead on.”
It takes a few tries, since Bob’s never done it before and Grey’s never had someone to do it with. For a moment, she thinks she’ll have to get things in position herself, but then Bob traces the route of Grey’s G-spot into her body, follows it up, and—
Yes. Oh, yes. Finally.
The noise Grey makes and the way she jerks must resemble pain, because Bob stops and asks, “Twenty?” in a ragged voice. Like it’s taking everything he has to keep still and not fuck her senseless like he’s been promising for a year.
Grey squeezes for yes, and Bob starts moving, ginger at first, then with building confidence as he maps the territory. The world disappears except for Bob’s softness: his belly against her back, his thighs bracketing hers, his mouth on her nape, his fingers coaxing Grey’s body into fucking itself—
Not enough. “More?” she signs. “Please?”
Two are a challenge, but in the best way, the achingly perfect way, just on the edge of too much and settling into just right. Perfect, Bob’s hands are perfect, Grey’s been dreaming about them forever, stroking inside her all nerves and sensation. She’s full of him, electric, a gossamer weave of sparks and fire inside her like ecstatic architecture.
When Bob starts using the rest of his hand to grope and fondle, he claps his free hand over her mouth and growls, “Sing for me.”
Grey obeys. Words are gone but sound isn’t, not with Bob unlocking her from the inside out like this; she doesn’t even recognize the sounds she’s making, but his hand on her mouth is permission to be as loud as she wants, to not worry about the neighbors, so she lets loose. She lets go.
And Bob doesn’t say a word. He’s focused entirely on what he’s doing, gasping against Grey’s skin when she pushes against him and gets his cock where she wants it. Bob thrusts, and Grey mindlessly grinds back against him, trying to get as much as she can. The tension is throbbing, looming in the dark behind her eyelids, about to burst, she almost doesn’t want it to, it’s perfect, it’s everything—Bob’s hand over her mouth, Bob’s cock against her ass, Bob inside her so deep, so close, oh please—
Bob pulls his hand from Grey’s mouth, shoves it hard between her legs.
“Thank you!” Grey sobs, and the orgasm hits like a spiderweb of lightning radiating from Bob’s hands. The intensity brings tears to her eyes and lasts for a seeming eternity before she comes down, slumping back against Bob’s body. When she does, Bob slides his fingers out of her, making her shudder and whimper. She already misses them.
“Wow,” Bob pants. “Okay. That was hot.”
Grey laughs and sighs, getting her breath back. “Okay?” she asks with her hands. “Can’t take you this way.”
“I don’t know,” Bob says, fingertips dancing on her hip, “you took me just fine.” Pause. “Grace, you know you don’t have to thank me, right?”
Grey shrugs. “I like to,” she signs.
“Good. Never stop.” Bob nuzzles the back of Grey’s neck. “I like pretty girls with nice manners.” He makes it sound beautifully filthy, and he’s still hard.
Grey turns and reaches for him, but Bob pulls her close.
“Here, let me…” his cock slides between her thighs.
Normally, Grey moves too much to be any good this way, but now she’s relaxed, happy to hold Bob and squeeze her thighs together just right. He barely manages to bite her and purr, “Mine,” before coming down her thighs, and she pets him, holds him up, and rubs her cheek against his hair.
“Okay,” Bob mumbles into her collarbone. “Now I really do need to sleep.”
Grey laughs and flops back on the bed with him. For as long as she can remember, she’s felt a gnawing want, an unsatisfiable craving for something that she thought couldn’t exist… until now. Now the ache is gone.
Running can wait for other mornings.
Bob is impatient, but he defers to Grey’s expertise… especially once he finds out what her filing cabinets are for.
“You’ve kept everything they’ve given you? Since 1976?”
As they dig into the papers and Grey starts explaining what she remembers of the context (and the jargon), Bob gets more and more interested.
“I don’t believe this,” he says from the floor, surrounded by piles of paper. “Grace, you have the exact notice where our memories become government property, long before the Patriot Act made it free wiretapping. All this time, you’ve had their downfall in your damn filing cabinets!” He looks up at her. “Do you want to go public with this?”
Grey has to think about it. When she says yes, they start spending every night at her apartment, shuffling paper, taking notes. She gets used to Bob’s sticky note tables and timelines on the walls, falling asleep to him clacking away on his laptop or to the screech of the scanner in the other room. Grey can’t write her way out of a paper bag, but she proves a good editor, catching mistakes he’s made. Other times, arguing how best to do something, they find a new, better way. It’s just as well that the escape plan takes months; this write-up dwarfs the one about Eugene Smedley. (Though Bob draws on those skills: “I can’t believe that piss-ant taught me something. Thanks, Eugene.”)
They finish clearing out Bob’s belongings and when his lease ends, he moves in with Grace and helps her clean out her things. Ideally, they’ll whittle it down to one van load. They start being careful at work again, but it doesn’t grate like before. If all goes well, soon they’ll never have to do it again.
Besides. On an ordinary day, Bob is golden. When he’s pursuing a beloved important goal, he’s incandescent.
One morning, Grey wakes up to her alarm alone in bed. She finds Bob at the kitchen table with his laptop and scanner, owl-eyed, unshaven, and surrounded by paper. When he sees her, he looks chagrined, checks his watch.
Grey leans on the door frame and crosses her arms mock-disapprovingly.
“I didn’t want to wake you.” Bob’s voice is fuzzy with fatigue. “Come see.”
She shakes her head but takes her reading glasses from his hand. Bob grins, slumps against his chair, and gestures at the screen with a flourish.
“It’s done. Well, this draft.” He stretches with a crackle and pop.
She undoes his collar and starts feeling down his neck and back for knots. Saturday or not, Bob knows better. He’s not twenty-five anymore either.
“320 pages, not including bibliography. I haven’t counted the sources we scanned, transcribed, and backed up,” Bob says as she starts kneading. “Even if we cut and run tomorrow, we have everything… mm, have I been good?”
She nods, kisses his neck, and he purrs and goes loose under her hands.
“My best girl,” he declares groggily and closes his eyes.
She rubs him down, works the kinks out of his neck and shoulders, then pats him so he’ll open his eyes and see her sign, “Go to bed, Bob.”
“Sure.” He gets up and wraps his arms around her waist. “Come with me.”
Grey laughs and lets him get up on his toes to kiss her, but when his mustache tickles her neck, her breath catches. “You’re half-asleep.”
“I’m not all asleep,” he croons, sucking on her collarbone. “And I want to celebrate before I pass out. Your place or mine, beautiful girl?”
From day one, Grey’s known that Bob wants inside more than her mouth; he’s filthily honest in bed, goes on a pornographic tear of everything he wants to do to her. What he doesn’t know is that she wants it just as badly. Her body just hasn’t cooperated, no matter how badly she aches for it.
But she doesn’t have to take him in her ass.
Before, she was too ashamed and too busy to ask, but now the write-up is done (or at least presentable), and forbidden things are everyday joys. The only words she has for what she wants are stuffy and disdainful, from her parents’ copy of Human Sexual Pathology (“perverse invagination of the inguinal canals”), but she doesn’t have to use words if they don’t suit her, not with Bob.
And she wants it. She wants Bob’s pretty hands inside her.
So she signs, “Something I want.”
Bob makes a pleased, sleepy sound. “Show me.”
He follows her to the bedroom and plunks down on a chair so he doesn’t fall asleep. Grey undresses, sits on the edge of the bed so she can spread her legs for better viewing, swallows, and reaches down to touch herself.
Since the accident, her clit is mostly numb, except for deep pressure and pain, but when she moves it out of the way, the unscarred side of her labia is okay. She plays with herself, warming under Bob’s eyes, feeling the heat rise in her face. She can see Bob working to still his hands, look but not touch.
Grey curves her fingers into position and slides them up into herself, sending an electric surge up her spine.
Bob leans forward, grabs his glasses off the dresser. “Do that again.”
Grey does, biting her lip to stay silent, but those passageways of her body aren’t visibly obvious, and Bob still looks puzzled.
“Can I…?” He reaches forward.
She’s starting to breathe hard now. She nods, takes Bob’s hand and puts it over hers so he can feel what she’s doing. It’s all she can do not to curl his fingers into place and start fucking herself with them. As it is, she keeps moving her fingers in and out of herself, pushing her hips into it a little.
Now Bob understands. “I didn’t know you could do that,” he breathes. “Mine are way too sensitive; I’d die…”
He doesn’t look repulsed or disgusted, just delighted at this new, wondrous discovery. Like of course Grey would enjoy this, why wouldn’t she?
“That doesn’t hurt?”
Grey shakes her head, even though the full sensation could be described as achingly good, like a deep stretch, a hard workout, Bob’s teeth in her shoulder and his nails in her back.
“Can you come like that?”
Grey chuckles breathlessly, nods. Oh yes, she can come like this. It was her favorite way as a child and again after the accident. Delicious shivers are going up her back now, making the yearning ache worse; it’s not her hands she wants.
Grey stops, pulls her fingers out of herself, and tugs Bob’s hand.
“Do this to me?” she asks with her hands. “Please?”
Bob’s expression is molten. He makes a sound like he’s trying to keep control and not just pin her to the bed. “Such a polite girl I have,” he says in that dark velvet voice, and gets up.
There’s no need for Bob’s glasses; he won’t see anything. He puts them back on the dresser and joins Grey on the bed, pressing against her back and sliding a hand down her front, chasing the edge of sensation with his fingertips. Grey pushes into it. She’s ached for this for years, she just never thought she’d find someone willing, never mind someone like Bob who’s breathing shivery and fast against her neck, whose belly fits perfectly into the curve of her back and whose clever, soft, beautiful hands—
Both are sliding into position now, toying with her. “Can you take both?” Bob purrs in her ear.
Grey squirms; she can, and oh, she wants that, to be stuffed full of him, but the scarred side is finicky, not something Bob should attempt on a first go, so she pulls that hand away and signs, “Later.”
Bob doesn’t protest. He rubs her thigh and toys with the edges of her scars where the numbness gives over to sensitivity. “Lead on.”
It takes a few tries, since Bob’s never done it before and Grey’s never had someone to do it with. For a moment, she thinks she’ll have to get things in position herself, but then Bob traces the route of Grey’s G-spot into her body, follows it up, and—
Yes. Oh, yes. Finally.
The noise Grey makes and the way she jerks must resemble pain, because Bob stops and asks, “Twenty?” in a ragged voice. Like it’s taking everything he has to keep still and not fuck her senseless like he’s been promising for a year.
Grey squeezes for yes, and Bob starts moving, ginger at first, then with building confidence as he maps the territory. The world disappears except for Bob’s softness: his belly against her back, his thighs bracketing hers, his mouth on her nape, his fingers coaxing Grey’s body into fucking itself—
Not enough. “More?” she signs. “Please?”
Two are a challenge, but in the best way, the achingly perfect way, just on the edge of too much and settling into just right. Perfect, Bob’s hands are perfect, Grey’s been dreaming about them forever, stroking inside her all nerves and sensation. She’s full of him, electric, a gossamer weave of sparks and fire inside her like ecstatic architecture.
When Bob starts using the rest of his hand to grope and fondle, he claps his free hand over her mouth and growls, “Sing for me.”
Grey obeys. Words are gone but sound isn’t, not with Bob unlocking her from the inside out like this; she doesn’t even recognize the sounds she’s making, but his hand on her mouth is permission to be as loud as she wants, to not worry about the neighbors, so she lets loose. She lets go.
And Bob doesn’t say a word. He’s focused entirely on what he’s doing, gasping against Grey’s skin when she pushes against him and gets his cock where she wants it. Bob thrusts, and Grey mindlessly grinds back against him, trying to get as much as she can. The tension is throbbing, looming in the dark behind her eyelids, about to burst, she almost doesn’t want it to, it’s perfect, it’s everything—Bob’s hand over her mouth, Bob’s cock against her ass, Bob inside her so deep, so close, oh please—
Bob pulls his hand from Grey’s mouth, shoves it hard between her legs.
“Thank you!” Grey sobs, and the orgasm hits like a spiderweb of lightning radiating from Bob’s hands. The intensity brings tears to her eyes and lasts for a seeming eternity before she comes down, slumping back against Bob’s body. When she does, Bob slides his fingers out of her, making her shudder and whimper. She already misses them.
“Wow,” Bob pants. “Okay. That was hot.”
Grey laughs and sighs, getting her breath back. “Okay?” she asks with her hands. “Can’t take you this way.”
“I don’t know,” Bob says, fingertips dancing on her hip, “you took me just fine.” Pause. “Grace, you know you don’t have to thank me, right?”
Grey shrugs. “I like to,” she signs.
“Good. Never stop.” Bob nuzzles the back of Grey’s neck. “I like pretty girls with nice manners.” He makes it sound beautifully filthy, and he’s still hard.
Grey turns and reaches for him, but Bob pulls her close.
“Here, let me…” his cock slides between her thighs.
Normally, Grey moves too much to be any good this way, but now she’s relaxed, happy to hold Bob and squeeze her thighs together just right. He barely manages to bite her and purr, “Mine,” before coming down her thighs, and she pets him, holds him up, and rubs her cheek against his hair.
“Okay,” Bob mumbles into her collarbone. “Now I really do need to sleep.”
Grey laughs and flops back on the bed with him. For as long as she can remember, she’s felt a gnawing want, an unsatisfiable craving for something that she thought couldn’t exist… until now. Now the ache is gone.
Running can wait for other mornings.