Summary : Jack Abbot had promised you a date. And if he wasn't gonna follow through, well, you had no problem showing him exactly what he was missing.
Warnings: Smut, suggested bisexual reader, hair long enough to grab, not cannon compliant (i guess?) 18+ , Age gap (Mid 20's - Late 40's)
Part 1 - can probably be read as a stand alone, first time ever writing smut so sorry in advance, let me know what you think!!
It was an official, Jack Abbot was ruining your life.
At first, it was just by his mere appearance. Salt and pepper curls, freckled skin, bulging biceps, and an ass that wouldn't quit. He had haunted your dreams, both wet and regular, for as long as you could remember.
And if pining after him at work like a lost puppy wasn't bad enough, the man had promised you the world and disappeared over night.
You had gone home from that shift a few weeks ago with butterflies in your belly at the idea of going on a date with Jack. You had missed him at handover, but you couldn't blame him really. You had been rushed off your feet all day, and were confident that the next time you saw eachother, he would make good on his promise to take you out.
But it quickly became apparent that you hadn't missed him at all. No, he was avoiding you. At the sight of you, Jack was either turning away completely or making himself so busy that you had absolutely no chance to talk to him.
Hurt and confused, you had planned to corner him on a break, prepared to ask him what had changed. Did he regret it? Was there someone else? God forbid, did he hate the new perfume you were trying out? (Unlikely, it was Chanel, but it was good to cover all bases).
Turns out you wouldn't get chance too, and everything boiled over when you heard him talking to Dr Al-Hashimi a few days later, You weren't even meant to be in the room, only popping in to tell Dr Robby that Dana needed him quickly.
"We should get a drink, share war stories over a beer."
This bitch!
You could hardly believe the audacity. What? Was this his thing, asking out any woman he could find on a date and then leaving them high and dry?
You couldn't blame him for being attracted to Dr Al. Hell, you would ask her on a date if you thought she would accept, but that wasn't the point!
Absolutely full of it, and now completely over the edge, you could barely stop yourself for what was coming next.
"Amazing idea, Dr Abott! Actually why don't we all go, we all need a good night out right? Aren't we off tomorrow? Let's get together, i think we all, have a good war story to share"
Not true, the closest thing you had to a war story was the time you passed out in the middle of hot yoga. Turns out a vanilla matcha was not enough to sustain 40 minutes in a hot tent doing various ridiculously hard poses.
But fuck it, he wasn't getting away with this.
Turning swiftly on your heel, you refused to even look at him, "Santos! I trust you to organise a time and place and put it in the group chat."
"On it!" she had already pulled out her phone and was typing furiously, Whittaker looking over her shoulder and nodding slightly.
"Great!" You turned and looked him now, he was wide eyed and mouth slightly ajar, completely for words, the first time he had looked at you in days.
You strutted towards the doors, hips swaying completely inappropriately considering you were in front of at least 3 of your superiors.
You gripped the handle and tossed your hair over your shoulder, throwing a bitchy half smile in his direction, before making your exit,
"See you all there!"
....
Walking into the bar that night, you were armed with vengeance and the lingering smell of Chanel N.5.
You were absolutely determined to show off exactly what Dr Abbot was missing out on. The mini skirt was a risk, you'll admit. What with this technically being a work gathering, but the looks you were currently getting from said colleagues confirmed in was in fact, worth it.
Santos had let out a wolf whistle loud enough to gain the attention from just about everyone in the stuffy bar, whilst whittaker had knocked over at least 2 drinks, none of which his own.
"Damn, Girl! Who knew you were hiding all of that underneath those scrubs!" Trinity had stood up now, giving you a hand to twirl you around. The action causing you to go up on your toes, and the skirt now dangerously riding up to reveal a delicious hint of your ass.
Dennis was now bright red, and Javadi was graciously beating him on the back.
"Ah, you know me," raising your shoulders up in faux nonchalance "any excuse to dress up!"
You turned around and lifted a foot, showing off the famous red bottom heels to the group, hearing gasps of awe from the girls. And Dennis.
"Yep," Javadi nodded, "definetely worth all that credit card debt".
Giggling, you made your way along the group, hugging them and expressing your gratitude that they had actually turned up.
Refusing to acknowledge Jack, you pulled away from your hug with Langdon, his hand still resting on your lower back. You dared to glance at him briefly, Dr Al wasn't even with him, instead engrossed in a conversation with Robby that you would grill him about later.
His hand was gripping the beer bottle tightly, and he was staring at you now with so much intensity there was heat pooling in your lower belly. Glancing at him up and down once, you looked away with feigned disinterest.
"Shots, anyone?"
Trinity whooped, already pulling you half way across the bar to put in a hefty order.
The next hour or so was a complete blur, the tequila doing a great job at getting your mind off jack, and simultaneously lowering your inhibitions. Your hands were up in the air, tangled in your hair and only coming down to brush against your body. Trinity's arms were loosely across your waist, guiding your swaying body into hers in time with the music, only leaving to swig at the beer bottle in her hand. Leaning down, she whispered in your ear, she told you she was leaving for a smoke break, confirming if you would be okay for a few minutes alone.
Smiling and nodding prettily at her, you were barely alone for 10 seconds before a different pair for hands gripped your upper arms and you were being pulled back into someone's chest.
"You, are coming with me, now"
You would know that deep, gravelly voice and built upper chest from anywhere.
Hook, Line, and Sinker.
...
Jack all but pushed you into the bathroom stall, saving you from falling flat on your ass with a bruising grip on your hips. He held you tight against him now, gripping your hair in one hand and pulled your head to the side. Staring at you both in the mirror, there was a few seconds of silence with only the sounds his hot breathe against your neck filling the silent stall.
"You think this is funny? Huh?" he pulled your hair back now, you gazed at him with your eyes half shut, hardly believing the situation you were currently in. "Showing everyone in this bar what's mine? Like you're nothing but a filthy slut."
The remaining hand that was on your hip reach lower now, gripping a fist full of your ass and crudely shaking it up and down
You arched your back into the touch and let out of breathless moan. You should have been disgusted really, at both the derogatory name and the crude groping.
But god, did you love it.
"Yours? You promised me a date and avoided me for a week." Taking a breathe, then,
"I'm as good as Santos' as i am yours".
Silence, for at least ten seconds, the music blared outside, accompanied by sounds of muffled talking. It could very well as been any of your coworkers outside that door. Then Jacks lips lifted in into a delicious, wicked smile.
He twirled you around quickly, so fast you lost your bearings. He stared at you, eyes filled with pure jealousy and unadulterated desire. He shook his head slowly, and walked you back to rest you on the bathroom sinks ledge.
"We'll talk later. Right now, all i'm focused on is getting my mouth of that sloppy little pussy".
Gripping the back of your thighs, you were lifted till you were perched right on the edge. Hands lifting instinctively to his broad shoulders. Your skirt was scrunched around the very top of your thighs now, revealing just about everything to the man in front of you.
His thick fingers trailed up your legs, dipping underneath your skirt, ready to pull off whatever scrap of fabric you had hiding underneath. You barely had time to get your warning out,
"Shit, Wait -"
Jack made no contact with any underwear, instead, his fingers were covered in your slick. Stinging together across his fingers, Jack could barely believe what was happening. Rubbing it crudely between his fingers, he gazed up at you with hooded eyes.
"You are a bad, bad girl."
You couldn't speak, chest heaving up and down now. You could only watch as his stuck his fingers in his mouth, groaning at the taste of your pussy and closing his eyes in pure pleasure.
"I'm going to ruin you, baby"
He wasted no time, shoving your skirt up completely and diving face first into your sopping cunt. You sent a quick prayer of appreciation about the fact the ledge was high enough that jack only had to bend at the waist.
That was the last coherent thought you could make, as Jack spread your legs far apart, and sucked at your clit so hard you could feel your soul leaving your body.
"Fuck, oh my god" you gripped a hand in his salt and pepper curls, showing him even deeper. "Yes, baby! Eat that pussy."
You would blush at your words tomorrow, for now, you were appreciating what you had been waiting months for.
He was groaning now, encouraged by your high pitched moans and filthy words. Stiffening his tongue, he shook his head from side to side. Alternating between flicking and sucking on your clit. He barely took any breathes, only stopping briefly to lick broadly up your centre and muttering even nastier comments.
"Yeah you like that? Fuck my face baby, just like that"
"Nasty little slut, so fucking wet for Daddy"
"Take it, yeah, take it like the nasty slut you are"
His fingers were in you now, barely giving you any chance to adjust, thrusting them in and out at a brutal place. He curled them in a "come here" motion that had you seeing stars and letting out desperate little "Uh, Uh, Uh"'s into your hand in a desperate attempt not to get too loud.
You knew your orgasm was approaching quickly, your hands gripping is hair now so hard it had to hurt him. He began to push you over the edge as he rubbed small circles in your clit, joining his tongue as he flicked at it in tandem.
Pressing a delicate to your pulsing clit, he stood to full height now. Pressing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss and wrapped a spare hand round your throat. Not squeezing, but in a show of possessiveness, as if eating you out in a bar bathroom wasn't enough.
"You gonna come baby? Come on, come all over my hand baby girl".
You threw your head back with a loud, desperate moan, your head against Jacks hand instead of the mirror, as if he anticipated it. Your stomach siezed, and you felt white hot pleasure from your head to your toes as you finally released and gushed all over him, drenching his hand all the way down to his wrist.
The next few moments were a blur of hot pleasure, barely registering him tugging your skirt down, wiping the tears that had collected at the corner of your eyes, and smoothing down your hair.
He rested his head against yours, pressing a delicate kiss to the top of your nose.
Taking a deep breathe, he looked you in your eyes now as your continued to try and calm your own breathing.
"I'm sorry, there's no excuse, I got in my own head about you being so young. I didn't know what to say, and instead I acted like all those stupid boys you'd been dealing with and avoided you". He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, ashamed.
"I just wanted to do it right, and believe me, i wasn't flirting with Dr Al, i was just trying to piss off Robby enough to act on his own feelings".
He brushed his fingers against your temple gently, "If you'll have me, i'll do it all right this time, i've looked at your schedule, i've already booked us a date on your next night off," his eyes were dancing now with amusement at his own stupidity, overjoyed at the small smile now on your own face, "was just trying to find the balls to bring it up."
Truthfully, you were barely in the room, but you believed his words, trusting his character enough to believe he just had a moment of sheer stupidity, he was still a man, after all.
"Fine, but you aren't done making it up to me."
He chuckled lowly under his breath, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.
"Sweetheart, i'll spend the rest of my life in between your thighs, if that's what it takes."
♡ synopsis: you & robby agreed to a friends with benefits arrangement that included no strings attached, long-term plans, or an ounce of commitment from either of you. when the two month mark begins to near, robby brings things to an end with no argument from you. your lack of reaction & moving on immediately, however, causes an unfettered feeling of jealousy to rear its ugly head when he begins to want you back & all to himself.
♡ content: age-gap, jealous!robby, pining!jack, park is circling reader too, jesse flirts, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, spanking (sorta), reverse cowgirl, lotus flower position, dirty talk, robby has a praise & mommy kink
Settling your palm over the handle to the storm door, Robby speaks. "Before you go—"
You turn on your heel, and a pleasant ache radiates between your thighs which're taut with muscles you overexerted tonight from riding his ample, sweaty waist in bed. "Hm?" you respond with a quiet hum.
He scratches nervously at the back of his head. Dropping his gaze to mopped hardwood floors, Robby quickly crosses his arms. "We're nearing a couple months now with our arrangement."
"We are," you concur, curious as to the direction he's headed in.
Trailing your eyes along the generous swell of his stretch mark-laden belly—which you painted a slick trail along just a couple of hours ago with your fluttering cunt—you lick your lips at the sight and consider the prospect of sacrificing a few extra hours of sleep in exchange for another mind-bending orgasm.
Then again, Robby's been wanting to take things a bit slower the last few times you've been in bed together. A fact which is beginning to make you feel the least bit antsy for the favor of being fucked deep and hard into the mattress like he used to only a month ago.
Maybe it's too much on his back.
"And we agreed nothing long-term," he states.
Lifting your head, his brown eyes flit between yours.
"We did," you respond in agreement. Not that two months is really that to you, but you suppose everyone has their own metric by which they measure time by.
"Maybe tonight we, uh..." he sighs and scrubs a hand down his face; over the coarse brown and silver trimmings of his beard. "We quit while we're ahead."
You deflate. So much for another orgasm...
You're pretty sure you have fresh batteries in the junk drawer at home, though. A vibrator and Twitter porn will have to do just as well for tonight, you suppose.
"Alright!" you chirp with a gentle smile. "See you at work tomorrow, Robby."
Turning back to the door, you press the handle down with a swift click, leaving him standing alone at the threshold.
Watching as you toss your things into the passenger seat of your vehicle before climbing into the driver's side and peeling out of his driveway—some unfamiliar pop tune blaring from your radio as you rumble away—Robby finds himself at a loss for words.
When he pushes the front door closed, an unsatisfied feeling settles deep into his chest at just how well you took things. "Alright!"
That's it? That's all he gets?
No "Oh, are you sure?" Or "Did I do something wrong?" Not even a single tear shimmered in your fiery eyes in disappointment. Nope, just "Alright!"
Quietly grumbling to himself in discontentment, Robby pads back to the bedroom and slams the door shut before wrenching soiled sheets from the bed with a curse.
Where Robby would typically keep you close to his side like you're glued to it, he's instead kept you at arm's-length all day. Including when you were treating a case of anaphylactic shock together somewhere in the afternoon, during which he hardly glanced twice in your direction. It wasn't for a lack of wanting to, though—like a damn itch he needs to scratch—but Robby knows that if he does, it'll only lead to an open wound he won't have the first clue as to how to get closed again.
So as a distraction, he buries himself in work—as per his usual unhealthily avoidant coping mechanism—while the hours flit by and the sun begins to wane outside before finally dipping behind towering buildings, much like the hand of a clock, signaling that it's time to head home.
Your mouth waters at the scent of something meaty and delicious. "C'mon, Abbot," you whine. Hefting your backpack onto your shoulders, you turn to face him. "At least take it into the employee lounge so I'm not subjected to it."
Lips lined with silver stubble curve into a grin. "Maybe psychological torture was the point, kiddo."
Rolling your eyes sarcastically, you press your locker shut and study the logo on the side of the bag he's about to set inside his own. "Really? Applebee's? You know it's one of my favorites."
Swinging his head in your direction, he reaches into the oversized brown paper bag and produces a tempting container of Bavarian-style soft pretzels.
You take a step forward—your eyes now the size of saucers—and half think to reach greedily for it while chanting the mantra of gimme, gimme, gimme, but refrain.
Extending it toward you, Jack presses the to-go box to your chest. "Go on."
You keep your hands at your sides and swallow down pooling saliva. "No, I can't take your—"
"Got 'em for you," he explains. "Those," he grunts before diving deeper. "And this."
When a cheeseburger appears, you smile and squeal excitedly. "You're sure?"
He chuckles. "I am. Got myself a steak and a side of green beans. Figured you'd be starving by the time I got here."
Gently taking both containers, you clutch them to your chest with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Jack. You really didn't need to..." You throw a look over your shoulder—to your backpack which your wallet lies inside a zipped compartment of. "How much do I owe you?"
He blows a raspberry. "You know better than that. Just eat and enjoy."
Bounding onto your tiptoes, you press a quick kiss to his cheek before turning to head out. Sooner you get home, the sooner you can dig in.
Only once you're well out of sight does Robby round the corner of the wall he was previously hiding behind. "Dinner, huh?"
Closing his go bag securely away, Jack turns to Robby. "Just something quick and easy for her. It's only food, Mike."
Tucking his hands away into the soft pockets of his hoody, Robby shrugs. "No, it's fine. We're, uh..." he huffs a humorless laugh. "It's done. As of last night. Called things quits."
Jack raises a brow of surprise. Though, he can't really say he's shocked. He's been counting down the days, and this one came right on time.
He doesn't need to ask whose decision it was.
"She seemed okay to me. Didn't take it too hard, then?" he questions, folding his arms behind him—the paper bag knocking against his calves when he does so.
Robby nods with raised brows. "Yeah. No, she's been good today. Hasn't brought it up at all."
Somewhat to his chagrin...
Jack purses his lips and nods. "Good to hear."
And even better to know.
Slapping a hand over Robby's shoulder, Jack heads in the direction of the employee lounge so he can get to work on downing his own dinner before nightshift starts. "See you in the morning."
"Yeah," is Robby's simple one-word reply.
He frowns at the seemingly renewed pep in Abbot's step that's been missing since Robby took you into his bed.
He knew the vet was displeased when Robby made you his next person of interest—in terms of sexual partners—just two months ago, but he backed off and kept his distance out of respect, which the daytime attending appreciated. Now, however... It's dinner tonight and probably breakfast with a damn Tiffany necklace to accompany tomorrow.
Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, Robby considers venturing upstairs to see if Noelle is still around, but ultimately opts against it—refusing to acknowledge that it's because there's only one woman he wants coming home with him right now so he can get a straightforward physical release.
Whatever.
Time will do its thing like always, and he'll be onto the next one before long with you left far in the rearview.
Not that he's ever been much of a fan of the genre, but as Robby listens to the obnoxious sound of bombastic pop music drifting through your rolled-up car window, he grits his teeth.
Whatever happened to Heart, Pat Benatar, or Bonnie Tyler? Not this modern shit that sounds like a damn car accident. And first thing in the morning? Clearly no consideration for others and the prospect of giving them a damn splitting headache all before 7 o'clock. And of course you're singing along with a radiant smile.
Rolling his eyes toward the bruised purple sky, Robby groans a guttural growl of irritation before turning in the direction of the hospital on a booted heel.
"Morning, honey," Jack greets quietly, with a pleasant smile that causes his crow's feet to wrinkle charmingly around his eyes.
Gripping either end of your stethoscope, you turn to meet him. "Hey there."
When something crinkles behind him, your lips tilt into a smirk. "What might that be?"
He shrugs playfully. "Have no idea what you're talking about."
Leaning all your weight onto one foot, you attempt to glimpse whatever he's hiding by leaning heavily to the side, but your plans are foiled when he turns to shield it from your view.
"Oh, I definitely smell food again," you mumble before jumping in an attempt to round on him, but Jack's reflexes are faster when he presses his back to the lockers.
Throwing your head back in frustration, you moan and he chuckles in response. "You really want it?"
Dropping your chin, you bob your head. "Pleeease," you drawl while batting your lashes.
Jack removes one of his arms from behind his back and taps his cheek with an index finger, indicating the required payment. You sigh, but with a cheeky grin to accompany before you step forward and press a lingering kiss to weathered skin that smells sharply of minty aftershave.
A paper bag is then pressed to your belly which you don't waste a moment in tearing into.
"Breakfast burrito," Jack states as your hand wraps around the warm wrapper it's encased in.
Pulling it free, you get to work on peeling damp paper away from the provided meal. "Thank you," you say with quiet appreciation. "You really don't need to do things like this for me, though. I don't want you going out of your way, okay?"
He raises a shoulder. "I Doordashed something for myself a little bit ago. Thought why not, since I knew you were coming in."
Biting into scrambled egg and cheese, you chew thoughtfully for a moment. "This was sweet of you, Jack."
Reaching forward, he runs a calloused palm down your arm. "Don't mention it, kiddo." Clearing his throat, he slips his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. "So, I heard that you and Ro—"
"Bring anything for your best friend?"
Jack clenches his jaw when Robby starts down the hall the two of you did have all to yourselves only a moment ago. "No. Sorry, brother. Tomorrow?"
Robby slides his arms around your shoulders, then tugs you back against his chest as you stare at Jack with wide eyes of confusion. "Gimme a bite, baby," Robby mutters.
"I got it for her," Jack deadpans displeasingly.
Robby snorts. "It's alright. We've shared way more than saliva."
Were Jack not already leaned against something solid, he'd be stumbling back in shocked response to his friend's distasteful candor. He's garnered quite the reputation around the hospital over the years, but has always remained anything but forthcoming when it comes to discussions of his female companions, even with him. So this is an unexpected change in character, to say the least.
Holding the burrito up above your shoulder while keeping your eyes on Jack with a regretful look painted across their irises, Robby dips his head and takes a hearty bite before leaning back and chewing. "'S good," he grunts before swallowing. "Thank you, sweetheart," he finishes with a peck atop your head. "Once you finish up, come find me. I want your help on this first case."
You nod. "Okay."
Robby's palm lingers against your hip momentarily before he reluctantly steps away, leaving you and Jack in each other's sole company again.
Stepping forward, Abbot crosses his arms defensively. "Did the two of you—"
You fervently shake your head before he can even finish that question. "No. Night before last he ended things. You're as taken aback as I am."
A frown tugs at his lips. "I thought it was just..." he swipes the heel of his palm awkwardly across his cheek. "Sex."
"It was," you confirm with a nod. "Just... Physical, carnal release." Your cheeks heat. "We both understood at the beginning and all the way through that it would never be anything more. I was happy with that arrangement."
"So you don't think he's having second thoughts? That that wasn't plain as day jealousy just now?"
You take another bite of your burrito, wanting to finish it before it gets cold. "I think he can have boundary issues... At times."
Jack bites back a laugh. "Oh, you think?"
You keep the story of him attempting to go through your locked phone one night when you accidentally fell asleep—instead of going straight home after the two of you got done fucking like you usually did—to yourself. Lucky for him, you'd been far too groggy and out of it to chew him out properly like you otherwise would've, had you been wide awake when it happened.
Or the night maybe a week and a half ago when he got all whiney when you demanded he either run out and pick up a box of condoms or have them delivered to the front door, otherwise you were going home.
He really tried his hand at making you out to be the one who was overreacting while you sat on the edge of the bed, repeatedly telling him go get them, go get them, go get them before he finally threw his hands up in a fit of curse words and stomped out of the bedroom and into the bathroom where—big surprise!—he just so happened to find a spare one in the medicine cabinet.
Whatever. It's in the past. The time for friends with benefits is over and you're onto other things. Or... Will be, anyway, when you have the time to figure something out.
Tinder is a rather unappetizing idea, but something about beggars and choosing...
You sigh. "I gotta get to work. But thank you for the food again. I really do appreciate it, Jack."
Cupping the back of your head, he presses an affectionate kiss to the bridge of your nose, earning him a bubbly giggle in response. "You're welcome, honey."
One night I was bored in bed
And stalked you on the internet
Stirring a crumbled granola bar into a cup of creamy yogurt, you swing your hips from side-to-side before licking the tip of the spoon clean.
It's feminine intuition
Park is just headed for the elevators when an attractive feminine form catches his attention from the corner of his eye. Turning back around, he plants himself in the threshold of the ED's employee lounge with crossed arms while an amused smirk crawls across thin lips.
'Cause I always had a vision of us standing like this
All pressed up in the bathroom line
Swallowing a bite of your stirred snack, you turn to the sink where a roll of paper towels rest, then promptly stumble back with a hand planted over your pounding heart when you see that you're being watched by a pair of unfamiliar eyes.
Yanking your headphones down to your neck, you set your food on the countertop and exhale a ragged breath. "God, you scared me."
A plucked brow merely twitches in response.
"Were you just... Standing there watching me?"
Leaning a muscled shoulder against the doorframe, Park trails his eyes from your tennis shoes that're adorned with floral blooms sprouting from the stitching to your pretty young face. "You always spend your breaks putting on performances like that?"
You blink dumbly. "I'm sorry, who are you?"
He snorts derisively, followed by extending a hand. "Dr. Brendon Park. Orthopedic surgeon," he states with emphasis.
"Uh huh," is your less than enthusiastic reply. "Y/N. Fourth year resident."
His grip is firm—bordering nearly on squeezing—but the contact is over just as soon as it began after one definitive shake is granted. "Might have to spend more time down here if the answer's yes."
Male chauvinist asshole.
You retrieve your yogurt again. "Nice to meet you."
Taking a step forward, you eye the narrowly allotted gap between him and the other side of the doorway, which isn't nearly enough room for you to squeeze through. When he turns, you eagerly step past—the crown of your shoulder brushing against his chest when you do so—before heading in the direction of the ambulance bay so you can finish eating in peace.
Brendon watches you go with eyes trained squarely on your ass.
If this were a cartoon, steam would be blowing from Robby's ears, but you'd never know it from the calm disposition he portrays when he greets the younger doctor. "Park."
He nods to your retreating form. "She single?"
An intrusive image of Brendon's head being shoved through one of the trauma bay's glass walls flits through Robby's mind unwelcomely. "Not sure," he lies. "Think she might've just gotten out of something, but I couldn't tell you a lot about it."
"Was it serious, do you know?" he inquires casually.
Robby grinds his teeth. "You know how the grapevine works—like playing a game of telephone, so take it with a grain of salt—but, yeah, I guess feelings were exchanged."
Even if they were apparently one-sided.
He hums in interest. "Don't always mind a chase. Seems like she might be worth one." Turning, he grants Robby a nod. "Thanks."
The senior attending keeps his mouth firmly shut, watching as Brendon finishes his walk to the elevators while thinking to himself that he has no idea what the hell he's asking for. A chase. He told himself the same damn thing only a couple months ago and look at the position it's put him in.
Once Park is out of sight, Robby goes after you—absolutely fucking fuming when he does.
"What was that about?" barks Robby, now advancing in your direction.
You only somewhat acknowledge him from the brick half-wall you're seated atop—otherwise occupied with mindlessly scrolling through social media while finishing your snack. "Huh?"
Crossing his arms in a humph, he levels you with a glare. "You could do with looking at me when I'm speaking to you."
Locking your mobile device, you lift your head and smile sweetly. "Sorry, Rob. What was what about?"
Somehow, the oblivious expression painted across your glowing features only serves to further light a fire under his ass. "The exchange between you and Park," he spits.
You shrug. "I was mixing up my yogurt. He was watching me."
He glowers from beneath heavy brows. "Watching you shake your ass for the whole of the ED to see, seemed to me."
Your sunny disposition is quickly overcast by a cover of dark, heavy clouds ready to break into a fit of lightening strikes if he keeps pressing the issue. "I didn't ask for an audience," you snip. "I was simply enjoying my music while taking a quick break."
He shakes his head, causing the chain of his gold necklace to glint against the overhead sun. "Well, going forward here at work you could try practicing a little self-respect. It'd go a long way."
Swinging your legs over the edge of the wall, you dig your nails into solid concrete. "Sounds to me like this is beginning to border on some sort of victim-blaming nonsense."
Robby chuckles incredulously. "Victim?" He leans forward onto the balls of his feet. "I'm sorry. Victim of what, exactly?"
"You, apparently," you scoff. "And whatever this conversation is turning into. Which, from your tone and the look on your face, seems to be an argument."
His hackles raise. "Is this you trying to get back at me because I cut things off?"
You choke back a laugh. "Excuse me?" you stare up at him with an open-mouthed smile, sure he can't be serious.
He sneers at your apparent inability to take the matter fucking serious. "Jack, then Park. Seems to me like you're making the rounds."
"First of all," you snap, causing Robby to take a small step back—he never did care for when you got a temper with him; typically preferring to fuck it out of you until you were a contentedly babbling mess coming around his cock with a smile. "I didn't even know who Park was until like two minutes ago when he introduced himself. And I can tell you with the utmost certainty—from that brief interaction alone—that he couldn't be the furthest thing from my type. Not that it's any of your business." Standing, you shove your phone into your pocket. "Secondly, Jack and I have always flirted. It's not exactly a well-kept secret."
He raises a brow. Bending at the knees to meet you at eye-level, Robby squints suspiciously. "You don't think that's the least bit cruel? Leading on a widower like that?"
You tuck your hands into your pockets to keep from slapping the smug look off his face. "We did it before you and I, and are clearly continuing the tradition after. It makes the day go by faster and the workday the least bit more bearable."
Which he should know, given the parade of women he's gone through around here.
Standing at full height again, Robby snorts in disbelief. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that he's my best friend?" he questions doubtfully.
You inhale a deep, calming breath. "As I just said, it's something we've done for years, Robby. Years." You quirk your head curiously to the side. "Is there something you'd like to say to me? Or can I enjoy the rest of my yogurt in peace and quiet—the whole reason I came out here to begin with?"
Hands planted firmly on his hips, Robby chews the inside of his cheek until the the metallic taste of blood pools on his tongue. With a roll of his eyes, he turns and heads back inside without another word.
Plopping back down, you scream quietly in the back of your throat before retrieving your now lukewarm snack. Frowning down at a honeybee who's now crawling across a melted chocolate chip, you shoo the creature away before tossing the cup into the trashcan behind you.
Steering clear of Robby for the remainder of your shift, you silently pray that tomorrow will be a brighter day.
Had you known he would behave this way, you never would've carried on with him in the first place. The last thing you want is for the ED to grow into a toxic workplace. Not that it's from a lack of you trying to keep the peace by being a normal, well-adjusted adult who's returned to treating Robby the way you always have—including when the two of you were screwing—but the fact seems to only be setting him off instead of putting him at-ease, as was your intention: that your work relationship remains unchanged, that is.
Absolutely beat by the end of the day, you manage to dip out early—just missing Abbot by ten minutes when he pulls in and you're already on your way home.
It pleases Robby, however, that the pair of you fail to have a chance to talk again tonight.
He wants a resident that he can dote on? He has plenty of them on nightshift. Hell, he can take any from dayshift that he wants if it'll get him to back the hell off of you once more.
Given how tired Robby is this evening, it's for the best, lest he fly into a fit of rage again when he sees Abbot wink at or give you another to-go container.
Sure, it's only been a couple of days, but lack of the utter relief he found daily between your legs and in your mouth—as well as the loss of being able to curl himself around you afterward while talking your damn ear off as he vented endlessly about work as his head rested between your soft breasts and you played with his hair, or when you would straddle his back in just one of his t-shirts while kneading the knots from it—has put him on-edge.
His hand can do in a pinch, but... It isn't soft and warm like you, nor does it quietly whimper as he comes undone in its arms.
Robby thought he wanted—like he always does—to get himself out sooner rather than later, but for the first time, he's regretting it.
At least with Janey, he didn't have to see her every day after he broke things off and shattered not just her heart, but Jake's as well.
A fact he still feels guilty about.
And Noelle... Well, she works on another floor, so contact between them is rare and fleeting. Maybe a nod in the hall or a quick "How are you?" is all he has to concern himself with every once in a blue moon.
But you? Everything that initially drew him in is now getting under his skin like a damn parasitic infection that he can't seem to rid himself of no matter how many measures he takes to do so.
Your easy-going nature and bubbly personality he found sweet. Perfect facets for a short-term fling. Your libido was a hell of a lot higher than his, but it only served to make him feel all the more desired. Now, however, with the rose-tinted glasses halfway removed, he sees that he wasn't quite as special as he first thought. He clearly could've been anyone, as it now turns out.
You just wanted something warm and hard to fill your... Needs.
He operates the way he does—dealing strictly in casual relationships—because it puts him in control. Of the coming and going, the how and why of when it ends... But this instance has thrown him fully off-kilter.
Because you just don't seem to care. In fact, in the ambulance bay, you were coming off as if it bothered you that he did.
Damn brat.
He has half a mind to pile on the work so high you can't even see the top. But that would surely earn him a one-way ticket to HR. Something he begrudgingly acknowledges he'd deserve for such assholish behavior.
With a sigh, he gathers his things, vowing to get his head screwed on straight before he blows his life to pieces all over a piece of ass.
He cringes on his way out for thinking of you like that.
Filing in alongside the afternoon rush, Noelle makes an appearance at the ED's hub, looking for none other than her past flame. She's well-aware that it's none of her concern, but if what she overheard upstairs a handful of days ago was indeed untrue, she'd like to have as much confirmed by the source before she goes correcting other people's ignorantly made statements.
Spotting the man in question standing tall at a computer cart, she heads in Robby's direction with quietly clicking heels.
"Heard from a little birdy that you've been seeing a resident." Crossing slender arms clad in a perfectly pressed suit jacket, she tilts her head to the side, sending silky black hair cascading over a shoulder. "Robby, please tell me that isn't true."
Keeping his eyes on the monitor in front of him, he snickers while the back of his neck warms. They've not spoken in weeks and this is what she presents him with as conversation material? "Alright, it isn't true."
She shakes her head with a disapproving look. "Really? Robby, I thought you were smarter than that."
Assuming a casual stance with hands tucked away into his pockets, he glances past her to where you sit charting but a handful of feet away. "It's not a big deal." Robby looks at Noelle again and shrugs. "It's over now anyway."
"May I ask whom?" she inquires politely.
He can't stop himself from looking at you again. Finally, you lift your head and he doesn't miss a beat. Sliding a hand down Noelle's arm, Robby barks an overly dramatic laugh. "You may, but I don't find myself obliged to answer."
When you greet him with a toothy smile, accompanied by two thumbs up and nod toward Noelle—as if you're encouraging him to make a fucking move—he drops the hand back down to his side with a feeling of defeat swelling up in his chest.
He'd like to carve it out with a scalpel.
Slowly turning her head out of curiosity, Noelle studies you with drawn brows. "Well, I suppose you don't have to now. She's certainly young enough." Returning her attentions to the chief of the ED, she folds her arms coolly behind her. "Are you aware that it's over?"
Now crossing his arms, Robby rocks back on his heels. "I'm sorry?"
Noelle grants him a knowing look. "You can hardly keep your eyes off of her."
Sarcastically rolling them, Robby locks the computer before heading to a patient room that lies behind where you presently sit. "S'cuse me."
Sighing to herself, Noelle debates momentarily before following behind. Stopping in front of the desk you occupy, she slides her forearms atop it and offers you her hand. "I don't think we've had the pleasure. Noelle Hastings."
Your mind whirring into a state of overdrive, you begin thinking of a way to be a good wingman for Robby, but after his actions from yesterday, you find him the least bit undeserving of such kind efforts. Wrapping your hand around hers, you give Noelle a firm shake. "Y/N," you quip with a happy smile.
Folding her manicured hands together, she leans forward. "I hope this doesn't come off as inappropriate... But out of a sense of morbid curiosity, I was wondering if you'd be opposed to sharing notes?"
"Notes?" you ask ignorantly.
"Well..." Noelle's lips tilt into a nearly imperceptible grin, like she's considering whether to go on with finishing her sentence. "Like his apparent inability to sleep without the TV on," she elaborates with a playfully scrunched nose. "Not that I experienced it but maybe twice since he's always so eager to usher you out the door once you're properly dressed. Heaven forbid he partake in a bit of pillow-talk," she says with a chuckle.
Eyes flitting to the room behind you, Noelle continues. "Sleeping with it on in the background was impossible for me." Her attentions return to you then. "He ever tell you why he does it? I mean, I have my theories, but..."
You slide now sweaty palms over the thighs of your scrub pants. Affable as you may be, gossip tends to make your stomach twist uncomfortably when it's presented. You don't enjoy lying, but she'll be none the wiser as to whether you're returning her honesty with the truth.
"I can't attest to it since I never stayed the night. Never could sleep in a bed that wasn't my own," you commentate with a laugh. "Vacations as a kid were a nightmare since hotels scared me."
The reality of it is, is that apart from the night with the phone incident, any other time you slept over was at Robby's behest. He'd stare up at you with these wide, pleading eyes while quietly whispering "please stay" as he clutched tenderly at your hand. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, you almost always agreed, despite it being against your mutually agreed to set of rules.
Once you were lain back in bed with the covers thrown over you, he'd scoop you into his arms and pull himself against the length of your body before burying his face between your breasts and closing his eyes.
Didn't take long after that for him to fall asleep.
She hums pensively. "Certainly is one for privacy, though, right? Couldn't believe how defensive he got the night I went looking in his medicine cabinet for a single bandage."
Is she positive you're both discussing the same man? From nearly week one Robby assured you that nothing was off-limits in his house. Hell, he actually encouraged you to make yourself at home during the handful of times you stopped by on the weekend for a quickie in-between running errands.
Never did take him up on such an offer, though. His space was his and yours was yours. Not that he ever came over.
Speaking of the medicine cabinet specifically, there had been an evening maybe three weeks ago when he told you to look in it while he was busy relieving himself in the toilet beside where you stood at the sink. When you popped it open, you weren't really sure what you were supposed to be looking for, until he nodded at a still packaged toothbrush. "Just incase," he'd remarked with a wink. "Figured you could put it next to mine in the cup there on the counter."
It didn't see much use in the end, though.
You don't know it, but Robby still hasn't tossed it.
Awkwardly clearing your throat, you swivel your mouse and the computer screen bleeds back to life. "I don't mean any offense, Noelle, because it's been nice talking to and meeting someone new, but I don't like to, um... Kiss and tell, for lack of a better term."
If Robby doesn't have as much respect for you, that's on him. You know your character.
"Oh." She leans back. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."
You wave your hands in a panic. "Oh, no, you didn't! I guess like anyone, Robby's a complicated man. I can agree on that account, at least."
She smiles. "That he is. Well," she says, now turning on her heel. "I'll let you get back to work then."
He was hurt initially when Noelle started in on disclosing his private behavior—worried it would lessen your opinion of him from wherever it currently stands at—but when you lied in order to shield him and the affection he tried to shower you with... It warmed his heart.
Robby had thought more of her than that. That she was more mature; seasoned when it came to concealing the details of an ex's private life like any middle-aged individual.
He was wrong.
Peeking at you from behind a patterned curtain, Robby's lips tug into a faint smile, appreciative of your discretion. And he hopes...protectiveness over what you had.
Admiring the swell of your backside and the outline of a pair of floral panties from where you're bent over trying to retrieve the Sharpie you dropped, Jesse stretches a rubber band between both of his index fingers before firing.
"Ow!" Clapping a hand over your ass cheek, you about-face and scowl at your offender. "You're such a pain in my ass, Jesse."
He grins. "Literally this time."
Were his glasses not resting on the bridge of his nose, Robby wouldn't have believed his eyes just now. So now it's not just one, or two, but three men that're vying for your fucking attention? Who's next, then? Shen? Mateo? Might as well just form a damn line at this point!
Crumpling a sheet of paper into a ball, you toss it at his head, but sorely miss when he rounds the end of the nurse's station with his head thrown back in a mocking laugh. You're just considering rifling through his desk drawer to steal a snack or a hard to obtain stationary item when your eyes meet with Robby's steely gaze.
With his lips drawn into a taught line and his nostrils flared, you shrink into yourself, like a child ashamed that she got caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
He shakes his head in disapproval before returning to the tablet propped up against his bent knee.
Throwing yourself down into a cushioned rolling chair, you switch on a computer to finish up your end of the day charting—far too aware of his nearby presence. Such a party-pooper.
Hopping onto your bed, you position the head of your plastic hairbrush above your mouth and belt the lyrics You're looking like an angel on the walls of Versailles as Olivia Rodrigo blares from the bluetooth speaker in the living room.
The most alive I've ever been, you cry while swinging your hips from one side to other, but kiss me and I might drop dead!
Falling onto the mattress, you bounce, then hang your head off the foot of it while kicking your legs excitedly in the air. Pisces and a Gemini, but I think we might go really nice together!
Robby can't sleep. No matter how much he tosses and turns, nor how many times he fluffs the pillow he's holding close to his chest which still smells of you—he'll do laundry this weekend, dammit; he has too much on his plate already to be worried about fucking sheets—rest refuses to find him.
Rolling onto his back, Robby stares up at a dark, lofty ceiling while stewing in anger aimed at none other than himself.
He wants to blame you—has tried to the last few days—but the fault lies solely with him as to his predicament of perpetual bachelorhood. Can he really blame any of the others for being so taken with you? He has been since you were but a doe-eyed med student, so he obviously understands the crushes they're all harboring, even if he wishes otherwise.
Maybe he's kidding himself by thinking the two of you ever had a chance at anything more, had he not broken things off.
When he presented you with the idea of quick, easy sex, you leapt at the opportunity, and it almost unsettled him how easily you went along with the typical set of rules he always keeps in place, so as to retain a healthy amount of metaphorical distance between himself and whoever his chosen sexual partner for the next month or two is.
Perhaps part of him had been secretly hoping you'd object—would complain about how you wanted to snuggle on the couch, hold hands while walking into work, and go on cute little dates to local diners. Instead, it seems he had finally met his match in the detachment department.
You were actually worse than him about it.
Robby wondered at one time if that was what made him pine for your attention before long: because you were trying to play hard to get, which only spurred him on all the more. But no, it's just your personality, apparently.
Makes for good doctoring, at least.
You're not entirely mercurial and free-flowing, though. Anytime he asked you to stay... You would. That was what made him fall, he thinks: the nights he spent curled around you, safe in your arms while he rested peacefully against your breast.
Before you, every night was an hour long battle—if not longer—in terms of getting to sleep. But with you? The sound of your softly thumping heart always sent him dozing off after only a matter of minutes.
He slept like a damn baby where you were concerned.
And there was the way you'd play with his hair when his head would be resting in your lap after a long day as he read aloud to you, or the stupid trivia gameshows the two of you would watch in bed, debating the answers to ridiculous questions before a buzzer proved you both wrong.
Being in your company was just...easy. It didn't give him anxiety about the future or instill him with fear of the unknown. For once, he was finally able to live in the moment.
And no, he didn't require the TV to be on while he slept next to you because being wrapped in your arms equaled a quiet head. You're quite the contradiction yourself, speaking of. A free spirit with a nurturing side.
Sighing, Robby yanks his phone off the nightstand and dials.
He lets it ring damn near a dozen times before finally ending the call—his head now swimming with visions of Park pounding away inside of you, or Jesse fondling your ass while your own intimate escapades become long forgotten as he's replaced with another younger model.
Blinking wet lashes, Robby sets his jaw and sniffles quietly. He supposes this is what he deserves: a taste of his own medicine for once.
Was only a matter of time before karma came knocking.
With the shower now heating up in the bathroom, you plunk down in the middle of your bed and begin scrolling through unread notifications. When you see a missed called from Robby, your heart lurches.
Uh oh, is something happening at the hospital? He didn't leave a message, so hopefully not.
Best call him back, though, to make sure.
"Hey!" you beam when he promptly answers "Sorry I missed your call earlier, I didn't hear it. What's up?"
Your shirt is eschewed and hanging off of one shoulder, your skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and your chest is rapidly rising and falling in a clear effort to catch your breath.
Not to mention the mess of bedding found just behind you.
Is that a damn shower he hears running in the background?
Robby's ears perk up at the sound of a man's voice coming from a room away which immediately sets his blood to fucking boiling.
Turning to the side with an arched brow, your face screws into an expression of confusion.
What? Your little one-night stand already crying for you from the other room?
"Nothing," Robby hisses while you're still turned away. "It was an accident."
Staring at your mussed reflection on a now dark screen, you sigh then toss the device aside before pushing off the bed and padding into the bathroom to change whatever God-awful dad rock has come onto Spotify.
Whatever was the cause for Robby's attitude isn't your problem right now. Or ever, really. Your apartment is finally nice and clean, as are you about to be before long, and there's leftover Chinese food in the fridge.
For once, everything feels peaceful again.
Removing your sweat-stained t-shirt, you toss it into the laundry hamper before stepping beneath a cascade of steaming water.
"Good morning," you say warmly while greeting Robby with a sunny disposition.
He only hums in response, choosing to keep his eyes trained on the inside of his locker rather than bidding you the same pleasantry.
Wrapping your stethoscope around your neck, you pluck a ballpoint pen from the middle shelf and tuck it into your pocket.
"Looked like you got quite the workout last night," Robby grumbles quietly.
Clicking your locker shut, you chuckle. "Oh, yeah, the best cardio," you reply sardonically—deciding not to mention how you started squealing when a sticky cobweb got stuck to your face. "I'm gonna go check the board. Let me know if you need any help today!"
Watching as you walk away, it's all Robby can do not to flip the bird at the back of your head. How can you be so cocky about it? It isn't normal for someone to be this happy all the time.
Are you on something?
He never got that impression before, but supposes it makes sense.
Perhaps he should take a peek in your chart. Finding out that Langdon was hooked on benzos was bad enough. To discover that you had to get high in order to lie beneath him... He doesn't know whether he could tolerate the knowledge.
Not even lunch from a nearby sandwich shop managed to improve Robby's mood. He can't keep on with this headspace. It's not fair to you, the staff of the ED, or any patients who he could potentially end up taking his frustrations out on when someone inevitably refuses to listen to sage medical advice.
A glass door slides shut behind Robby, casting the exam room you're wrapping things up in in silence. "Can I at least ask who?" he asks gently, not wanting to intrude if he's not welcome to.
He understands that he isn't entitled to anything here, including answers if you choose not to give them. Your affairs are your affairs and they have nothing to do with him.
It's not right him acting otherwise.
It'll only lead to you feeling uneasy around him and that's the last thing he would ever want.
Your education comes first.
Glancing to him, you cup your hand beneath a sanitizer dispenser. "Who what?"
He studies you from beneath long lashes. "Last night. Who you were with when you called me back."
Uh... Why does he think there was someone in your apartment with you?
Wait.
Did he see something on camera? A chill crawls up your back. "I was alone. Why do you think otherwise?" you ask hesitantly.
His brows furrow. "I heard the shower. And another man's voice. C'mon, sweetheart, I might be old, but I'm not stupid. Not to mention the—the state you were in."
Rubbing the sanitizer into both your palms and along the backs of your hands, you take a step forward. "I was warming it up. I'd just gotten done cleaning my apartment right before you called. Well... I cleaned my apartment, then sort of ran around singing pop music and putting on my own personal concert with a hairbrush," you admit sheepishly. "As for the voice, it was some awful rock station Spotify picked out. God knows why."
He takes it back. He's both old and stupid.
"You were alone."
"Just me and Olivia Rodrigo," you confirm with a nod.
He raises a brow, to which you bat a hand in response. "Singer."
"Ah," Robby replies with a nod.
Submerging your hands in your shirt pockets, you cock your head to the side. "Why do you ask?"
Moment of truth.
Robby sighs. "I was jealous. I have been this whole week and I've been making you pay for it." He presses his lips into a thin smile. "I'm sorry."
You give him a once-over with a scrutinizing gaze. "So, are things going to return to normal now?" You lean your hip against the exam table. "Or are you going to pout when Abbot gives me a piece of gum?"
Robby considers for a moment while watching the hustle and bustle of the ED on the other side of the door. "Maybe I made a mistake."
Your brows knit closely together. "What do you mean?"
Studying the laces of his boots, he shrugs with a dismissive shake of his head. "Calling it off. Letting you go. Not asking for more." He lifts his chin. "All the above."
"Are you saying you want to continue hooking up?" You question with a cocked head.
You don't know how keen you are on that idea with how tiresome he's been the last handful of days—it'd be akin to rewarding bad behavior without an ounce of consequences being paid for it—but a warm body is admittedly a considerable improvement over a silicone toy.
Running a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck, Robby digs his fingertips into freckled skin. "No. I mean..." he sucks his teeth. "I'd want sexual intimacy, yes, but more than that. I want us to be together."
The last sentence was spoken so quickly and quietly that it was barely an octave above a whisper. Nevertheless, you heard him.
"Like a relationship?" you inquire with crossed arms.
He nods.
You've had him in bed—inside of you—but not even then did he looks so soft and small and vulnerable. Almost boyish with the way he's rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels. It's kind of cute, really.
So shy.
Coming to stand in front of him, you pull one of his hands toward you and wrap each of your own around it. "Okay."
Robby's head lifts so swiftly that something pops in the back of his neck. "Okay?" he repeats with a lilted tone of surprise.
"I have one rule, though. Or...an understanding, anyway, that needs to be agreed upon."
Cupping the side of your neck with a warm, heavy palm, Robby brushes his thumb along the underside of your jaw. "I'm all ears, sweetheart."
"You get one shot at this," you state point-blank. "And I don't mean we're not allowed to argue or have disagreements or lose our tempers on occasion. That's bound to happen; it's a normal part of any relationship. What I do mean is that if your commitment issues manifest a few weeks or months from now and you start thinking about running, that's it. I won't allow you to treat my life like a revolving door."
As if plenty of others aren't trying to pass through it, he muses. Sliding his palm down to the crown of your shoulder, he gives it a gentle squeeze. "So just like that you're mine?"
You nod and your stethoscope nearly slips off of you with the motion. "Yes."
His lips tug into a displeased frown. "So... I ask you to start sleeping with me and you do. I call it quits and you couldn't seem to care less. I come back groveling, and you hardly bat an eye before telling me okay to being together. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but it's hard to take this seriously when you seem to just go along with wherever the wind blows you."
You can feel the vein in the middle of your forehead swelling up to size. "Did you expect me to get down on my hands and knees while begging you not to leave me? You said it was over and that was that. I'm not pleading with someone to stick around who has no interest in it. I think more of myself than that."
Not to mention that he's way too old to be playing these sorts of head games...
He'll never admit it, but the pride you seem to have in yourself he finds the least bit threatening to his ego. But it's also a turn-on, if he's being completely honest with himself. "Just hard to feel like an exception when it's coming off like I could be anybody. Abbot, Park, Jesse. What makes me different?"
From the way he runs the ED with an iron fist, you'd never think him so insecure.
It makes you wanna pinch his cheeks. Or slap one.
"Like I said about Park, I don't like him. Period. As for Jesse... Yes, we've joked around every now and again, but I honestly think of him more as a brother. Whether he shares that sentiment is his own business."
"And Jack?" Robby presses.
Removing his hand from where it's slid down your arm, you splay his fingers apart and lightly squeeze his fourth one. "He still wears his ring." Lifting your head, you gaze into Robby's eyes. "They didn't... Fall out of love or go through a nasty divorce. She died while he was still in love with her," you explain with the utmost care. "I can't ever hope to compete with that. His ring would serve as a constant reminder of what I have to try and live up to: impossible standards I could never even attempt to meet."
He nearly asks you what if Abbot stopped wearing it, but supposes it's a moot point. For right now, he does. End of story.
Craning his head down to meet you halfway, you tilt your own back and smile when his lips brushes against yours. "My girl," Robby murmurs before closing the breathy gap between you with a kiss.
"You like that?" you ask breathlessly. Lifting your hips, you slide down the considerable length of him and he utters a quiet curse.
Slapping a hand against your ass cheek, Robby watches with appreciation as the plump skin ripples like water before digging his fingers into the meat of your hips again. "Told you it feels better without a condom."
You roll your eyes, but with him seated behind you, he's unable to see it. "Don't really feel much of a difference myself, but—"
"Fuck, feels so much better on my end," Robby moans.
Straightening, you begin bouncing on it with a repeated wet plap, plap, plap while toying with your pebbled nipples.
"Turn around, sweetheart," he mutters; his hands sliding up your stomach and brushing along the underside of your soft breasts. "So I can look at you."
Lifting off his hard cock, Robby fists himself in his hand as you spin around. Guiding his swollen, leaking tip back between your slick, fluttering walls, he moans pleasurably when your cunt swallows his girthy length again until the shaft disappears entirely.
You love the way he stretches you open so deliciously.
Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you cup the back of his head in your other palm before pulling his face between your sweaty breasts. "C'mere, baby," you coo affectionately.
His dick stirs and you snicker softly. Leaning his head back, you flick the tip of your tongue across his lips. "You gonna come inside me? Huh?"
Robby blinks wide eyes of pleasant surprise. "You'll let me?"
You grin. "I want you to," you reply with a faux pout. "I'm not getting off it until you do." Crushing your lips to his, your tongues tangle together in a battle for dominance.
Rapidly rocking your hips until a familiar bang, bang, bang of the headboard can be heard, you break away, then reposition your lips next to his ear. "You're such a good boy."
He shudders, so you drag the lobe of his ear gently between your teeth. "Come for me, baby. Come for mama."
Slapping a hand over your ass and squeezing hard enough to leave a bruised print, Robby bends his knees before hammering away between your pulsating walls. "O-oh fuck," he stammers. "I'm s-so fuckin'—"
"That's it," you sigh encouragingly. "Y-you're almost there. A little more."
Biting down on your shoulder, he chokes back a muffled growl. His whole body seizes while his cock twitches and spurts inside of you in-between long, deep, filling thrusts.
"Good boy," you gasp happily. "Oh my God, that's such a good boy."
Pressing your lips to the crown of his head, you ride out your high—flexing your walls around his emptying cock as your own orgasm ascends to its pique, leaving you a mess of babbling, praiseful words as you cling to Robby, tracing your tongue along his naked, salty skin while you do.
Gazing up at Robby from where your chin is resting against the back of a hand you've planted atop his hairy chest, you smile when he does.
He's been doing so for the last almost half an hour while tracing lazy circles along your naked hip. "That good, huh?" you ask with a laugh.
He rolls his head from side to side. "Just happy," he rumbles.
You press a damp kiss to his stubbled cheek before toying with his necklace. "Can I ask you something?"
He smirk morphs into a contended grin. "Anything."
"Not to bring another person into bed with us, but... Noelle and I spoke the other day. I don't know if you were aware."
Bending an arm behind his head, he nods. "I was. Heard most of it."
Eavesdropper...
"Why were you so different with her? Or... With me?"
It's been eating at you, truthfully.
He chews his lip for a moment in thought. "It's not that she did or didn't do something. I mean, I had nothing against her being around. She just... She didn't make me laugh. I felt like when I was with her—and maybe this was just me—that I couldn't step out of my role as chief, even when I was here in my own home. I struggled to let my guard down or relax. There was this need to be in serious "adult mode" 24/7." He tilts his head to the side. "There wasn't any vulnerability."
You lift a brow. "Thought you preferred that?"
He sighs and readjusts the pillow tucked against the crook of his neck. "Thought I did too. 'Til you came along."
You curl your fingers into the coarse hair smattered across his chest. "Is it because you think more highly of her than me? So you felt a need to impress by being—as you say—serious? That because I'm younger, I'm just the fun squeeze toy to keep around?"
Finally he finds a crack in your perfect sunshine façade. He rocks his head from side to side. "No. Was just a difference in personality. We all have various faces we wear. With different people, during different occasions... With her, I was Michael Robinavitch, chief attending of PTMC's ED. With you, I can just be me."
Not that he's wholly sure who that is most days now, but he hopes at your side, he can finally start to figure it out.
Cupping his cheek, you press a kiss to his lips. "I know exactly who you are."
A curious brow curves upwards.
"Sweet boy," you simper.
He huffs a laugh.
Turning onto his side, Robby pulls you flush against his weighty belly. "I'll be whatever you want me to be, sweetheart."
Twining your fingers in his hair, you nod and bring him in for a kiss.
summary after six months as the night shift's litigation handler, you finally get a night off with jack abbott. he cooks pasta, you ramble about stationery, and the date goes suspiciously well. (i fucking hate summaries bruh)
tags/warnings mdni! (18+, smut) age gap (mid 20s/mid 40s), lotta lawyer talk, bitta doctor talk, abbots dead wife mentioned :p, flirty silly, unprotected pnv, oral, handjob etc, the dayshift is betting on yall, first date and abbot can cook bc i said so. also abbot has sisters bc its fun. also reader is a dork and loves paper idk lol
wc 13.1k
could read as stand alone, part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics), part four (luck), part five (orbit)
Seven Months Earlier
"I've interned with both the VA and Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh."
Gloria nodded, making a note. "What was Children's like?"
You smiled politely. "Busy. Emotionally… complicated. It’s own kind of beast, I suppose."
She waited.
"Pediatrics is unique because you're rarely dealing with just one client. Legally speaking, you have the child, the parents or guardians, sometimes Child Protective Services, sometimes the state. Consent becomes complicated very quickly. Capacity, custody disputes, emergency exceptions..." You shrugged lightly. "You learn pretty quickly that medicine isn't actually, I guess, you know the difficult part. It's everyone around it. People are the complicated part."
Gloria smiled. "So you're comfortable with emotional people."
"I'd say I'm comfortable with frightened people."
"What's the difference?"
"Angry people usually want someone to blame." You folded your hands neatly in your lap. "I think that… scared people, they really just kind of need someone to explain what's happening."
Gloria's eyebrows lifted. She just nods. A good answer.
She glanced back down at your résumé.
"University of Pittsburgh Law. Law Review. Healthcare compliance clinic."
You nodded.
"And the VA?"
"I mostly handled EMTALA questions, which you’d be familiar with. Um, informed consent issues... occasional malpractice claims before litigation, risk-management investigations." You smiled apologetically. "Mostly a lot of document review."
"Not glamorous."
"It rarely is. But I’m a fan, admittedly."
Gloria chuckled politely. Hospital Administration is far from the glamour and prestige of participating in the medicine itself.
The office overlooked one of the main administrative corridors. Doctors, nurses, transport staff and administrators drifted constantly past the glass.
"PTMC's legal department is..." Gloria searched for the right word. "...busy.” She settles. “We're a Level One trauma centre. Every bad day in western Pennsylvania usually winds up here."
She folded her hands.
"When you’re assigned to a case, a doctor, you aren’t there to protect physicians. You understand that?”
You nodded.
"I'm there to protect the hospital."
"I like hearing that, but I do encourage a slightly different order. You're there to protect patients, staff, and the hospital. Usually in that order. You’d be advising attendings, reviewing documentation, assisting with subpoena responses, helping navigate consent questions, preserving records after sentinel events, occasionally reminding surgeons that emails do in fact mean something."
A beat. She cleared her throat, as she thinks of some sort of obstacle.
"Say an attending calls you at two in the morning."
She watched your face.
"And they've got an unconscious trauma patient. No family. Police want blood drawn immediately. Administration wants an answer. Risk management isn't picking up. What do you do?"
You thought for only a second. "I ask what they're trying to accomplish before I tell them what they can do."
"Police authority and medical necessity aren't always the same thing. If the blood draw is clinically indicated, document it. If it's solely for law enforcement, that's an entirely different analysis involving state law, hospital policy, potential warrants and patient privacy." You go on, rattling off Law School and past experience in a way that seemed like it could make sense.
Another nod.
"I wouldn’t give legal advice until I know which problem they're actually trying to solve."
“That’s good to know you are… thoughtful and considerate in that way.”
“Thank you.” You nod, appreciative.
Before she could continue— A loud voice echoed from the hallway.
"For Christ's sake, that's not what EMTALA says."
Another voice answered immediately.
"It isn't what I said either."
You glanced instinctively toward the glass wall.
Two physicians stepped off the elevator. One was tall, broad-shouldered, dark beard peppered with grey, coffee in one hand. The other was shorter, silver-haired, moving with quickness and mutterings.
Both still wore black scrubs.
The shorter one spoke with his hands, stabbing the air with obvious frustration.
"...I'm telling you the transfer documentation was garbage."
"It always is."
"No, Mike, this one’s goddamn creative. Guy fucking wrote 'good luck' on the damn transfer note."
The taller man snorted. "I'd frame that."
They kept walking.
The silver-haired doctor's irritation seemed to fill the hallway around him. Not quite explosive, but just simmering, always at the edge of something worse but can’t quite find itself to a true boil.
You watched without meaning to. He was pretty. Brows furrowed together, jaw tensed and tight, eyes wrinkled at the edges with earnestness and charm. Missing was politeness, but remained sincerity.
He rubbed at the bridge of his nose as they approached Gloria's office.
Gloria noticed where you were looking. "...Excuse me one second." She stood. "You'll meet our Emergency attendings eventually." She sighed. "Hopefully not today."
She crossed the room and opened the office door.
The silver-haired physician had already reached it.
"Where are my nurses?"
"Can you survive five minutes?" Gloria asked. "I'm interviewing."
Jack looked past her automatically.
Not at you.
Just... through the office.
He registered a young woman sitting neatly in the visitor's chair. Mary Janes. Hair pinned back. Professional suit. Probably another administrator.
Then his attention snapped straight back to Gloria.
"Our charge nurse is downstairs trying to convince six agency nurses not to walk."
"They're not going to walk." Gloria sighed.
"They're threatening to."
"They've been threatening to since Tuesday."
"Well, they mean it today."
The bearded physician leaned casually against the wall.
"Dana said if staffing drops again she's bringing the entire Emergency Department upstairs."
Gloria pinched the bridge of her nose. "I know."
"And?"
"...I'm working on it."
Jack exhaled sharply through his nose. "We've got hallway beds."
"I know."
"Boarding patients."
"I know."
"Four psych holds."
"I know."
"We're running one nurse over ratio in resus."
"I know."
"And legal's already breathing down our necks about hallway privacy like a bunch of… fucking A-holes."
Gloria looked directly at him. "They're doing their jobs."
"So are we."
Neither of them blinked.
Finally Gloria sighed.
"Five minutes."
Jack rubbed a hand over his face.
"...Fine."
He turned to leave. Then paused. “Why does it smell like Cherries?” He asked.
You instinctively glanced down at yourself, lifting your wrist to your nose.
Cherry perfume.
You hadn't even thought about it when you'd put it on that morning.
How he'd picked it out over antiseptic, stale coffee and hospital disinfectant, you'd probably never understand.
"Shut up," Robby muttered, already hearing whatever comment Jack was about to make.
Jack ignored him.
His gaze drifted through the office almost absent-mindedly and landed on you. You happened to look up at the exact same moment. For half a second, neither of you looked away.
You offered the small, practiced smile you'd perfected during interviews and awkward introductions: polite, a touch uncertain, trying not to look like you'd been caught staring.
Something in Jack's exhausted expression softened.
Just enough to be noticeable before he looked away again.
"C'mon, Mike."
The two doctors disappeared down the hallway.
Gloria shut the door. "...Sorry."
You smiled, briefly in thought. He seemed familiar in his own way and you can’t help but ask— "He a veteran?"
She furrowed her brows, confused as to how you would guess that. "Yes, actually."
She sat back down.
“Reminds me of the guys I worked with at the VA... Stubborn people.” You admit.
Gloria nodded. "Well, that," she said, pointing toward the hallway they'd vanished into, "...was Doctor Jack Abbot and Doctor Michael Robinavitch. Our Emergency Department." She hesitated. "They're... acquired tastes."
"They seem passionate."
"They're impossible." Another pause. "...They're also some of the best physicians I've ever worked with." She looked back at your résumé. "We're always looking for someone fresh assigned to Emergency."
She studied you over the top of the folder.
"You think you can handle personalities like that?"
You thought about the two men arguing in the hallway. About the way they'd been fighting for staffing instead of ego. About how exhausted they both looked.
"I think so."
Gloria smiled back.
"...Good." She closed your résumé. "Because I have a feeling they're going to keep you very busy."
PRESENT
Jack wonders what you’d be like in sex.
He pictured you on your knees.
Between his spread legs, that bright pink gloss catching the light as you looked up at him with that wide, contagious grin. Your lips parted and you leaned in, taking his cock into the warm, wet heat of your mouth. His fingers sank into your hair, gripping tight, guiding your head as you swallowed around him. He wondered if you’d let go completely—if you’d turn that busy brain off and just let him take care of everything.
He pictured you above him.
Thighs straddling his hips, manicured nails raking lightly down his chest and pausing near his throat. You’d sink down onto his cock in one slow, deliberate motion, your pussy gripping him tight as you started to ride. Every roll of your hips dragging slick and hot over his length, your movements growing harsher, needier, chasing the friction you craved.
He pictured you beneath him.
Back arched against the sheets, fingers laced tight with his. Him pressing you down into the mattress, hips driving deep and steady while you whimpered his name into the pillow, voice breaking with every thrust. Your body trembled under him, soft and pliant, completely open to whatever he wanted to give you.
"...Doctor Abbot?"
Jack blinks.
Right. Conference room. He clears his throat, dragging himself back into the present.
He looks up to find you watching him from across the mahogany table.
You offer him a small, patient smile, an elegant pink pen poised over your notebook. Beside you, Jane—the hospital's General Counsel—waits expectantly, while Charles from Risk Management flips through the meeting packet, your main senior colleagues.
Under the table, Robby's shoe taps Jack's ankle. Hard enough to get his attention.
"Sounds good to me," Jack says with a nod.
Charles pauses. "...We haven't actually gotten to the proposed revisions yet."
Jack sighs. "Right."
Jane folds her hands. "Doctor Abbot, we're discussing updates to the Emergency Department's informed refusal documentation, the revised EMTALA transfer checklist, and the new policy regarding body-worn camera footage requested by law enforcement."
“I’m sure it’s great, I’ve heard all the highlights from your associate here. Robby here’ll take care of all this, don’t think we need the whole gang, right?” Jack sighs. “I finished an hour ago, so.”
Charles gives you a brief look, a glance between you and Jack.
Jane chuckles a bit at that. “I understand my junior and you have a good rapport, Doctor Abbot, but it’s of the law that you stay here to hear all the changes,” Jane insists, strict.
You wince a bit at the correction of associate to junior. You shoot Jack a look that says please stay.
Jack nods. “Right. Of the law.” He sighs. “This could’ve been an email, is all.”
“Man,” Robby nudges again, this time a little harder.
Jack nods. He raises a hand in surrender. “Sorry. Go ‘head, please.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling.
Jane notices.
"So," she continues, clicking to the next slide, "effective next month, any patient leaving Against Medical Advice must have decision-making capacity documented separately from the AMA form itself. Signing the paperwork alone is no longer considered sufficient documentation."
The meeting drags on.
Slides change. Policies blur together. Jane walks everyone through revisions to the Emergency Department's informed refusal policy, updates to documentation standards for patients leaving against medical advice, changes to subpoena response procedures, and a new workflow requiring Legal notification before releasing records tied to pending litigation.
Charles jumps in every so often to explain how Risk Management wants incident reporting standardised after several recent malpractice claims had exposed inconsistencies between physician notes and nursing documentation.
It’s all very… tedious.
Jack just can’t find himself to listen. Not when he’s been awake for nearly twenty hours. His shift officially ended over an hour ago, though, like most shifts in Emergency Medicine, "ended" mostly meant he stopped getting paid while continuing to answer questions.
Normally he'd already be halfway home by now.
Instead he's trapped in a conference room, watching you. He tells himself to stop. He doesn't. Can’t.
You sit two seats down from Jane, taking notes in impossibly illegible handwriting, occasionally underlining something before quietly passing a comment to Charles. Every now and then you nod along to Jane's explanation, your expression thoughtful, brows knitting together whenever someone mentions a regulation you clearly disagree with.
Your hair, perfectly pinned when the meeting started, has begun surrendering to the morning. A few loose strands have escaped around your face. You tuck one behind your ear absent-mindedly.
It's ridiculous. He's survived Iraq, residency, mass casualty incidents, hospital administrators, and fifteen years of night shift.
Yet somehow he's losing a fight with a twenty-something lawyer wearing pink lip gloss.
His eyes drift back to you again. You smile politely at something Charles says.
He wants you to smile at him. To laugh. The one that makes you throw your head back a little. The one you do in his truck. The one you do when you spend twenty minutes passionately explaining why one brand of stationery is objectively superior to another.
The meeting limps along for another fifteen minutes before Jane finally closes her folder.
"Questions?"
Nobody volunteers any.
"Good." She stands. "Thank you, everyone."
Chairs scrape across the floor. Binders snap shut. People begin filtering toward the door.
Jack doesn't move.
Instead, he watches you gather your things.
You stack your papers with almost surgical precision before sliding them into your laptop sleeve. A pencil rolls toward the edge of the table. You catch it without looking, tucking it neatly beside your notebook.
Your hair has escaped its clip even more now. Another loose strand falls across your cheek.
"Where the hell's your head at?" Robby mutters quietly as he gathers his stethoscope.
"What're you talking about?"
Jack barely tears his eyes away. Robby follows his gaze.
"...Jesus Christ."
Jack finally looks over. "What?"
"You've got handoff in five minutes."
"I know."
"You sure?"
Jack gives him a flat look.
Robby just sighs.
"I'll start without you."
He slings his bag over one shoulder before disappearing with the rest of the Emergency physicians.
Jane and Charles linger in the hallway, already discussing accreditation deadlines and Joint Commission surveys.
Within a minute, the conference room is nearly empty.
You slide your laptop into your bag.
Jack wanders over.
"Counselor."
You look up.
"Doctor."
He nods toward the mountain of policy binders. "Riveting morning."
A smile tugs at your mouth. "I had a feeling your mind wasn't on informed refusal documentation."
"Oh yeah?" He slips his hands into his pockets. "Where do you think it was?"
You tilt your head thoughtfully. For a moment, he’s curious to know if you’ll somehow telepathically see the images he has of you on your knees.
"I don't know." A beat, to his reprieve. "...Not sure I want to know."
Jack chuckles quietly. "Probably for the best."
Silence settles comfortably between you as you zip your bag.
Jack wants to kick himself with his prosthetic. He's spent the better part of forty-five minutes pretending to pay attention while thinking almost exclusively about you.
"I think I know what you were thinking about." Your voice breaks through his thoughts.
Jack smiles. "Go ahead then."
You study him for a second with mock seriousness. "You've secretly been married this entire time."
Jack raises an eyebrow. "Really?"
"And your wife's coming back into town." You nod solemnly. "So now you're trying to figure out how to cancel tonight without telling me you've been living a double life."
Jack laughs. A proper one this time. "...Where the hell'd you get that?"
You point toward his left hand.
"You fiddle with your ring whenever you're distracted."
Jack freezes. Sure enough, his thumb has been unconsciously turning the plain silver band around his finger. He hadn't even realised. He lets his hand fall. You smile, pleased with yourself.
"I know you're not married," you add quickly. "I looked."
He furrows his brows briefly, needing you to continue.
"I have access to credentialing files."
Jack stares. "You abused hospital resources?"
"I... exercised professional curiosity."
Jack snorts.
"I also figured one of your residents would've accidentally told me if you had a wife." A beat. "So..." You nod toward the ring. "Decoration?"
Jack hesitates. For just a second.
"...I'll tell you tonight."
You brighten immediately.
"Oh." You grin. "Good. I was starting to think you'd forgotten our date."
"I could forget my own birthday before I forgot tonight."
The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.
You tilt your head with a sweet smile. "You sure you can actually take the night off?"
"'Course."
Almost without thinking, Jack reaches up, gently brushing the loose strand of hair back behind your ear. His fingertips barely graze your temple. You still beneath the touch.
"I'll see you at seven," he says quietly. "My place."
You nod, cheeks warming despite yourself.
Jack gives you one last look before turning toward the door.
As he leaves, he can't help smiling to himself.
★★★
You spend most of the day bouncing between conference rooms and clinical floors.
Policy revisions. Documentation audits. A physician wanting to know whether police can subpoena trauma photographs without a warrant.
Risk Management asking if a family complaint qualifies as a reportable event. Someone from Orthopaedics accidentally emailing protected health information to the wrong specialist… Again.
By six o'clock your brain feels like someone has replaced it with oatmeal.
Which somehow lands you standing beside Trinity and Dennis in Trauma Three while they prepare to sedate a fourteen-year-old with a badly displaced forearm fracture.
Normally Legal wouldn't be anywhere near this. Today, however, the kid's parents are divorced, Dad is present, Mom is on FaceTime from Cleveland insisting nobody touches her son until she arrives, and everyone has collectively decided this is now your problem.
Trinity wheels the sedation cart into the room. She nods toward you. "And this is our lawyer."
The father immediately stiffens. "...Do I need a lawyer?"
"No," you answer before Trinity can speak.
Trinity answers anyway. "She's here to stop you suing us."
Dennis closes his eyes. You smile apologetically.
"I promise, I'm not here because anyone's done anything wrong." You glance toward the father. "I'm just making sure we've got the right consent before they proceed."
The teenager grimaces from the stretcher. "My arm's sideways."
Dennis crouches beside him. "That's why we'd like to unsideways it."
The kid snorts despite himself.
You continue gently. "Your dad has legal authority to consent to treatment." You nod toward the phone balanced on the bedside table. "Your mum's concerns are being documented, she's been informed of the risks and benefits, and because this isn't elective care, delaying reduction could increase the risk of complications."
The father nods slowly.
"So... he needs this now."
The mother sighs loudly through the speaker. "...Fine."
Trinity claps her gloved hands together. "Excellent."
She looks at Dennis. "Drugs."
Dennis shakes his head. "Maybe don't call them drugs."
Twenty minutes later you're back in the hallway.
"...Jesus Christ." You stare down at your pink blouse. A few splatters of blood have somehow landed near your shoulder. You don't even know when. "I hate procedures."
Dennis is peeling off his gloves. "You weren't even doing anything."
"I witnessed a seventeen-gauge needle."
"You looked away."
"I heard it."
Trinity tosses her gown into the biohazard bin.
"This is why I became a lawyer."
Dennis laughs. "Fair."
The three of you head back toward the nurses' station.
You're already typing notes into your iPad. Consent confirmed. Capacity documented. Telephone consent witnessed and recorded. Risk Management notified. Everything exactly where it should be.
"You sticking around for nights, Kirby?" Trinity asks.
"I seriously think you people don't know my name." You hum. "I've gotta head home, got plans."
Dennis glances over. "Plans as in another night of online shopping?"
You shake your head. "Very funny… Got a date."
Trinity immediately elbows Dennis hard enough to make him grunt.
"...That was assault," you observe.
She folds her arms. "So."
You already know the look.
"...Is your date perhaps with one silver-haired Emergency attending?"
"What does it matter?"
"It matters immensely."
Princess doesn't even look up from triage. "Wait." She raises one finger. "You and Jack are finally going out tonight?"
You suddenly become aware that half the nurses' station has stopped pretending not to listen.
Dana slowly lowers her coffee. McKay looks up from a chart. Mel blinks twice.
You sigh. "I'm beginning to understand why HIPAA training has to be repeated every year."
Princess grins. "So that's a yes."
You gather your notebook. "I'm not participating in whatever betting pool you've all apparently started."
Dennis's eyebrows shoot up. "...You knew?"
"I didn't." You smile sweetly. "...Now I do."
You sling your bag over your shoulder.
"For the record, you're all legally in the clear. Have a good rest of your shift." You start walking away. Your heels click down the hallway.
The second you're out of earshot—
Princess slaps a hand onto the counter. "Pay up."
Trinity groans dramatically. "Oh, come on."
Princess holds out her palm. "Nope."
"You said next month."
"I said before Thanksgiving."
Dennis reaches into his wallet. The whole day shift seems to have to hustle their cash out for this.
★★★
Jack's apartment looks exactly like him. It’s not cold or minimalist, rather it’s solid. It’s comfortable and warm. The kind of place built over decades rather than decorated over a weekend.
You step inside as he locks the door behind you, the deadbolt clicking into place with a heavy clunk. Somewhere deeper in the apartment, something simmers gently on the stove. Garlic. Butter. Tomatoes. Fresh basil. Pasta.
Your stomach immediately reminds you that you'd skipped lunch.
"Oh," you murmur, taking in the space. "...You are rich rich."
Jack sighs before he's even finished shrugging out of his jacket. "Please don't say it like that."
He hangs the jacket over the back of a dining chair with the unconscious neatness of someone who always puts things where they belong. "It isn't that fancy."
You wander further inside anyway, your heels clicking softly across worn hardwood.
The apartment stretches out far more than you expected. Open-plan, but not cavernous. Everything feels proportioned for someone who actually lives here. Huge industrial windows dominate one wall, pouring warm evening light across the kitchen and into the living room. Outside, Pittsburgh glows amber beneath the setting sun.
In the distance, PTMC rises above the skyline. All glass. Concrete. Fluorescent misery. From up here, it almost looks peaceful.
"It's..." You look back out the window. "...nice."
Jack glances over from the stove. The sincerity seems to catch him slightly off guard. Now that you're actually looking, you start noticing him everywhere.
A well-worn leather recliner angled toward the windows, a folded army-green blanket draped neatly over one arm. A record player tucked beneath a shelf of vinyl. Fleetwood Mac. Springsteen. Nina Simone. Tom Petty. Radiohead. Pearl Jam.
Medical textbooks shoved beside dog-eared paperbacks. Blu-rays stacked with almost obsessive precision.
Military histories squeezed between Steinbeck and Cormac McCarthy. An old baseball sitting on a bookshelf for no obvious reason. Challenge coins lined carefully along another shelf beside framed photographs.
Your eyes drift over a faded army rucksack tucked neatly beneath a console table. A pair of polished boots by the front door. An old camouflage jacket hanging beside his hospital coat.
Then you notice the photographs. Dozens of them. Parents. Hospital staff. Army friends. Residents. Christmases. Cookouts. Retirement parties. You stop in front of one without thinking.
Jack and Robby. Both younger by fifteen years, maybe more. Scrubs wrinkled.Hair darker. Standing outside what looks like the ambulance bay at PTMC with beers in hand.
Robby has one arm slung around Jack's shoulders while Jack flips off whoever's taking the picture with complete sincerity. Both of them look utterly exhausted. Both of them are grinning like idiots.
You smile before you even realise you are. "...Cute."
Jack looks over from stirring the pasta. He follows your gaze. "Oh, don't encourage him."
He walks over beside you. "That picture's done enough to boost his ego already."
You glance between the photograph and the man standing beside you. "You both look exactly the same."
Jack snorts. "Stress preserves you."
You drift to the next photograph.
A much younger Jack stands beside a military helicopter, dressed in camouflage, squinting into harsh desert sunlight. His hair is brighter—almost copper—and there's far less grey, but the expression is unmistakably his.
The same furrow between his brows. The same look that suggests somebody has just asked him something profoundly stupid.
You hear footsteps behind you. Jack abandons the pasta for a moment, wiping his hands on a tea towel as he comes to stand beside you, following your gaze.
You lean in closer. "...Oh my God."
"What?"
"...You were ginger."
Jack looks offended immediately. "I was—" He points at the frame. "That is not ginger. That is auburn."
"Oh, Jackie." You smile sweetly. "That's just PR for ginger."
"It was distinguished."
"It is... literally reflecting sunlight- that’s- I don’t know, that’s pretty orange to me."
Jack lets out a tired sigh. You grin to yourself, studying the photograph again.
Younger Jack somehow looks sharper around the edges. Leaner. Cockier. Twenty-something. Probably convinced he already knew everything. Maybe a little insufferable. You find yourself liking him immediately.
Your attention drifts to another frame.
Two women are crowded onto a couch with Jack wedged between them, both clearly bullying him into smiling for the camera. "Sisters?"
"Yeah." He nods, hands settled behind him, back straight as he stays behind you. "Two."
You glance sideways at him. "...Middle child?"
Jack narrows his eyes. "...You can tell?"
"Kind of." You shrug. "You need attention in a very specific way."
He thinks about it for a second, shrugs and nods. Sounds about right. You look back at the military photograph.
Your voice softens. "...You were pretty."
Jack blinks.
"...Pretty?"
You nod. A quiet laugh escapes him. "That's a first."
You look between the young soldier in the frame and the man standing beside you. "You've got nice eyes."
Jack clears his throat. "You flirting with twenty-five-year-old me or forty-five-year-old me?"
"I'm weighing my options."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Mhm."
"And?"
"I think I like the older model."
His eyebrows lift.
"Better warranty."
That makes him laugh properly. The sound is warm enough that you feel oddly pleased with yourself. You study the photograph again.
"Do you still have any red left?"
Jack tilts his head toward you. "Probably." He leans down slightly. "Go 'head."
You step closer. Close enough to see the silver threaded through his hair properly. Most of it is charcoal now, streaked heavily with lighter grey around his temples. Tentatively, you lift a hand.
Your fingers brush through it. It's softer than you expected. Thicker, too. He must have a good routine, you think to yourself. Jack doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe much. He just lets you.
"Hm," you murmur dramatically.
"What?"
"It appears you’ve gone all grey… A tragic loss for the ginger community."
"They'll recover."
You smile. Your fingertips drift lower before you quite realise you're doing it. Just enough to brush the roughness along his jaw. Freshly shaved this morning, but already growing back.
The texture catches lightly against your skin.
"It suits you."
"What does?"
"The silver fox thing."
Jack goes still. His eyes lift to yours. Steady. Heavy enough that you suddenly become very aware of how close you're standing.
Your stomach gives a traitorous little flip. You're the first to look away.
"...You collect DVDs?"
The moment breaks. Jack clears his throat.
"Blu-rays." He corrects you automatically. "I don't trust streaming."
You smile to yourself and crouch in front of the shelves. Rows and rows of films. You slide one halfway out. "American Pie?"
Jack looks over from the kitchen.
"An American classic."
"That explains a lot, actually."
"Be kind."
"Ooh." You pull out another. "Happy Feet."
"That one's my niece's." A beat. "...Though the penguin can dance."
You glance back over your shoulder.
"You've watched Happy Feet by yourself."
Jack opens the fridge without missing a beat.
"Absolutely." He reaches for a bottle of wine. "God, those feet sure are happy."
Jack rolls the sleeves of his henley up to his forearms before turning back to the stove, stirring the pasta with absent familiarity.
"You drink red or white?"
"Yes, please.” You hum, barely looking away from the blu-ray shelf, more interested in examining him through his choice in films.
Jack smiles a bit at that, pours you a white.
You sigh and go join him. You hop onto one of the counter stools, resting your chin in your palm as you watch him move around the kitchen.
You realise, with some alarm, that watching Jack cook might be one of the most attractive things you've ever seen.
Knife work precise. Movements economical. Reading glasses sat low on his nose while he checked something on his phone despite clearly already knowing the recipe by heart.
There is something deeply unfair about watching a man near fifty confidently cook pasta while explaining wine pairings to you in that low gravelly voice.
"You're staring."
Jack doesn't even look up. He's stirring the sauce with one hand while reaching for the parmesan with the other, moving through the kitchen with the kind of ease that only comes from habit. Like he's cooked this meal a hundred times before.
You blink. "...Sorry."
Heat creeps into your cheeks before you can stop it. Jack glances over then, just long enough to catch the embarrassed little smile tugging at your mouth.
"You do that." He returns his attention to the pan, giving it another slow stir. "Started noticing it when you first came down to the ED on nights."
He notices the way you've gone quieter, the way your fingers curl around the stem of your wine glass.
"What goes on up here?"
He gestures lightly with the handle of the wooden spoon toward his own temple before nodding at you.
You think about it for a moment.
"...I'm observing."
"Oh?" He sounds amused. "What're you observing?"
You hesitate.
"...That..." You smile to yourself. "...I think you're very good at this whole..." Your hand makes a vague circle through the air. "...courtship thing."
Jack is quiet for a second. Then he smiles—small enough you almost miss it. "I try."
You curl your fingers beneath your chin, clearing your throat quietly as you shift conversation. “Do… you cook often?”
“I’m forty-five, sweetheart,” he says dryly. “Not a raccoon.”
“That didn’t answer the question.”
Jack glances over finally. “Yes,” he nods. “I try to cook whenever I can. Good to keep the hands busy.”
You smile as you listen, feeling like there’s more to that answer.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing. That’s- that’s good.” You tell/ Then- “Can I help, at all?” You ask.
He shakes his head, simple. “Long as I don’t screw up my sister's recipe in the next fifteen minutes, we’ll be alright.”
You nod.
“Not much of a cook?” He wonders as he chops the vegetables.
You watch his quick hands. “Not really. I’ve been a big buyer of microwaved meals since Law School. Cheap, quick. And sometimes when my parents come by, they leave me with leftovers to last me like, a few weeks.”
“You close with them?”
You shrug. “Sorta. They live far, so, don’t talk as much as I’d like to. Yours?” You then realise maybe things are different, a brief awkward beat– “I mean, if they’re- ali-”
“-My dad’s around,” he says with a small chuckle, getting to your train of thought before it could crash. “Mom passed… shit, when I was about your age, actually.”
“I’m sorry,” you hum, sincere.
Jack gives a nod of appreciation, focused on the vegetables before sliding the diced onion and fennel into the pan. The oil snaps immediately, sharp and fragrant, garlic following a few seconds later once the onion starts turning translucent around the edges. He lowers the heat automatically with the side of his wrist, stirring with a wooden spoon.
“Neither of mine could cook,” Jack says, almost absentmindedly. “My parents. They made a mean plate of buttered toast and mashed potatoes, but that was about it.” He scrapes the fond from the bottom of the pan carefully. “Then I enlist, and the army’s basically the same diet but with worse coffee.”
You smile faintly into your wine.
“Didn’t even realize I was missin’ out on anything ‘till I moved here and had Indian food when I was twenty-something,” he continues. “Thought, ah, that’s what I missed. Food’s actually supposed to taste like things.”
“Life changing?”
“Nearly made me wanna quit this whole damn country. That and my leg, but you know. Equally as rough in retrospect.”
You laugh softly.
Jack glances over at the sound for half a second before returning to the stove. He adds tomato paste next, letting it cook down properly instead of rushing it, the colour deepening slowly as he stirs.
You watch him deglaze the pan with wine, the sharp hiss filling the kitchen.
There’s something weirdly intimate about it all. You catch yourself smiling again, utterly enamoured by the sight of such an esteemed figure doing all this. He adds crushed tomatoes, a pinch of salt between his fingers, then reaches for fresh basil.
“You know,” you say carefully, “I think this is the first apartment I’ve been in where a man actually owns ingredients.”
Jack looks over, borderline offended. “What the hell kinda men are you dating?”
“Law students, usually.”
He shakes his head. “Bleak.”
“One of them put ketchup in a wine glass because he didn’t own bowls.”
Jack stops stirring entirely to stare at you. Judge you, more like it. You’re reminded of the incredulous face an actual Judge would give you when you have to recite the most inane quotes from clients.
“You let that man touch you?”
“You’re judging me in very vulnerable years.”
He turns back toward the stove, letting the sauce simmer lower now. Patient. Unhurried.
He stays quiet for a bit. Not quite stoic, just stirring in his own thoughts, brows furrowed slightly. Marvin Gaye hums softly from the record player.
Half an hour later, you've both all but cleaned your plates.
His sister's recipe, according to him. Though, after adding chilli flakes, swapping the wine, doubling the garlic and "fixing" the seasoning, you're fairly certain his sister would sue him for defamation.
It's excellent.
You don't realise how comfortable you've become until you're already halfway through explaining why the closure of Regent Paper is a genuine tragedy.
"...and it's ridiculous, because—do you remember Regent?" You ask that more rhetorically as Jack loosely nods, mostly confused but listening as you continue. “They made the worst A3 cartridge stock imaginable."
You lean forward, already warming to the topic.
"The GSM was inconsistent. The fibres were too short. Fountain pen ink feathered if you even looked at it wrong, the coating lifted whenever you erased graphite—"
Jack watches you with complete seriousness.
"Hm."
"And don't even get me started on Reflex."
"Worse?"
"So much worse."
"What'd they do?"
"They changed manufacturers."
"...The bastards."
"They are bastards." You point your fork at him. "I'm serious."
"I can tell.” Jack tilts his head a bit at you as he leans forward. “What’s the difference?”
You open your mouth. Pause. Then another. Your eyes drift down to your plate as the full weight of what you've been enthusiastically talking about settles over you.
"...Jack."
"Hm?"
"You really don't have to do this."
He frowns. "...Do what?"
"Sit here while I explain paper to you."
"I'm listening."
"I know, but..." You laugh quietly at yourself, rubbing the back of your neck. "I've just spent..." You glance at the ceiling as if calculating. "...At least four uninterrupted minutes talking about cartridge stock."
"So?"
"So this is supposed to be a date." You wave your fork vaguely between the two of you. "We're supposed to be mysterious. Flirt. Talk about interesting things."
"Mysterious? Right… okay, well… What're people your age talking about these days?"
"I don't know."
“Oh come on,” Jack lowers his gaze at you. “I don’t think either of us can pull off the mysterious card considering you did actually spend four minutes talking about cartridge stock.”
You sigh.
"You don't care about paper."
"I don't." He admits. "I care that you care about paper."
You let out a small breath, heart fluttering a beat at that.
Jack shrugs one shoulder as though it's the simplest thing in the world.
"I want you to keep talking."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He nods toward your plate. "You want seconds?"
"What? No." You laugh. "That was amazing, thank you, but I'm full."
Jack stands, gathering both your plates before you can protest.
"I'll be right back."
He carries them into the kitchen, rinses them under the tap, then wanders back into the living room, drying his hands on a tea towel.
As he sits beside you again, he nods once.
"Alright."
"What?"
"You were saying."
You launch into a completely earnest explanation of grain direction, archival stock, brightness ratings, acid-free cotton rag paper, why legal pads have become objectively worse in the last decade, and how certain brands somehow make ink look flatter than others despite identical specifications.
Jack contributes exactly three things. "...Huh....Really? ...You should sue them."
You snort at that last one, now the two of you seated on the couch. "I should. They're evil."
He snorts. "Oh, are they?"
"You laugh now but… They’ve got a dark underbelly."
"I'm sure they do."
"They're ruining stationery."
He raises his beer in solemn agreement. "Won't somebody think of the binders."
You try not to laugh.
Jack shrugs one shoulder.
His hand finds your knee almost absent-mindedly on the couch, your feet tucked beneath you, heels abandoned elsewhere. His hand is warm and heavy. His thumb brushes once against the fabric of your skirt as he reaches for his beer again, like he doesn't even realise he's done it.
The city glows beyond the windows, Pittsburgh painted gold beneath the last of the evening light.
Somewhere between another story about disastrous law school roommates and Jack confessing he'd once accidentally eaten military rations that expired before you were born, the distance disappears.
Your legs end up tucked beside him.
Then against him.
Then, when you shift to make room for his prosthetic as he stretches out, he catches your waist without thinking.
"You comfortable?" he asks quietly.
"Mhm."
"You sure?"
Instead of answering, you slide a little closer.
His arm settles around you with the same easy certainty it'd had resting on the back of your chair all evening.
The conversation slows.
Not because you've run out of things to say.
Just because neither of you seems particularly interested in talking anymore.
You look up at him.
He's already looking at you.
"...What?" you ask, smiling.
"Nothin'."
"You're staring now."
"I know."
"What's going on in there?" you ask, echoing him from earlier, tapping lightly against his temple.
He smiles to himself.
"...Observing."
"Oh?"
"What're you observing?"
His eyes travel over your face, slower than they probably should.
"...That I think," he says quietly, "you're very good at this whole courtship thing too."
Your breath catches.
You don't remember who kisses who first. Only that somewhere between smiling and laughing, you're suddenly close enough that there's no room left for anything except him.
By the time you realise you've shifted again, you're straddling his lap, your skirt riding higher over your thighs, your knees braced either side of him.
Jack's hands settle carefully at your waist, then drift slowly up your sides as if he's still asking permission with every inch.
“I have a question,” you ask, voice soft.
Jack nods, a hum as his gaze flickers between the two of you, where your hands trail over his henley, manicured nails sweet against the dark cotton, to your glossed looking lips that curl into a small smile, curious.
“How many girls do you cook for?” You wonder, dry yet earnest.
Jack smiles a bit at that, the question seemingly so naive to him. “Lost count.”
“Damn,” you hum. “Thought I was special.”
“You are special,” he murmurs, his hand sliding higher beneath the hem of your skirt until his broad palm settles warm against the inside of your thigh. It makes you shift instinctively, your body finding him before your mind catches up. He feels himself harden beneath you and lets out the smallest breath through his nose.
“I've never cooked for a lawyer before.”
You laugh softly, already a little breathless.
“Can't say I can say the same about doctors.”
“No kidding,” Jack hums.
His hand travels a little farther until his palm cups you gently through the lace of your underwear. He doesn't rush. Just holds you there for a second, feeling the warmth that's already soaked through the fabric.
Your lips part before you can stop yourself. A quiet gasp escapes you as your hips tilt almost involuntarily into his hand.
Jack watches every reaction like he's studying something important.
“Tell me more,” he says, voice low.
“Um...” You swallow, trying to gather a coherent thought. “When I was... doing my first junior associate placement... about a year ago... it was with the legal department at UPMC Passavant.”
He nods once, clearly knowing the hospital.
“North Hills,” he murmurs.
“Mhm.”
His thumb presses just a little more firmly through the damp lace before slowly dragging the fabric aside.
The first glide of his fingers against your slick folds makes your breath catch altogether. You let out a shaky breath as you try to push yourself further onto his fingers.
“No, no,” Jack murmurs. “Keep yourself still for me, alright?” He instructs gently. “Tell me somethin’. These panties pink?”
You nod quickly as he moves a thumb over your clit, swiping against you, stilling your hips, obedient.
“Knew it,” he says. “Was it Richardson?”
You furrow your brows, brief, confused, replaced with a soft moan that has Jack struggling tto jst his hips right to yours.
“The doctor,” he says. “Senior resident of Neuro. Used to work with him few years back. Seems like your type.”
“What’s-what’s that supposed to mean?” You moan as he almost casually shoves a finger inside, then another, pumping in and out of you.
“You know, organised, kind of nerdy, bad handwriting,” he lists off.
“I don’t-I don’t have bad handwriting what are you–” You begin. “Jesus, Fuck- right there.”
Jack smiles a bit at that, a slow nod. “So, yes?”
You shake your head. “No- I didn’t- It wasn’t him. It was Thompson. Um… He’s- fuck, I can’t remember-”
“-Oh, Fred Thompson? From Ortho.” Jack recalls.
“Can we talk about this another time,” you try, completely focused on how he pumps his fingers in and out of you, eager, deep, thumb rubbing sweetly over your clit.
“No, no, please. I mean, well, you brought it up,” he reminds. “I went to Med School with Fred. Shit, kid, he’s pretty old for you don’t you think?”
You can’t answer, whimpers and moans blending like music to his ears as he smiles at you, a nod again.
“Guess I was right. You do have a type.” He shrugs, maybe a bit of pride or relief, or fascination. Maybe all.
“Jack, please,” you moan softly.
Jack’s voice stays low and warm as he watches you nod. “Atta girl. You want more?” His thumb strokes your cheek once before he pulls back. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.” He gives your hip a gentle squeeze. “Up you go.”
You exhale, a small, impatient sound, lips still wet from his mouth. He chuckles under his breath.
“My room’s the first door on the left. Give me a second, yeah?” He brushes a last kiss across your collarbone as you slide off his lap.
“Don’t take too long,” you answer, fingers grazing his jaw before you turn and head down the hall. You feel his eyes on your back; behind you he clears his throat, palm dragging over his face as he stays seated.
Halfway to the bedroom you pause, reach behind yourself, and start the zipper of your dress. The soft rasp of it carries. Jack is on his feet before the sound even fades, following like instinct has taken over.
His door stands open. You perch on the edge of the bed, dress slipping down your arms inch by inch, gaze lifted to meet his when he steps inside. He swallows hard, crosses the room in three strides, and stops in front of you.
“This okay?” he asks, voice rough, one hand resting over the fabric still clinging to your waist.
You nod.
He eases the dress lower, the material whispering against your skin. His mouth finds yours again, guiding you backward until your spine meets the sheets. The dress comes away in one smooth tug; cool air brushes your ribs while his palms, warm and sure, slide upward, thumbs tracing the lace edge of your bra.
You almost panic when Jack lets out a low chuckle.
"What?" you murmur immediately.
You're suddenly aware of everything at once—of the matching lace set, of the soft light from the bedside lamp, of the way he's looking at you. Your skin feels warm beneath his attention.
"Nothing, sweetheart," he says, smiling. "It's cute."
His fingers hook lightly beneath the strap of your bra. The set is pink, delicate, decorated with tiny bows where the straps meet the cups and a small gemstone set at the center. Your tits flush against the material. The matching panties have the same details.
Jack studies it with an expression that makes your face heat.
"Looks like somebody gift-wrapped you," he murmurs.
You groan softly and cover your face.
"Oh my God."
"What?" he asks, entirely unapologetic.
"That's such an old man thing to say."
Despite himself, he's grinning.
You roll your eyes.
"I usually rotate between pink, white, and black," you admit. "Just in case a doctor ever has to see me unexpectedly."
Jack lets out a laugh at that.
"On behalf of the medical profession, your dedication to preparedness is appreciated."
You snort.
"A real public service." He adds.
His hand settles against your waist, warm and steady.
"Though I gotta say," he continues, shaking his head, "I've treated gunshot wounds, car crashes, industrial accidents. Never once have I looked at a patient and thought, ‘Thank God they coordinated.’"
You laugh despite yourself.
The smile lingers at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels quieter than before.
Your pulse kicks a little harder under the weight of his attention. His hands are rough and hasty over you, smart and well travelled as his gaze flicks between where his hands land over your cunt and your face as your lids flutter a bit, hips immediately coming to meet his wrist, panties wet.
His gaze drifts between your face and the growing impatience written all over it, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Stop teasing," you sigh, shifting instinctively toward him.
"Not teasin'," he murmurs, sounding entirely unconvinced himself.
You give him a look. "Categorically," you say, "you are teasing."
A quiet laugh rumbles out of him.
"Jesus," he mutters, dipping his head to brush a kiss against your collarbone. "I get it. You went to law school."
"I did."
"What now?" he asks, another absent-minded kiss lower, seemingly just appreciating your figure, the bare skin, the pink lace that hugs snugly against you, fingers trailing over the little bow above your panties. "You gonna cite a statute that says I have a legal obligation to sleep with you?"
"Uh-huh."
"That right?"
"The Stop Teasing Me and Fuck Me Already Act of 2026."
He huffs a laugh against your skin. "Never heard of that one."
"Pennsylvania state legislation," you say with complete confidence. "Section twenty-seven, subsection five, paragraph C."
He raises an eyebrow. "Go ‘head then, you’ve committed yourself now."
You clear your throat dramatically, adopting your best courtroom voice. "'Any physician found to be deliberately provoking his very patient, pretty, sweetheart, super chill… vaguely colleague not really colleague who has had a big crush on him for months… shall, without unnecessary delay, cease all smug behaviour and—'" You dissolve into a grin. "'—do something useful.'"
Jack actually laughs this time, shaking his head.He moves, kisses over your chest, lips harsh and tongue dragging over your tits. He feels you hitch your breath as he squeezes at your breasts, lips soft and stubble scratchy, his breath warm against your skin as he chuckles.
"I'm interpreting legislative intent here, it’s- this is what four years of college does to someone. I know that was a hundred years ago for you but, you know.."
"Think you’re fabricating legislative intent." He murmurs, kissing further down over your sternum, taking his sweet time.
"I'm advocating for my client."
"Yeah? Who’s the client?" He moves his hand to further spread your legs apart as his finger traces loosely over the growing wet patch on your panties.
You point to yourself. "Me. Obviously."
"Obviously." He repeats with mild mocking.
"She's suffering."
He snorts.
"From what, exactly?"
You shuffle onto your elbows, back raised now as you look down at him. "Unreasonable delay."
Jack closes his eyes for a brief second, rubbing a hand over his jaw as though he's gathering the patience to deal with opposing counsel.
“Bossy,” he remarks. “No patience.”
“Jack-” You whine.
“Want you to ask me nicely now,” he says, kissing at your inner thigh. “Come on. No more lawyer talk.”
He didn’t think you’d be so demanding. It checks out, in hindsight. You’re a particular kind of person.
“Jack, please just-” you cut yourself off with a frustrated whine as he pulls down your panties, slowly, caught off guard when you quickly replace his hands, and kick them off at the corner of the room.
You inhale sharply as he looks at your slightly credulous. A beat of quiet passes at your clear eagerness.
“Eager,” he murmurs, mockingly.
“Please, Jack,” you try. “Fuck me.”
He nods, brows furrowed, earnest. “I can do that f’ you.” He adds jokingly–
“Can’t say I’ve ever had a woman beg me to fuck her using fake legislation.”
You smile at that, lips dropping open as he moves his finger over your wetness, thumb rubbing in circles at your clit.
His long, thick fingers plunge in and out of your dripping cunt, stretching you deliciously with each thrust. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, mingling with your needy moans.
"There we go," Jack groans, curling his fingers to hit the sweet spot inside you. “That feels good doesn’t it?”
You can barely do anything else but nod, moving your face into the pillows.
“No, no, come on, baby, look at me,” Jack insists, he moves another hand to beneath you jaw, roughly forcing you to look at him. You whimper, feeling as his fingers fill you up, pumping faster.
He adds a third finger, scissoring them to open you up further. His thumb moves to your clit, rubbing firm circles over the sensitive bud.
“Oh fuck, fuck, Jack," You keen, feeling your orgasm building fast. "Please, please, please." You blabber, his grip on your jaw loosening until his fingers end up near your lips, and you take them into your mouth, moaning over his fingers, feeling as he stutters a bit at the sight.
“Shit,” Jack murmurs at the sight.
“Gonna-” You let loose of his fingers briefly, keeping them close to your lips as you moan. “Gonna come, fuck, please, don’t-” You whine.
Your pussy spasms around him as you come with a scream, juices gushing out to coat his hand. He works you through it, milking every last drop until you're a boneless, shaking mess.
He moves his hand away from your mouth, going back over your sensitive core, feeling as you whimper at that, them bringing it back to your lips, watching as you briefly hesitate before opening your mouth and sucking yourself clean off of his fingers, tongue wrapping over, as you take his digits deeper.
Jack almost chuckles at the sight of your neediness.
Before you can catch your breath, he's moving down your body, settling between your spread thighs. You feel his hot breath on your sensitive flesh, making you shiver.
"You let me know how it feels, sweetheart," he kisses your inner thighs.
His mouth latches onto your pussy, licking long stripes from entrance to clit. He sucks the sensitive bundle between his lips, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue.
You cry out, hands fisting in his hair as he devours you. His stubble scratches deliciously against your thighs as he eats you out like a starving man.
"Jack… Jack, please, fuck," You keen, hips bucking into his face. "Mm, oh god. Oh, fucking- Jack… Please, please."
He groans in response, the vibrations shooting straight to your core. He plunges his tongue inside you, fucking you with the slick muscle as his nose rubs against your clit.
He seals his lips around your clit again, sucking hard as two fingers plunge into your cunt. He curls them just right to hit that magic spot inside you as his tongue flicks over the swollen bud.
It doesn't take long for the dual stimulation to send you careening over the edge again. Your pussy clamps down on his fingers as you come with a scream, juices flooding his mouth.
He laps it up eagerly, working you through your orgasm until you're a boneless mess beneath him.
You pull him back up by his shirt, your knuckles white as you grip the cotton, while your other hand hooks firmly into his belt loops to yank him flush against you. Your lips meet in a sloppy, desperate collision, tongues swiping and tangling with a hunger that tastes of anticipation.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you mutter against his mouth, the words vibrating between you.
“That right?” Jack murmurs, a low rumble in his chest. He lets out a sharp groan when you sink your teeth into his bottom lip, dragging it down just enough to sting before you slide your hands under his hem, urging him to strip.
You lean back on the mattress, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips as he stands at the edge of the bed. He pulls the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and you take a moment to simply admire him. He has the rugged look of a man who spends his days under the sun; his chest and shoulders are a map of golden freckles and sunkissed skin, marked by the pale lines of tan-lines above his elbows and the faint, faded burns across the crest of his shoulders.
Your gaze drops as his fingers move to his belt. Moving with a slow, deliberate grace, you crawl forward on your knees, spreading them wide beneath you. You reach out, your fingers brushing over his as you take over the task, looking up at him through a veil of long lashes.
“Let me,” you murmur.
Jack doesn't speak; he simply nods, his hand sliding into your hair. He pats your head gently, his eyes darkening as he watches you deftly slide the leather through the loops. As the belt falls away, you let your palm press firmly against the denim of his jeans, feeling the heavy, pulsing heat of him beneath the fabric.
“This is what I was thinkin’ about,” he says suddenly, his voice dropping to a sweet, soft rasp.
You press a lingering kiss to the bulge of his crotch, undoing the button and sliding the zipper down until your mouth is grazing the cotton of his boxers. You pull the denim and fabric down in one motion, humming a questioning what? as you glance back up at him.
“In that… meetin’, or whatever,” he explains, his breath hitching. “All I could think about was you. What you’d be like. Bossy as I imagined.”
You smile against his skin, trailing a line of wet kisses up the snail trail of hair leading over his stomach. His grip in your hair tightens, not painfully, but with a possessive urgency, guiding you back down toward his cock. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and peel them away, freeing his hard length.
“You’re nicer than I imagined,” you tease, before sliding your tongue in one long, slow stroke from the base to the very tip.
Jack hisses, his hips jerking forward instinctively. He guides you gently, his fingers curling into your scalp as you take him into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the head, savoring the salty taste of pre-cum before sliding deep, your throat tightening around him. You focus on the sensation—the way he tastes, the way his thighs tremble slightly as you suck him with a rhythmic, vacuum-like pressure.
You use your hand to stroke the base, your thumb rubbing over his balls while your mouth works the shaft, alternating between deep, guttural swallows and teasing licks at the rim.
He lets out a strangled sound, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Jesus—yeah, atta girl, just like that. Fuckin’ hell, making a mess on me, aren’t you, kid? Christ…” He mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
He watches with hooded eyes as your drool mixes with his pre-cum, the glistening fluid sliding over his length in thick, wet streaks. Your eyes are watering, the depth of your throat making you gasp for air, but you don't stop.
He groans, his hips twitching. “Shit, sweetheart, I’m gonna come, alright?”
You nod frantically, sliding the underside of your tongue along the sensitive underside of his shaft, the sudden, soft wetness making him grip your hair with a possessive force.
“Fuck,” he groans.
He suddenly yanks you off him, his fingers locked in your hair, forcing your head back so you have to look up at him. He leans down, crashing his lips against yours in a rough, demanding kiss. It’s sloppy and desperate, your tongues clashing as he trails wet, biting kisses from your lips to your chin and down your jawline.
He pulls back just an inch, his eyes focused. “Turn around. Ass up. You can do that for me?” he instructs, the tone shifting from sweet to a command.
You hesitate. You clear your throat, trying to regain some control.
He hums, briefly worried, checking in “You wanna stop?”
You shake your head quickly, your voice a bit breathless. “Want you to finish in my mouth.”
He chuckles, worry leaving, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Yeah? You want it right here?” He reaches out, his hand cupping your jaw, and shoves a thick finger into your mouth. You take it instinctively, your tongue swirling around the digit just as you had his cock, your eyes fluttering. He watches you, a look of amusement and hunger on his face. “Patience, baby. I wanna feel you first.”
You let out a small whine, but he shuts you up by forcibly turning you over. He drags you by your shoulders, the friction of the sheets against your skin heating you up, until he pushes you down. Your face is pressed firmly into the mattress, your back arching as he forces you into a deep, presenting curve, your ass thrust high in the air.
He smiles, the sound of his zipper finishing its descent echoing in the room. He kicks his jeans into the corner, completely naked now, and his large, calloused hand comes down to knead the soft flesh of your ass. “How’s this feel? That alright?” He checks.
You nod into the pillow.
“Words.” He says simply, lightly tapping your ass. “Wanna know what you want what you don’t want, alright?”
He leans over your figure, kissing at your spine as he presses the head of his cock over your folds, hearing you whine a bit at the tease of the feeling.
“Anything,” you mutter.
He chuckles a bit, lips over your skin. “Anything? I don’t know about that, pinkie pie.”
You don’t even care about the stupid nickname in that moment, whining into the pillow as you try to push yourself back onto his cock, his tip slipping into you briefly, the two of you moaning at the feeling before he pulls out.
“So sweet, yet so bossy,” He murmurs. “How’s this?” He slides his hand around your throat. “Words, again, now. Go.”
“I like that,” you murmur. “Just fuck me already, please.”
“Please. There we go, just need some manners there,” Jack chuckles. “Touch yourself first for me.”
You moan, groaned and frustrated.
“Poor girl,” Jack almost chuckles, teasing as he keeps you face down, pussy dripping for him as he lightly taps his cock of your wet folds. “Life’s so tough for you, isn’t it.”
You oblige his instructions and move your hand down to your pussy, rubbing over your clit, making eye contact with him as his hand that stays on your throat keeps you looking at him, gently applying a firm, steady pressure.
“You tell me stop the second you don’t like it anymore, alright?” Jack murmurs. You nod at that, understanding his words but also focused on bringing yourself to the edge. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Better than me?”
Jack’s jeans hit the floor with a dull thud. He stepped out of them and kicked them aside, the thick length of his cock already half-hard and heavy between his legs. His palm landed on your ass, kneading the soft flesh with slow, possessive squeezes.
“How’s that feel?” he asked, voice low and even. “Tell me.”
You mumbled something into the pillow. His hand came down in a light, warning tap.
“Words,” he reminded you. “I need to hear what you want and what you don’t.”
You lifted your face just enough to answer. “It’s good. I like it.”
“That’s my girl.” He leaned over you, pressing slow kisses down your spine while the blunt head of his cock dragged through your slick folds. Every pass over your clit made you twitch and whine. He didn’t push in—just teased, letting the tip catch at your entrance before slipping away again.
“Anything I want, huh?” he murmured against your skin. “Careful with that, sweetheart. I might take you up on it.”
You pushed your hips back, trying to force him inside. The head of his cock slipped in for one brief, perfect second before he pulled out again. Both of you groaned.
“Needy little thing,” he chuckled. “So sweet and so damn bossy at the same time.”
His hand slid around your throat, fingers settling with firm, controlled pressure. He didn’t squeeze hard—just enough to make you feel it.
“Talk to me,” he said. “You like that?”
“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, Jack… just fuck me.”
He gave your throat a gentle squeeze. “Please. There it is. Manners and everything.” His thumb stroked the side of your neck. “Touch yourself for me first. Let me watch.”
You whined in protest but slid your hand between your legs anyway, fingers finding your clit. You rubbed slow circles while his cock rested heavy against your folds, tapping lightly, keeping you on edge.
“Poor girl,” he teased, voice warm. “Life’s so hard when Daddy won’t give you what you want right away.”
Your fingers moved faster. He watched, eyes dark, hand still resting on your throat so you couldn’t look away.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Better than me?”
You shook your head hard, moaning. “No—fuck—no, nothing’s better than you.”
He hummed in approval. “Good girl.”
Without warning he drove his cock into you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your moan broke into a whimper as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass. He stayed there for a second, letting you feel every inch, then started moving—hard, steady strokes that made the bed creak.
His chest pressed to your back, skin slapping with every thrust. One hand stayed on your throat while the other gripped your hip, pulling you back onto him.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. Such a good girl for me, pinkie pie. So fucking tight.”
You clawed at the sheets, voice breaking into desperate moans. He angled his hips and the new depth made your vision spark.
“Please,” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for. “Please—harder—”
He gave you exactly what you asked for, pounding into you with deep, relentless strokes. His hand tightened around your throat just enough to make your head float, the lack of air mixing with the brutal pleasure until your thoughts scattered.
“Come on my cock,” he ordered, voice rough. “Be a good girl and come for me.”
Your orgasm hit hard. Your pussy clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, thighs shaking as you cried out into the sheets. Jack groaned, fucking you through it, hips stuttering as your walls milked him.
“Fuck—there she goes,” he panted. “So fucking tight when you come. That’s my girl.”
He didn’t stop right away. He kept thrusting slow and deep while you trembled, letting you ride out every aftershock. Only when your moans turned soft and shaky did he pull out.
“C’mere,” he murmured, voice gentler now. “On your knees for me, pinkie pie.”
You let him guide you upright. Your legs felt weak. Mascara streaked your cheeks and your lips were swollen and glossy. Jack cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears.
“Beautiful,” he said quietly. “Look at you.”
You leaned into his touch, then dropped your gaze to his cock—still hard, slick with your cum. Without being told, you opened your mouth and took him deep in one smooth motion. Jack’s hand found your hair, fingers tightening as you swallowed around him.
“Shit,” he hissed. “That’s it. Good girl. So good at that, aren’t you?”
You bobbed your head, sucking hard, tongue working the underside. He watched you with heavy eyes, hips rocking gently into your throat. It didn’t take long. His grip tightened and he came with a low groan, hot pulses filling your mouth. You swallowed what you could, some of it spilling over your lips and down your chin.
Jack pulled out slowly, then used two thick fingers to push the mess back between your lips. You moaned around his fingers, sucking them clean.
He leaned down and kissed you, tasting himself on your tongue. The kiss turned deep and slow. He eased you onto your back, climbing over you with a quiet grunt as his prosthetic knee hit the mattress.
“Still with me?” he asked, brushing hair from your face.
You nodded, dazed and pliant under him.
“Good,” he murmured, settling between your thighs again.
You lay there for a moment before you straddle him again.
"Bathroom," you announce, pointing a finger at him. "And no moving."
Jack lets out a tired laugh.
He reaches out, squeezing your thigh as you climb off the bed.
"The ensuite's through there."
He nods toward the door tucked beside the wardrobe.
You lean down for one quick kiss before padding across the room, stealing one of his old Army band T-shirts from the back of a chair on the way. It hangs almost to mid-thigh when you pull it on.
When you step back into the bedroom a few minutes later, Jack is sitting on the edge of the mattress in a fresh pair of sweatpants.
His prosthetic is still on.
He'd rolled his pant leg up and was loosening the suspension system with practiced, absent-minded movements, the routine clearly one he'd repeated thousands of times.
You stop in the doorway.
"...Can I help?"
Jack glances up.
"You don't have to."
You walk over anyway, settling onto the floor in front of him. "I want to."
He studies you for a second before giving the smallest nod.
He taps the socket just below his knee.
"First, release the suspension." He shows you the small release mechanism with two fingers. "This one uses a locking pin."
You watch carefully. He presses the release with his thumb.
"Now support the socket while you slide it off. Slow's easier."
You follow his instructions carefully, one hand steadying the prosthesis while the other eases it forward.
It comes free with a soft mechanical click. Lighter than you'd expected.
"Heavier than it looks?" Jack guesses.
"A little."
He nods.
"Carbon fiber helps."
You set it gently against the bedframe exactly where he points.
Then your attention drifts to the silicone liner still covering the residual limb.
"And this?"
"I peel the liner off."
He rolls it down carefully, turning it inside out as he removes it.
The skin underneath is slightly pink where the socket had pressed throughout the day. Nothing dramatic. Just the marks left behind by twelve hours on his feet.
You frown instinctively. "Does it hurt?"
"Not today."
He rubs absentmindedly over the skin.
"Some days it gets irritated. Sweat's usually the bigger enemy."
Jack nods.
"I’ll clean the liner later. "He gestures toward the bathroom. "Wash the limb. Let everything dry. Same process in reverse for putting it back on, pretty much."
You nod thoughtfully, taking it all in.
A quiet settles between you.
You glance at the prosthesis resting beside the bed as he resettles in bed.
"So..."
He raises an eyebrow.
"...Can I ask something without you making fun of me?"
"I make no promises."
You smile as you climb back in bed, back besides him, curled up over him. A beat.
"Does it have a name?"
Jack looks genuinely offended. "What?"
"A lot of people name things."
"My truck has a name."
"Exactly."
"My leg does not."
"You've never called it anything?"
"No."
You think for a moment.
"...Lieutenant Dan?"
Jack groans so dramatically he has to hide his face in one hand.
"Absolutely not."
You beam.
"I'll workshop it."
"Please don't."
"I've got at least six more ideas."
Jack reaches down, hooks a hand behind your neck, and pulls you close enough to kiss the top of your head.
He smiles into your hair.
"Thank you."
You wake to the feeling of something soft brushing across your shoulder.
For one blissful, half-conscious second, you assume it's Jack.
Then something furry smacks directly across your face.
Jack is many things. Furry isn't one of them.
Your eyes crack open.
A scruffy brown tabby stands proudly on Jack's pillow, bright green eyes fixed on yours.
You stare at the cat.
The cat stares at you.
A long beat passes.
Without breaking eye contact, it slowly turns around and drapes its tail directly over your nose.
"Oh."
The cat blinks.
You blink.
Just the two of you, apparently waking up together.
Neither of you looks particularly thrilled by the arrangement.
You glance toward the other side of the bed.
Empty.
The sheets are cold.
Your brows knit together.
Jack never mentioned owning a cat.
There hadn't been a litter tray. No food bowls. No scratching post. No toys scattered around the apartment.
He'd spent twenty minutes explaining the thermostat.
He'd lectured you on why olive oil belonged in a dark cupboard.
He'd somehow found time to explain the difference between good and acceptable coffee.
Yet he'd forgotten to mention an entire animal?
The cat, deciding your internal investigation is taking too long, hops down onto your chest.
Immediately—
Prrrrrrrrrr.
Loud.
Violently loud.
"Well."
You cautiously scratch behind one ear.
The purring somehow doubles in volume.
"Oh."
Another scratch.
The cat practically melts into you.
"...You're easy."
Satisfied, it closes its eyes.
You smile despite yourself.
Maybe five more minutes.
You settle back into the pillow.
The cat immediately stands.
Tap.
One paw on your shoulder.
Tap.
Then again.
You crack one eye open.
The cat is staring.
Expectantly.
"...You're needy."
"Mrrp."
"So am I."
"Mrrrow."
The cat hops off the bed.
Walks three steps.
Looks back.
Waits.
Clearly expecting you to follow.
"...Seriously?"
"Mrrrow."
"That's emotional manipulation."
The cat says nothing.
Mostly because it's a cat.
You sigh dramatically.
"Fine."
You push yourself upright, wincing slightly as muscles protest from yesterday.
The cat is already waiting patiently beside the bedroom door.
"What?"
"Mrrrow."
"What do you want?"
"Mrrrow."
You scoop it into your arms.
It accepts this immediately, settling against your shoulder like you've known each other for years.
"Alright."
You scratch beneath its chin.
"Let's find out what's so urgent."
The moment you open the bedroom door, the smell hits you.
Coffee. Fresh coffee. Good coffee.
You follow the smell into the kitchen.
"...No, she isn't terminal," someone is saying. "Hospice probably makes more sense than another admission, but—"
You stop.
Jack sits at the dining table in an old henley, mug in one hand.
Across from him sits Michael Robby.
Also holding coffee.
Both men look up at exactly the same time.
Conversation stops.
Silence.
The cat meows.
"...Counselor," Robby says politely.
"...Doctor Robinavitch."
Another silence.
You slowly raise the cat in your arms.
Like Exhibit A.
"...Um."
Robby's eyes move from the cat...
...to you...
...to Jack...
...then carefully back to the cat.
The cat meows again.
You look between them.
"I think your cat's hungry."
A beat.
Robby points vaguely toward the furry creature.
"...Since when do you have a cat?"
"I don't."
The cat meows again.
"...Compelling argument," Robby says.
Jack sighs the sigh of a man who's apparently had this conversation before.
He stands, walks over, and gently lifts the cat from your arms.
The cat immediately starts purring.
Jack scratches under her chin before sliding open the balcony door.
Outside, tucked neatly beside one of the planters, sits a small stainless-steel bowl.
He fills it from a container on the counter.
Robby watches the exchange over the rim of his mug, lips twitching. You’re grateful for the cat to be the point of interest here rather than you.
"I didn't peg you for a cat man."
"I'm not."
Robby nods slowly.
"...She's your cat."
"She absolutely is not."
The cat finishes eating, wanders straight back inside, and rubs herself around Jack's prosthetic.
Robby raises one eyebrow.
Jack pretends not to notice.
“She’s just some stray that comes around every few days.” Jack explains.
You smile to yourself.
You yawn, rubbing one eye.
"I'm going back to bed." You look toward Robby. "Nice seeing you, Michael."
"You too, Counselor."
Jack crosses back over, pressing an absent-minded kiss to the top of your head as he passes. You still feel faintly self-conscious about the whole spent the night thing, but you let him. He smells like coffee and soap.
"I’ll be there soon."
"Don’t be too long." You whisper to him, making Jack chew the inside of his cheek to stop his smile as he clears his throat.
You disappear back toward the bedroom, closing the door behind you.
The apartment settles into silence again.
Robby waits until he hears the bedroom door click shut. Then takes another slow sip of coffee.
"...Don't." Jack begins.
“Didn’t say anything."
Jack pours himself another coffee.
"I thought you'd be gone before she woke up."
Robby nods toward the balcony.
"Instead you got cockblocked by a homeless cat."
Jack looks out through the glass.
The cat is sprawled across one of the balcony chairs like she pays rent.
"Yeah, well, Mittens has great timing."
Robby frowns. "What? Mittens? You named the cat?"
Jack busies himself with the coffee machine.
"Next question."
Robby grins.
"Anyway… the patient?"
Robby smiles into his mug.
You hear the front door click shut from where you're curled up in Jack's bed, the sheets gathered around your waist as you mindlessly scroll through your phone.
A moment later, his footsteps pad down the hallway.
He appears in the doorway wearing grey sweats and a faded black T-shirt, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck.
"Sorry about that," he murmurs.
You look up over the top of your phone. "That’s alright..." A smile tugs at your mouth. "Why didn't you tell me you had a cat?"
"Because I don't," Jack says automatically.
You raise an eyebrow. "...Mittens?"
He stops. He lets out a long sigh through his nose. "You heard that."
You grin. Jack shakes his head, resigned.
He crosses the room anyway.
You reach for him before he can say another word, fingers catching lightly at the back of his neck as you pull him down. He smiles into the kiss almost immediately, one hand bracing on the mattress beside you while the other settles instinctively against your waist.
It lasts only a few seconds. Comfortable. Easy.
As he starts to sit back, your attention catches on the silver band around his left hand.
Your smile softens. He looks down as you gently take his hand in both of yours.
Your thumb brushes lightly over the ring.
"You said you'd tell me."
Jack's expression changes almost imperceptibly.
The teasing slips away. He watches your fingers for a moment before instinctively turning the ring once around his finger, an old habit he clearly doesn't realize he's doing.
"She passed," he says quietly. "About five years ago." He swallows. "She was... a good woman."
A faint smile.
"Better than I deserved some days.” His eyes find yours again. "I just never really got around to taking it off."
You nod slowly, not rushing to fill the silence. "I don't think you have to."
His brows lift a fraction.
"With me, I mean."
Your thumb strokes gently over the ring once more. For a long moment, Jack just looks at you. Really looks at you. Then his free hand comes up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the same quiet care he'd shown a dozen times before.
You smile, though your eyes soften. "I'm sorry."
He gives the smallest shrug. "It's alright."
It isn't, entirely. You both know grief doesn't really become alright. It just becomes familiar.
After a moment, he exhales, as if deliberately setting the weight of the conversation down.
"I'd rather think about right now."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You lean forward and press another gentle kiss to him.
"I have to get ready for work soon," you murmur.
He makes a dissatisfied noise. "No, you don't. You're one of the night crawlers."
You laugh. "I'm the night-crawler's litigation strategy."
He smiles despite himself.
"But I've got court this afternoon."
Jack's hands settle comfortably at your waist as he looks up at you. “You hate court."
"I do."
"You like me."
"I do."
"So." His mouth twitches. "Think we've established the correct priority."
You laugh, shaking your head.
He gives your side a light squeeze before smiling up at you. “How’s that for my case?”
“Yeah, alright. Could use some work.” You press a quick to the corner of his smug lips.
could read as stand alone, part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics), part four (luck), part five (orbit)
a/n: ironic that i spent all that time in exams, then holidays, and now im back at uni and i decide to finish this! seems like a good indicator to this next semester. i dont have much to write :3 i feel really iffy about this. i feel most proud of the little "stop teasing and fuck me already act" part i thought that was silly lol. i also liked doing that little flashback scene. sorry if the legal stuff is a bit iffy, im australian, and im still a first year, so i dont really know much about healthcare law i kind of just looked up some stuff and went from there lol. yeah idk i think i just felt a bit like this had no direction? no substance? i dont know, working on anaother part, but feeling like i might just do some other writings for now.. thanks for reading!
synopsis robby invites you to stay with him when your apartment becomes un-inhabitable, and just when he thinks things might be moving ahead in your relationship, he's forced back to earth when he hears something he really wished he didn't. (10K words)
warningsrobby goes through it, he's needy, obsessed, then hurt and an ass because he's emotionally oppressed. language! naked-ness, typical hospital stuff though, death (louie :( )
author noteI had this idea from a tiktok and it was robby and whitaker but I just had to write for it. This tiktok. I feel like the endings a bit rushed but hope you like. gif credits to @timothyolyphant
The Pitt mastlist. Last Robby fic!
“You moving in?”
You tripped over your suitcase, lugging it up against the wall in the staff lounge, shoving it into the corner and chucking your bulging bag on top of it with a huff.
Langdon leant against the counter, smirking behind his coffee cup as he took the last sip.
“Ha ha, hilarious,” you said, without finding it anywhere close to funny.
“What's with all the bags?” he asked.
So you went on to explain how you'd finished your shift last night after pulling an extra three hours to help the night shift catch up. How you'd dragged yourself home because your car was still in the garage, getting in at two a.m to find your neighbours outside their apartment, robes hastily thrown on and bottom of pyjama pants dark and damp. You explained to him that pipes had bust all over the place, leaving your own apartment a water park.
“I'm looking at hotels to stay in till they figure it all out,” you said.
“Your insurance going to cover that?” he asked.
You peered at him through the sleep you didn't get. “You're funny this morning, Ken, you know that?”
“Well I got an early start.”
“Hey-”
At the call of Robby's voice, you straightened like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.
Frank laughed into his coffee mug.
It was embarrassing, really. How quick your body reacted to Robby and his call quicker than your mind could catch up. All he had to do was appear, say your name or catch your eye and you straightened, falling to his side and doing whatever he said. Somewhere along the way of working with him, he'd trained you.
“You're late,” he said, a small tug in the space between his brows. “Not like you, is everything okay?” Robby slipped in and Frank slipped out, pulling a face behind Robby, puckering lips directed at you.
“Sorry, sorry. My car's in the garage and the uber cancelled and I didn't really sleep much last night, it- it won't happen again.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Interesting night?”
You chuckled to yourself. “You could say that.”
Robby squinted at you before his eyes caught onto the pile of your stuff that wasn't there the last time he came in for a coffee. “Moving in?” he asked.
You laughed, a little more genuine then you had at Frank. “My apartment's flooded, they're just here till I can get a hotel.”
There was something heavy in the rise of his brows, in the way his expression morphed and his eyes widened only a little.
You tried to ignore it, because it almost looked like genuine concern. Not just for his resident that everyone claimed he had a soft spot for, but for the person behind the medical training. “They'll be moved by the end of the day.”
“You get any sleep last night?” he asked.
“Do I look that bad?” you asked with a pitiful huff.
“No,” Robby said at once. “Did you?”
“Couple hours. Those that were lucky enough not to wake up on the Titanic had a few sofas available.” You'd slept on Mrs Issac's sofa for three hours before you woke to her cat curled on your chest and your phone alarm blaring. It had felt as if your head had only just touched down, your dreams had only just started to form in mindless and faceless shapes before you were being brought back out of it.
Robby looked around at the staff room that was empty besides the two of you, peeking out the jutted open door. “We're pretty slow out there. South nineteen's empty.”
You nodded. “I'll look who's in chairs, get someone in-”
“Get some rest,” he said.
At some point Robby had come close to you, leaning his arm on the counter to support his weight. The tattoo hidden behind his watch peeking out at you. He stared down, studying you.
“I'm-I'm fine,” you said, un-sure what to do under his care.
Robby shook his head, lips tugged up slightly. “Fine isn't good enough for my best resident.”
Best resident. Somewhere along the way of working with him that title had been given to you; knelt on the ground, a sword going from shoulder to shoulder and there you had your title. Whenever he could, Robby slipped it into conversation with you, saying it more than your actual name.
“Thirty minutes,” he said.
Arguing with Robby was like arguing with a brick wall.
You sighed, imagining the scratchy blankets and hard bed but your body slumping at the idea of rest. “Thirty minutes. And get me if there's a trauma.”
“Which one of us is attending?” he asked, amused at the fight you tried to pull.
“You don't have best in front of your title though, do you?”
“I don't know, you tell me?”
“Hmm, only on Tuesday's.”
“Oh, Tuesday's are special days, huh?”
Tuesdays were special days because every Tuesday the two of you worked together. You don't know how you realised it, and maybe Robby didn't even know but every single Tuesday since you'd began the two of you had always been on shift together. Days off, weekends missed, long weekends and holidays but every Tuesday without a doubt, you and Robby were there.
Robby led you out, a phantom touch of his hand ballad up in the back of your scrub shirt before it was gone again.
“You'll wake me up?” you asked again.
He nodded his head once more. “I will wake you up.”
“And if somebody needs the bed?”
“I will personally throw you over my shoulder and put you somewhere else.”
You were suddenly glad your back was to him, so he couldn't see the blush on your cheeks at the very idea of being thrown over his shoulder. In your delirious state you picture the situation you'd have to be in to be thrown over his shoulder, the behaviour it would take to have him moving you around, hauling you about-
Thirty minutes of rest you could do.
“Hope you know what you're doing.”
Robby flinched at the accent and heavy smell of nicotine mixed with mint. He didn't even satisfy Dana by glancing back at her. “What?”
She chuckled. “Nothing. I guess.”
He shook his head and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, checking the hotels around the area. There seemed to be three types: expensive, high-end and pristine. Dirty, still not that cheap or booked up. How long would you need the room for? Was your landlord or anyone going to help you out for it? He didn't know your situation exactly but he knew what it was like to be a third year resident and stuck with bills.
Dana leant on the counter next to him, smirking.
“I'm just trying to help,” he excused.
“Yeah, sure.”
He peered at her over the black rim of his glasses. “Something else to say, Evans?”
Her head titled. “Don't you have a spare room at yours?”
Yes, he did. It was plain walled and not at all decorated besides a map of Pittsburgh train lines framed and not hung up. Some old Christmas gift from Jack that he couldn't get rid of in fear of offending him. The bed was comfy because it very rarely got slept on, aside from Jack or Jake on occasion. Truth was Robby couldn't remember the last time he had a guest over.
“Cheaper than a hotel,” she added. “Unless your up-tight.”
Suddenly he was thinking about it. You, in his place. You'd been around maybe once before, he re-called, un-able to re-count the circumstances that had you around.
“You'd be doing the girl I favour, I bet,” she continued.
Robby looked at the screen then back to her. “Has she... said something?”
“Not to me, but hey, she's been asleep the last hour. What do I know?”
Robby looked back down to the time at the computer, the numbers flickering by. He knew it had been longer than his half-an-hour. Really, he had no interest in waking you from your sleep unless he really, really had to. And if he had time to sit and scroll through hotels, you had time to sleep.
He let out a breath. “Apparently everything.”
She laughed. “Hey, you said it, not me. But if you can't put her up think I heard Santos offering up a sofa.”
Robby looked around the space, trying to find Santos or Whitaker to confirm. He didn't see either of them.
It was decided in his head then that he'd have to ask you to take up his guest room. He'd act it was all under the pretence of making sure you were well-rested, had a decent bed and your own space to sleep in, assuring you could get the rest and come in bright eyed and bushy tailed. Deep down he'd know, just to himself, it was because there was a seething bite of envy at the idea of Santos having you waking in her apartment, going home with you at the end of the day.
He dragged his hands down his face as Princess called out his name, demanding his attention.
What was a couple days, anyway.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
You looked up from your tablet, handing it over to Jesse as you stepped away from exam room six.
Robby stepped in Jesse's place, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders lifted high.
“Two hours,” you said. “I was asleep for two hours.”
“Sweet dreams?” he asked.
Yes. There had been dreams and rest. The blanket hadn't felt so scratchy and as tired as you were the noises of the Pitt were muffled in your mind. By the time you woke up your body felt lighter, you could practically feel the bags under your eyes retreat. Then you stepped out and there were new sets of patients, a different lighting in the place and the hour hand had moved all away around the clock.
“I dreamt there was a long que of patients waiting for the room,” you said. “A line like at Disney, except without the pay off.”
“They fast tracked to another,” he excused. “Can I talk to you now?”
He seemed restless, fists balling up in his fleece pockets and glasses tucked away in the front. His hair was tussled slightly, as if he'd already done a full day of work while you'd slept.
You waited for him to go on, watching his mouth open and close before he shook his head at himself, a light chuckle leaving him.
“I did some research,” he said, dragging out his words, in the way he did when he was nervous. You'd seen it when he was trying to let down every one of his flings, scared it was gonna end up loud in the middle of his ER. “Hotels in the area are expensive, I have a spare room, got a bed, it's big, my place is spacious and I'm hardly ever there. No garden but there's a balcony-”
Robby listed aspects of his apartment like he was putting it up for sale.
It took some time for you to realise what he was saying. A spare room, yours, he was offering. You caught the fact he'd looked up hotel rooms and suddenly you were imagining him, phone pulled out with the glow reflecting on his readers. Was he frowning at the prices? Was he rubbing at his beard in frustration, thinking which you'd prefer.
Was he hoping to find you a room so he didn't feel obliged to give up his own?
“That's- that's very kind of you, Robby,” you said softly, letting yourself down gently. “I- I can't do that.”
He frowned. “Do what?”
“Take your room.”
“It's not my room, it's a spare.”
You blushed, thinking that he thought you were thinking about staying in his room. “No! No, I-I get that, I just- I can't put you out like that.”
Robby rocked forward on his heels. “You wouldn't. Really.”
“I'm sure I could find somewhere cheap-”
“- you can't-”
“- or I can check around with friends-”
“- Santos only has a sofa,” he said, raising his brows.
“I-I have other friends.”
Robby pressed his lips into a thin line. “Like me?”
He was insistent. Had someone put him up to it? Had he seen how tired you were and felt bad?
Every morning you woke and before walking into work you took a shovel to the feelings you held for Robby and buried them deep, deep down, plunging a sign that read remain professional into the ditch of your own creation. You called him boss and cap, reminding yourself that's what he was. Of course a friend was another title too, but calling him friend and invading his space wasn't going to do much for your feelings. Or your nerves. And you liked to think you'd done a pretty good job in keeping both in check.
Robby rocked on his feet again, almost jittering. “I don't charge rent, you'd be saving some money.”
How many more excuses could you come up with? How long could you stand here going back and forth?
“How many bathrooms?” you asked.
“Just one.”
“You live in a quiet area?”
“Very.”
“You don't have a cat do you?”
He shook his head with a small smirk. “No. I had fish but lost them.”
You nodded, arms hugging yourself. Admitting yourself into his hands wasn't just a jump, more a leap. Denying yourself had been easier in work, when glimpses of Robby between procedures and patients was all you could gauge yourself on. In his space, you'd become full.
“Say yes and I'll put your stuff in my truck.”
Future regret bubbled up in your throat.
“Okay, fine,” you said, earning a slump of relief from him. “But I'm paying rent while I stay.”
He shook his head. “I don't need it.”
“It'll make me feel better,” you said. “I have to do something.”
Robby looked past you, thinking for a moment. “You cook?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then. While you're staying with me-” he jutted his thumbs at himself, like he was proud. “You can cook dinner, if you want.”
It wasn't a terrible service. More often then not you'd seen Robby slump his way out the place, mentioning something about a restaurant he was stopping by to pick up food that might last him a couple days. It would be like taking care of him and wasn't that what he was doing here? Taking care of you?
In a friendly way, of course.
“I will cook dinner,” you agreed.
“Great.” Robby seemed to relax in front of your eyes: his hands came out of his pockets, his shoulders shrunk and the crinkles at his eyes showed in a smile. “Your stuff's in my truck already.”
“Presumptuous,” you said, calling after him as he backed off slowly.
He shrugged. “Hopeful.”
But what did he have to hope for?
“Hey,” said Santos breathless and approaching you, moving your gaze from the pull of Robby's back to her. “I've got our labs back on that guy in seven.”
“Oh- er, great, great.” The tablet takes up your attention, but your mind lingers on the crows feet at Robby's eyes, the smile you saw briefly when you agreed to go home with him.
But Trinity Santos never missed a beat. “What was that about?” she asked in an uplifting teasing voice you were all too familiar with as she looked back at where Robby had disappeared to.
“What- what was what?”
“You and Robby, huh?”
“No. No me and Robby, don't make it weird.”
She smirked. “You're doing that all on your own.”
You carried yourself over to the nurses station, clocking Robby lingering in a corner, talking something over with Samira, so instead you distracted yourself with the tablet and charting. “He just offered me a place to stay.”
Santos's brows rose up high. “His place?”
You blushed under her analyses.
“Oh my god-”
“Don't- don't make it a thing-”
“It's already a thing,” she scoffed, leaning over and swatting at you. “You're staying at Robby's!”
“In his spare room, separate living completely.”
Santos leant back on the counter, looking around dreamily. “Suuurree, until you need the bathroom and just so happen to walk in on him, towel around his waist-”
“- Santos-”
“- it's all hot and steamy from his shower,” she continued. “And you just so happen to slip, right into his arms and- oh my- the towel falls.”
“You have too much time on your hands,” you said. “Go get Garcia for a surgical consult on twelve.”
Sulking, she did so, dragging her feet across the place while you were left to debate if the dent in your bank account was worth it to spare the dent in your heart.
A life with Robby was framed in different ways.
When you first stepped through his place, your case tugged in his hand and your bag slung over his shoulder along with his own, there was a thick layer of tension blanketing over everything, mystifying the tour he gave you. It didn't give in the morning when you both woke groggy from alarms, reaching for coffee. Through the day the tension sat between the two of you through patients and traumas.
It started to feel like a terrible idea.
Until you both went back to his that night and laughed about the couple that had super-glued themselves together, the teenage boy who got his head stuck in between balcony bars. You made mac & cheese, which Robby deemed the best he ever had but considering you only found kraft cheese boxes in his cupboards, you didn't think much of it.
Then the routine built, mugs of coffee in the morning, a hearty breakfast started by whoever was up earlier in the morning, taking turns in the bathroom with only the occasional awkward bump in to each other in between brushings of teeth.
It was one morning when he stepped out, a smudge of minty white toothpaste in the corner of his mouth.
“You've got a bit of-” you'd told him, gesturing to the corner of his mouth by your own.
He rubbed and missed it completely and your hand reached out first. It was like you were watching it outside of your own body, as your thumb swiped away at the corner of his mouth, scratching at his beard.
Every morning since then Robby had walked out with that same bit of smudged toothpaste and every time you spotted it, you got rid of it for him.
Feeling the heat of his breath dance along your fingertips.
The peppermint smell of him clinging like second skin.
The wet fall of his hair, droplets dripping down to your feet.
It made every morning harder, but made every one more the while.
In work, you had your own new routine between the two of you.
In the mornings everyone in the Pitt- including those that stuck around from night long enough- lingered to watch as you and Robby walked in side by side, heading straight for the fridge in the lounge.
There, Robby would pull out two containers of leftovers from the night before while talking about.... well, sometimes nobody could really tell what it was.
“- all I'm saying is that if it was real life they'd be shut down instantly,” Shen caught Robby telling you, shamelessly lingering in the door way with Abbot and Javadi.
“It's not real life, it's Disney.”
“It's a restaurant ran by a rat!”
“It's whimsy.”
Robby grumbled under his breath. “It's un-realistic.”
You laughed and as busy as you were laughing you didn't see the look Robby gave you, a smile of his own. A soft one, because when he was looking at you, nothing had to be loud. “Just wait till you watch Cinderella, the rats sew a dress!”
Abbot was first to clear his throat. “Good morning, happy couple.”
And Robby's expression dropped, passing a glare to his friend.
As distracted as he was with the glare, he didn't see the way your face fell. The disappointment that marred your features.
“Got anything fun for me?” asked Robby, clapping his hands and getting to business, taking the night shift attendings by the shoulders and dragging them out.
Javadi entered in, a sheepish smirk on her lips. “So, how's it going?” she asked with all the air of a girl needing gossip.
“It's fine,” you said.
It had been three weeks of living inside of his apartment, of his space becoming yours, of shows he'd never think about watching slowly enrapturing him.
“Just fine?” she asked. “Isn't this supposed to be the part where the two of you get together?”
It was a few beers kind of mistake to tell Javadi on your feelings for Robby. But she was a med-student harbouring hard feelings for Matteo and you'd been desperate to bond and suddenly it turned into Javadi shooting you looks across the floor whenever Robby got too close, and he was doing that a lot recently.
“No, no, that's crossing so many lines,” you excused.
“Yeah but, he invited you to stay.”
“As a friendly gesture.”
“And how friendly do we know Robby to be?”
With you, very. With others it was more a tough game to play to get Robby to show some sympathy.
Your mouth was left ajar, stuttering on words you couldn't even come up with when Princess drummed her knuckles on the door.
“Louie's in south nineteen, asking for you.”
Never had you been so thankful to be called away on a patient run, especially when it was one of your terribly concealed favourites.
But you didn't leave quick enough to not catch how Princess crowded in Victoria, asking her what the latest was.
You managed to skirt your way over to nineteen without any more fans asking you about your new living situations. You were more than happy to hide away with Louie.
“Hey, doc!” he grinned as you let the door shut behind you.
“Louie, it's been weeks, what took you so long?” you joked, taking the stool and wheeling over to him with a smile. Really, you'd been worried when he hadn't come in- counting two months down since his last visit. It didn't give you hope that he was doing better, it filled you with dread he'd given up entirely.
He chuckled. “Sorry, doc, been busy.”
“A good busy?”
“Always.”
It was one of those slow nights when Louie came in when you and Robby were working- a Tuesday night where you were just about to go home when you checked in on Louie one more time, finding him half way through a devastating story on his life.
You'd cried in the bathroom and Robby had silently handed you a tissue when you stepped out, cold water splashed in your face.
“Hold out your hand for me, Louie,” you said, watching him do so with a tremble you could have bet your money on. “Shaky, huh?”
“Well it is eight a.m,” he grinned.
“We'll start you with fifty of Librium, as always. Anything else bothering you, Louie?”
“I had some aching in my side, right there-” diligently he showed you the pain, wincing as he pressed down on the pain.
You tugged on gloves and did an exam, finding the are bruised.
“You been in any trouble recently?” you asked, knowing that if Louie ever was in a fight, it would never be started by him. He was happy to drink silently.
“Not that I remember, maybe with a stool,” he joked.
You smiled with him, testing out spots of his chest and asking him to breathe in, listening down the stethoscope. “Everything seems fine but we'll get an ultrasound in to check you over.”
He waved you off. “Don't rush, doc, I like to watch the people go by sometimes.”
You entertained him. “Course, I'll be back shortly.”
You got Perlah on the case, someone just as happy to see Louie as you were, the duo that took the best care of him. Then you were occupied with slowly ticking off the board, discharging simple cases, working harder on the demanding ones.
At some point in the morning Robby slid in next to you, taking his place casually.
“I think I win for most interesting case today,” he said.
Happily, you looked up from your charts. “I didn't realise it was a competition?”
“Competition keeps you young,” he said, head nodding side to side.
“I'm not the one that needs to be kept young,” you teased.
There was smirk of shock that gave way to darkening eyes and a straighter back when he pulled himself up.
“You wanna play that?”
“I'm playing that,” you said. “I'm surprised you don't have an old mans seat when you shower.”
“I didn't realise you thought about me showering.”
It took you so off guard your elbow slipped, taking down someone's abandoned coffee.
“Shit!” You cursed, clamouring to the shards and spilt liquid.
Robby was still chuckling to himself when he knelt next to you, collecting the bits of mug in his hands, taking what you had in yours to his also.
“I- I don't think about you showering,” you said, quietly. “Of course I don't, I just- I just meant- a joke. It was a joke.”
Robby inhaled, tilting his head to get a look at you. “Really?”
“Yeah, yeah, god, I-I didn't-”
Your name was cried out and the shards of China fell back to the ground as Perlah helplessly stood outside of Louie's room. Almost slipping on the coffee, you took off in a run, Robby hot on your heels as you burst through the doors.
“He just- he just started-” Perlah panicked among the blood.
He lay still, un-responsive and you didn't miss a beat in jumping up, pumping down on his chest with gloves, without a gown, just the need to save a life that had been drilled into you.
His blood got on your hands, under your nails as with every pump down on his chest, you pumped more blood out.
“Get an intubation tray, crash cart and suction, now!” Robby called as a flood of nurses assembled around you. He was intubated and a bag put in place, a nurse came in for suction and the heavy rolling wheels of the crash cart sounded.
It fell upon you muffled as your arms shook while pressing down on his chest.
“We can swap out,” Robby offered quietly from behind you.
“No, no, I- I got this,” you said through the gasps and slow bead of sweat beginning down your temple. “C'mon Louie, c'mon-”
Perlah stretched over, slamming down pads on his chest, under the gown that practically had his name on it from how often he visited. “Pads in place!”
“Hold compressions!” said Robby.
You backed up enough to get a reading, getting a dull feeling of Robby's hands on your arms as you trembled. “Still V-Fib,” you said, climbing off the bed. “Charge to two hundred!”
“Charged!”
“Clear!”
So it went on, maybe only for minutes, maybe for an hour. A continuous rhythm of your chest compressions, the push of epi, the constant let down of no pulse, the flow of blood. And Robby's eyes only fumble from you to check on Louie before returning to you.
Everyone in the room hung on the thread of the flatline.
“Do we push more epi?” asked Perlah.
There was a silence behind you but you could picture the slow shake of Robby's head. You'd seen it in dozens of patients, in several helpless cases.
“Robby?” you called out helplessly, without knowing what you were calling for.
He was slow in his approach to you but you could feel him closer, know he was reaching out. “We've done everything we can.” It wasn't harsh. It wasn't kind. It was fact and sometimes fact was neither thing.
His hand was gentle on your shoulder, not squeezing or pulling. Just there. It was enough for you to feel everything deep down in your bones, the pressure of trying to bring him back to life making you weak and Robby's touch helping you give up.
You didn't recall the calling of his time of death, or the stumbling out the room, the wiping down of his blood on your scrubs. You didn't know anything until you made it out to the ambulance bay, drinking in gulps of fresh air that seemed to poison you more then help.
It clamped down on your chest and choaked at your throat-
“Hey, hey- it's okay, you're okay-”
Arms were tugging at you, pulling you into a chest you'd grown knwon with.
You pushed back. “No, no, I'm bloody, I- I can't-”
“Shh-” Robby cooed.
He embraced you tightly, suffocating you into his chest like he was trying to tell the rest of the world to go away, to shield you from the hospital and ambulances would inevitably come by. Robby stood there, arms strong and protecting you. He rocked slightly, lips pressed to the top of your head like it was a natural thing to do. Like you'd never felt them there or anywhere else before.
“I'm sorry,” you sniffed into his chest.
“No, don't be- shh,” he whispered into you. “You did everything you could.”
“He's gone, he's gone,” you mumbled.
Robby held you until he felt he could let you go, which proved a while. By the time you'd dragged yourself back in, red faced and teary eyed word had spread about Louie. Robby remained behind you, a hand curling against the lower parts of your back as he guided you through to the scrub bin, daring anyone to stop and ask you what happened.
He was a dog ready to bite.
“Take some time,” he said in the same air he'd used to ask you to stay with him. With no room for arguments.
You changed scrubs, met Perlah in the middle of the nurses hub for support. When Louie's body was took to the viewing room, Robby stayed stuck at your side, fingers brushing yours as he let everyone who wanted to say goodbye, say it.
By your side he stayed for the rest of the day, with biting breaths and lingering looks. His touches became every other moment, every spare second he knelt next to you, checking in.
“I'm fine,” you told him repeatedly as the day went on, as new patient names clouded your mind and traumas stole your attention.
“We'll get out of here, tonight,” he promised, hand edging closer to yours. Closer to something he wouldn't be able to take back. “No cooking tonight, we'll pick something up.”
“I can- I can cook-”
Robby shook his head. “And you can pick the movie.”
You smiled, though it was tainted from the pain. “Even if it has talking animals?”
His eyes rolled playfully as he sighed, pushing himself up. “If you must.” His hands were gentle on your shoulders as he squeezed, moving by.
When you looked back up you weren't surprised to see the fleeing eyes of Dana over her glasses.
She knew you'd caught her but only turned and walked off. You didn't know how you knew she was still smiling, but you knew.
By the time you and Robby got home- back to his- the sky had darkened and the Thai was procured on the drive back.
He'd let you shower first, knowing you still felt the need to scrub the phantoms of the day from you. You'd been so desperate you'd left your own wash bag in your room, your own robe there. So you bathed in Robby's signature smell, washed your hair in his shampoo that wasn't a two in one.
You wrapped yourself in a towel that was fluffy and smelt like him, wiping down condensation from the window before letting yourself sit with the grief.
It was never a good idea, alone in your own apartment to let the day haunt you. In Robby's place, surrounded by a smell that was all his, you safely let yourself remember the wobble in your arms, the pain in your heart and ache in your body.
You stood, re-tucking the towel around you when the door burst open at once.
“Shit- shit-”
You grasped at the towel as it slipped down your body, clutching it to your chest before it could expose everything.
Robby stood, frozen in the doorway, his lips parted slowly. “Shit- sorry, I thought you were done.”
“I'm- I'm finishing up,” you gulped.
Robby nodded, hand clenched on the door.
You watched his eyes catch a glance past your shoulder, seeing something there that had a blush creeping up his neck and ears. Something that made him bashful and looking away.
A chill ran down your body, from the toll of the day, the lack of clothing around you or the look Robby gave you.
“I'll, er- just...” you trailed off.
Robby closed his eyes, breathing deep. “Yeah. Yeah.”
The door inched closed slower. Before it shut completely you were sure Robby paused, sure you heard him inhale and sigh before you caught the retreat of his footsteps.
You body sunk in on itself, catching the electricity buried under your skin by just being looked at by him. At the idea that he could smell him on you.
It wasn't until you turned, catching a glimpse of yourself in the wiped down mirror that you realised.
Wiped down.
When Robby glanced behind you- to the mirror- he'd blushed at the sight of that part of you left bare. The slope of your back, the dimples that sat just above your ass and the curve of you.
He'd got a glimpse of it. Not just a glimpse by the way he paused- an eyeful.
“Fuck.”
It was bound to happen, maybe, with how long the two of you had been in co-habitation. But the day had been messy enough. Navigating the corners of yours and Robby's changed relationship.... you didn't have the nerve, though it felt alight by his look.
Maybe he hadn't seen anything, you told yourself as you dressed.
He probably didn't even notice, you said as you threw your damp hair up.
Just don't bring it up and he probably won't, you repeated as you stepped out.
When you came back out Robby was hiding in the kitchen, tucking himself right into the counter as he set up several dishes of all the food you'd ordered. His head was tucked low but there was a new sheen of sweat at the expanse of his neck still poking out from his scrubs.
“Sorry for taking so long,” you apologised, slipping into a stool across from him.
He shook his head and shrugged without looking at you.
“Smells good!” you said, reaching for the food that lay between you.
Muscles in Robby's jaw moved. Tightening.
You watched his tongue run over the bottom of his lip before he stepped back from the counter, a finger running over his lips as he excused himself quickly.
It was just a glimpse you thought you caught, something tightening in his scrub pants exenterated by his hands trying to be discreet in covering it (and failing).
Only when you went back to the bathroom an hour later, to brush your teeth did you notice the very, very cold setting of the shower. But if he didn't bring it up, neither would you.
Robby was only supposed to be passing. It had been ten minutes since he last caught a glimpse of you and he decided that was nine minutes too long.
He couldn't pinpoint when exactly the obsession started, if he wanted to call it that. It could have been when your things started to pile up at his, your favourite mug that you drank from sitting comfortably next to his every morning, or the cook books you went back to like it was your bible. It might've been before you'd even effectively moved in with him. Maybe when he saw the way you commanded a room around a trauma, never once doubting yourself.
Whenever it began it only increased with every good morning he got, every night and gentle touch he felt.
And finding you in that bathroom, a blink and miss it moment when your towel started to fall. The expanse of everything behind you that you were so un-aware of.
Robby felt dirty for the erection he supported most the night, even after the coldest shower of his life and taking care of it in his bed when you were sure you were asleep.
It had taken every bit of taught and measure self-restraint to keep his hands off you. You'd had a tough day, Robby throwing himself at your mercy wasn't going to help.
But it had been a week since then, a week of near misses and close calls in the bathroom the two of you were treating like a battleground. The splotches of toothpaste he let linger on him got further and further along his mouth, the playing clueless became more silly. The brushed past each other in the kitchen when there was plenty of room became more telling.
It was all supposed to be going somewhere.
“ - while she is playing house with her boss,” he caught Santos saying, hers, yours and Javadi's backs to him as he slowed his approach.
“It's messy,” said Victoria.
“Oh, would you- the two of you stop,” you said. “It's not like that.”
“No?” asked Javadi.
“It's not like what?” he heard the teasing uplift of Trinity's voice.
“Like what you're trying to say,” you argued. “Robby and I are friends, just friends.”
Santos nodded, head lowering. “Sure. Friends. Friends with house mate benefits.”
“What are house mate benefits?” asked Javadi, looking over to you enough that Robby could catch a grin.
“Oh, use your imagination,” said Santos. “One bathroom, two people, trips to get water from the kitchen, in nothing but skimpy little-”
Robby could practically see the face you were pulling.
“Oh, can we not talk about this?” you said. “Nothing like that has happened, nothing like that will happen. We're friends, just friends.”
Robby didn't realise how badly he must have wanted it to be more until he heard you dismiss it out of hand. Until he heard the mocking chuckle of his doctors at what you were saying. That nothing was ever going to happen, essentially admitting you didn't think about the escapade in the bathroom as much as he did.
Why would you? You probably thought it was odd and gross how he lingered. How he acted the rest of the night- withdrawn and ashamed- probably didn't help.
What? Did he think that after spending more time with him, living with him, you'd grow to care in a way he had for you. In a way he'd tried to ignore for months?
Did he really think he stood a fucking chance?
He was hyper aware of himself, standing there like an idiot with the fading mark of his heart on his sleeve. Soon somebody would call his name, his game would be up and the three of you would turn to him, catching him there.
Robby cleared his throat and shouldered between you and Victoria, practically tossing the tablet down. “Guy in five needs a surgical consult on a blood clot.”
Santos held up her hands to be clear of it and Javadi was walking away at once.
Robby watched you take it and he left.
It was time to start re-building his heart.
“Hey,” you said, quick to follow him. “I was thinking of trying a carbonara tonight, do you like it?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Cool. You know if we have parmigiana?”
“I have more pressing things to think about then what's in my fridge,” he said.
You were quiet for a moment and he hoped he'd scared you away. “Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“Are you sure? Has something happened?”
“No,” he huffed, halting at the door to trauma two where a car crash victim was under the scope of three capable doctors. What was one more? “Now instead of pestering me can you go do you're fucking job?”
The flash of hurt in your eyes was almost enough to have him apologising. To have him cave and tell you he didn't want to just be friends, that he couldn't go a day without feeling you and being calmed instantly.
Almost.
Your lips pursed and you held the tablet up to your chest like it was a shield. “I will get right on that, boss.”
The tension that began at his house when you first joined him in the space of his walls falls returned, un-invited, with a vengeance.
After Robby's snap at you you figured it was a bad day, that things had piled up and him and he didn't want to talk about it. He still waited for you at the end of his shift, still drove you home but in a silence that was stale. He went to the bathroom first and you started on dinner, making two plates of the pasta you'd promised.
He never left his room that night and his dinner was still sitting on the counter in the morning.
It continued for three days. No blushing meetings outside of the bathroom, no movie's he'd fall asleep to and miss the end- though insisting he was only resting his eyes- it all stopped, quickly.
So quick you had no time to think of what had gone wrong.
“Hey,” said Victoria, lingering next to you as you went back to your search for cheap hotels that didn't have complaints of bug bites.
“Hey.”
“Your leftovers smell so good.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn't even pack lunch today,” she added, a small smile bitten back.
You huffed a laugh. “You can take Robby's, I don't think he's hungry.”
“Really?” she said. “He's usually very punctual about your lunches.”
He was, until a few days ago when you'd tried to find him to see if he was hungry, so you could sit down to your leftover together as you had done. But he'd brushed by you, telling you he wasn't hungry. He did so every day you asked.
“Has something happened?” asked Victoria.
Yes, something had clearly happened but you didn't know what.
“No, just.... Robby being Robby I guess.” You shrugged it off but the indifference hurt because it wasn't just Robby being Robby. You'd found a different Robby, the one that wasn't snapping and grumpy every day, the one who coaxed you to your room when you were too tired to move from the sofa, the one who let you hum along to the songs in the movies you'd pick, the Robby that made you coffee just the way you like. You'd never even had to tell him.
“Oh. I'm sorry,” she said. “You know if I didn't live with my parents I'd let you stay, of course.”
You smiled. “I know. Thanks.”
The hotel you settled on wasn't in the top ten in the city and it was nearly forty minutes out of your way. Earlier mornings were a small price to pay.
You let Robby drive you home without conversation, let him tirelessly switch from one radio to the other. Your fingers curled and un-curled against your knees in anxiety.
“My-urm- apartment is up and running again,” you said.
Robby's knuckles bleached white on the steering wheel. “Oh yeah?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I can get my stuff packed up and be out your hair.”
Robby didn't say anything. You glanced at him, seeing the tightness of his body and the eyes he kept plastered on the road. “It's late,” he said, mouth moving to say something else before he closed it again and thought. “I can give you a lift over.”
“You- you don't have to,” you said. The idea of one more tense car ride was enough to have you thinking about jumping out the moving vehicle. “I can book an uber.”
“It's late.”
Robby kept himself busy while you packed up the clothes you'd un-packed in the wardrobe in his room. He packed up your toiletries and your kitchen things that had slowly wound themselves in his cupboards.
You were already at the door, your case and bag standing next to you, your phone warming in your hand as you checked your hotel booking and uber confirmation.
Robby walked out from the bathroom, your toiletery bag in hand.
“I've got an uber booked,” you told him, quickly. “It's been a long day, I didn't want you to have to drive anymore.”
He nodded, slowly, handing you the bag. “Okay.” His hands retreated back to his pockets.
You loitered. You still had ten minutes before your uber on the way. “I'm sorry if I out-stayed my welcome.”
He shrugged, shaking his head. “However long it took to get your place fixed.”
“Still, I didn't mean for it to take this long.”
Robby didn't reply and his gaze faded away from you.
It was a heavy goodbye. The longer you'd stayed with him the little time you gave to thinking how leaving would work. You wouldn't be escaping him, no, he'd be stuck in your mind and lingering in the corner of your gaze. You'd still remember how he looked when he was falling asleep, how his shower smelt and the way he stretched in the morning.
They'd all be happy memories of another time.
You took it with you like extra baggage into the uber and into the two star hotel.
Robby knew he was ingraining himself into the night shift longer than he needed to but since you left a week ago his apartment was cold, empty and he loathed it.
He hated that there was no other noise, no other mug sitting next to his, nobody to talk to. Hated it so much he was choosing the taunting walls of the Pitt over heading back.
“You thinking of joining the night crawlers?” Jack asked, finding Robby stretching at the hub of the Pitt.
“Nope.”
“Oh. It's just, you're still here, so I assumed,” Jack teased.
“I get it,” said Robby in a sing-song voice.
“It can't be that bad, can it?” asked Abbot. “You see her tomorrow.”
Robby wished he could say he didn't know what Jack was talking about but it was painfully obvious to everyone that he couldn't deny it himself. There was no more coming in together, in fact, you'd been coming in late but he was doing his best to avoid you he couldn't talk to you to find out why. He no longer had a tub of well-cooked food or your teasing invitation to eat with you.
It felt like he had nothing all over again.
He looked down to the nurses counter, picking at a mark on there. “It's just...” he trailed, trying to think of a word to sum it all up.
“Yeah?” asked Jack, leaning next to him.
“Quiet.” He decided on.
Jack nodded, slowly. He glanced away before frowning at whatever he'd found. “What happened anyway? The pipes at her place were fixed so you just kicked her out?”
“No, she wanted to leave.”
“So you guys can't just, hang out?” he asked, holding his hands behind his back.
Robby made a pfft noise. “Hang out?”
“Well, Dana says-”
“- Dana-” he scoffed.
“Dana says the two of you can hardly look at each other,” said Jack. “Seems to be a change from what I'd heard before.”
Robby looked at him. “And what did you hear before?”
“You laugh,” he said, like it was a rare phenomenon. “Heard you joke. Saw you smile. Saw you happy.”
He thought about you, grinning with Santos and Javadi as you told them you were just friends, that nothing had happened and nothing was going to happen. He remembered how you looked at him first thing in the mornings and last thing at night, how you were- and still- were on his mind as he laid his head down and pushed himself up in the morning.
“She... she made it clear that nothing was going to happen between us,” Robby admitted.
“And you wanted more?”
Robby was still, the flecks of the stain coming off under his nail.
“Want more?” Jack corrected.
He nodded.
“And did you tell her that?”
It was rather annoying, sometimes, how well Jack knew him.
“I didn't have to.”
“I think you did. You still do,” said Jack. “Just talk to her man, tell her how you feel-”
Robby shook his head at once. “- no-”
“Robby. Brother,” said Jack with a firm pat on his back. “I've seen how you look at her. I've seen how she looks at you. Take it from me, it would be a waste to let that go.”
He didn't want to let it go, but Robby didn't know how to hold on either.
“Hey, big bosses!” Lena called. “Got major trauma's coming, hotel caught fire. We're the closest hospital, Westbridge can only take two traumas and ten minors.”
“Send them our way, I'll round up the crawlers!” said Jack already sliding into his professionalism.
“I'll hang around then,” said Robby, almost spitefully proving a point to Jack. That he didn't need to go home.
“I'm giving you an hour.”
An hour was all he needed.
A flood of people, most in their sleep wear, robes hastily thrown and tied up flooded in. Many were covered in ash, faces grey or pale. They were checked over for smoke inhalation, nobody got through without a stethoscope to their chest and back. There was a family of four who's father was being treated for bad burns. An elderly man with cancer that was put up to south eighteen, chefs from the small hotel kitchen that were being seen for burns, damage to their lungs and everything else.
“I told you! I told you!” one of them shouted, accent foreign to Robby. “That place is a death trap! It was just waiting to go up in flames!”
Robby stepped out and decided to let them argue, tugging of gloves and fetching another pair from the always stocked box on the wall. “Is that everyone?”
“Just one more, pulling up now!” said Lena, yelling over the chaos the ED had turned into to.
Just one more. That heavy set of exhaustion was starting to settle in his feet, making them ache. It was nearing one in the morning, in five hours time he'd need to be up and heading in.
He thought it was the need for sleep that had him hearing your voice.
“Mark Tellon, on his seventies, severe smoke inhalation and asthma attack. No signed nasal hair, his pulse ox is at eighty-four wet crackles bilaterally!”
There was no such thing as dreaming.
Robby stumbled at the sight of you in bottoms that were too long for you, in a cartoon character he couldn't name, in a shirt that drowned you. He guessed it was once white but was stained in ash and smoke, as was your face and hair.
You wheeled in the man with the paramedics and Robby stepped just ahead.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded.
“Hotel caught fire, quick evacuation, this is everyone,” you listed, clinically.
“You were there?”
You glanced up at him as the bed of the old man was wheeled by the two of you. He watched your face fall, smudging ash as you wiped at your forehead. “Er-”
Robby didn't care for the answer. Well, he did but not when your eyes were hazy, skin clammy and smoke and ash covered you. His hands climbed at your cheeks, holding you there and looking into your eyes. “Have you been checked over?”
“Urm, no I'm fine-”
“C'mon-”
“What? Robby!” you protested even as his fingers wrapped around your forearms, dragging you across the floor and past patients waiting for consults and doctors and nurses clearly rushed off their feet.
There was no spare room available but the family room so Robby took you there, where it was empty, and closed the door behind him.
You were stuck, again, alone with Robby. Exactly the place you'd tried not to be. But he'd closed the door behind him, zoned in on you with that tight crease of worry between his brows.
You stood there, holding onto yourself.
Robby made you follow his finger with your eyes, his other hand steadying your cheek as he watched you. “Any dizziness?”
“No, I'm fine.”
He took his penlight out from his pocket of tricks next, shining the light and checking your pupil response, you knew how it all worked and let him go through the motions. “You inhaled smoke?” he asked.
“Probably. I was trying to make sure everyone got out, first.”
There was a tut from his lips but a small upturn in his cheeks.
“Course you were,” he mumbled, ditching the pen light when he was done with it.
“Honestly, I'm fine, I'll just need a shower.”
Robby was already making his way behind you, warming up the drum of his stethoscope in the palm of his hand. Still, when you felt the brush of his rough fingertips skirting over the skin of your back and the metal pressing along, you shivered. “Breathe in.”
You took a deep breath in, Robby's eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.
“Breathe out.”
You did everything he said.
He moved so he was in front of you, sliding the stethoscope down the front of your shirt, closer over the drum of your heart.
Robby's eyes remained lower, not meeting your gaze. “Breathe in.”
Your chest expanded into his hand.
“Your heart's racing,” he observed.
You swallowed down the feeling of him so close. “Yeah. Probably. Been a crazy night.”
Gently his hands smoothed down your arms, sitting you down on the leather chairs as he set himself on the small coffee table in front of you.
“Want to tell me why you were at the hotel to begin with?” he asked, elbows rested on his knees and hands clasped together. “Cause I can come up with my own ideas and I don't like them.”
Lying to him had proved a silly task time and time again.
“My apartment isn't actually ready to be lived in yet,” you admitted, low in your throat and looking down to his hands. The only update you had from your apartment was that it would take another week, followed by a hopefully.
“No?” he said in fake disbelief.
You shook your head. “I just guessed I'd out stayed my welcome, you wanted to be alone.”
“No,” he said. “No, you didn't. You could've stayed.”
You eyed Robby. “You didn't really seem like you wanted me there anymore.”
You watched as he sighed, shoulders slumping.
Robby's fingers thread and un-thread. “It wasn't like that.”
“I mean did I- did I do something?” you asked, a spew of words ready at the barrel of your gun. “I thought we were okay.”
“So did I,” he said, bringing up his gaze and taking a deep, shuddering breath. “So did I.”
“Then what?”
Robby pushed himself up, hands flying to the back of his head and patting down his hair. His boots scuffed against the floor as he paced the area small and not built for pacing. “I thought things were going really well,” he admitted, hands making a weak gesture between the two of you. “I thought there were moments.”
“There were!” you opposed, quickly.
Was this a chance you'd been looking for? Was he wanting you to say there was something more? That the touches and everything else meant something.
He looked at you, arms pulling over his chest. “But we're just friends, right?”
There was a way he was saying it, a bite to his words like a dog barking, trying to make a point. Just friends.
With your head spinning you remembered another time of saying those words. You remembered Santos's teasing (really it was hard to pick one particular moment out from it all) and Javadi there too. You remembered their teasing grins, asking you about benefits-
And how Robby forced the tablet in between the three of you.
Your head hung, hands wiping away the stress. “Oh god.”
Robby waited.
“Oh god,” your voice came out muffled by your own hands. “Robby-”
“Yeah, I started to like you,” he said, trying to make it all seem like it was no big deal, body moving to shake it of. “I shouldn't, I know. I'm your boss, you're the resident, you were staying with me as a guest.”
“Robby, I-” you pushed yourself up, making your way around the table.
“- and you made it very clear to Doctor Santos and Doctor Javadi-”
“- they were teasing me, it was- it was nothing. I didn't mean it! I mean, they'd been teasing me for weeks, they were just annoying me.”
His body moved in his breath as looked at you. “You don't have to lie.”
“I'm not!”
“You lied about your place. Instead you chose a hotel, one that was a death trap, apparently.”
“I thought you hated me!”
“No, I want you!”
“And I want you!” you yelled.
“You didn't tell me.”
“Well, you didn't tell me.”
Robby scoffed. “Yeah, I'm the one who's supposed to have communication issues, sweetheart.”
Within seconds you had thrown yourself into Robby's arms, practically leaping atop him and kissing him. His lips were frozen, body waking up slowly as his arms curled around your back, holding you in. You could feel the scrunch of his noise and the scrape of his beard as he didn't kiss you back.
You pulled away, keeping your eyes down.
Just because he wanted you, because you wanted him didn't mean throwing yourself at him (literally!) was going to work.
“I-I'm sorry, I thought-”
His hands drowned your face as he pulled you back in, head dipping low to lick his tongue into you. He pressed his mouth into your, letting his tongue in your mouth. His hands tilted your head back, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he reacted to you at once.
Your hands tugged a hold of his hoodie, bending him further along you while his hands slowed down your body, cupping your backside and digging his fingers in.
Some noise made its way out the back of his throat, groaning into your mouth.
“Are we-” you said against his lips. “Mmp; are we doing this right now?”
“Doing what?” He mumbled, tilting his head to nudge your mouth open deeper.
You smiled against him. “Making out in the family room?”
“God, I hope so.”
His mouth was open, warm and welcoming as he kissed you harder, finding parts of you nobody had ever found before.
“I meant it,” said Robby against you, his tongue running over the tip of your lip. “I want you.”
You nudged your nose with his, arms coming to wrap around the back of his neck. “I mean it. I don’t- we’re not just friends, Robby.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, smirking. “I don’t think think friends kiss each other the way I’m about to kiss you.”
taglist (if you want to be added or took off just say the word!): @oldbaddies, @mafercita101,@tiddieshakeshownu, @mismwaa, @annabethpotter221b, @elizamoe133, @delicatedragonflower, @mysatnin, @cherbicdollie, @macbaetwo, @cod-guys-slvt, @rach2602, @beebeechaos, @generation-zero, @sofianotvergara, @berrybisous, @pinkpantheris, @lacy1986, @marquiserose
pairing: Boyfriend!Pope Cody x fem!Reader
summary: Pope spends the day at the mall with his girlfriend, buying everything they need to turn the little beach house he bought in secret into a home of their own.
a/n: No one can convince me that Pope wouldn’t be the best husband and father in the world.
warnings: (secret) established relationship, clingy!Reader, mentions of a blowjob and swallowing cum, reader touches Pope over his jeans in public once, references to murder and Smurf’s abuse, Baz hate (fuck him), past controlling relationship, anxiety and self-loathing, Pope scares a Sephora employee, these two are so sweet they’ll give you cavities!!!
wc: 7962 k
I’d love to know what you thought, so please don’t be shy and leave me a little comment. Hearing from you truly means so much to me .⋆❀°
By the time you left Zara Home, Pope had six bags hanging from his hands and the receipt folded into the pocket of his jeans. You had offered to carry something twice. Both times he had moved the bags before you could reach them, so now you walked with your arm linked through his, pressed comfortably against his side while he checked the list you had written together that morning.
“Sheets, towels, bath mat,” he read, dragging his thumb down the paper while the shopping bags rustled around his wrists. “We got everything.”
You leaned closer to look at the list, although you already knew exactly what was written on it. “We got more than everything. We have four sets of sheets because somebody decided two wasn’t enough.”
“One’ll be in the wash.” Pope tapped the folded edge of the paper against his palm, as though that settled the matter.
“We only have one bed, baby.”
“Yeah, and we’re gonna use it every night.”
He folded the list before he could see what that answer did to your face and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. You tightened your arm around his and kissed his shoulder.
“You liked choosing them,” you said, staying tucked against his side when he began walking again.
Pope shifted the bags higher on his hands. “They’re good sheets.”
“But you checked the stitching on every set.” You ran one finger along the seam of his sleeve, imitating the way he had examined the fabric inside the store.
“Because one of them was coming apart.”
“And then you spent ten minutes touching towels.”
“I wanted the soft ones.”
You slowed, making him stop with you. “For me?”
“For us.”
The answer came easily. There was none of the hesitation that usually appeared when Pope had to talk about something belonging to both of you, no brief tightening of his mouth while he decided whether he was allowed to claim it too. He simply looked at you as though us had been the obvious answer.
Your smile softened. You stepped in front of him and slid your arms around his waist, catching him by surprise. Pope hurriedly gathered the handles into one hand and lifted the bags away from your body before they could knock against you.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, looking down at your face.
“Hugging my boyfriend because he spent ten minutes choosing the softest towels in the store.”
“They had to be soft, sweetheart.” His newly freed hand hovered beside you for a moment before settling against your back.
You leaned away just enough to see him properly, leaving your arms around his waist. “That so?”
His brow furrowed slightly, as if he did not understand why you needed an explanation.
“You use all those oils and creams every night to keep your skin soft,” he said. “Wasn’t gonna buy towels that’d scratch you up.”
Your arms tightened around him. “You thought about that?”
“Yeah.” His hand moved once along your back. “Course I did.”
“You’re soooo sweet.”
“They’re just towels, baby.” Pope glanced past you, discomfort creeping into his face now that you were looking at him as though he had done something extraordinary.
“No.” You rose onto your toes, your arms slipping higher around him. “They’re our towels.”
Pope bent to meet you. His hand pressed more securely against your lower back as his mouth softened beneath yours, holding you close while the bags swayed forgotten beside his leg.
“Yeah,” he said when you pulled away. His eyes remained on yours, his thumb moving slowly over your back. “They are.”
The mall had grown busier while you were inside, pop music spilled from the open stores and people kept cutting across your path without looking. Pope’s shoulders tensed, his hand settling more firmly against you to keep you close. When you slowed in front of another window, however, he stopped beside you and followed your gaze, content to wait while you looked.
“We need to stop at Sephora,” you said, slipping your hand into his and steering him toward the entrance. “I’m out of my lip mask, I need a new blush, and there’s a lip balm I saw on TikTok that I want to try.”
Pope followed without resistance. “The little pink jar?”
“The berry one, yes.” You glanced up at him. “I’ve been scraping the sides for three nights.”
“Get two, then.” He said it immediately.
Your pace slowed. Pope took another step before the pull of your joined hands made him stop and look back at you.
“You like it.”
His eyes moved briefly to your mouth. “Tastes good.”
“Is that why you always kiss me right after I put it on?” You stepped closer, running your thumb across the back of his hand.
“I kiss you every night, baby.” Pope turned toward the store again, but you caught the slight tightening at the corner of his mouth before he could hide it.
You let him guide you forward for another few steps before leaning into his arm. “But you always kiss me twice when I’m wearing that.”
Pope did not answer, but you squeezed his hand as though you already had one.
He had never told you what happened after those goodnight kisses, on the nights when sleep refused to come no matter how tired he was. He would lie beside you for hours with his body held rigid beneath the sheets, listening to the house settle around him while his mind returned to places he had spent the day trying to avoid.
Every car slowing outside made him look toward the window. Every change in your breathing had him checking that you were still asleep, still safe, still there.
Some of the lip mask always transferred to his mouth when he kissed you, and hours later, when the rest of the sweetness should have disappeared, Pope could sometimes find a trace of it by running his tongue over his lower lip.
He did not understand how something made for chapped lips could feel like a balm pressed over whatever bruised part of him people meant when they spoke about the soul. It gave him something gentle to concentrate on when his memories would not leave him alone.
Like as long as he could still taste you, some small part of you seemed to remain awake with him, and the darkness became a little easier to endure.
“I’ll be quick,” you promised.
“You don’t have to be.” Pope adjusted the bags before brushing his thumb across your hand. “Take your time. Look at whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere.”
Your previous boyfriend had never allowed you that freedom. He claimed you only wore makeup to attract other men, forcing you to order everything online and hide the packages because even entering a store like this could start an argument. The excuse had never made sense to Pope. He could not understand seeing you happy and wanting to take it away. He loved watching you get ready and slowly became more comfortable in your own skin. Makeup did not make you more beautiful to him. He simply liked the way you smiled when you felt beautiful.
Your smile softened. You lifted his hand to kiss his knuckles before leading him inside. “Then you can help me find everything.”
Pope followed you inside. “That’s why I’m here, baby.”
Inside, you headed for the Laneige display while Pope stopped beside a Benefit stand. Several testers had been abandoned along the shelf, some without their caps and others returned to the wrong slots. By the time you came back, he had already matched two lip tints to their labels and was turning each tube so the name faced forward.
“Found them.” You held up the two jars of Laneige Berry Lip Sleeping Mask before placing them in the basket. “One for the bathroom and one for my nightstand.”
Pope glanced down to make sure they were both there. “Good.”
His attention had already returned to the Benefit stand beside him. Several testers were lying on their sides, some missing their caps and others pushed into the wrong slots. Pope had matched three of them to their labels while you were gone and was turning each tube until its name faced forward.
You kissed his cheek, smiling when he barely paused in what he was doing. “How much of this have you reorganized?”
“A couple of them… They have numbers, see?” Pope showed you the small label on the tester in his hand, then pointed to the empty space bearing the same one. His brow drew together as though the system should have been impossible to misunderstand. “People just don’t put them back right.”
You picked up a lip tint that had been abandoned on its side and held it over the first empty slot you saw. “Does this one go here?”
“No.” Pope’s eyes moved along the row. “Two over.”
You shifted it one space. “Here?”
He reached across you and moved the tube one place farther to the right. “There.”
You watched him turn it until the label matched the others. Pope did things like this almost without realizing: straightening bottles while he waited in line, returning something to the exact place he had found it, wiping down a counter even when the mess was not his. You knew the impulse did not always feel gentle to him. You had seen how something left crooked could hold his attention until he corrected it, how disorder seemed to settle beneath his skin and make it impossible for him to relax.
That was not the part you loved, you loved what Pope did with it.
Even here, in a store full of strangers who would never know he had helped, he replaced caps and returned testers to their proper slots because somebody had arranged the display and somebody would have to fix it after closing. Pope noticed that labor. He respected clean spaces, organized shelves and the people responsible for maintaining them. He would never make another person’s job harder simply because he could walk away before they saw him do it.
People often mistook his silence for indifference but you had learned that Pope cared about far more than he knew how to say.
You rested your head briefly against his shoulder while he fastened the cap on another tester. “What would this store do without you?”
“Throw everything wherever they want, apparently.” He returned the tube to its numbered space and reached for the next one lying out of place.
He fastened one last cap before taking the basket from you. When you moved toward the next aisle, Pope gathered the shopping bags and followed with his free hand resting against your back.
You stopped in front of the Summer Fridays display.
“These are the balms everyone keeps talking about on TikTok.” You picked up one of the tubes and turned it around to show Pope the label.
He studied the display before looking at the tester in your hand. “What’s different about them?”
“Mostly the scents, apparently.” You returned the tube to its slot and reached for another. “They’re not supposed to be quite as good as my olehenriksen ones.”
Pope’s brow furrowed. He glanced from the rows of Summer Fridays balms to your face, already imagining you opening one at home only to discover that it did not live up to all the videos you had watched.
“If they’re not as good, you sure you wanna risk getting one?”
The concern in his voice made you smile.
Pope hated watching you look forward to something only to be disappointed by it. It did not matter whether it was a plan being cancelled or a bakery running out of the cake you wanted. He would remember the change in your expression long after you had forgotten about it, quietly resenting whatever had caused it as if it had let him down too.
“I think I’ll survive the risk,” you assured him, smoothing one hand over his chest when his frown remained. “Everyone says these smell much better. And considering how often you kiss me, I thought you might appreciate that.”
Pope’s attention followed your fingers before settling on your mouth. “The other ones make your lips shiny.”
“Juicy,” you corrected.
His eyes remained on your lower lip. “Same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing.” You stepped closer, smiling when his gaze followed the movement of your mouth. “But you agree they make my lips look juicy?”
“Yeah.” Pope shifted the basket to his other hand, his voice lower than it had been a moment ago.
“How juicy?”
His eyes moved slowly across your lips before lifting to yours. “You know.”
“I’d still like to hear you say it, baby.” Your finger caught briefly on one of the buttons of his shirt, waiting.
Pope held your gaze for another second, then reached past you for one of the testers. He turned it over in his hand with more concentration than the label required, ending the conversation before the heat rising into his face became any more obvious.
“Which one are you getting?”
“I thought we could choose one each.” You leaned your hip against the display and watched his fingers work the cap loose. “I’ll choose the one I like, and you can choose one you want me to wear only when I’m with you.”
His fingers went still around the tester. When he looked at you again, the caution had disappeared from his face.
“Only with me?”
“Yes.” You stepped closer and lowered your voice, although nobody nearby was paying attention. “One balm for whenever I feel like wearing it and another that belongs to you. Something I put on because I know you’ll be the one tasting it.”
Pope’s eyes returned immediately to the balms. This time he studied them with real interest, taking in every shade and label as though the display had changed while he was looking away.
“So I get to pick whichever one I want?”
“Whichever one you want.”
He looked back at you, making sure. “And you’ll only wear it with me?”
“That’s the idea.”
Pope set the basket down beside the shopping bags, freeing both hands for the decision.
“What if I choose one you wouldn’t pick for yourself?”
“I’ll like knowing you chose it.” Nudging him toward the beginning of the display. “Besides, you know me. You’ll pick the right one.”
Pope glanced along the entire row again. The corner of his mouth lifted before he could suppress it.
You had already chosen Pink Guava before entering the store. It was the shade that had appeared in the TikTok saved on your phone, and the sheer pink stain it left across the back of your hand only confirmed that it would be coming home with you.
“This one’s mine.” You dropped an unopened tube into the basket and held out your hand for Pope to inspect. “What do you think?”
“Looks good.” He looked at the color, then at your mouth as though trying to imagine it there. “You already knew which one you wanted.”
“I did.” You stepped aside and gestured toward the rest of the display. “Now you get to choose yours.”
He read every shade name before opening its tester, taking the responsibility far more seriously than you had expected. Vanilla barely held his attention. Pink Sugar made his nose wrinkle, and he returned Iced Coffee after one careful breath.
Then he opened Cherry.
The scent was sweeter and stronger than the others. When you held out your hand, Pope drew the tester across your skin, leaving a sheer red stain beside the Pink Guava swatch. His thumb remained beneath your wrist after he finished.
He stared at the color, his mind went to your mouth first.
Pope pictured the Cherry balm leaving a faint red print on his cheek, another beneath his ear and several more down his chest as you worked your way lower. You would take your time because you knew what tenderness did to him—how quiet he became when you touched him as though there were nowhere else you would rather be.
Then you would kneel between his spread thighs.
Your glossy lips would press to the head of his cock, leaving a soft red mark against the flushed skin. You would look up before kissing him again, lower this time, your tongue following the slow drag of your mouth while one hand wrapped around the base.
Pope could already feel the restraint it would take not to push into you. He would let you set the pace, watching the neat prints blur as you worked your way back to the tip and took him between your lips.
His fingers would slip into your hair. He never knew how to let you touch him without reaching for you in return. He would cradle the back of your head, thumb moving beside your ear as your cheeks hollowed around him. When he reached deeper, a small sound would catch in your throat and your eyes would begin to water, but they would remain fixed on his.
Even in the filthiest version of the fantasy, having his cock in your mouth would be another way of loving him. There would be no disgust in your expression and no hesitation when saliva gathered at the corners of your lips. Only your warm hand stroking what you could not take, your tongue beneath the head and those soft eyes watching every piece of control leave him.
He would come with your name caught somewhere behind his teeth, his hand tightening in your hair as his cum spilled across your tongue. You would keep him in your mouth until the final pulse passed, then draw back and look up at him.
Pope would forget how to breathe when you opened your mouth.
You would show him the mess he had left there, white against your tongue and the fading Cherry tint around your swollen lips. Then, without looking away, you would close your mouth and swallow. His eyes would follow the movement of your throat, transfixed by the knowledge that something of him had disappeared inside you because you had wanted it there.
By the time you smiled, the color would have faded from your mouth.
Pope would pull you up before you could wipe your chin. He would hold your face between both hands and kiss you deeply, tasting Cherry and himself on your tongue. You would make that quiet, pleased sound he loved and settle into his lap with your arms around his shoulders, understanding that he needed the closeness as much as the release.
The thought made him hard inside his jeans.
He had spent most of his life believing there was dirt beneath his skin. He could wash the blood from his hands, burn the clothes he wore during jobs and stand beneath the shower until the water ran cold, but the feeling remained. Smurf had used his body to frighten and hurt people for so long that Pope sometimes struggled to remember it could be good for anything else.
Then you touched him and somehow, Pope had never felt cleaner.
You kissed every scar without asking where it came from. You held his face while he moved inside you and looked at him as though the pleasure he gave you mattered.Your hands made his body feel like it belonged to him again. It could give you pleasure. It could hold you without hurting you. It could make you reach for him instead of recoil.
Pope sometimes wondered whether this was the relief people felt after confession.
They entered carrying everything ugly they had done, spoke it aloud and left feeling lighter because someone had heard the truth without turning them away. Sex with you felt like that. You saw how desperate he could become, how badly he needed you and how little control he sometimes had left by the end. Then you pulled him against your chest and kissed him as if he had confessed nothing shameful at all.
“You really like that one, baby.”
Your voice dragged Pope back into the middle of Sephora. He realized he was still holding the Cherry tester, his fingers clenched around the tube.
“It’s good,” he said, but his voice came out rougher than he intended.
You studied him. The color had spread beyond his ears now, warming his cheeks and continuing down the side of his neck. When you stepped closer, Pope avoided your eyes and pretended to examine the red mark on your hand.
“You’re blushing.”
“It’s warm in here.”
You moved behind him and slipped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Were you thinking about where Cherry might leave marks?”
Pope swallowed. “Maybe.”
“On your cheek?” You pressed a kiss there. “Your neck?”
Your lips brushed the skin beneath his ear. Pope’s grip tightened around the tester.
“Or somewhere lower?”
One of your hands moved down his stomach. When your palm reached the front of his jeans, you found him already hard. Pope caught your wrist, but he did not pull you away. His fingers closed around you while your hand remained pressed over him.
“Baby,” he breathed.
You rubbed your palm over the shape of his cock once, feeling it harden further beneath the denim. “Were you imagining my red lips around you?”
Pope’s face turned completely red. His eyes moved toward the nearest aisle, checking whether anyone had noticed, before returning to your reflection in the display mirror.
“You know I was.”
The admission removed the last of the teasing from your expression. You kissed the back of his shoulder and left your hand beneath his.
“Then maybe Cherry should be yours.”
Pope looked down at the tube, seriously considering it, before glancing at the remaining testers.
“I still have three left.”
Your smile returned. You moved your hand back to his stomach and gave him enough room to continue. “All right. Keep going.”
Pope carefully returned Cherry to its proper slot before reaching for the next one.
Toasted Marshmallow had almost no color, only a few fine gold flecks suspended in the balm. Pope expected another scent sweet enough to make him return it immediately. Instead, he went still as soon as he opened it.
The warmth of it brought him back to the beach house after dark. He imagined opening the front door and finding the oven cooling, the scent of whatever you had baked still clinging to the kitchen. There would be something covered on the counter for him and a note beside the plate telling him which container to put in the refrigerator.
Sometimes you would be waiting on the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, looking up from your book as soon as you heard his key in the lock. On later nights, Pope would find you asleep beneath a blanket and the television playing quietly in an empty room. You always left a lamp on for him.
Pope smelled the tester again.
Cherry had left him hard, still too aware of the front of his jeans and the hand you had pressed there. Toasted Marshmallow made him want the rest of the night. He wanted the bath you had planned, the new towels waiting in their bags and your body leaning against his chest while the water cooled around you. He wanted to put the balm on your mouth himself and taste something that reminded him of coming home.
Pope closed the tester carefully. He picked up an unopened Toasted Marshmallow and placed it beside Pink Guava in the basket, although his fingers remained curled around the tube.
“This one.”
You moved around him to see what he had chosen. “Toasted Marshmallow?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to Cherry?” The question was gentle, accompanied by a knowing smile.
Pope’s face warmed again. He kept his attention on the tube and rubbed his thumb over the printed name. “I like this one more.”
You opened the tester and smelled it yourself. The scent was warm and familiar, closer to something that belonged in your kitchen than a makeup display.
“Because it smells like cake?”
“Sometimes.” Pope shifted his weight. “Or pie.”
You looked from the balm to him, understanding beginning to soften your expression. “It smells like the house when I’ve been baking.”
Pope nodded.
“You mean that smells like home, baby?”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah.”
You moved closer and laid your hand over his. “Then Toasted Marshmallow is yours.”
Pope looked down at your joined hands. “You meant what you said?”
“About what?”
“Only wearing it with me.”
There was something almost uncomfortable in the way he asked, as if he needed the reassurance but disliked how plainly his voice revealed it.
“Yes, baby. I meant it.”
Pope nodded, his gaze dropped to your mouth before moving back to the balm.
“You’ll wear it when we’re at the house?”
“Whenever you want me to.”
His brow furrowed. “No, I mean—” He stopped and shifted his weight again, the shopping bags rustling beside his leg. “Tonight.”
You waited, giving him time to finish.
“When we take a bath.” Pope rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. The color had spread from his ears into his cheeks again, although nothing he was asking for should have embarrassed him this much. “Could you wear it then?”
“For you?”
“Yeah.” His eyes returned to your lips. “For me.”
The quiet need in his voice made your chest tighten. Pope could walk into a room full of armed men and make them listen but asking you for something tender was different. He looked as though wanting it this badly had left him exposed.
You slipped your arms around his waist. “Yes. I’ll wear it for you in the bath.”
Pope’s hand settled against your back, but the uncertainty remained in his face.
“And…” He glanced toward the other shoppers before lowering his voice. “Can I put it on you?”
Your smile softened. “You want to?”
He nodded.
“Then you can.”
“With my finger?”
The question came out so earnest that you had to press your lips together to keep from smiling too widely. Pope noticed anyway, and his brow tightened.
“What?”
“Nothing.” You stroked your hand over his chest. “You can put it on with your finger. Then you can kiss as much of it off as you want.”
Pope swallowed. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, lingering there.
“You promise?”
“I promise, my love.”
“Okay,” he murmured, some of the tension finally left his shoulders.
You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Are you happy with your choice?”
Pope drew you closer.
“Yeah.” He glanced once more at the balm in the basket. “I’m happy, sweetheart.”
The Rhode display stood near the front of the store. You crouched to check behind the remaining Pocket Blushes before pulling out your phone.
“The website still says they have Sleepy Girl.”
Pope looked over your shoulder. “Ask somebody, baby.”
An employee was unpacking boxes from a cart nearby. Her name badge read ALLISON. She rubbed her temple before reaching for another package.
“Excuse me,” you said. “Could you check whether you have any more of the Rhode Pocket Blush in Sleepy Girl? The website says there are a few left.”
Allison glanced at the empty slot and shifted the box she was carrying against her hip. “If it isn’t out, we don’t have it.”
“It still shows as in stock. Could there be some in the back?”
“Our inventory is wrong all the time.”
“I understand. It’s just that sometimes new products haven’t been put out yet—”
“We don’t have it,” she cut in, looking toward the clock above the register. “Choose another shade.”
Your fingers tightened around the basket. “But the others turn orange on my skin.”
“They’re all blush. It won’t make that much difference once they’re blended.”
The bags touched the floor behind you.
Pope came to stand at your side. “She asked you to check.”
Allison turned toward him. “I heard her.”
“Then check.”
Allison shifted the box higher against her hip and released a tired breath through her nose. “I’ve already explained that if it isn’t on the shelf, we don’t have it.”
“You didn’t even look.”
“I work here. I know what we have.” She reached for another product on the cart, attempting to return to her task.
Pope placed his hand over the box before she could pick it up. Allison’s gaze dropped to his fingers and then travelled slowly back to his face.
“The website says you have it,” he said.
“Our inventory is probably wrong. I still have all of this to put away.”
“Then it shouldn’t take long.” Pope removed his hand from the box, but instead of stepping back, he moved closer. “We’ll wait.”
Allison’s shoulders pulled tight. “Sir, there won’t be any.”
Pope held her gaze. “Go look. Then come back and tell her that.”
Allison opened her mouth again. Pope moved half a step closer, leaving little room between her and the cart. He kept his hands at his sides, but his voice dropped enough to make her grip tighten around the box.
“Go check.”
Allison’s eyes flicked over his face before she set the box down. “Fine.”
She disappeared through the stockroom door.
Only after it closed did you put the basket aside and take Pope’s hand. His fingers remained stiff around yours.
“Andrew, come here.”
You drew him away from the cart and back toward the Rhode display. Pope followed, glancing once over his shoulder at the stockroom.
“I love when you stand up for me,” you said, running your thumb over his knuckles. “You know I do.”
“She was talking to you like you were stupid, baby.”
“I know. She was rude.” You moved closer and rested your other hand against his chest. “But I think she was already having a terrible day before we walked over.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“It doesn’t.” You explained. “I just don’t think it was about me. Her coffee’s gone cold, she keeps looking at the clock and she has half the store left to unpack. I think I asked the wrong person at the wrong moment.”
Pope’s jaw remained tight. “She still shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
“No, she shouldn’t have.” You kissed the underside of his chin. “And you didn’t have to let her.”
His hand settled against your back, though his attention stayed on the stockroom door.
“You’re not mad at me?”
“Of course not, baby.” You stroked your palm slowly over his chest. “I’m glad you came over. I only think you scared her more than you meant to.”
“I wasn’t going to do anything.”
“I know that.” You kissed him softly. “But she doesn’t know you.”
Pope looked down at your face, some of the tension finally leaving his fingers.
“When she comes back, maybe apologize for the way you spoke to her,” you murmured. “That’s all.”
He rubbed his thumb against your waist. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll apologize.”
You smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
Allison returned carrying three Sleepy Girl blushes. She avoided Pope’s eyes as she placed them in the empty slot.
“They were still in one of the shipment boxes,” she said. “They hadn’t been stocked yet.”
“Thank you for checking.” You picked up one of the small boxes.
Pope looked at Allison. His jaw shifted once before he spoke.
“I’m sorry about before.”
She glanced at him, visibly surprised. “It’s fine.”
“No.” Pope looked briefly toward you, then back at her. “It wasn’t.”
Allison rubbed her palm against her trousers. “I’m sorry too. It’s been a long day, and I took it out on you.”
You gave her a small smile. “It’s okay.”
Pope nodded toward the blushes. “Thanks for looking.”
Allison returned the nod, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
You held up the box for Pope. “This is the one.”
He placed it beside Pink Guava and Toasted Marshmallow in the basket. “You want another?”
“One is enough.”
Pope checked your face before gathering the bags again.
“Anything else?” Allison asked.
“No, thank you.”
At the register, Pope arranged the two Laneige masks, Pink Guava, Toasted Marshmallow and the Sleepy Girl blush on the counter. When you opened your purse, he caught your wrist and guided your hand away from it.
“I can pay for my makeup, baby.”
“I’ve got it.” He kept hold of you while passing his card to the cashier.
“You already bought everything for the house.”
“These are for the house too.”
You picked up Pink Guava. “This is going in my purse.”
Pope took the tube from you, returned it to the counter and tucked you against his side. “Your purse comes home.”
The cashier lowered her head to hide a smile. You stared at Pope while he entered his PIN.
“That isn’t how house purchases work.”
“You need all of it, sweetheart.”
“And apparently that means you need to pay for it.”
Pope returned his wallet to his pocket and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Yeah.”
There was no point arguing once he had decided. You slipped your arm through his and rested your head against his shoulder while the cashier packed everything.
“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Pope asked, looking down at the products before the cashier placed them inside the bag.
You laughed softly. “Yes, baby.”
You slipped beneath Pope’s arm as you left Sephora, talking about unpacking the last kitchen boxes and washing the new sheets before putting them on the bed.
“Kitchen first,” you said. “Otherwise we’ll leave everything in bags for a week.”
“Bed first.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to sleep in it tonight.”
You looked up at him, smiling. “We could do both.”
Pope drew you closer and kept walking. He had spent the entire afternoon waiting for something to go wrong. Every vibration of his phone made him expect Smurf’s name on the screen, followed by questions about where he was and why he had been gone so long. Only Deran knew about the two of you and the house by the beach, and Pope had told him because someone needed to know where to find you if he failed to come home after a job. Deran had promised to keep his mouth shut, but the secret still made Pope feel exposed because nothing in his life had ever remained his once Smurf discovered it.
His arm tightened around you without warning.
Your sentence trailed off. You turned within his hold and laid your palm flat against his stomach, feeling the tension beneath his shirt.
“Baby, are you okay?” You searched his face when he did not answer immediately. “Is it getting too loud? We can leave if you need to.”
Pope noticed the worry gathering between your brows and loosened his arm.
“No. Sorry.” He covered your hand with his, keeping it against him. “Keep talking, sweetheart.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.” His thumb moved over your knuckles. “I don’t want to leave. Tell me what you were saying.”
You studied him for another moment before kissing his chest through his shirt. Pope pressed his mouth to the top of your head, and only then did you settle against his side again.
“I bought bath salts,” you continued, slipping your arm around his waist. “So we can unpack the kitchen, make the bed and then have a bath like you wanted.”
Pope’s hand began moving slowly over your back as he listened.
“But you’re not allowed to pour in the entire bottle of bubble bath this time.”
“It wasn’t the entire bottle.”
You tilted your face up to him. “Baby, it was nearly full when I gave it to you.”
“There was some left.”
“Enough for one very small bath, honey.” You held your thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart.
Pope watched the gesture, the corner of his mouth beginning to lift. “Still wasn’t the whole bottle.”
Then a small shop beside the exit caught his attention. A rotating stand of Jellycat bag charms stood near the door, little animals, fruit and flowers hanging from metal clips while their thin cord legs swung beneath them.
Pope stopped.
You felt his hand tighten around yours. “What is it?”
He nodded toward the display. “We need keychains for the new keys.”
Your face lit up. “We absolutely do.”
Pope let you lead him inside and set the shopping bags beside his feet while you crouched in front of the stand. You had barely turned it once before a green shamrock caught your attention.
“Wait.” You lifted it from its hook and touched one of its dangling feet. “They all have legs.”
Pope glanced at the other charms. “Yeah.”
“How have I never noticed that?”
You turned the stand again, laughing when a sun, a ladybug in tiny black shoes and several pieces of fruit swung into view. Then you found a lemon and picked it up, making its little legs walk across your palm.
“Look at him. He has somewhere important to be.” You held it beside your cheek and smiled at Pope. “Should this one be mine?”
Pope watched you, completely mesmerized.
For years, he had believed that was the life he deserved.
Smurf might have been the one who decided who had to die, but Pope had been the one to kill them. Being useful to her did not make him innocent.
Eventually, he had begun to think there was nothing inside him worth saving: no soul, no heart...
Because a man with either would have stopped long before Pope ever did and he had put too much ugliness into the world to complain when none of the good parts reached him.
Baz had made that clear years ago.
They had been in Smurf’s garage after a job, Baz drinking and still carrying the confidence that made everyone else gather around him. Pope no longer remembered what started the argument. He remembered Baz laughing over the mouth of his beer bottle and asking what Pope thought was going to happen to him.
You think some woman’s gonna marry you? Have a kid with you? You?
Baz laughed again when Pope said nothing.
Nobody wants to wake up next to you, Pope.
Pope had hit him. Baz had hit back, and Smurf had blamed Pope for the broken cabinet without asking about the blood running into his mouth. None of it stayed with him as clearly as the certainty in Baz’s voice. Perhaps Pope had hit him because he already believed him.
Nobody would choose him.
Nobody would build a life with him.
His future had seemed like one long, cold day beneath a sky that never cleared, every morning leading back to another night inside Smurf’s house. Pope had stopped expecting anything else because hope only gave people something else to take from him.
Now you were kneeling in front of a display of ridiculous plush keychains, laughing because a lemon had legs. Pope looked at you and, for one brief moment, the store disappeared.
He imagined somewhere far from Oceanside. Another mall in a town where nobody knew the Cody name. You stood beside him, older but still laughing at everything. A little girl reached for a plush toy while Pope held her beneath the arms so she could see the top row.
She had his dark hair, gathered into two uneven pigtails he had tried to make himself. His freckles covered her nose. Everything else belonged to you: your eyes, your soft cheeks, your lips already turning into the same smile you wore whenever you knew Pope would give you whatever you asked for.
He could see himself buying the toy even after you reminded him she already had too many, he could see the little girl hugging it to her chest while Pope carried her back to the car and perhaps one day the small bedroom in the beach house would hold a crib until they found somewhere farther away.
The thought should have frightened someone like him, right?
Instead, Pope wanted it so badly that his chest hurt.
“Baby?”
You were standing now, the lemon still in your hand. Pope blinked and found you watching him.
“You went somewhere.”
“I’m here.”
You put the lemon back and came closer, rubbing your hand over his chest. “You were looking at me like you wanted to say something.”
Pope reached behind the sun and removed the sunflower hanging partly beneath it. He held one charm in each hand.
“I thought we could get these.”
Your eyes dropped to them. “The sun and the sunflower?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re perfect.” You took them from him and smoothed the sunflower’s soft yellow petals, smiling down at the two charms, making their little cord legs move against your palm before looking back at him. “Why these two, honey?”
His thumb caught beneath one of the sunflower’s petals. He had known what they meant when he took them from the display. Explaining it with you standing in front of him was different. He rubbed the soft fabric between his fingers, keeping his eyes lowered.
“Sunflowers turn toward the sun… They keep looking for it.” He shifted his weight and glanced toward the entrance, then back at the charm. “Doesn’t matter where it moves. They turn so they can still see it. They don't like the dark.”
You watched his fingers worrying at the petal. “And you want to be the sunflower?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Pope swallowed. He had already told you enough to make the answer obvious, but you waited for him to say it. Your free hand slipped into his and squeezed, giving him something to hold on to while he tried.
“Because I always know where you are,” he said. “Even when I’m not looking at you, I know.”
“And where am I, baby?”
“Here.”
His fingers tightened around yours before guiding your hand to his chest. His heart beat hard beneath your palm, each uneven thud pressing through the thin fabric of his shirt.
You had felt it countless times before. Beneath your cheek while you slept, racing against your ear when a nightmare tore him awake, gradually slowing whenever you climbed into his lap and held him until he remembered where he was. But this felt different. Pope was keeping your hand there deliberately, offering you the frantic rhythm as though it could explain whatever his mouth could not.
For one suspended moment, he felt more yours than he ever had.
He had chosen you. He had taken the parts of himself he kept hidden from everyone else, the frightened ones, the damaged ones, the ones he believed made him impossible to love, and placed them beneath your palm without knowing whether you would hold them gently.
“And if I can’t find you,” he continued, his thumb pressing into the back of your hand, “I look.”
You traced one slow stroke over his shirt. “So you’re the sunflower.”
Pope nodded. His attention dropped to the two charms, and he worried the edge of one soft yellow petal between his fingers.
“And I’m the sun?”
“Yeah.”
You waited.
His jaw shifted. He looked toward the entrance, then at the floor, visibly regretting how far he had allowed the conversation to go. Still, he did not let go of you.
“Because it was dark before you,” he said at last.
Your breathing faltered.
“In my head, I mean.” Pope frowned, frustrated with himself already. “It’s always been loud in there. Telling me this things.”
“What things?”
He rubbed his thumb against your knuckles. “That I’m bad. That I ruin everything. That none of this is gonna last because I don’t get to have good things like this.”
Your chest tightened, but you stayed quiet.
“They’re still there,” he added quickly, as though he needed to make sure you understood that you had not repaired him. “You didn’t make them go away— but they’re not always as mean anymore.”
His words were so quiet that the noise of the store nearly swallowed them.
Pope’s brow pulled tighter as he struggled to explain. “Sometimes there’s something else too. Something that says maybe I can come home. Maybe you’ll still be there when I do. That I’m…” He paused, swallowing again. “That I’m not only what they say I am.”
Your thumb stilled above his heart.
“It sounds like you sometimes,” he admitted. “Not really your voice— I know you’re not in my head.” His cheeks warmed as he rushed to clarify it, but his fingers held firmly to yours. “It just says the kind of things you say to me.”
The pressure behind your ribs became almost painful.
Pope had lived for years with Smurf’s voice buried inside him, joined by Baz’s laughter and every terrible thing he had ever come to believe about himself. You had never imagined that somewhere among them, your love had begun answering back. Not loudly enough to silence them but enough to make the darkness a little less certain of itself.
“You made everything lighter,” Pope murmured. “My life. All the stuff in here.”
He lifted your joined hands slightly against his chest.
“So I keep turning toward you.” His eyes dropped to the sunflower again. “Because you’re my sun.”
The words settled somewhere so deep inside you that you could not respond.
His pulse continued beneath your palm, hard and alive and entirely unguarded. You thought of all the years he had spent convinced that nobody would choose him, only for this man to stand before you now and confess that your love had become the kindest voice inside his head.
Your vision blurred.
Pope noticed immediately. The sunflower slipped from his fingers, swinging by its tag as both hands rose to your face.
“Hey. What happened?”
He searched your expression, alarm sharpening every feature when the first tear escaped.
“Was it what I said?” His breathing quickened when you could not answer fast enough. “It was too much— I shouldn’t have said it.”
“No, baby.”
“We can pick different ones.” He reached for the little sun in your hand. “Forget it.”
You caught his wrists before he could take it from you. “Andrew, look at me.”
“I made you cry.”
“I’m happy.”
Pope froze, his palms still cupping your cheeks. “You don’t look happy.”
“I’m overwhelmed.” You turned your face into one of his hands and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm. “Because nobody has ever given me anything as beautiful as what you just gave me.”
“I only said you were the sun.”
“You told me that loving you has made the inside of your head a little kinder.”
His mouth tightened. “Sounds stupid when you say it like that.”
“It doesn’t.” You leaned into his touch, a wet laugh catching in your throat. “It means more to me than I know how to explain.”
Some of the panic eased from his face, though uncertainty remained in the careful way he held you.
“You meant it, didn’t you?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“Then don’t take it back.”
“You’re sure?”
“Completely.” You kissed the base of his thumb. “But I need you to say it again.”
His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Because this time, you’ll know the tears don’t mean you hurt me.”
Pope hesitated. His thumb swept beneath your eye, catching the wetness there before it reached your cheek.
“You’re my sun.”
Your face crumpled all over again.
He was not the collection of terrible things he had survived and the worse things he still blamed himself for.
He was Andrew.
Your Andrew.
His eyes widened. “Sweetheart—”
You laughed and threw your arms around his neck before he could panic a second time.
“Still happy, baby. I promise.”
Pope held you tightly, one hand cupping the back of your head while your laughter softened against his neck. When you finally leaned away, his gaze moved between your eyes and paused on your wet cheeks.
You kissed the worried crease between his eyebrows before looking down at the sunflower dangling from his fingers. One of its petals had folded beneath his grip, so you carefully smoothed it back into place.
“My sweet, grumpy sunflower.”
Pope frowned. “No.”
“No what?”
“You’re not calling me that.”
“But it’s perfect.” You lifted the sunflower beside his face, smiling when his frown deepened. “You’re sweet, you’re grumpy, and you just admitted that you spend your life turning toward me.”
Pope reached for the little sun in your other hand, but you hid it behind your back.
He held out his hand, palm open. “Give it back.”
You closed your fingers around the little sun and tucked it safely behind your back. “You gave it to me.”
He stepped closer and slipped an arm around your waist, trying to reach past you while you twisted away with a laugh. “I’m reconsidering.”
“That isn’t how presents work.” You turned, rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I’m going to call you my sweet, grumpy sunflower every day for the rest of our lives.”
Pope stopped reaching for the charm.
“The rest of our lives?” he asked.
Your teasing softened. “Yes, baby. That’s the plan.”
His hand settled at your waist and drew you a little closer. “Okay.”
Your smile widened. “You’re accepting the nickname already?”
“No.”
“Then what was the okay for?”
Pope looked at the sun hidden behind your back and then at the sunflower resting against his chest.
“For the rest of our lives.”
You caught his face between your hands and kissed him before either of you could become emotional again.
Pope went still beneath your palms. Then both arms closed around you. One hand spread across your lower back while the other cradled your neck, drawing you firmly against him.
He kissed you slowly. His mouth was warm and slightly unsteady beneath yours, softening each time your thumbs stroked his cheeks. The faint salt of your tears lingered on your lips, and Pope kissed it away before returning for another kiss, then another, as though the first had not been enough.
Your fingers slipped into the short hair at his temples. An uneven breath left him against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your back while the kiss deepened. His thumb moved slowly beneath your ear. He took his time with every gentle press of his lips, holding you closer whenever your fingers moved through his hair.
When you finally began to draw away, his hand tightened softly at your nape and brought you back for one last lingering kiss.
Pope kept his forehead against yours after your mouths parted. His eyes remained closed, his breathing uneven while your fingers continued moving through his hair.
You brushed your nose against his.
“I love you, my grumpy sunflower.”
“Love you too.” His thumb moved over your cheek as the corner of his mouth finally lifted. “But you’re not calling me that in front of Deran.”
Summary: Andrew's girlfriend volunteers to be Lena's camp counselor. During a secret, late night meet up at the edge of the woods, she confesses a dark fantasy to him. Andrew fulfills it.
Content: +18 MDNI, established relationship, codependent tendencies from both pope and reader, size difference, slasher summer vibes, unprotected piv, dry humping, semi-public sex, fingering, oral f! and m!receiving, choking, facefucking, finger sucking, masked sex, knife play, predator/prey primal play, dacryphilia, pussy slapping, fem edging, bondage with zipties, rough sex, creampie, aftercare
Note: this is part two of of my fic sweetheart but can be read as a stand alone!! just written with the same shy freaky reader in mind! i hope you enjoy this new edition to the sweetheartverse <3
WC: 9.5k
[masterlist][AO3]
You are, single-handedly, the best thing to ever happen to Andrew Cody.
And he's painfully aware of it that day you pick up the phone to selflessly put an end to his anxiety. You don't hesitate or think twice. You see a solution even at the expense of yourself and you don't consider anything else.
The first week that school is out, Lena mentions summer camp no less than twenty times. So, Smurf finds one just out of town and signs her up.
She doesn't think about all the problems Lena's had with other kids this year. She doesn't think about the fact that they'd be dropping her off in the middle of nowhere with kids she's never met in her life.
They might be mean. They might exclude her or laugh at her or pull awful pranks. And no one would know until the four weeks were up, until summer camp was over, until she'd already endured it.
Andrew confesses his fears to you late one night, and the following morning he wakes to you making breakfast in the kitchen with your cellphone pressed to your ear, talking animatedly.
And when you're done, you tell him that you'd signed up to be a counselor at the camp Lena's going to. "So she has someone looking out for her," you explain.
Four weeks of your life, stuck in the middle of the woods with a handful of kids, all to protect Lena. All to give Pope a little bit of respite.
He doesn't understand what he did to deserve you, his sweetheart, but he promises to keep you. Happy, safe, satisfied—to keep you his.
The ache starts the moment you step out of his truck, encumbered by your duffel bag and Lena's backpack.
And even though you look back at him over your shoulder as you walk to the camp office building, hand in hand with his niece—even though you stop completely to run back to him for one last kiss, much to Lena's disgust—Andrew misses you the second you're gone.
He tries to busy himself by cleaning your shared room and color coding your dresser drawers. He pulls small jobs with his brothers and runs a few errands for Smurf and hires a new pool cleaner.
But the loneliness begins to suffocate by the second night.
He wasn't used to this. To the absence of your hand around his elbow, to the lack of warmth from your breath whenever you hid your face behind his shoulder, to the silence that presses in on him late at night.
He misses your quiet giggles and your whispered questions and the weight of your hand in his.
He misses the way you look up at him with wide eyes from down on your knees and the way you roll around restlessly in his sheets every night before finally giving up and admitting, "I can't sleep."
And he'll smile and kiss you sweetly and say, "I know, sweetheart. Take your shirt off."
Pope hadn't realized just how reliant he was on his nighttime routine of fucking you to sleep until he no longer could.
Sure, he could stroke himself to the gallery of photos he has of you split open on his cock, but it's not the same. It's not the same, and sleep evades him the same way it used to before he'd met you.
Before he'd been absolved of his sins by the sweetest little girl. Before you'd stuck your fingers between his ribs and taken hold of his twisted and mangled heart for yourself; without flinching, without hesitance—only a claiming.
And now you were gone, loving him in a different way, a way he had never experienced before.
On the third day, Craig is the first to point it out.
Pope is sitting in the same pool lounger you always lay on. His spine is straight and he doesn't speak, he only stares at the glimmers of reflection in the aquamarine waters.
"Dude," Craig says, lifting a joint to his lips and cupping his hands around the end to light it. "You've gotta get a hobby or somethin' man. I've got a girl coming over in twenty minutes, you can't just sit here all creepy and woeful cause you haven't gotten any pussy in a few days."
Andrew's lip curls. "Don't say that."
His brother shrugs dramatically. "Well, man. I'm just being honest. We're all thinking it, I'm just the one saying it."
"Saying what?"
"That this—" Craig sweeps his hands outwards, motioning to Pope and the state he's in. "It's not healthy. She's a real sweetheart and you love her, I get it. But this, like, codependency you've got going on is just sad, bro. Seriously."
Andrew doesn't respond, but the words stick with him.
He gets in his truck and drives himself to Deran's bar, knowing there's probably a hundred and one things to clean in the kitchen. A hundred and one things that will keep his mind busy.
But while he's reorganizing the back stock, he can't help but think about Craig's little speech.
Codependent?
Andrew Cody. Codependent.
No, he thinks. It's not that bad, is it?
Sure, he misses you. And yeah, it's hard to sleep without you. And he might be going a little stir crazy, not being about to take care of you in his day-to-day routines, but…codependent?
He's drinking a beer, sitting at the bar at the end of the night while Deran resets the register and wipes down the countertop one final time. Pope stares hard at his brother and carefully asks, "Do you think I'm…codependent?"
"Craig talk to you?"
The clarifying question comes immediately, and it does nothing to soothe his concerns. Andrew just levels his stare.
Deran lets out a sigh and says, "Uh…I wouldn't use the word codependent. Isn't that, like, a one sided thing?"
When Andrew speaks, the words come out monotone and rehearsed. "A codependent is someone who forms a dysfunctional, one sided relationship by prioritizing another persons needs over their own, often enabling harmful behaviors."
His brother stares blankly at him.
"I looked it up."
Deran sighs deeply and mulls over the definition for a moment, silence hanging between them while he counts the twenties in his hand. "I guess…maybe it's more like separation anxiety or something," Deran says. "You know, like a dog gets without it's owner."
"That's not helpful."
"You asked," he counters with a shrug.
Pope drops the subject.
And it doesn't matter, anyway. Because an hour later he gets a phone call from an unknown number and when he answers it, the sweetest voice speaks.
"Andrew?"
"Sweetheart? You okay? What's wrong?"
"I…I'm sorry for calling so late, but…"
He can hear it, even through the phone. The anguish in you. Pope hates it. Hates it so much that the words are rushed and desperate as they spill from his mouth. "Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it, okay? Talk to me."
A ragged sound leaves you, an almost-sob. "I—I can't sleep. I need to see you, to kiss you, to…please."
Oh—sweet girl. He knows what you need, even if you're a little shy with the asking. He knows because he needs it, too.
Pope's been fantasizing about this exact scenario for the last forty eight hours. So when he gives instructions, they're crystal clear.
"There's a…a trail. Into the woods, a little bit away from that cabin on the east side of the property, do you know which one I'm talking about?"
He's already got his keys in hand, halfway to his truck before you answer. "They call it Cabin Frog."
It makes Andrew laugh. He'd gone in the middle of the night two days before he'd dropped you and Lena off to scope the place out, and he does recall the cartoonish frog painted on the front door.
"Yeah, that's the one," he says, the faintest trace of amusement still in his voice. "Want you to take that trail through the woods, alright? All the way. It's gonna feel like you're walking a real long time, but once you get to the end you'll be at the side of that winding road we took to get to the camp."
"And you'll be waiting for me there?"
"Yeah, sweetheart," he answers gently. "Of course I will be."
"Do you promise?"
"Cross my heart."
By the time you hang up, Pope's almost out of Oceanside. The bustle of the city falls away behind him, allowing for the tall, towering trees to replace the lights.
He likes it out here. Thinks about one day finding some land away from all the chaos and noise and building a home for you there. Someplace that doesn't belong to his brothers or his mother. Someplace that's just yours.
But maybe it's wishful thinking. Maybe he's just excited and eager for the first time in days, fueled by the promise of seeing you.
Pope arrives at your spot before you do. He parks his truck on the shoulder of the empty street and gets out.
With his arms folded and his back pressed to the passenger door, he waits. It doesn't take long, though. He hears crunching leaves and cracking sticks beneath your feet seconds before you emerge from the darkness of the brush.
And the moment you see him, you melt into yourself. Shoulders relaxing, a long held sigh leaving your pretty mouth. You're dressed in nothing more than a pair of pajama shorts and one of Pope's old t-shirts.
That tightness in his chest dissipates right then and there. The tension bleeds from his muscles and everything settles in him as you run up the small, grassy bank at the side of the road and throw yourself into his waiting arms.
Pope smiles. For the first time in what feels like a long time. He smiles and presses his nose into your hair, inhaling the scent of you deep into his lungs. "Oh, sweetheart," he muses, hands squeezing you tight.
"I missed you so much," you mumble, face pressed into the crook of his neck.
Pope feels the wetness of your tears against his freckled skin and pulls back just enough to see your face. "Hey, don't cry. M'right here. Okay? I've got you."
His sweet girl.
When he slips his big hands beneath your shirt, pressed to the small of your back, it's not a sexual caress but instead a grounding one. Feeling the softness of your skin, warming the cold away with his heat.
Pope opens the passenger door of his truck, brackets a hand around your waist, and sets you on the edge of the leather seat. He pushes your knees apart to make room for him between them and rests his head against your chest.
He hears the steady thumping of your heart and feels himself finally, finally relax.
You card your fingers through his hair, messing up the structure of the ambery curls. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp and he can't help the low groan that leaves him, the sound vibrating against your sternum.
When you tug lightly to pull his head back and press your mouth to his, he can taste the desperation on your tongue.
Andrew reaches up and grips your face just beneath your chin, holding you in place to lick into your mouth. He's moaning already, sounds mirrored in you, wanting to be impossibly closer.
Your hands grow fevered and he matches your every movement, fingertips pressing into the softness of your hips and the curve of your jaw.
He takes you right then and there; pushes your legs up to your chest and sinks his cock deep inside.
It feels like relief, like forgiveness, like coming home.
Andrew hadn't realized just how much he longed for the taste of your mouth. A craving satisfied only by your sweet sighs against his lips.
Even when he's finished, when he pumps you full of his release, he stays fully seated inside you. Not moving but simply feeling you, pulsing around his cock, sensitive and alive and his.
He traces the features of your face and feels like he'd taken his time with you for granted before. This closeness, the feeling of your skin beneath his fingertips—he hated being without it.
After some time, he helps clean you up with napkins from the glove box and climbs into the cab of the truck with you.
Only then, when you've got your head in his lap, looking up at him with those pretty eyes of yours, does he ask, "How's Lena?"
"She's good," you answer, sleepy grin widening. "I think she's having a lot of fun. And there's this girl her age—Caitlin. They've been making friendship bracelets the last few days. So many of them they're halfway up her arm now."
Hearing it makes Pope crack a smile. She deserves it. After the rough year she's had, he finds peace in knowing she's at least having fun and being a kid for a few weeks the way she should be. "Thank you," he says, voice quiet and a little melancholic.
"For what?"
"For taking care of her," he answers. "And me."
You reach for his hand at your hip and take it in yours. Pope lets you move his fingers of your own will, flattening them before placing them against the side of your cheek. "I love you, Andrew," you say.
It makes his chest pull tight. It's different when you say it. Not like when Smurf tells him she loves him, not like his brothers.
It's painfully different, because it's something you choose.
Even knowing all you know about him and his family, even seeing all you've seen, the things he's never been able to fully shield you from—you still choose him.
He brushes his knuckles against the side of your cheek. And because he doesn't quite know how to explain his own devotion, he says, "I'd do anything for you. Anything."
Andrew means it. Lie or cheat or steal or kill. Anything.
But you don't ask for much. You never do. Just his time and his affection. "Will you rub my back? I haven't been sleeping very well without you."
He nods, eyes shining bright with adoration. You turn on your side with your head still in his lap, and Andrew spends the next several hours stroking his hand lazily up your spine.
Not sleeping, because he doesn't want to miss this precious time with you. Holding his sweetheart close, smelling the scent of your shampoo and the cedar of the trees.
He wakes you a little before sunrise, giving you just enough time that you can sneak back onto the camp's property and back into your cabin undetected.
But before you go, you press your forehead to his and give him that pretty, warm smile of yours. You brush your noses together and peck his lips and say, "Same time tomorrow night, okay?"
"I'll be here," Andrew says.
"You promise?"
"Cross my heart."
This time, when the sun begins to set, Andrew brings a few things with him. He's in less of a rush because there's a routine created now that he can expect.
He's got blankets laid out in the truck bed and a cooler full of your favorite snacks and your favorite movie downloaded on his phone. Everything to make you comfortable, to keep you coming back through the woods every night to find him.
Craig is the first to notice the change.
They're both standing in the kitchen. Pope is making himself something to eat and Craig and Deran are piling leftovers from yesterday onto plates and popping the caps off a couple of beers.
Craig offers one to Pope, and even though it's only eleven in the morning he takes it. Because he's got no where to be until nightfall, and the weather is nice enough out today that he won't be scorched by the sun. He could use a little time to unwind.
His brother's eyes widen in surprise when he takes the bottle from his hands. "You're in a good mood today," he says.
Andrew just shrugs. Knows good and well what's gotten him out of the slump he was in, but doesn't want to give either of his brothers another reason to believe he's codependent. "What? I can't just be in a good mood?"
Deran narrows his eyes and lifts his beer to his mouth. "Seriously, man. Something must've changed."
Whatever relaxation Andrew had hoped for disappears with the conversation at hand. "Stop," he says simply. He wants to argue, but has no ground to stand on that wouldn't collapse under the smallest amount of pressure.
So, Pope leaves it. Gathers his perfectly made sandwich and his beer and leaves the kitchen, trying to ignore the look of concern on their faces.
He chooses not to speak when he overhears Craig saying confusedly, "Therapy, maybe?"
It doesn't matter to him what they think. Not when he shows up on the side of the empty road each night to you bouncing on the balls of your feet, more excited to see him than anyone else has ever been.
So, yeah—maybe he's a little codependent. But none of that matters when you tilt your head back to smile up at him.
None of that matters when you're sitting in his lap, kissing his cheeks and nose and forehead, feverishly rocking your hips against his thigh and making a big wet mess on the denim of his jeans.
Pretty, desperate girl. Always so needy for him, never fully satisfied. And of course Andrew understands, because he's just as insatiable for you.
He does start to wonder if maybe it's a little perverse, though. What he's doing to you.
It clicks in his brain one night when you emerge from the trees in nothing but a bikini top and a pair of jean shorts. The ends of your hair are wet, and when he tilts his head curiously you explain, "The camp counselors had a swim race tonight. And guess what."
Andrew struggles to guess much of anything because he can't stop staring. Rivulets of water still drip down the center of your chest, just between your breasts that are held up beautifully by the polyester ribbon tied behind your neck. When he speaks it's a single word and it's low and slow and raspy, eyes locked on yours. "What?"
"I won! Fastest swimmer out of everyone. Lena was so happy. Seeing her giggling and jumping around—God, Andrew. She's so cute."
"You're cute," he says. "Come here."
And you do, of course. Let him pull you in by the belt loops on your shorts, talking and giggling all the while. So excited to recount your whole day to him that you hardly notice what he's doing until you're on the hood of his car and he's pulling your shorts down your legs and pushing your shoulders back.
It hits him then. With his head between your legs, staring up at you to watch your nipples pebble beneath your bikini. The rubber soles of your high top sneakers make little scuff marks on the black chrome paint as you writhe under the gentle ministrations of his tongue against your clit.
Andrew Cody's got the sweetest, filthiest girl in the palm of his bloodied hands. Wrapped real tight around his finger.
A sweetheart who'd do just about anything for him, and here he is indulging your every whim when in truth he should be protecting you. From himself especially. From the raging monster that lives between his ribs, from the guard dog he'd been molded into by the harsh edges of his life.
Andrew's too weak, though. Could never in a million fucking years deny you anything.
Especially when you set those cute little sneakers over his shoulders and beg so prettily, "Please, Andrew—more. Want you to be—hmm—be mean to me, make it—oh, god. Want you to make it hurt."
And he will, of course. Shoving your legs against your chest, squeezing the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise.
Later in the month, nearly through the final week of your new routine now, the thought crosses Andrew's mind again.
He wonders if the state of your desires has been subconsciously shaped by him. Wonders if maybe, somehow, that darkness inside has started to seep out of his heart and stain your sweet one.
Andrew's given the opportunity to confess these worries to you late one night in the back of his truck. He's got you tucked tight beneath his arm, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over the muscle of his pectoral, right over his heart. "Can I…ask you something?"
You turn your head to look up at him. "Anything. Always."
He chews nervously on the inside of his bottom lip, mulling over how he can approach the subject without coming across insecure, despite the fact that he is.
"Do you…you don't…pretend to like the things we do for—for me, do you?"
A crease forms between your brows, and you prop yourself up on an elbow to fully look at him now. "What do you mean?"
Pope swallows hard, casting his eyes away, feeling suddenly as shy as you get around anyone other than him. "When we…when I…hurt you," he says. "You're not asking for those things just because I want them, right?"
"Andrew, what?"
"I just want to make sure I'm not changing you or….or corrupting you." He takes your face gently in his hands, stroking his fingers softly over your cheek. "You're so—so good. Such a sweetheart. And I'm…"
You wrap your hands around his wrists, pulling him away. It feels like a loss, like rejection, and he can feel his heart beginning to crack clean in two.
But then you look him right in the eye, voice more sure than he's ever heard it.
"I want you, Andrew. Not half of you. Not parts of you." You lean up further, on your knees now, a surety in your movements. "Do you…does it bother you? That I want those things?"
"No—no. Not at all. I…" The words get caught, stuck in his throat, horrified and exhilarated all at once to be so honest about the part of himself he's been taught to hate. The part of himself he knows is bad. Andrew is terrified of losing you, of scaring you.
But even as shy as you are, often hiding your face behind his shoulder, voice always timid and unsure, with this you seem certain. Unwavering.
With him, you've always opened your chest fully, willingly, your heart a soft feast for the darkness inside him.
And what is a man who's been denied softness at every turn of his life to do but devour it?
"Pope."
He stops, the spiral in his mind going quiet.
Not Andrew, but Pope. The worst of him. A name given to a boy with blood beneath his fingernails, a boy who'd already been molded.
You take his big hand in yours and bring it to the side of your neck, pressing his thumb just over your steady pulse.
His own heart hammers, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to realize you deserve better than this. Softer than this.
When you speak, the words are a whisper. A secret meant for him only. "I want you to violate me."
And because it's you who asks—his soft spoken, timid little sweetheart, who's never once flinched at the hard grip of his bloodied hands or shown an ounce of fear at a glimpse into what lives inside him—Pope does it.
Unleashes the worst of himself and lets his fingers tighten around your pretty neck. He presses you down and crawls on top of you, knees bracketing the top of your ribcage. Your hands come to steady themselves on the big expanse of his thighs, and the touch is so gentle that it grounds him. Helps him stay in the moment, reminding him that this is what you want.
Pope's hand on your throat moves up your jaw, cradling your face. He circles the shape of your mouth with the rough pad of his thumb, squishing your pretty lips beneath the pressure. "You have such a sweet mouth," he murmurs, his eyes dark and molten. "D'you know that?"
You can't answer, because he's shoving two fingers behind your teeth before you can inhale again. Your tongue swirls around them, between each digit, moaning around the thickness of his knuckles. He pushes them in deeper, deeper, until you're choking and gasping for air.
Pope doesn't pull them out, not right away. He lets those tears well in your eyes, lets your fingers flex at his thighs, nails scratching against the rough denim. But not once do you look afraid.
Instead, your glassy eyes hold a certain sort of magic in them.
When he does finally pull back, Pope's fingers come away slick and glossy with your saliva. You greedily suck in lungfuls of air that he'd denied you, lips turning up at the corners, forming the happiest looking smile he's ever seen.
Pope unbuttons his jeans and pulls his cock out, already hard and aching. He grips the back of your neck and guides himself between your swollen lips, letting out a sigh of relief when you swallow him down.
Your mouth is soft and smooth, warm velvet around him, tongue gentle but seeking as you swirl it around the tip. He pushes himself to the back of your throat, humming when you choke on his length.
His other hand joins the first, cradling the back of your head, holding you firmly in place so that when he snaps his hips forward your mouth stays in perfect position.
It doesn't take long. Pope fucks your mouth with reckless abandon. Violates you, just like you'd asked. When your eyes go all cloudy, he pulls back just enough to let you breathe. To let the oxygen return to your blood cells, groaning low at the way his cock looks covered in your spit, webs of it clinging to his length and snapping against your lips.
Pope slides himself back into your mouth, down your warm throat, until your nose is pressed up against the trimmed hair at the base of his cock.
He steals your air and you stare up at him with so much adoration in your eyes that it makes his heart constrict. He's never felt a love like this—unconditional and absolute. His own devotion met with equal and devastating totality.
That familiar coil winds tight around his spine, and before he can stop himself Pope is spilling his release at the back of your mouth with a heavy groan.
You swallow him down until he's finished, his cock twitching between your lips. And when he finally pulls out, assessing the fucked out state of you, guilt begins to creep up around the edges of his psyche.
But then you giggle and wipe the back of your hand across your messy, spit-covered mouth, and Pope can't help but mirror the sound.
You cling tight to him for the remainder of the night, and Andrew presses gentle kisses to every inch of exposed skin he can reach with your head on his chest.
It makes him a little sad when sunrise comes and you have to leave him again, but the feeling is soothed by knowing you only do so only to protect Lena.
Still, the final week comes as blessed relief.
On Tuesday night, you come bounding out of the treeline more excited than usual. There's a wide grin on your face as you fall into his embrace, arms wrapped tight around his neck.
"You're in a good mood," he observes, hands resting against the small of your back.
"Mhm. After we put the kids to bed today all the adults got together to watch a movie. A scary one. You wanna know what it was?"
Andrew opens the passenger door of his truck for you, relieved just to hear your voice. "Tell me."
"It was Friday the 13th. You know, the one where the killer goes around and murders all the camp counselors."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah, but it wasn't that scary. Some of it was even a little silly. But…there was this one part."
Andrew helps you up onto the leather seat in the cab and stands tall between your knees. He urges, "What part?"
"Well, it just…"
He sees it happen in real time; that slight embarrassment taking hold of you. You twist your fingers in your lap, fidgeting nervously. "Just what, sweetheart?"
Bashfully, you admit, "It got me thinking of you."
And he knows, before you even explain, that this particular scene had you thinking of what he does to you. Pope wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, breath growing a little slower. "Did it?"
"Mhm." You nod. "The killer is, like…super strong. He's tall and broad and big, you know? Like you are."
Andrew feels his face heat when you say it. "Big, huh?"
You giggle softly and press your forehead against his chest that is, in fact, big and broad. Corded with muscle beneath a masculine softness.
He nudges you back up with a shoulder. "Keep going," he says. "I'm still listening."
Your eyes shine brightly when your gaze finds his. When you continue, your voice is just a little lower, quieter—but that shy smile still persists. "He wears this hockey mask, too. Which got me thinking about that mask you wore for that one job—the one I helped with, remember?"
"Mhm."
"And the killer, he was…well, he was chasing one of the camp counselors through the woods. And it was late at night, and the actress was wearing the same shoes as me."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm. Same color and everything. And then she trips, and he catches her of course—"
"Well, of course."
You laugh at his dry attempt at a joke. "Of course. But then…I don't know. He has…he carries this big knife with him, too. Like a machete kinda. And…" You swallow hard, raise your index finger to his neck, and slide it across the crease in his skin. "He holds it to her, you know? Right here. And she looks so scared but…I don't think…if it were me. If it were…you."
Andrew picks it up then, what you're inadvertently asking him for. He knows you. Knows his sweetheart like the back of his hand, in fact. Can hear your desires even before you form the words around them. "You don't think you'd be scared? If I chased you through the woods and held a knife to your throat?"
Your breath stutters when he puts it plainly. But you don't speak, you just slowly shake your head.
He asks, holding eye contact so he'll know if you lie, "S'that what you want me to do to you?"
"I think…maybe…" You sigh, trying to fight of your shy demeanor. "Yes."
Truthfully, he's not sure what to make of it right away. Because Andrew would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it before. Or an adjacent thing, anyway. Chasing you down, tying you up. Seeing that look in your eye when you're not sure what happens next. Seeing just how far he could push, seeing how much he could take.
But it's all only fantasy. Buried beneath his own shame, his own guilt, practicing the learned behavior of suppression. Because it's you, and he's fire holding fragility in the palm of his hand, and Andrew Cody thinks he would die if he ever managed to hurt you. To truly hurt you.
He would die. Should die.
But…he's not taking, is he?
You're offering up your trust, your safety, your life. For him. For pleasure.
No, Andrew thinks. He's not taking, and it's not something as simple as surrender.
You're giving. Eagerly. Wishfully.
The weight of it overwhelms him.
Andrew lifts his hand to your face, brushing the back of his knuckles gently over your cheek. "And you're—you're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Do you promise?"
"Cross my heart."
A smile pulls at his lips, hearing a phrase of his own echoed in your mouth. Vowing this time not on his darkened heart but on your sweet one. And because he'd give you anything, anything—even the very worst of him, Andrew nods stiffly. Says, "I think I want that, too."
Your shoulders slump just a little, relief bleeding the tension from your bones.
"But you'll tell me if you change your mind, right? Even during. If you…if you do get scared, I won't be upset or mad or—or anything. You just tell me, okay?"
You wind your arms and legs around him, pulling his body against yours, head resting at the crook of his neck. "I'm not afraid of you."
Only then does he feel himself relax, melting beneath your touch. Andrew lifts your face to his with a finger beneath your chin. But as soon as he presses his mouth to yours, his phone begins to ring.
With a sigh, he fishes the pesky device out of his pocket and presses it to his ear, listening to his brother fill him in on the situation going on back home, outside of the perfect bubble of devotion and safety he's created here with you.
When he hangs up, there's melancholy in his voice as he admits, "I've…I've gotta go. Scouting something for a job next week. And I won't make it tomorrow, either. But…Thursday night. Alright?"
"It'll be the last night before summer camp is over," you say with an excited smirk. "So we can…"
Pope nods. "Just don't—don't come all the way off the trail. alright? You find someplace to hide an' I'll…I'll find you. Yeah?"
He doesn't miss the flash of excitement as it flickers through your pretty eyes. But you only nod in agreement, press a kiss to his cheek and say, "Be careful. And come back to me in one piece."
Far sooner than he'd like, you're turning to walk back to camp and Andrew is turning the key in the ignition.
But even knowing he won't see you for two days, the unsettled feeling is soothed in knowing what comes next.
And when he swaps Craig and Deran out at the scouting spot, Andrew is left alone to his own thoughts and they're filled with only you.
Of how lucky he is that of all the people in the world you could choose to shower in your affection, you choose him. It makes Andrew feel lucky and blessed and perhaps a little undeserving.
He thinks about how pretty you always look and how much harder he'll be standing over you with a knife in his hand.
The thought does occur that maybe this whole thing is fucked up—that he is fucked up for wanting it as much as he does. But then he remembers the brightness in your eyes when you'd asked this of him, and it settles something heavy in his chest.
He moves through the next few days in a sort of haze. Unfocused, because his mind is stuck on you. Not an unusual thing, but more intense than any given day.
And by Thursday morning, Andrew feels like he's buzzing with excitement. A little nervous, too, because he wants this to be perfect for you.
He even picks out an outfit. Andrew isn't the type to typically care that much about how he looks, as long as it's neat and clean and comfortable.
But for this, he picks out a pair of black jeans and a black hoodie, an attempt to blend himself into the shadows where he'll be hiding in wait.
He doesn't own a hockey mask, but he does own an all black ski mask, and…there's a part of him that thinks maybe you'll like it even more.
It takes longer to pick out a knife than an outfit, though.
He has quite the collection, in truth. Mostly smaller ones, easily concealed in a pocket or a boot.
But the one he settles on is a little flashier. Sharp around the edges. It's got a heavy, four knuckled grip and a chrome blade. Serrated with a saw back and a glint at its point.
It's pretty, like you are.
Andrew packs his truck with a few extras for afterwards, too. Your favorite blanket. A thermos full of icy water. A towel and a change of clothes and the t-shirt he'd worn to bed the night before just in case you ask for one to sleep in.
He stops at Deran's bar before he goes. Sets a stack of cash on the table and says, "I'm busy tonight. So don't bother me."
His brother asses him, trying to unearth an answer he won't be telling. Because this is something meant for Andrew only. Deran might know about your shared codependence, but all he needs to know apart from that is the truth; that you're a sweetheart.
"O…kay?"
Pope's jaw flexes. "I mean it. Don't call me unless one of us is dead."
Deran laughs nervously. "Somethin' going on I should know about?"
"No."
"Okay, well…you're acting weird, Pope. I mean, what? I'm just supposed to agree and not ask any questions?"
"Yes."
"You pullin' a solo job or something?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a solo job."
Deran levels his stare. And then asks with the smallest trace of amusement in his voice, "You breaking in to a summer camp tonight?"
Pope's jaw flexes. He blinks, and points at the cash. "That's for whoever takes my scouting shift," he says. And because he doesn't trust himself to say nothing more, he turns and leaves.
It takes more effort than he'd like to admit to ignore his brother's laughing in the background.
But none of that matters, Pope tells himself. Not now. Not tonight. Not when dusk falls, and he parks his truck in the familiar spot on the side of the road.
Not when he slides the freshly-polished knife into the leather sheath at his hip or when he pulls the black ski mask over his face.
Andrew's heart beats fast as he steps into the woods. The trees here are tall, the underbrush thick. The air smells like soil and rain and there's a faint aroma of fresh blossoms beneath it all.
His steps are careful. Meticulous. He's silent as he disappears into the cover of thick branches and green leaves. Darkness begins to descend, and Andrew lies in wait, knowing any minute now you'll come.
Knowing you'll run.
He's off the trail. Not far, but enough that you'd never spot him without knowing exactly where he's at. He breathes in deep, shedding free of that veil he wears of a righteous man, letting the his own darkness breach the surface of his psyche.
Pope hears you before he sees you. The branches breaking beneath your sneakers, the subtle shift of your feet. And when he does see you, coming into view just up on the trail, the thought crosses his mind that you got all dressed up for this, too.
Your hair's done up all pretty, and there's glitter on your eyelids and mascara on your lashes. There's even a shimmery gloss on your lips, and Pope can't help but think of how nice your glittering mouth would look around his cock.
He doesn't approach, not right away. He just follows close behind, observing the way you move when you think he's not watching. You're a little more stiff—more aware than you are with him. Like his presence alone puts you at ease, letting you become the sweet girl you are with the protective predator at your back.
You're wearing a pair of shorts and a black tank top over a bikini, the straps thin. Easily cut away, Pope thinks.
He steps deliberately on a stick, the sound loud and echoing in the silence of the forest.
Pope watches you turn towards it, your eyes wide and searching. But he's too well hidden in the shadows.
Yet still, you know he's there.
You turn and run.
Pope gives you a head start. Counts to ten in his head before chasing after you, a dark shadow that meets yours all too quickly.
You look back over your shoulder and stumble when you see him catching up, your balance faltering for only a second.
The trees blur at the edges of his vision as he closes the space between you. When he's close enough to hear your panting breaths, Pope flings his hand out to grab your elbow.
You give a yelp and wrench your arm away, slipping out of his hold.
A raw, animalistic sound of frustration rumbles deep in his chest.
Pope forces himself forward, breathing hard beneath the knit wool of his mask. His heart pounds in his ears, hands itching for another touch of your skin.
You're fast. Faster than he'd though you'd be. A sweet little gazelle slipping fluidly through the brush.
But he's the hungry wolf nipping at your heels, and it doesn't take long before he catches up with you again.
Pope surges forward, this time waiting until he's close enough to enclose his arms around your waist.
You let out a cry, loud and echoing in the trees, squirming in his hold that you'll never free yourself from. He's too strong, too big, too mean.
He holds you tight against him, trying to wedge his leg between your thighs as you struggle. Pope reaches for the knife at his hip and unsheathes it, gripping the handle hard as he brings the blade to your throat.
Your squirming settles.
Pope smiles when he sees you swallow hard. "Yeah," he whispers, breath warm against your ear. "You know what that is, huh?"
He pushes you forward, sharp blade pressing against your neck. You let him maneuver you, forcing you over to a tree a few feet away.
The bark is dark and rough, the trunk thin enough for what he intends.
Pope grabs your shoulder and turns you around, pressing your back against the tree. He lifts the knife and presses the point of it to your chin, lifting your head so you're looking right at him.
Your shimmery lips are parted, your eyes wide and zealous and wanting. Andrew doesn't think he's ever seen you this needy before. So filled with desire that your eyes are glassy with tears.
"Aw, sweetheart," he says tenderly. "You gonna cry? Shh. S'okay. You can cry if you need to, hm?"
A whimper stutters out of you, a single tear sliding down your cheek as you close your eyes.
Pope leans forward and licks at the wetness, drinking in the saltiness of your overwhelm. "You're pretty when you cry," he whispers.
He rights his blade, pressing the edge against your throat again. And then he caresses your arm, fingers sliding all the way down to your hand.
"Don't move," he orders, rounding the tree. Andrew sets your hand against the back of it, reaches for your other arm, and brings them together. He takes one of the black zip ties he'd stashed in his hoodie pocket and wraps it tight around your wrists, the plastic sliding noisily over the raised notches.
Pope comes back around the tree to face you, standing just a few feet away so he can get a good look at you. Sweet and pretty, completely at his mercy.
He could do anything to you, anything. And you'd let him. Perfect, perverted girl that you are.
The muscles in your shoulder flex as you fight against your restraints, trying to free yourself.
Pope smiles beneath his mask and steps closer, bringing the tip of his blade to your face. Carefully, he slides the cold steel down your cheek, over your pulse, across your chest.
"Please," you cry, shifting frantically from one foot to another.
He hooks the knife beneath the straps against your collarbone and pulls, cutting them clean.
You whimper, and Andrew feels the adrenaline in his blood peak. His skin buzzes with the power he holds, watching you twitch in fear and arousal alike.
He shifts the blade over, to the other side of your chest. He cuts away what remains of your straps and feels his cock pulse as your breasts bounce, released from their confines. With his free hand, Pope yanks the fabric down your chest, baring you to him, letting the polyester gather just above your hips.
A whimper escapes your mouth, and then his name, and Andrew pauses.
But then you say, "Touch me, please. Please, please, I can't—"
He sees the way your thighs press together. The way your hips move, chasing what little friction the seam of your shorts allows.
Pope tilts his head. "Filthy thing, aren't you?" He slides his blade down your chest, over the swell of your breast. He gently presses the tip of it against your hardened nipple, smiling at the way you squirm in response. "Got everyone fooled, hm? Always acting so shy. Embarrassed so easily."
His hand comes to your center, pressing hard between your legs. You moan at the contact, the sound desperate and guttural.
"But how pretty you sound when you're afraid," he whispers, rubbing his hand over your clothed cunt. He drags the tip of the knife across your sternum, laying the cold metal flat against your other nipple. "Begging me to touch you. To fuck you. To hurt you."
"Yes, please. I need it, I need it, Pope, please—!"
"Shh," he coos, bringing his hand up to cup your jaw, squeezing hard. "Open your mouth."
You do, and Pope sets his blade between your teeth.
"Hold it," he orders. "Don't drop it. Understand?"
You nod frantically, biting down hard.
"Good." Pope unbuttons your shorts and drags them down your legs. He tugs them off over your sneakers, leaving you in nothing but your cut top around your belly and bikini bottoms.
He drops down to his knees and hooks his fingers around the strings tied at your hips. And as he slowly lowers them, a groan leaves him as he sees just how wet you are.
Sticky and slick, webs of arousal clinging to the polyester fabric as he pulls it away. Pope doesn't think he's ever been this hard before in his entire fucking life.
"Sweet girl," he mutters, discarding your bottoms. He wraps his big hands around the backs of your thighs and pulls them apart. "This where you need me?"
A cry escapes from between your clenched teeth. He thinks you look real cute like this. Squirmy and needy, all for him.
He brings his hand to your cunt, sliding only the tip of his index finger through your syrupy folds. He collects your wetness, dragging it down to press his finger into your entrance.
Pope curls it upwards, stroking that soft spot inside of you, and watches as you struggle to hold the knife in your mouth. Drool begins to collect at the corners of your lips, slowly leaking down your shin. There's a crease between your brows, frustration manifested.
With his free hand, Pope spreads your cunt open. "Pretty pussy's just crying for me, huh?" He pulls his finger out of you, painfully slow, and drags it back up to your swollen clit. He circles it gently, watching it twitch beneath his touch.
And then, with no warning at all, he brings his hand sharply down against your cunt.
You gasp, teeth parting just enough that you drop the knife.
It clatters to the ground between your feet, and Pope looks up at you with a darkened look in his eye. "What did I say?"
Your clit throbs beneath his hand. "M'sorry, m'sorry, I know—"
Pope picks up the knife and wipes both sides of it on his jeans, cleaning the dirt and spit from around the blade. "It's alright," he soothes. "I'm gonna give you one more chance. Okay?"
With a frantic nod you say, "Okay, okay—I'll be good—I promise I'll be good."
He stands, slides his knuckles tenderly over your cheek, and smiles sweetly at you. "I know you will be, sweetheart."
Pope sets the knife back between your teeth and lowers himself down to his knees again
This time, he pulls his mask up just enough to expose his mouth. He leans forward and slides a pointed tongue through all your wetness, drinking deep. You moan in tandem with him, satisfied fully for the first time all night.
He licks every inch of you, tongue hot and wet against your clit. He slides it up and down, up and down, circling your opening that flutters around nothing, begging to be filled.
Pope eats at you like a man starved for it, chin messy and covered in your slick. He presses his face against you, hardly breathing as he licks and sucks feverishly. You taste so sweet, a blend of ambrosia made all for him.
His pretty girl. His sweetheart.
He can hear it in your moans when release threatens. Can feel the way your clit throbs when he sucks it deep into his mouth, tongue flicking over it, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher.
Pope doesn't let it happen. Pulls his mouth away from you at the very last second, ignoring your whining to slap your cunt again. Not as sharply this time, yet still no less forgiving.
You cry out, thighs trembling, drool covering your chin.
He taps your clit with his fingers. Not quite a slap this time, but not meant for pleasure, either. Just a quick rhythm to keep you right there, right on the edge.
Pope sucks in a breath through his teeth. "So fuckin' wet," he muses. "Does it hurt, baby? Does it burn right here, right in your belly 'cause you need to cum? Hm?"
You try to grit out a response, but it's muffled by the steel in your mouth. Pope stands to his feet and wraps a hand around your neck.
He licks your mouth, right over the blade you hold, cock leaking now behind his zipper. Your eyes are so full of lust and adoration and love that it makes him feel high on it.
The taste of metal and drool and strawberry lip gloss coats his tongue. Pope gently eases the blade from your mouth, smirking when your shoulders slump in relief.
He returns the blade to the leather casing at his hip and palms himself through his jeans.
"I need—fuck, Pope—I need you to fuck me. Please. Please."
It makes him laugh. All those shy, sweet words gone completely now, overshadowed by your desperation. "Yeah," he says. "I know it."
Pope undoes the button of his jeans, watching you watch him.
Your eyes are so eager as he slides his zipper down and reaches in to free his cock, thick and so hard that just stroking it has him fighting back a sigh of bliss.
He closes the small distance between you, lifting one of your legs and setting it up over his hip. Pope lines himself up at your entrance, sliding his cock through your spit-slick folds once before pressing inside.
It feels like solace. Satisfying, blessed solace as he sinks fully inside your cunt, filling you up, spreading you open.
"Oh god—"
Andrew thrusts his hips into you. Hard and unforgiving. The bark of the tree scrapes against your spine, but there's nothing but euphoria on your face.
He slams his hips up into you, fucking you as deep as your anatomy will allow, the head of his cock pressing right up against your womb.
"That's it," he mutters. "Look so fuckin' pretty taking my cock." Pope sets a punishing pace, finding your clit with his thumb and circling it.
Your head falls back, and your sweet moans echoing in the trees. Each wet slide of his cock reverberates in the open space, and the pleasure buzzes beneath you skin. "Don't stop, oh god—please—"
Pope loves the sound of the word in your mouth.
Please.
You beg so beautifully, music to his sick and twisted heart. He knows what he does to you is perverse and wicked and he knows that he shouldn't want to hurt you like this.
But he does. God, he does.
And what's worse is that you want it just as bad. More, even.
He fucks his cock into you, grunting low at how tight and wet you are around him. "You gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Hm?"
"Yes, yes yes—fuck, Andrew, please. Love you so much, I love you so fucking—hmm—"
The words send a shiver down his spine. To hear it now, while he's fucking you like this, rough and cruel and without mercy—it's euphoric.
He's never been loved by anyone else. Not like this. Not so true or so raw. You ask to be given the very worst of him and when he does you love it still.
The velvety walls of your cunt squeeze tight around him.
"Cum for me, baby," he orders. "Give it to me. S'mine. All mine. My fucking girl. My sweetheart. There you go. That's it."
He fucks you through it, even when his own releases crashes into him. Even when his cock grows too sensitive as he pumps you full of his cum, Pope doesn't stop the rhythm of his hips until your thighs tremble. Until your body twitches, balance faltering, pulling tight at the restraints around your wrists.
He's gentle when he pulls out of you to tuck his cock back into his jeans, and quick to grab his blade, reach around the trunk of the tree, and cut the zip ties away.
Your knees buckle, but Andrew is there to catch you. The way he silently vows he always will be. "Hey," he murmurs. "You're alright. Here, hold onto me."
He places your hands on his shoulders, and grabs your shorts from the forest floor. He shakes the dirt out of them and carefully pulls them back up your legs, righting the denim at your hips.
He then removes his ski mask completely, then his hoodie. Pope pulls it over your head, helping you get your arms through the too-big sleeves. When he's satisfied you're warm enough, he wipes gently at your face with careful fingers, cleaning away your tears and spit.
The entire time, you wear this sated, sleepy smile. Staring up at him through your lashes, mascara smudged now.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet. Soft. The words break a little in his mouth. "Are you…okay?"
You nod immediately. "I'm really good," you say. "Are you okay?"
Andrew kisses your forehead, cradling your face in his big hands. "Course I'm okay. Just wanna take care of you. Will you let me do that?"
An easy giggles leaves you, and Andrew wraps his arm around your shoulders.
He leads you back to his truck, where he hand feeds you your favorite snacks and urges you to drink water. He holds you close, your back to his chest, stroking his fingers delicately over your arm.
Your wrists are tender and beginning to bruise already, and Andrew thinks he'd hate himself for it if you hadn't told him how pretty they make you feel.
He tries to massage some of the tension from your shoulders, and wraps you up tight in a blanket. You fall asleep in his lap, safe and sound with his arms around you.
Only in the silence does Andrew admit to himself just how much he enjoyed the night. Only to himself does he admit that maybe he does want to hurt you.
Just a little bit. Just enough.
And he thinks it's not so bad, is it, if you want it too?
He gently wakes you just before sunrise. Just before the alarms back at the camp will start to go off, just before your fellow counselors will notice your absence.
Andrew hates to see you go, but the ache is soothed by knowing you'll return to him later tonight, just after five when he comes to pick up both you and his niece.
You kiss him hard before you start back down the trail in the woods. Look up at him through your lashes with a playful smile and embarrassment in your eyes.
Pope laughs when he sees it. Thinks it's a little silly, after all you've done together, to be shy about anything with him. "What?"
"Nothing, nothing…just—well…" He waits. Gives you the time to gather the courage. "Maybe, I don't know…maybe sometime, we could…do it again?"
A grin stretches wide across his face. "Of course we can, baby."
Your eyes brighten. "You swear?"
He thinks he'd promise you just about anything, as long as you keep looking at him like that. Like he put the stars in the sky. Like you're so unfathomably in love.
Andrew smiles. Kisses the tip of your nose and promises, "Cross my heart."
okay… just a quick munch!robby idea… cw: obv oral (f!), car sex, semi public sex lol / everyone say thank you to @loverwrites for starting the munch!robby agenda
The first time Robby told you about this ‘Robinavitch tradition’ you laughed lightheartedly, thinking nothing of it. You found it endearing and sweet, and in his words: essential.
He explained to you how his grandmother told him to break into new things he bought by doing something he liked with them like playing with his new toys or studying in his new sweatshirt.
But when you came around, the meaning began to change into something… less innocent.
The first time he showed you the tradition was when he bought a new phone and he asked if you’d like to take a selfie with him so the first picture in the new phone would have your memory in it.
Sweet, caring, very romantic. But that night he had you spreading your legs open while you held the phone and recorded him ravishing your cunt with his mouth, sucking on your nerves feverishly.
The second time was when he got his motorcycle and took you for a ride and showed off his skills, only to engulf your pussy with his lips and make your legs shake as he bent you over the seat of the bike. He was ravenous that night, like he had been starving himself for days just for this moment.
You came three times that night.
The tradition changed over time, it wasn’t doing something you liked anymore, it became ‘Robby eating you out until you couldn’t walk’ tradition.
Up to now that he has you bent over the middle console of the new car he got you for your birthday from the backseat, pants already down and his face buried between your thighs, breaking into the vehicle by doing something you both like — in his mind, there is nothing more he loves than feasting on your cunt — while you moan and push your hips back.
The position is… questionable, because he has to bend over just as much as you and keep you up at the same time, but he is not complaining as long as he gets to drink up your juices like a thirsty dog in the middle of the Sahara.
“Ugh, Robby–” you hiccup, pushing your ass back further into his face, enjoying the burn of his beard against your thighs as he shakes his head side to side and clutches your hips for dear life, “I’ll break the console if you stop!”
He doesn’t reply, he can’t even hear your words, and even if he does, he can’t process them because he is too deep into making you come to care about anything else.
“O-oh! ‘M coming, ‘m coming!”
Robby doesn’t let go of you when your orgasm has you trembling and crying out his name, instead, he latches his lips to your clit and sucks on the nerves until you are pushing his head away while whimpering.
“Jesus, Robby, that was–” you turn around and find him sitting back against the seat, beard soaked and hands playing with the flesh of your thighs, a satisfied smile on his face as he stares at your dripping pussy, “You’re fucking crazy.”
“Yeah, and I’ve never been one to sleep on a family tradition,” he says breathlessly, grinning when you roll your eyes at him.
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | masterlist | ao3
frank langdon x reader, brendon park x reader, rabbot x reader
summary: you're robby's favorite reward. when his staff earns it, he doesn't hesitate to offer you up. frank finally tells you what's been going on.
|| smut MDNI 18+, arguments, angst, fighting over reader, reader is man handled and not in a nice way, robby to the rescue, protective!langdon, protective!robby, mama dana, toxic!park, he’s an asshole in this one, morning cuddling, kissing, dom/sub dynamics, subspace, dom!robby, jack isn't great at feelings in this one, jack learning to dom, finger sucking, fingering, dirty talk, jealousy, emotional smut, pinv, angst, lil bit of crying, descriptions of clothing but no physical description of reader, dry humping, some hurt/comfort ||
a/n: this one has a lotttt of dialogue in it, please bear w me!
wc: 16k
You woke to the feeling of his large, warm chest pressed against your back as he rolled over to kiss your temple.
Usually, you didn't stir and wake to this, but you knew he did it most mornings anyway, gathering you closer before he had to leave, kissing whatever part of you he could reach. If you didn't wake, you would a few hours later to a 'Good morning. Money is on the table for your coffee' text, sometimes accompanied with a time of day that would work for you to come in, or to wait a few hours and he'd let you know if it was a good day at all.
You flipped over in your half-dream state, lazily pulling him in with your arm around his neck and hiking your leg over his hip.
"Sorry to wake you, honey," Robby's gravelly voice murmured in your ear, still drenched in sleep.
You only hummed in response, burying your face between the pillow and his neck, soaking up as much of his warmth—and his time—as you could. His broad palm slid up and down your back while he kissed your ear, your neck, the top of your shoulder where your spaghetti strap had fallen. His lips were warm against your skin, patient as they moved over you, though they did nothing to lull you back to sleep.
Your body began to squirm, seeking more from him before you had even properly opened your eyes. You hefted yourself higher against him, your ankle locking behind his back as your hips settled into his lap. You could feel his morning arousal between the thin layers of his sleep boxers and yours (which, admittedly, were his as well—that you'd stolen). He was warm and firm where you pressed against him.
"I have to go to work," he warned, but you could hear the smile in his voice without having to look at him.
You shook your head against his neck, which only made him chuckle.
"Will you come in today for me?" he murmured. His fingers spread wide over the small of your back.
You turned your head so you could kiss his neck, trailing your mouth up toward his thick beard as you sighed dreamily, "Want you now, not later."
"I know you do," he cooed, his hand still sliding up and down your back, soothing you while you rubbed yourself against him. Despite the denial, his palm pressed down at the bottom of your spine, tilting your hips against him a little harder, making you whimper.
"I'd have to text Jack, and he's almost done with his shift, honey."
You whined a little more, your mouth still pressed beneath his jaw. It only made him laugh again.
"Why do you haaaate me," you said petulantly into his skin.
"Could never, ever hate you." He kissed your ear, grinning against it. "Only trying to be fair. Trying to teach my best girl a little patience."
You sighed and tried to pull away from him, pushing at his chest when it became clear he only planned to torture you further. But the arm that was pressing into your back kept you locked securely around him, and he hoisted the cradle of your lap higher against his throbbing length.
"Ah, ah—" he tsk'd.
You pawed at his shoulders. "Why do you keep teasingggg…"
"You think it's easy for me to deny you, honey?" His hand tightened against your back when you undulated over him again, making him groan as he went on: "To deny my one great pleasure in life, hm?"
You opened your groggy eyes to look up at him finally.
The room was still mostly dark, faint light slipping through the gap in the curtains and laying a blue gray stripe across the foot of the bed. He looked so handsome like this that you almost wished you'd kept your eyes closed after all, sparing yourself the trouble of missing him before he'd even left. His hair was mussed against the pillow, his face loose with sleep, his eyes serene without any trace of the day that would deepen his crows feet or sprout new grays. There was only that small smile on his lips while he looked down at you, clearly pleased with how thoroughly you had wrapped yourself around him.
He reached down and pressed a chaste kiss to your frowning mouth.
"But we have to be patient. We have to be good. Things are different now."
"I know…"
"Come see me today." His thumb brushed over your lower lip. "We'll have our fun, hm?"
You nodded, the hands that had been working to push him away now pawing him closer.
He leaned down and kissed you again, longer now— so tender that you nearly forgot he still meant to leave. You were quick to hold onto him, giving a soft kitten lick to his bottom lip before catching it gently between your teeth.
You felt his smile return before he let you in, indulging you because he always did, because you were his favorite thing to spoil even when he was telling you no. Even when he was being strict or forgiving. Your tongue slipped past his lips while your leg tightened around his hip and pulled him flush against you again.
Robby moaned into your mouth, letting you have this—this one thing before he left—right up until his alarm began to blare from the bedside table.
He rolled away just enough to swipe off on his phone, then turned back toward you before you could complain.
"Would stay right here all day if I could, honey," he murmured into your neck.
"Tell them you're busy," you said, pulling him closer until all your limbs had folded around him again. He turned the both of you so you were on your back and he was settled over you with a groan, his shoulders rolling, the creak of his bones and the strain of his muscles finally waking up for the day.
"Think Jack might have a problem with that, don't you?"
"Bring him home too." you answered easily.
Robby chuckled, kissing you one last time before pushing himself upright. You let him go, albeit reluctantly, your hands dragging down his arms until he moved out of reach.
He crossed from the bed to his dresser, and you watched him through half closed eyes. Tall and handsome and bare except for his boxers that tented where he'd denied himself. He moved through the room with the same quiet routine he kept every morning— opening the second drawer and pulling out a clean shirt and then the third drawer for his cargos, carrying them into the en suite bathroom over one arm.
The light clicked on, the fan followed with its low mechanical hum, then the shower started behind the half closed door. Steam gathered and began billowing into the bedroom while you sank deeper into his pillow, breathing in what was left of him.
You had fallen asleep again by the time he leaned over you a little while later, his lips touching your temple. The smell of Irish Spring invaded your dreamy state, making you smile and roll over to catch him by the back of the neck before he could straighten.
"Leaving already?" you mumbled.
"Was gonna invite you to coffee on the way, but you seem like you need the sleep, honey."
You shook your head against the pillow. "I'm up. I'll come."
"Okay." He kissed your forehead. "Fifteen minutes."
You sat up once he left the room, hair fallen across your face and one strap of your sleep top hanging from your shoulder. The floor was cool beneath your feet when you crossed to the closet and pulled on a pair of soft shorts, a bralette, and the oversized hoodie of Robby's from the pile neatly folded in the closet. You shoved your feet into sandals, did your best to tame the worst of your hair, then gathered it into a loose knot while the bathroom fan continued to hum behind you.
By the time you found him near the front door, he had two helmets in one hand and his travel mug in the other, his backpack over his shoulder.
His eyes moved over you.
"That mine?" he said, pointing one finger to the hoodie.
You tucked your hands into the sleeves. "No."
A note of amusement touched his mouth as he opened the door for you. "Course not."
Robby kept one hand at the small of your back as he walked you into the coffee shop, guiding you around the cluster of people gathered just inside the door. The place was already busy with the morning rush, chairs scraping over the wood floors and paper bags crinkling at the pickup counter while the espresso machine hissed behind the register.
It smelled so good inside—like freshly ground beans, sweet pastries, bagels toasting and bacon sizzling somewhere in the kitchen. You leaned into Robby with familiarity, eyes half open while he continued teasing you about nearly dozing off against his back on the bike.
"So if I looked in your helmet right now, would there be drool on the visor?" Robby chuckled.
“No.”
“Could've sworn I heard some snoring back there at one point."
“I do not snore!”
He laughed under his breath and followed close behind you, his palm returning to your back while customers passed around you. Looking up at the menu, you felt Robby’s steps pause beside you, his hand stiffening against your back when the crowd thinned.
Because Frank Langdon stood at the register.
He had one hand in the pocket of his jacket and the other curled around his wallet, his head tipped toward the barista while he finished ordering. He looked over at the sound of the door, first at you, then at Robby.
“Mornin', boss.” he greeted after a moment.
The smile on Robby’s face thinned, and he replied with only a short nod of acknowledgement.
Langdon stepped away from the register with his receipt and a quick thanks to the barista. “Didn’t know you two came here.”
“I do sometimes,” you said, smiling at him and elbowing the taller attending beside you. “Finally talked him into it recently instead of living off the 50 year old coffee pot at home. You heading in?”
“Yeah.” His eyes moved between you again. “S'good to see you.”
"You too, Frankie."
Robby’s hand remained at your back, though the pressure of it had changed. His palm sat flat against the hoodie, keeping you near his side while he watched Frank over your head.
In the past few months, things had settled somewhat with Langdon being back in the emergency department, but Robby still carried a chip on his shoulder about it. You tried not to push him. And since you hadn’t been seeing much of Frank anyway outside of quick hello’s, and short conversations, you hadn’t needed to.
Still, you wanted to ask where he had been, how he was doing. Whether he had time later.
You could've sworn something was on the tip of the resident’s tongue too, but his eyes kept flickering between you and Robby with something uncertain, his lips pushed tightly shut together as he gave a short nod.
And then the barista called his name from the corner.
“Langdon needs to get to work, honey,” Robby said. His voice stayed calm, but the decision had already been made. “Say goodbye now.”
You looked at Langdon apologetically, understanding the dismissal for what it was, and he gave Robby another brief nod before looking back at you.
“Have a good day, Frankie.” you murmured.
“See you later.”
You nodded, staying beside Robby where he'd pulled you in a little closer while the resident turned toward the coffee bar, and then headed to the door with his drink in hand. He looked at you, just a tilt of his head, before eyeing Robby, and heading out.
You watched him go, your eyes peering over the arm that was around you, and you realized Langdon was watching you the same way. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped onto the sidewalk with his back to the world, still looking at you while the glass swung shut behind him. Even after he turned right, his head stayed angled toward the window, bright blue eyes finding yours through the passing bodies outside until someone crossed between you and he disappeared down the block.
When you turned to Robby, the lightness had gone from his face. His shoulders were stiff beneath his own hoodie, his attention fixed on the menu board like he wasn’t going to order the exact same thing he always did.
“I want to talk to Frank today.” you said.
Robby’s jaw ticked. He pursed his lips, then nodded, looking almost resigned, like he had known the words were coming from the moment you laid eyes on his resident.
“We can talk about it.”
He finally looked down at you when you didn't reply, his expression controlled again, though the warmth had returned around his eyes as his gaze found yours.
“Go order your coffee, honey.”
The emergency department was already bustling by the time you arrived with Robby a little while later, your coffee half drank between your hands as you crossed the street and entered through the waiting room. You said good morning to Ahmad and Donny, then Emma and Lupe as you passed through triage. Deeper into the department came more familiar faces, Whitaker and Santos already bickering about something, Dana listening to Lena at the desk about the night and patients still waiting on tests. The board was less crowded than usual, though the red phone was already ringing at the desk. There was always something comforting about slipping back into the middle of it all when you had Robby beside you.
One familiar face had your belly doing somersaults.
He stood at the back of the charge desk, bent over a computer with a frown on his face. Maybe it was the caffeine kicking in, or maybe the sleepiness had finally worn off during the ride over, but something in your skin buzzed at the sight of him.
"Morning, sweetheart," Jack greeted when he spotted you, the frown leaving his face as he leaned over to kiss you from his half bent position.
"Hi, Jack," you smiled as you wrapped one arm around his middle.
He straightened and fell into step beside you and Robby, keeping his arm around your shoulders while the three of you moved farther into the department.
“How was the night, Jack?” Robby asked.
“One thing after another.” Jack glanced toward the board. “Two intoxicated falls, a GI bleed that tanked in CT, psych boarding all night, then severe sepsis from a stone around three that bought herself pressors and a trip upstairs.”
Robby grimaced in understanding. “Sounds pleasant.”
“Yeah, real relaxing.” Jack rubbed at one eye before looking back at his charts, pointing blindly up to the electronic board. “But we finally moved some people. A few beds just opened up, and I’ve got two waiting on discharge instructions. Should be a clean start for you.”
“After the night you had, I’ll happily take it.” Robby set his coffee and bag down at the charge desk. “Music to my ears.”
“We had ortho down here too,” Jack added, his mouth pulling tight, standing up straight and logging off. “Crush injury in trauma one.”
There was enough bitterness in the words that you looked up at him immediately.
Robby caught it too. His head tilted slightly, considering Jack’s tone, though the sharp tick in his jaw made it clear he understood exactly what he meant.
Your eyes followed Jack’s toward the trauma bays.
Brendon Park stepped out through one of the double doors, tugging a glove from his hand. He slowed when he saw the three of you standing together, his gaze moving from Jack’s arm around your shoulders to Robby beside you. Something darkened across his face before he looked away and started down the hall.
“Park,” Robby called.
Park didn't bother stopping, but sent a look over his shoulder that told Robby he'd heard him well enough.
“Need to talk to you. Hang on.”
Park barely slowed, his expression closed, then gave a short nod and waited near the hallway.
Robby turned to you, the tension easing from his face by a fraction when his eyes met yours, his hands rubbing together apologetically.
“I’ll get her set up in a room,” Jack said before Robby had to explain, his voice stiff. “Hand-offs should be starting. Shen’s in South Four getting them going.”
Robby nodded, looking across the department toward ortho surgeon who wasn't even looking your way. When Robby turned back to you, he caught his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, considering.
“I’ll come in and get you set, okay?”
Your skin went hot and prickling all at once. "Okay," you said. It was hardly above a whisper as you felt the tension in the room rise.
Robby looked up at his fellow attending. Their eyes held, some quiet conversation passing between them before Jack turned you in your steps and led you away from Robby’s path.
He smiled down at you, his hand giving your shoulder a small squeeze. “And how are you, sweetheart?”
“Fine.” you answered, the back of your neck tingling a little with awareness. "Sleepy."
He hummed in understanding, rubbing your arm where his hand cupped it. The uneven pull of his gait and the weight of his arm around your shoulders kept drawing you closer into his side as you walked.
“Surprised to see you so early this morning,” Jack said once he had you to himself. You could feel him trying to distract you from Park's icy demeanor. Maybe he was distracting himself too.
You shrugged. “I was woken up at the crack of dawn.”
“Oh?”
You smiled, pushing your shoulder gently into his chest. “Just cuddling, Jack…”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s all it was.” He winked. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
Your smile slipped before you could stop it. You knew he probably meant what you and Robby had gotten up to. Something easy for him to tease out of you while he walked you toward a room. But your mind ran back through the rest of the morning instead—the coffee shop, the way Robby's face dropped when you saw Langdon, how the resident had looked at you too, bright blue eyes fixed in the front of your mind like a freeze-frame.
Jack had already led you into North Three by the time he noticed you had gone quiet. He let the curtain fall behind you, the door shut, then looked over.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to feel any way about seeing Park… Are you okay?”
You didn't even notice you'd started chewing on the ends of your fingers, the oversized sleeve of your hoodie falling to your elbow.
“C’mere. Sit with me,” Jack offered, his voice lowered now, the amused grin gone as he studied you.
He guided you to the edge of the hospital bed with his arm around you again. When you sat beside him, he reached up and tucked some of your hair back from your face.
“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”
You held the cup of forgotten coffee between your hands, careful with it even while your fingers felt heavy and restless where they overlapped. Jack’s hand came down over your knuckles, warm, calloused, the skin dry from all the hand sanitizer. His thumb moved across your fingers before he gently worked the cup free and set it on the counter beside him.
Then he replaced it with his own hand, opening his palm for you. You slipped your fingers through his.
“Nothing’s wrong. It's not even Brendon…It’s just…” You licked your lips, trying to sound casual. Trying to remind yourself that this was fine. That everything was fine. Because it was, after all. You were only letting the thoughts build, ruminating over what that stare had meant as Langdon had walked out the coffee shop.
Jack stayed quiet, giving you time to find the words.
You sighed and looked down at your joined hands. Jack didn’t have anything against Langdon, as far as you knew. There was no reason this should feel so difficult to ask.
“I want to talk to Frank today,” you said finally, looking up into Jack’s studying gaze.
His brow creased. It clearly wasn’t what he had expected. “Oh.” He nodded once. “I don’t see why not—”
“Robby and him don’t really get along anymore. Ever since, you know…”
“I know.” Jack’s thumb moved across the side of your hand. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with you, does it?”
“I don’t know.” Your fingers tightened around his. “I still…feel bad asking for him.”
You knew it was silly. Only a couple of months ago, you had asked for Langdon on his first day back. Robby had been annoyed then too, but he knew you hadn’t meant anything by it. He had still let you go through with it. But… this still felt different somehow.
Jack watched your face for another moment, thinking.
“How about this,” he said. There was a little more weight behind his voice now, something he seemed to be trying on. “I’ll go get Langdon when he’s done with night-shift hand-off, and I’ll bring him here for you to talk to.”
“But Robby said—”
“Robby’s probably going to be a little while, sweetheart.” Jack’s hand closed more securely around yours. “I’ll tell him I sent Frank in. Just to talk.”
He paused, watching to make sure you followed, and then: “Nothing else unless we clear it with Robby first.”
You nodded, understanding. “Okay.”
"Okay?"
You smiled at the slight change in his tone. “Okay.”
Jack’s mouth tipped at one corner. He leaned a little closer, his eyes moving over your face while he decided to go on.
“I want to hear you say, ‘yes, sir.’”
A playful smile immediately pressed at your lips. You tried to hold it back, but the longer the two of you looked at one another, the worse it got.
He really could be so cheeky sometimes. You liked that about him, how easily he could pull you out of your own head, easing the nerves that had gotten the better of you until you were smiling again.
But there was something else beneath it now too. A new confidence beginning to take shape each time he tried something and watched how you responded.
“So,” he continued, settling into it a little more, “I’m going to get Langdon and bring him in here. You’re going to be a good girl and wait until either Robby or I tell you otherwise.”
He paused there, watching you closely. You could almost see him feeling it out, deciding what sounded right coming from his mouth and what made your attention hone in on him.
“All you’re doing is talking,” he added, firmer this time. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The answer changed something in his face—his eyes sharpened with interest, a pleased look of satisfaction settling there before he covered it with a small nod.
Then you tilted your head. “Does that include kissing?”
Jack stared at you for a moment, a bemused look breaking across his face. “You sure are spoiled, you know that?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” you answered with a giggle.
His mouth twitched. He glanced down at your joined hands, considering the question more seriously than you expected him to. This part was newer. Permission, boundaries, deciding what he was comfortable allowing when Robby wasn’t in the room to make the choice for him.
“I’m okay with kissing,” he decided slowly.
“Thank you, Jackie.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
His thumb pressed into the center of your palm before he let your hand go, still looking faintly pleased with himself. "I'll go find him for you."
You nodded, and watched him go.
The door opened again only a minute or two after Jack left, and Langdon slipped inside.
He shut it carefully behind him, one hand staying on the handle while he looked over at you. For a moment, neither of you said anything.
“Hey,” he said finally.
“Hey, Frankie.”
The smile came easily when you saw him, but it didn’t seem to reach him the way it usually did. He stood near the door in his black scrubs, looking freshly arrived despite the tension already pulling through his posture. His hair was still slightly mussed from the walk over, and he kept rubbing his thumb along the edge of his badge.
“Jack said you wanted to talk.”
“I do.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, glancing toward the counter, the bed, anywhere he might reasonably stand. “I, uh, want to talk to you too.”
Your stomach tightened at the words. You had known something was coming since the last time you saw him near the supply alcove, and again from the moment he looked back at you through the coffee shop window. Hearing him say it now made the feeling settle heavy like lead in your stomach.
He finally crossed the room, over to where you still sat at the edge of the bed, your feet hanging above the floor. He stepped between your knees seemingly out of habit, close enough for you to catch his hand before he could overthink where to put it. His fingers closed around yours immediately.
“You look so tired,” you murmured.
“Feel fantastic.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Liar.”
“Little bit.”
He gave your hand a squeeze, and there he was again. Your Frankie. Sweet enough to make you feel listened to even when you had hardly said anything. He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb moving slowly across your knuckles.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said. “At the coffee shop.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.” His mouth pulled to one side. “Making it weird. Robby looked like he wanted to put me through the window.”
“Don't pay attention to him. He's always grumpy early in the morning.”
“Yeah, well.” Langdon glanced toward the door. “Usually I deserve it a little more.”
You studied him, trying to catch the joke in his face, but it faded too quickly.
“Where have you been?” you asked. “You keep saying you’re around, but every time I see you, you’re like… running away from me.”
“I know.”
“And the last time we talked, you said you had something to tell me.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I know.” A tired laugh slipped out of him, though his eyes stayed lowered, and the smile dropped from his face quickly. “Sorry.”
You tugged gently on his hand until he looked at you.
His blue eyes had been so easy to read once. Nervous, excited, irritated, proud. Every feeling used to move through him before he could catch it. Now there was something held back behind them, carefully arranged before he let you see.
“You’re making me nervous,” you admitted.
His face softened immediately.
“No, baby. Don’t—” He stepped closer, his free hand coming up to push your hair back. “You didn’t do anything. This isn’t because of anything you did.”
Your fingers tightened around his. That helped, but only enough to let you breathe again.
“Okay.” you whispered.
“Okay,” he repeated softly.
His knuckles grazed beneath your eye, and you leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. Langdon watched you do it, his lips parting around a quiet breath. For one second, the room shifted back into something familiar—the way he stood between your legs, the warmth of his fingers against your cheek, the look that usually led to him leaning down and telling you how pretty you were.
But… he didn't.
Instead, he leaned over to pull the rolling stool closer with his foot and sat in front of you, keeping hold of your hand while his knees bracketed yours.
Your chest felt tight, like it was being pinched between each rib, your heart beginning to thud loudly against its cage.
“Can I ask you something first?” he said.
You nodded.
“Are you happy?”
The question caught you off guard. “With Robby and Jack?”
“With everything.” His eyes searched yours. “Them. This. How things have been.”
You blinked rapidly, but the truth sat on your tongue despite the dread of where this was going. “I am.”
“Good.” His shoulders lowered a little. “That’s good.”
“Frankie…”
“I’m getting there.” He gave you a small smile, apologetic and fond. “I had this whole thing figured out before I came in today, and then I saw you at the coffee shop and forgot every word.”
“But you always know what to say,” you assured him, squeezing his fingers.
“Not today, apparently.” He breathed out, dragging his free hand over his forehead while the other stayed interlocked with yours.
For a moment, he kept his eyes lowered to your joined hands, his thumb moving once against the side of yours while he gathered himself. Then he looked back up.
“You know—probably more than anyone—what my divorce was like.”
You nodded slowly.
“It was bad.” Langdon looked down at your hands again, his thumb pressing into the side of yours. “The pills started because I was in pain. Then I needed more to get through a shift, more to feel normal, and by the time I admitted how bad it was, my marriage was already gone. I had to leave here. Go to rehab.”
His mouth pulled tight. “I know I let a lot of people down. At home. Here. Robby. You.”
“Frankie—”
“It's true.” His fingers tightened around yours before you could argue. “I know why people were pissed. I know why they stopped trusting me. I’m not saying they were wrong.”
You stayed quiet, watching him work through it. His knee bumped against the side of yours awkwardly, the rubber sole of his shoe squeaking against the tile.
“When I left for rehab, nobody reached out.”
Your brows drew together. “Nobody?”
He shook his head. The answer made your throat tighten and your heart constrict— the thought of him leaving the department after everything had come apart, going somewhere unfamiliar with nothing but the wreckage of his marriage and career following behind him. You had known he was gone. You had known why, eventually. But the idea of Langdon sitting there alone, waiting for a call that never came… it made your eyes sting.
“I had no idea,” you whispered hoarsely.
“I know.”
“No, Frankie, I—” You swallowed, looking down when your eyes began to fill. “I would’ve called you. I just didn’t know if I was allowed to, or where you were, or if you even wanted anyone from here—”
“Hey, baby, no.” His free hand came up immediately, cupping the side of your face.“It’s okay.”
“It isn’t.” you whispered. There was something so soft in his eyes, and you couldn't help but love the sound of the pet name from his lips.
“It is.” He leaned closer, catching your eyes when you tried to look away. “I promise. You didn’t know how to reach me. And even if you did, I probably wouldn’t have made it easy.”
Your lips pressed together, but the wetness still gathered along your lower lashes. His thumb moved beneath one eye to catch the tear in its track.
“I’m not telling you to make you feel bad,” he said softly. “That’s the last thing I want.”
“I still do.”
“I know.” His face softened. “But you don’t have to.”
You turned your cheek into his palm, holding his wrist against you.
“I missed you,” he admitted. “I missed this place too, which sounds insane when you’ve actually worked here.”
A small laugh caught in your throat.
“But I did. I missed the noise. Helping people. Dana and Robby and interns yelling my name from three different directions.” His eyes moved over your face. “I missed you wandering in here and acting like you had no idea that you own the place.”
“I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.” he chuckled, the dimple in his chin deepening as his lips quirked. "I know you don't see it, but we revolve around you, baby."
You gave him a watery smile.
“Coming back scared the shit out of me,” he said. “I knew everybody would be watching. Waiting for me to screw up. First day back, it felt like nobody wanted me here.”
“Frank—”
“Except you.”
Your breath stopped in your lungs.
“You walked in and… and asked for me.” His thumb moved over your cheek again. “You looked at me like I was still me. Like the last ten months hadn’t changed everything.”
“You were still you.”
“I didn’t feel like it.”
“You were, though.”
His eyes lowered, and you watched him swallow.
“Well, it meant a lot,” he said, licking his lips. “More than I probably ever told you.”
You leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him before you could think better of it. The stool rolled a little beneath both of your weight, but he caught you, one arm coming around your waist while the other held the back of your head.
“I’m glad you came back,” you murmured into his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“So glad.”
He held you there for a few seconds, his cheek resting against the side of your hair. His hand moved up along your back before he eased you away, keeping both hands on your arms.
“That’s part of why this is hard.”
Your stomach flipped on itself again. Langdon looked at you, then away. He planted both feet against the floor and leaned forward, forearms resting over his thighs while his hands folded together.
“I’m trying really hard now,” he said, his hands cupping your one hand in both. “With everything. Sobriety. Work. People.”
“I know.” you said quickly, your hand going to his hair to brush through the long locks. One of his hands came up to catch yours, stopping it, but squeezing and not moving you away. He sucked in a long breath.
“I keep thinking about what they said in treatment: Don’t fix your whole life at once. Don’t promise everybody you’re a different person…Just do the next right thing.”
You nodded, even though your pulse had started beating harder beneath your skin.
“And there’s someone,” he continued, looking up, bringing both of your hands into his. “Someone I’ve been spending time with.”
Your fingers dug into his. Frank glanced up carefully.
“I’m seeing someone.”
“Oh.”
It was all you could say. Your brain sort of short circuted at that, not fully wrapping around the concept.
He nodded, holding your gaze. “Someone you know.”
Your mind ran through the last few weeks. The way he had been harder to find. How he had seemed happy to see you, but always kept some small distance between you. The look on his face near the supply alcove when Trinity approached. The ease that had started to settle into him, quieter than the pride after a good case but just as real.
“Oh,” you said again.
Frank watched the answer arrive.
“Mel.” you whispered.
“Yes.”
His shoulders lowered with the breath that left him.
You stared at him, the pieces clicking together one after another. The phone call with Mel, how she'd been with someone in the car. The party, how Frank had known you'd be there because he'd dropped her off. It made more sense the more you began to wrap your mind around it.
“You…and…Mel.”
“Yeah.” His mouth pulled into a small, nervous smile to mirror yours. “Me and Mel.”
Your own smile began to form, still uncertain around the edges, but you let out a breath. “Aw, Frankie, that’s—”
The door swung open hard enough to strike the stopper against the wall, making you jump, your hand flying from Frank’s to your chest as both of you turned toward it.
Your heart didn't slow down when you saw who it was.
That piercing, selachian stare cutting across the room with the same concentration he brought to an operating table, one hand braced against the door, broad shoulders taking up the entire frame. He always looked at you like that—honed in, making you feel pinned beneath his attention.
“Brendon—” You drew in a breath. “What—”
“I need to talk to you.” He ordered, though he made no effort to step into the room or close the door behind you.
You looked toward Langdon. He sat stiffly on the stool in front of you, one hand still resting over your knee, his thumb no longer moving.
“I’m trying to talk to Frankie right now,” you said.
“Five minutes, Bunny.”
There was softness in the name, but nothing in the way he stood suggested a request. He had already decided you were coming with him. The five minutes were only the amount of time he expected it to take.
“Can it wait?”
“No.”
Langdon breathed out through his nose. “She asked you to wait.”
Park’s eyes moved to him for the first time. “She can answer for herself.”
Langdon’s jaw worked, but he stayed seated. His hand gave your knee a small press before he withdrew it, sitting back enough to look directly at Park.
“Why don’t you wait outside?” It wasn’t really phrased like a question. Langdon’s back had gone straight, shoulders set.
Park's expression changed quickly at that—from his usual glare to a smile that showed his sparkly teeth as he gave a short laugh through his nose. “You think I’m gonna take orders from a junkie?”
“Brendon,” you hissed, getting to your feet.
"It's okay, baby," Langdon soothed, even as his jaw flexed, the muscles pulling tight beneath the stubble that had began to grow along his cheek as he looked back at Park. He stood up beside you.
“Get out, man.” Langdon said flatly.
“I’m not here to talk to you.” Park snapped back.
“Then stop standing there talking to me.”
Park’s stare sharpened. “Bunny. Come with me.”
He held out his hand.
You looked at it, then at him. It was that simple to Park. He wanted something, so he reached for it. Everything between the wanting and the getting seemed to register as wasted time.
“Oh my God.” Langdon dragged a hand over his mouth. “You really don’t hear yourself.”
“Stay out of it.”
“You walked into a closed room and told her no when she asked you to wait.” Langdon stepped around the stool. “There’s nothing to stay out of. You brought it in here. So take a fucking hint, man.”
“Brendon, I’ll find you later.” You tried to keep your voice level, though your pulse had already started climbing. “I’m talking to Frank.”
Something changed in Park’s face. The hard focus cracked around the edges, giving way to a worry that felt too urgent for the tension that had built in the room.
“Why are you avoiding me?”
“I’m not.” you said quietly. A lie. A big, big lie.
You had been avoiding him. Ever since Santos’ party, since he had used you to get beneath Robby and Jack’s skin and then acted like the ugliness that followed proved something about them. He kept talking about saving you, freeing you, making you see what he saw. But you had never asked to be saved. You were happy, and every time he insisted otherwise, it left you feeling less like a person he cared about and more like evidence in an argument he was determined to win.
“Then come talk to me.” he pleaded,
“I said later.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.” Your voice thinned despite your effort to hold it steady. You lifted your chin, hating that you already felt cornered. “Later, Brendon.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Langdon scoffed. “She doesn’t owe you a time slot.”
Park’s eyes cut toward him. “Sit down, Langdon.”
“Go back upstairs.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your shiny OR.” Langdon stepped closer, the last of his patience showing in the tightness around his mouth. “Go somewhere people are paid to pretend your ego is useful.”
Park gave him a flat stare, and Langdon’s voice sharpened as he said: “You’re not needed here. You’re not wanted here. Is your skull that thick that you can't understand something as simple as no?”
“Okay, enough.” You moved between them, raising both hands to keep the space open before either could close it. “Both of you, stop.”
Their bodies had gone rigid on either side of you. Langdon stood narrow and tense, anger pulling him forward onto the balls of his feet. Park barely seemed to move at all, but his stillness had become its own threat, his attention fixed past you at the man who had just told him he wasn’t wanted.
Park caught your hand before you could lower it.
His thick fingers closed around yours and pulled you toward him, planting your palm against the center of his chest. His heart beat hard beneath the thin fabric of his scrubs.
“Bunny, please. Just give me a few minutes.”
“Brendon, I was trying to talk to Frank.” You pulled against his grip, but he held on. “I can find you later.”
“No.” His fingers tightened when you tried again. “Now. It’s important.”
Your breath started coming too quickly. The exam room felt smaller with all three of you standing between the bed and the closed supply cabinets, Park taking up the space in front of you while Langdon crowded closer at your side. Blood rushed through your ears beneath the fluorescent hum.
Park dragged your hand higher against his chest, bending your wrist between you. His eyes searched your face with the same relentless concentration, waiting for you to understand something he still hadn’t said.
“I was having a private conversation with Frankie,” you told him, forcing the words out clearly.
Langdon’s chin lifted, a note of pride crossing his face.
Park barely glanced at him. “What were you talking about?”
“What?”
“You’ve been down here with him all this time. What were you talking about?”
Langdon let out a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, come on.”
Park’s head turned. “Did I ask you?”
“You are so full of shit Park, you need your ears cleaned or something?”
“Frankie,” you warned, though your voice came out thinner than you intended.
“What?” Langdon snapped at you, and then his expression softened for only a moment before his attention snapped back to Park. “Baby, he's not listening.”
You felt Park's reaction to the pet name where he held you tighter, his chest puffing.
“I’m listening,” he barked.
“No, you’re not.”
Park took a step toward him, tugging you with him before your feet could follow.
“Brendon, stop.” Your shoulder pulled tight beneath your hoodie. “Let go.”
Langdon’s gaze dropped to Park’s hand around yours, and every trace of humor left his face.
“Hey.” He stepped forward. “She said let go.”
Park’s fingers only moved, but didn’t release you. “Bunny, come on. Please.”
“I said I’ll find you later.”
“Let go of her, man.” Langdon moved around you, his arm shooting across your body when Park tried to pull you another step closer. “She’s answered you.”
“Get your hands off me, Langdon—”
“—You need to leave—”
“—Fuck you—”
“You know what your problem is, Park?"
Langdon's eyes were just as sharp as the surgeon’s, mirrored in their rising anger, as he went on:
"You think being good with a scalpel means nobody notices what a miserable prick you are everywhere else.”
“Guys—” you tried to plead, your arm twisted at a strange angle between them, the press of Park’s fingers deepening into the sensitive flesh of your wrist. You pulled back, but his grip dragged you forward again, your shoe catching against the leg of the exam stool as you stumbled forward.
Their voices crashed over one another after that, too loud and too close to separate into words. Langdon caught Park by the wrist and tried to force his hand open, but Park only wrenched back harder, taking your arm with him until your wrist bent funny and panic climbed hotly into your throat.
“Hey!”
The shout came from the doorway, nearly swallowed by the ruckus. You couldn’t see who was there, only heard the sharp Pittsburgh accent and caught a blur of blonde pushing into the room.
Dana wedged herself between them, her hands landing against the cups of both men’s shoulders as she tried to shove them apart.
“Hey, stop—this is a hospital for Christ's sake—!”
Neither of them seemed to hear her. Their bodies rocked around her, Park’s hand still locked around your wrist, Langdon trying to force himself between you. Dana stumbled sideways when Park jerked back.
Then, over his shoulder, you saw someone running into the room.
“HEY!”
Robby’s voice cracked through the exam room, booming above the tangle of shouting until every other sound seemed to fall beneath it.
Park went still. Langdon’s hand froze around his wrist. Even Dana stopped pushing between them, her blonde head turning toward the doorway while you stood caught in the middle, one arm pulled forward, your shoulder burning where Park’s grip had wrenched it out from your body.
Then Robby was here.
He crossed the room so quickly you hardly saw the distance disappear. One moment he was in the doorway, the next his body was forcing its way between the two men, his forearm driving hard into Park’s chest while his other arm caught Langdon and pushed him back without ever taking his eyes from what was in front of him. Dana grabbed Langdon's arm, holding him back, and he went willingly, his tongue dipping out of his mouth to wet his dried lips.
The sight of Robby sent relief flooding through you, your knees going weaker, the strain of fight or flight ebbing from your bloodstream.
Your body felt like it been fighting every direction at once—pulling away from Park, reaching blindly for balance, trying to follow the words through the shouting—but the second Robby stood in front of you, you stopped searching for a way out. He had found you. He had heard the shouting or seen seen the panic in your face, and there was no part of you that doubted that he wouldn't be able to handle all of it. Air finally reached the bottom of your lungs.
Park’s gaze turned thunderous, that sharp stare fixing on the chief attending. They were close enough in size, but built differently. Park’s broad stance filled the narrow space, muscle packed beneath his scrubs. Robby didn’t need any of it. He was tall and looming and stood spine-straight in front of him, dark eyes fixed, every inch of him certain.
“I don’t need to deal with you too, Robinavitch—” Park began.
“Can you believe this guy?” Langdon snapped from behind Robby, already trying to push around his shoulder. His face was red, his scrubs pulled crooked where Park had grabbed at him. “He comes barging in here and puts his fucking hands on her—”
Dana held onto him harder, and Robby threw a hand up to shut him up, and then caught him across the chest and to hold him there. “Frank—” he warned.
Langdon stopped against both Dana and Robby holding him back, breathing hard through his nose, his eyes still fixed on Park.
Robby's attention moved around the room for half a second then, taking in Dana's hands around Langdon, cataloguing the resident's flushed and angry face, and then his eyes dropped to Park’s hand around your wrist.
His entire face darkened.
“Park,” he said, his voice lower now, his eyes glued to where you remained connected to the surgeon. “You have about two seconds to let go of her before I have Ahmad escort you out of my department.”
“Your department.” Park gave a short, humorless laugh. “Your girl. Your rules. You ever let her decide who she talks to?”
“Brendon,” you said quietly. Your voice barely made it past your throat, but all of them seemed to hear you immediately. “You’re scaring me.”
His eyes found yours.
The fury in them lessened for half a second, so much so you could see him beneath it, to see that he was hurting. His gaze moved over your face, your uneven breathing, the angle of your arm where he still held you fast. Then the softness disappeared beneath something darker as he looked back at Robby.
“I really don’t want the pile of paperwork Gloria’s gonna hand me for giving a surgeon a black eye.” Robby's voice was low now, each word stripped down and hard and mock polite. “So let go of her fucking arm, and then you and I can talk.”
Park's fingers opened.
The release came so suddenly as you wrenched your arm away and stumbled backward, your hand snapping against your chest while the blood rushed painfully back through your wrist.
Langdon caught you before you hit the bed, one arm closing around your waist, your legs unsteady beneath you.
Robby’s eyes followed you until Langdon had you secure, and he let out a breath he seemed to be holding.
Then he looked back at Park.
“Out.” he said, his voice baritone and authoritative once again. He wasn't just Robby then, he was the chief attending, he was the man who ran this bottom dwelling chaos. And Park was in infested waters.
He stood there for another second, his hands opening and closing at his sides. He looked at you once more, but Robby shifted into his line of sight before you had to meet it.
“I said out.”
Park’s gaze hardened as it moved from Robby to Langdon, then briefly toward Dana. He turned and walked out, his shoulder striking the doorframe on the way through.
Robby followed him to the doorway before stopping, one hand closing around the frame. The back of his neck was red above his collar, his shoulders held tight beneath his hoodie, but when he looked back, his eyes found yours immediately.
“I will be back,” he said.
The promise beneath it steadied something inside you. Then he looked to Langdon.
“Frank—check on her. Please.”
Langdon swallowed beside you and nodded, his hold tightening around your shoulders. “Yeah. I’ve got her.”
Robby stayed there one second longer, making sure that was true, before turning and following Park into the department.
The door swung shut behind him.
For a moment, the room felt strangely hollow without him in it.
Langdon and Dana turned toward you at the same time.
You didn’t realize how badly you were shaking until Dana’s hands found you, one settling at your shoulder and the other brushing over your arm. Her hair had come loose around her face from trying to force herself between them, her eyes wide with worry as she looked you over.
“You’re okay, angel girl,” she whispered. “You’re okay.”
“C’mere, baby.” Langdon’s voice softened completely as he guided you back toward the bed, one hand firm at your waist while the other steadied your elbow.
You sat down because they moved you there, your body strangely numb everywhere except your wrist. That burned hot beneath your sleeve, each beat of your pulse pushing through the place Park had held you.
“He’s never like that,” you tried to say.
“I know.” Dana cupped your shoulder, her thumb moving over the fabric of your hoodie. “I know.”
“Why was he like that?” The words came out thin. Heat climbed into your face while your throat tightened around the next breath. “I told him later. I kept telling him—”
“I know, baby.” Langdon crouched in front of you on the stool again, his knees pressing against the edge of the mattress as he carefully reached for your arm. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You let him take your hand, though your fingers curled when he eased the sleeve away from your wrist.
The skin underneath was red where Park’s fingers had pressed.
Langdon went still. For a moment, all the softness left his face again, his jaw tightening while his thumb hovered near the marks without touching them. You saw Dana's eyes flicker up to him too, watching his reaction.
“Frankie,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours immediately.
“It’s okay,” he said, quieter now, letting out his breath. “I’m okay. Just let me look at you.”
Dana stayed close beside you, one hand rubbing between your shoulder blades while Langdon turned your wrist carefully beneath the overhead fluorescents. You watched his face instead of the skin, watched him swallow whatever he wanted to say about Park and press it back down for your sake.
“He looked so upset,” you said. The burning in your throat began to become unbearable and searing as your eyes filled with tears, and you looked down quickly, embarrassed by how fast they came after everything had already ended.
Dana moved closer at once, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.
“Oh, angel girl.”
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” you said, your voice catching.
“Because it was scary, baby,” Langdon answered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I got so angry too."
"It's okay," you croaked.
“And because you’re safe now,” Dana added, pulling your head against her shoulder. “Sometimes your body waits until afterward.”
You pressed your face into the side of her neck, one hand still held carefully between both of Langdon’s.
From somewhere beyond the door came the low hum of Robby’s voice, too muffled to make out but unmistakably controlled, and then it opened again.
He looked exhausted already as he stalked over to you. “How is she?”
“She’s okay,” Langdon said immediately. His voice stayed careful, all the earlier anger worked down into something useful. “Some tenderness. Might leave a bruise."
Robby clicked his teeth as he held out his hand without looking away from your wrist. Langdon gave it over immediately, easing your fingers into Robby’s palm before moving back to let him in.
Robby turned your hand beneath the light, his thumb braced carefully along the side of your palm. The marks were deep, the shape of Park’s fingers beginning to show beneath the heat in your skin.
His jaw tightened. “Motherfucker,” he muttered.
“I'm fine,” you whispered.
“I know.” His eyes lifted to yours at once, sighing. “I know, honey.”
He stepped closer, still holding your hand between both of his. His thumbs moved around the sore place instead of over it, checking the bend of your wrist, the spread of your fingers, making sure for himself that nothing had been strained worse than Langdon thought.
“Can you move it?”
You nodded and curled your fingers, then turned your wrist back and forth. All was fine.
Robby watched the movement, his mouth pressed flat.
“Okay.” He breathed out through his nose. “Okay.”
You could tell he was trying to put the anger somewhere. It sat in the hard set of his shoulders, in the way he kept looking down at the marks and then back at your face, checking each one against the other.
“Are you okay, honey?”
You nodded.
"Are you sure? Do you want to go home with Jack?"
You shook your head, "No, no… I'm okay."
He studied you for another second, and whatever answer he found seemed to ease him only slightly.
“I tried talking to him earlier,” he said, more to himself than anyone. “Could tell he was in a mood, but this—”
His thumb stopped beside the bruising.
“This is different.”
Dana lifted from the bed, neck craning back to look up at Robby, her hand going to his arm. “I’m gonna see if Abbot’s still here, Cap.”
Robby nodded, already looking back down at your wrist. “Yeah. Thanks, Dana.” It came out breathless, distracted, his mind moving through several things at once.
"He's going to be so mad," you whispered, your free hand going up to your face to cover your eyes.
"Well, so am I." Robby said stiffly, and then seemingly tried his best to dispell the anger with a long sigh.
Langdon stood from his seat beside you, walking towards the door behind Dana, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Some of the fight had left his face, replaced by the uncertainty from before Park came in, the unfinished conversation still sitting somewhere between the bed and the stool.
Robby looked over at him. “Hey… uh, Frank.”
Langdon looked back.
“Thank you.”
The words seemed to catch the resident off guard, his eyes widening a fraction before he looked down, then back up again. “Of course.”
Robby held his gaze for another moment, something passing between them that had nothing to do with Park anymore.
“I’ll come get you soon.”
Langdon went still. It was subtle, the change in his face, but you saw it. The surprise first, then the understanding beneath it. Robby wasn’t only thanking him for stepping in. He was telling him he had done right by you. That he still trusted him here. That whatever they had been discussing before the room fell apart, Langdon had not lost his place in it.
“Okay,” Langdon said softly.
His eyes moved to you, and there was something almost boyish in them now, a little stunned and hopeful beneath the worry.
“I’ll be around, baby.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
Robby waited until the door shut behind Langdon before he let his eyes close. His head moved slowly from side to side, his mouth pressed tight while he tried to collect whatever was left of himself.
The room went quiet as he kept your wrist in his hands, his thumbs resting along your palm, and when he looked back at you, the exhaustion returned all at once.
"I'm sorry—" you began, it was only a whisper, hardly more than breath. But Robby's head was tilting, brows furrowing.
“What for?” he asked. “You’re the one who got hurt, honey.”
You shrugged, and your chin started to wobble again. There were too many answers crowding your mouth. For asking for Frank. For making Robby deal with Park. For being the center of another problem in a department already full of them.
“Okay." he sighed, "C’mere.”
Robby sat beside you and released your wrist only to put both arms around you.
“C’mon,” he said, quieter this time, drawing you into his chest. He moved further onto the hospital bed and laid back with a tired groan, bringing you with him until you were tucked against his side, your cheek pressed over his heart. The sheet beneath you shifted loudly with every movement, but neither of you tried to fix it.
“Don’t you have patients to see?” you sniffled.
“They can wait.” His hand spread over your back. “Jack’s still here.”
“He’s going to be so mad.” you said again.
“Yes.” Robby’s chest rose beneath your cheek with a tired breath. “And we have every reason to be.”
You closed your eyes.
“You understand that, right?” he asked.
You nodded against him, hiding your face deeper in his hoodie.
His hand moved up and down your back, steady, familiar, while his other pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Can’t believe Park,” Robby muttered. His jaw shifted above your head. “If he thinks he can ever be in the same room with you again—”
“Don’t.” You curled your fingers into the front of his shirt. “I don't want to think about it, and I don't want to make any big decisions right now."
Robby went quiet.
“Can we just cuddle?” you murmured then.
The anger left him in a long breath, though you could still feel it sitting hard beneath his skin. “Of course, honey.”
He bent his head and kissed the crown of yours, keeping his mouth there for a moment before pulling you closer. His hand settled between your shoulder blades, holding you against him while the noise of the department continued on the other side of the door.
But of course, it didn't take long for the knock on the door to come. Dana opened the door only a few inches, her voice gentler than usual when she told him there was a double trauma ten minutes out. Even then, she waited for Robby to answer before stepping away again.
Robby sighed, his chest falling heavily beneath your cheek.
“Honey.”
“Hm?” you hummed.
“I’m going to get Langdon again, okay?”
Your eyes fluttered open in surprise, "Really?"
He nodded. "I know he still wants to talk to you."
"He… we talked a bit."
“Okay…” One corner of his mouth pulled faintly. “I have a feeling he may want to do more than talk.”
“But…?”
Robby shifted so he could see you properly, his hand coming up to cup your face. His eyes flitted across your face. “It sounds like it might be the last time, honey.”
A flutter moved through your belly, waking every nerve that had gone dull after the panic. Heat prickled beneath your skin, gathering at the back of your neck.
“Oh. Right. Of course.”
Robby nodded, his thumb brushing once beneath your eye. “I’m only going to have a few minutes to get you ready, okay? Then I need to go.”
Before you could answer, the door opened again.
“Holy shit, what happened?”
It was Jack, and he was crossing the room in two long strides, already reaching for you. His hand smoothed over the top of your head, pushing your hair back while he searched your face.
“I’m alright,” you added, giving Jack a small smile.
“Langdon told me while we were dealing with the head trauma in T2.” His hand stopped against your hair. “Park put his hands on you, sweetheart?” Then he looked at Robby. "What the fuck?"
Robby sat up, bringing you with him. He took your hand carefully and laid it across his lap so Jack could see your wrist.
“Grabbed her arm.”
Jack’s mouth flattened. “That piece of…” he trailed off under his breath. He took your hand from Robby, turning your wrist between his calloused hands with the same care he used examining a patient. His thumbs stayed clear of the marks, but his grip tightened around your palm when he saw them.
“I’m fine,” you urged, turning your hand so your fingers could close around his wrist, squeezing gently. “Really.”
His eyes lifted to yours. The anger in them was immediate, dark enough that you could see him fighting to keep it contained. His eyes went back to Robby.
“What did he say when you talked to him?”
Robby looked at you first, then back at Jack. "Just some bullshit about her not belonging to us, that she can talk to who she wants…"
“I tried to tell him I was talking to Frank,” you said. “He wouldn’t listen.”
Robby’s hand stopped against your back, Jack’s fingers closed more securely around your arm. You felt the anger building between them again, feeding itself now that they were both in the room.
“But I’m fine now,” you said quickly. “I just want to get on with the day.”
Neither of them looked convinced, so you turned toward Robby.
“I want to talk to Frankie again.”
He nodded in understanding, rubbing his eyes with one hand. With a big sigh, he looked at Jack. “I’ve got a double trauma at the back door in a few minutes. I was going to get her ready, then get him.”
Jack stared at him. “Even after all this?”
“Especially after all this,” Robby said quietly. “It’s important we keep to our routine. Park doesn’t get to walk in here and change what she does, what we want.”
Jack looked down at your hand again, his thumb moving once along the side of it.“S’just been one thing after another today,” he muttered.
He stepped back from the bed, dropping your hand and dragging his fingers across his forehead. The exhaustion from the night shift had returned beneath the anger, leaving him looking worn down in a way he hadn’t when you first arrived.
“Jackie…” You reached for him. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, honey,” Robby said, rubbing a hand down your back.
Jack looked at you at the same time, his expression pulling tight.
“Nothing,” he agreed.
Robby shifted beside you. “C’mon. Lie back again, honey. I’ll take care of you.” He looked toward Jack. “If you want to head out, we’re good here. I’ll send her home with one of your night-shift residents.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Jack rolled his eyes. “I’m here. I’ll take her.”
He looked at you once more, then toward the door. “I just…need some air.” He started to head for the door, his shoulders still rigid beneath his shirt. “Before I find him and put him through a wall,” he muttered under his breath.
“Jack,” Robby warned.
“I said I’m gettin' air.”
The door shut behind him.
Robby watched it for a moment, then looked back down at you, his face tired all over again.
“Well,” he sighed, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. “This morning certainly went to hell.”
The door shut once more, the silence filling the room once again. You pulled your arms around yourself, your heels kicking under the side of the bed. "Do you think he's okay?"
Robby watched the door for another moment before turning back to you. “He will be.”
“He looked really upset.” you whispered.
“He is upset.” His hand came up to the side of your neck, his thumb resting beneath your ear. “So am I.”
Your eyes moved back to his face. His fingers tightened on your neck, just a gentle amount of pressure to soothe you. "Jack knows how to take care of himself, and right now, it's my job to take care of you. We're just upset at Park, not at you. You understand?"
You nodded.
He leaned in a little, "Can you use your words for me?"
You nodded again, shutting your eyes before your thoughts could start circling—before you could wonder whether there was something you should have done differently to keep Jack from getting so upset. Even to you, it sounded ridiculous. You hadn’t gone looking for Park. You hadn’t invited him into the private conversation between you and Langdon. You hadn’t done anything except ask him to wait.
Your breathing caught, then slowed, and you opened your eyes, "I understand."
Robby studied your face, “There you are,” he murmured. "My best girl."
His thumb moved beneath your ear before his hand slid to cup the back of your neck. He held you there, warm, certain, giving your thoughts one place to settle.
“Lie back for me.”
You obeyed, easing yourself down onto the mattress while he kept one hand behind your neck to guide you. The sheet moved beneath your shoulders, bunching your hoodie at your waist, and Robby smoothed it flat before settling beside your hip.
He stood, grabbing two gloves from the wall, and then returned to you.
"Let's take this off." he murmured, reaching for the zipper of your hoodie.
Your attention pulled toward the door again when a cart rattled past in the hallway. Robby stopped his movements to pinch two fingers beneath your chin and turn your face back to him.
“No,” he said softly. “Eyes here, honey.”
You looked up at him.
“That’s it.”
His gloved palm moved over your sternum, resting there without pressure while he watched your breathing.
“In through your nose.”
You breathed in.
“Out the mouth, good—again.”
The second breath went deeper.
Robby nodded, his hand following the rise and fall of your chest.
“Nothing outside this room is anything for you to worry about for the next few minutes,” he said. “Not Park. Not Jack. Not the trauma coming in. You understand?”
“Yes, Robby.”
"That's my good girl." he nodded, finally pulling your zipper all the way down, pushing the fabric off your shoulders, pulling it from your bed.
“What belongs to you?” he asked.
You hesitated.
“My voice,” he prompted as he sat on the rolling stool, bringing it to the side of the bed. Usually, he brought it to the end of the bed, more clinical, more procedural. But today seemed different. He seemed to know you needed him closer.
“Your voice.” you repeated.
“And?”
Your eyes moved over his face, the tired line beneath his eyes, the care he was still holding together for you.
“You.”
Robby’s mouth softened. “That’s right.”
He leaned down and kissed your forehead, bringing one hand to the waistband of your shorts only to settle his palm against your belly instead, rubbing there in one slow, soothing pass.
“Now let me get my best girl ready.”
You let out another long breath and settled fully into the mattress. The bed was still warm from where the two of you had been lying together, and when he leaned over you, you could smell the Irish Spring on his skin and the lemon pine natural detergent you’d made him switch to a few months ago, before the long shift had a chance to settle into his clothes.
"That's it, that's it." he cooed from beside you, his gloved hand pushing back your hair, petting your head, and leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
His other hand pinched gently beneath your chin again and turned your face toward him. He kissed you properly this time, and you breathed him in, the prickle of his overgrown beard catching against your skin. His nose pressed along the side of yours, pulling a dreamy sigh from you when his tongue touched your bottom lip.
He nipped at it gently, wordlessly asking permission to deepen the kiss. You gave in—of course, there was nothing more you wanted—letting your tongue slide against his when he pushed into your mouth.
A little whine slipped from your throat as the hand beneath your chin began to move. His gloved fingers traced down the front of your neck, passed over your bralette to cup your breasts gently, then continued over your belly, lower and lower, until they slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts and covered your panty-clad mound.
You gasped.
He moaned against your open mouth, and then began to pepper kisses over the side of your face, "Oh, I know, I know."
“Robby,” you sighed. “Moreee…”
He was only pressing two fingers up and down over you, your panties still in the way of where you wanted him most, dampening quickly beneath his touch.
Robby chuckled, still kissing you softly, his breath warm where it moved over your cheek. “Okay, okay. Anything for you. How’s this?”
Tucking two fingers beneath the edge of your panties, he dipped them into the arousal already gathered there. A low grunt left him, breath warm against your face, followed by a pleased hum. Your lungs caught as your eyes rolled back as your spine lifted from the bed.
Then, slowly, he pushed both fingers inside you. Your legs spread on reflex, opening as wide as the shorts allowed, while both hands came up to hold his wrist.
“Ohhh, yeah. There you go.” He watched your face as he pressed deeper. “How’s that feel, honey?”
“S-sooo good, Robby.”
“Mhm. I know.” His fingers curled inside you. “You love my fingers in you, don’t you, honey?”
"God, yes."
"Gonna be a good girl for my resident?"
"Yes, yes, yes."
“Gonna let him do what he wants with you?” His mouth brushed yours again. “With my best girl?”
You nodded quickly while his fingers worked against your walls, curling upward before dragging slowly back. Your ears burned at the wet sound of your pussy taking him deeper, slick gathering against the heel of his hand each time he pressed in.
"What if he wants you to suck his cock?" he asked with a tick of his head, watching you open mouthed.
Your mouth opened too, almost instinctively, knowing what he'd want. You felt silly, begging with your tongue sticking out: "Yes, oh oh oh, yes—"
He leaned down and dragged his tongue over yours where you offered it to him. “Gooood girl,” he moaned. “And if he wants to fuck this sweet pussy? Will you let him enjoy it as much as I do? As Jack does?”
You whined a little, "Yessss—"
"Ohhh, right there?" he whispered, pushing his fingers higher against your walls, crooking them, then fucking them deeper.
Your moans grew louder with each thrust, the pressure in your belly winding tighter until your thighs began to shake around his arm. “Oh, fuck—please, please. Just like that—”
“What a good girl.” His thumb pressed down on your clit and began making perfect, tight circles. “That’s it. Ask me nicely.”
“Please, Robby. Please let me come.” Your fingers tightened around his forearm, feeling the muscle flex beneath your grip every time his hand drove forward.
“Okay, honey. Go on.” He kissed the corner of your mouth. “I wanna feel you come on my fingers. Show me how good I make you feel. How badly you want to fuck Dr. Langdon.”
Your eyes flew open, a startled laugh almost breaking through at how filthy his mouth had gotten.
Then his fingers curled again, and your back bent into a perfect arch from the mattress, your legs trembling before closing around his hand as the tension inside you snapped. A loud, mewling cry left your mouth while your walls clenched around his fingers, pulling them deeper.
Robby kissed you hard through it, swallowing every sound, and you could feel the smile spread across his lips.
As you settled and your body slowly loosened beneath him, your breathing returned to steady pulls while a laugh began bubbling out of you. Robby’s mouth traveled over your cheek, your temple, then into your hair as he held you through the last few tremors.
“You are filthy today,” you giggled.
He chuckled too. “Can’t help it sometimes. You make me crazy.”
You tipped your chin up and kissed his bottom lip, your own lips dry from dragging in deep breaths. He eased his hand from beneath your panties, and your mouth fell open around a small gasp when his thick fingers slipped from your sensitive walls.
“Okay,” he groaned, straightening his back. “I’m going to go before Dana comes barging through the door.”
“Robby—” you called when he stood and snapped his gloves into the trash.
He turned back to you.
“Thanks for…” Your fingers worried at the waistband of your shorts. “The distraction. For letting Frankie…”
Robby shrugged, though his expression softened as his bare, warm fingers came down to pet gently over the top of your hand.
“He deserves it today. And so do you.” His thumb passed once across your knuckles. “I’ll have Jack come get you when you’re done.”
You nodded, tucking your bottom lip under your teeth. “Okay.”
Robby leaned down to kiss you once more, quick and brief and warm, before brushing your hair back from your face.
“Be good for him, honey.”
Your smile softened as you caught his wrist and kissed the center of his palm.
“I will.”
Langdon was back a little while later, knocking softly before he let himself into the room. Whatever surprise had been on his face when Robby told him he could return had settled into something more measured by then. He closed the door behind him and asked if you were okay in that sweet way he always had about him, his blue eyes searching yours as you told him yes, that you were. Even if he didn’t quite believe you, he didn’t make any show of it.
Instead, he sat beside you, your knees touching as his hand found yours and brought it into his lap. His fingers moved along the inside of your palm, tracing the lifeline, the heart line, where each one broke and split before finding itself again. The marks along your wrist had darkened, red fingerprints that Langdon circled with so much tenderness.
Quiet was nothing new between you. It had always come easily, the two of you understanding each other without needing to fill every second. This time, though, there was more sitting inside it.
The knowledge that this was it.
“Frankie,” you murmured after a while, “are you sure this is what you want? I can understand if… you wouldn't want to—ya know—with me…”
He kept your hand cradled in his lap, his gaze fixed somewhere near your joined fingers. He hadn’t looked at you in a long moment.
“Yeah, I am sure,” he said softly.
Then he lifted your wrist to his mouth and pressed a featherlight kiss on the marks.
You expected him to leave it at that, but his mouth kept moving, peppering kisses along your arm until gooseflesh rose beneath his lips and your body began answering before you meant for it to. Your eyes fluttered shut even though you wanted to keep watching him. You wanted to commit all of it to memory—him, you, the tender simplicity of being with him. How easy it had always been. How good he was to you. How good his lips felt on you, too.
His mouth reached the inside of your elbow, and you giggled at the ticklishness of it, trying to slip your arm away. Langdon held fast, though his fingers stayed gentle around you. Nothing like Park’s grip. Nothing you had to fight.
“Not so fast,” he murmured with a crooked grin. He sat upright and drew you toward him, your hand coming to rest against his middle as you folded halfway into his chest. He leaned closer, his mouth near yours.
“Can I have a kiss, baby?” His eyes moved between yours. “A real one?”
“Are you sure?” you asked again.
Langdon nodded, tilting his head. The blue of his eyes had already begun to disappear around the widening of his pupils as his gaze dropped to your mouth. He released your arm and brought his hand to your face, his thumb passing slowly over your bottom lip while he worried his own between his teeth. He watched you hold your breath beneath the touch, then purse your lips to kiss the pad of his thumb.
“Are you?” he asked.
You brought your hand up and wrapped your fingers delicately around his wrist, holding him there before drawing the tip of his thumb into your mouth.
“I always want you, Frankie,” you murmured around it.
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You can't say shit like that, baby.”
“S’true,” you answered immediately, closing your lips around his thumb again.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
He pulled it from your mouth and crushed his lips against yours.
The two of you let out mirrored moans at the contact—relief and need breaking from somewhere deep after spending so long holding yourselves back. You had almost forgotten how soft his lips could be, how he always knew what you needed from a kiss before you found the words to ask. His tongue pressed up against the seam of your mouth, and you opened easily for him—greedily seeking him out. Your tongue slid against his, pushing back before pulling it between your lips and sucking gently.
A low, pained groan left him as his hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you close as the kiss deepened, and before long he was guiding you down against the bed. Your legs opened around his middle, winding around his hips as he settled into the cradle of your lap.
You could feel the strain of his cock through the thin cotton of your shorts and the damp fabric beneath them, the thick length pressing into your clothed pussy just right when his hips grinded forward.
You moaned into his lips as he deepened the kiss— teeth clacking, mouths panting, the wet slide and smacking of lips and moans filling the room.
“I missed kissing you, baby,” he murmured against you at one point, dragging his mouth along your jaw before dipping down your sternum and nuzzling into your breasts.
Your hands went into his hair, long and thick and chocolate-brown between your fingers. When your nails scraped lightly over his scalp, he pressed harder beneath your breast, kissing and licking at the lace covered flesh before mouthing his way toward the edge of your bralette. He pushed the cup down and drew your nipple into his mouth.
His hands snaked around your middle, and your back arched to give him room when he reached for a clasp that wasn’t there.
“Frankie—it’s not—” You giggled and tugged his head up.
His mouth unlatched with a soft pop, his lips swollen and wet.
“It’s just a bralette. Pull it over.”
He hummed, his eyes drooping with arousal, a hazy little half-smile deepening the dimple in his chin. His hands moved beneath your ribs instead, gathering the fabric and pulling it up over your head before tossing it to the floor.
Then he dove back into you.
His face pressed between your breasts, his mouth moving over you with a slow attention that felt different now. His lips and tongue searched every familiar place, lingering where he knew you were sensitive, and then you remembered.
This was it.
He was cataloguing you too.
The next moan that left you when he took your other nipple into his mouth broke too close to a cry.
Langdon’s blue eyes flashed up at the change in your voice. He released you and crawled back over your body, concern clearing some of the haze from his face.
“What is it, baby?”
You shook your head, refusing to ruin this. This perfect pocket of time, the weight of him against you, his eyes on you, the hard press of his length fitting so perfectly between your legs.
You hooked your hands behind his neck and pulled him down into another searing kiss, squeezing your eyes shut.
He seemed to understand without making you explain. He gave the kiss back to you, one hand threading into your hair while his elbows rested beside your shoulders. His other hand slid down to hook beneath your knee, drawing it higher around his waist before pressing his cotton-covered cock harder against you.
You moaned and broke from his mouth, the pressure emptying your head for one brief, merciful second.
“Fuck, Frank.”
“Gonna make you feel so good, baby,” he whispered, bringing his mouth to your ear. He kissed beneath it before speaking against your skin. “Wanna make you feel so good with my cock. How’s that sound, hm? Can I fuck you?”
You shook your head. “Wanna—wanna make you feel good first—”
“Oh, I know. I know.” He lifted his face to yours again. “You always do. But if we do that, I’m not gonna last, and trust me—” A smile pulled at his mouth as he tucked your hair back. “I want to make this last.”
Your brows pinched together again.
His expression softened. “Baby…”
“It’s okay,” you whispered, shaking your head as an uneven breath pulled into your lungs. “I’m just—I keep remembering we’re never gonna have this again.”
His brows drew together too.
“I’m really happy for you, Frankie,” you went on quickly, your fingers combing through his hair the same way his moved through yours. “And Mel—she’s perfect. You’re perfect for each other. I promise. I just… I’m feeling…”
Selfish.
The word sat on the tip of your tongue, so ugly that you couldn’t make yourself say it. You felt so selfish for wanting to keep every version of him. The sweet one who listened when you stumbled through your thoughts. The proud one who lit up after a good case. The man above you now, hard between your legs and looking at you with all the care in the world written in his face.
Your want had always felt bottomless. There was room in it for Robby, for Jack, for Frank, for the others, and somehow that only made losing a piece of it feel worse.
“And how do you think I feel?” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your chin. “Seeing you with Robby and Jack all the time…”
He drew back enough to look at you while his hands began traveling over your body. They passed over the cups of your shoulders, squeezed gently around your upper arms, then slid across your clavicle and down to your breasts. He massaged them together beneath his palms before cupping them from underneath, his thumbs grazing over your nipples.
“Knowing they can have you whenever they want,” he continued, his hands moving down your rib cage toward the spread of your hips. “Knowing the best girl I’ve ever met loves them. That I’ll never have you to myself.”
The L-word had your face contorting in on itself, and he misunderstood, shaking his head as he squeezed the flesh of your thighs. "S'okay, baby, I learned long ago that sharing is caring. But fuck, if I don't get jealous as hell."
“You do?”
“Of course I do.” He dipped down to kiss you once, brief and soft and warm. “It’s natural. We all get jealous of each other.”
His eyes moved over your face, and some of the humor returned.
“I mean, Park didn’t do all that because he’s just an egotistical lughead.”
A small smile pulled at your mouth.
What happened with Park had frightened you, yes. You could still feel the tenderness in your wrist when you moved it. Even so, Langdon’s admission lit a small fire beneath your skin—the knowledge that they wanted you enough for jealousy to find its way in, even when they tried to handle it better.
“Robby doesn’t get jealous,” you said, your breath catching when Langdon began pulling your shorts down your legs.
He paused with one leg free, the other side still caught around your calf.
“Robby?” he asked. "Michael Robinavitch? We talking about the same guy, here?"
You watched him, your teeth tucking over your bottom lip. “Mhm. He likes to share. He doesn’t—”
“Oh, baby.” Langdon scoffed and tugged the shorts the rest of the way off. “If you think that man isn’t the most jealous one out of all of us…”
He tossed them aside, then leaned over you again.
“But enough about that.” His fingers hooked into the sides of your panties. “I don’t want to hear another man’s name on your lips right now.”
He pulled them down in one swift motion, a low whistle leaving him at the sight of your glistening folds waiting for him.
“This all for me, baby?”
You nodded. “Yes, Frankie.”
“What a nice girl you are,” he sighed.
His hands stayed on your thighs for another moment, spreading them wider while he looked at you. Then he pushed himself upright and began stripping out of his layers, the urgency making him clumsier than usual as he caught his scrub top briefly around one wrist.
“Why don’t I get off the bed,” he said, tugging it free, “and you turn over for me?”
You nodded.
Langdon stepped down to pull off the rest of his scrubs while you rolled onto your stomach, the sheets warm beneath you. When you looked back over your shoulder, he was naked, his hard cock standing out from his body and bobbing low with each step he took toward you. It twitched when he caught you staring.
“You sure I can’t… play?” you teased with a smile.
Langdon walked back to the bed, his mouth already pulling at the edges. “Okay, maybe a little bit of play. Go on—”
You opened your mouth for him, taking only the tip of his cock between your lips and sucking hard. Your tongue slid beneath the ridge, finding the sensitive underside until his hand shot out to brace against the wall.
His head fell back with a moan, and you echoed it around him, one hand reaching to wrap around the rest of his length as you began to bob. Your mouth and fist worked together, wetting him thoroughly while your own pussy clenched with want, empty and impatient and needy between your legs.
On one slick pull of your lips and hand, his hips jerked forward. One of his hands went to your hair, dragging you off him before you could push any deeper. “Oh—oh, okay. Easy. Fuck.”
You giggled as he pulled away, his cock wet and twitching in front of your face, the string of spit still connecting you to him.
Langdon climbed onto the bed again with a smile, settling over you until his weight pressed into your back. His cock found the crease of your ass and rocked there, slick and throbbing while his mouth brushed your ear. "What's so funny, baby?"
You gasped when his hand snaked beneath your hip and pulled you back against him, his fingers finding your clit. “Ah—you—” Your breath broke apart the words. “I like—I like making you feel good, Frankie.”
“I know you do, baby. So good at it too.” His fingers circled your clit slowly, then dipped lower. “Almost came down your pretty throat just now. You wouldn’t want that, would you—oh—”
The question made your pussy contract beneath his hand, his fingertips barely pressing against your entrance, making you lift your hips up and back into him, asking wordlessly for more.
“Oh, you would’ve loved that, huh, baby?” His voice dropped closer to your ear. “You like the idea of me coming down your throat? That it?”
“Yessss,” you moaned into the pillow beneath your face. “Pleaseeee, Frankie. Please fuck me—I need it.”
“What a nice girl, begging so well.” He kissed the side of your face.
You nodded quickly, and he lifted off you only enough to bring you with him, pulling you up onto all fours.
“Little grinding and cock sucking is all it takes, huh, baby?” he murmured. “You that needy for me?”
“Yessss, Frankie,” you whined, your feet kicking against the mattress.
He chuckled, then pressed forward.
The head of his cock slipped inside you, followed by another slow inch, then another. He took his time, stretching you open until his hips finally settled flush against your ass.
The groan that left him when he folded himself over you made your pussy clench around him again. He sounded nearly pained by it, his breath hot and uneven against your neck.
“Fuckkkk. Fuck, baby—”
You wiggled your hips, already ready for more, for him to just do something—but his one hand stopped you immediately, "Do not fucking move."
His voice had gone so low and ragged that it was enough to empty your head. The restless need inside you softened beneath the order, your body going still while that obedient part of you blinked her eyes open and rose to meet him. Warmth spread beneath your skin, your thoughts narrowing until there was only his hand holding you in place, his cock buried deep inside you, and the next thing he might ask of you.
"Oh," Langdon sighed, "Yeah, that's it, such a good listener, what a good girl."
You keened at the praise, but the sound split into a needy whine before you could hold it back. He twitched inside you, the thick pulse of his cock making your walls tighten and draw him deeper while his breath came hot against the side of your neck, every uneven exhale moved through the hair at your nape.
His hand came up to your face, fingers closing around your jaw to turn you over your shoulder, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. His lips pressed into the side of your face when he spoke. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay, baby?” His voice was still rough from holding himself back. “Would you like that?”
You nodded quickly. “Yes—” The word muffled against your pursed lips when his fingers squeezed, holding your face against his.
Langdon drew his hips back only a few inches, the slow drag of his cock along your walls leaving both of your mouths hanging open against each other. Your breath caught in the same instant his did, the emptiness already making you whine before he pressed forward again and filled you up. His hips rolled into yours again, shallow but controlled, then withdrew a little farther the next time.
He built the rhythm patiently, each stroke opening you around him before settling deep again. His fingers held your jaw tighter while his mouth stayed open against yours, sharing every pant and moan and mewling plea. His other hand gripped your hip, keeping you steady beneath him whenever your knees slid against the sheets.
“Fuck,” he groaned, “I’m gonna miss you so much, baby.”
Your brows pinched despite the pleasure loosening everything else inside you. “Frankieee…”
“Gonna miss kissing you.” His next thrust landed harder, pushing a cry from your throat, pressing a wet kiss to the side of your mouth. “Gonna miss this perfect pussy—oh, fuck—taking me so good every time.”
His hips struck yours again, the force traveling up your spine.
“You’re such a good girl, baby. Ohhh my God.”
“Frankie, you feel so, so good,” you panted, the words still distorted by the hand holding your cheeks.
He pushed his tongue between your parted lips. You tried to kiss him back, catching at him with your mouth whenever the movement of his body allowed it, but the pleasure kept breaking your rhythm apart. Beneath it sat the other feeling, sharper every time he said he would miss you. Each thrust seemed to press it farther into you, the sweetness and grief tangled so completely that your chest hurt with it.
“You feel so perfect around me, baby.” His mouth dragged over yours while he spoke. “You like my cock splitting you open, hm?”
“Yes, Frankie!” you cried out as his thrusts became heavier and faster, your voice rising in octaves. The bed creaked beneath you with every drive of his hips, the frame giving a faint knock against the wall. Skin slapped wetly behind you, his moans crowded the room with yours, joined by the slick pull of his cock working in and out of your walls. His aftershave still clung to his neck beneath the heat of his skin, mixed now with sweat and the thick smell of sex trapped inside the closed room.
“You have to know—” he panted against your mouth, it sounded different—softer, so gentle as the two of you were breathing each other’s air. He refused to lift his face from yours, his cheek rubbing against yours with every thrust, keeping himself as close as his body would allow. “You have to know how much you mean to me. To everyone, baby.” His voice cracked. “You’re such a good girl.”
“Don’t—” Your throat tightened around the word. “Don’t say that. Please—”
“You are, though.” He shook his head against yours, fingers pressing harder into your cheeks to hold you there, to make you hear him. “You are.”
His rhythm broke for half a second when your pussy clenched around him. “Oh, fuck.” His hips drove forward harder. “I’m getting close, baby. Talk to me, please, baby, tell me how it feels—”
“So good. So good—oh my God.” Your hands gripped at the sheets, your elbows slipping beneath you. “Please, please come inside me, Frankie. I want to feel you. Want to—”
“Come with me, baby.” He begged. “Please. Oh, fuck, please—”
You nodded as much as his grip allowed.
His jaw dropped, his tongue brushing clumsily over your upper lip before speech abandoned him completely. He was nothing but moans and grunts now, hot breath striking your mouth while your own came back at him. Your hips tightened beneath his hand. Your spine drew taut. The pressure winding low in your belly pulled tighter with every erratic thrust until your whole body seemed to gather around it.
“Frankieeee—oh my God, I’m coming. Frankie, please, please—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” he moaned.
His thrusts turned frantic, striking so deep that your legs were shaking beneath him. Then his whole body locked, and the first hard pulse of his cock inside you sent the tension of your belly snapping apart. Your eyes rolled back as your orgasm tore through you, your walls convulsing around him and holding every twitch, every hot release. A cry left your mouth while your thighs trembled trying to keep you upright.
“Good girl,” he breathed into your ear. “Yes. Yes, baby.”
The hand gripping your face opened at last, his fingers immediately turning soft as they stroked over your cheek. He kept petting you through every contraction, his voice falling apart beside your ear while your body pulled him deeper and neither of you tried to move away.
Neither of you was anything more than heaving breaths as the orgasms began to loosen their hold, the sweat and heat between your bodies cooling by slow degrees. Langdon wrapped both arms around you, and the two of you folded into the bed together, limbs tangled beneath the sheets while his weight settled completely across your back and you laid flat.
For a while, all you did was breathe.
His chest expanded against your back, his heart still knocking hard through his ribs. His spent cock remained inside you, softening gradually while your walls gave small, lingering pulses around him. Neither of you seemed willing to be the first to move and end that final point of connection.
“m'I crushin' you?” he finally slurred into your hair.
You shook your head against the pillow. “Feels nice.”
“So I am crushing you,” A breathless laugh moved through him and onto your shoulder.
“A little.” You smiled into the pillow. “But I like it.”
Langdon kissed the side of your head, then your bare shoulder, before resting his cheek there. His breathing had nearly settled when he spoke again.
“What I said…” He paused to draw in another breath. “About you meaning a lot to us. You know that’s the truth, right?”
Your mouth pulled into something close to a smile, but you didn’t answer.
When you opened your eyes, he was already watching you. His eyes had returned to that clear blue, the pupils slowly shrinking again. Sweat dotted his forehead and dampened the hair near his temples.
“Just because we can’t do this anymore doesn’t mean I stop caring about you,” he said. “Doesn’t mean you’re not still one of my favorite people, okay?”
You nodded.
The burning had already started at the back of your throat again, and you tried to swallow it down before he noticed.
“I can still love you as a friend,” he said.
Your heart dropped.
“You…” Your voice caught, your eyes widening, “You love me?”
It was a word you had sworn never to say, to never accept, to never want ever again. Love meant there was something to lose, someone you could fail, another person who could leave you carrying every word you should have said and every moment you should have been there.
Your parents had loved you in their own way, and you couldn't help the thorn that had been pushed in deeper by the loss of them . That you had gone about your life wrong, that you'd let them down. And then... That you had gone on living when they couldn’t, building a life they would never see and finding happiness that no longer included them. Loving someone again felt too close to offering the world another way to hurt you.
But hearing it from Langdon felt different. He wasn’t asking you to promise him anything or give him a name for what existed between you. You could remain friends and still hold this fondness for one another, right? This bittersweet love that didn’t need to belong anywhere else.
“Baby, why are you crying?” he whispered, lifting himself to kiss the tear from your cheek.
“I keep crying today. Don’t worry, it’s not just you—” You let out a wet laugh. “I’ll just… miss you, Frankie.”
He sighed, perhaps understanding that you couldn’t say it back. Maybe you did love him. Maybe you were still capable of it, despite everything. But for now, the word frightened you too much. It still meant loss before it meant gain, still felt like the surest way to be hurt worse than anything else in the world.
So he held you until there was no more time to borrow, before the two of you had to step outside and find out what came next.
kingdon nation rise UPPPP !!!
ohhhhhhhhhh I lovee this one you guys :') frankie will always be so special to me ughhh !!! thank you SO much for reading and please let me know what you think <3 your therapy bill can be sent to my lawyer
summary: your husband will do anything to keep you happy, even if it means losing.
warnings: established relationship, age gap (40s!titus|25+!reader), empty twinkie (fluff only), incredibly spoiled!reader, minor pervy!titus, ass smacking
w/c: >1.9k
author notes: minor blurb again, had to write for zaddy titus bc I had no other inspo and Titus has been on my mind for days. i need that crazy man so bad. my tags weren’t working mid draft and I crashed out like five times, i hate this app. I changed my layout again, im so indecisive. and I’m lowkey debating on deleting all my other posts so I can start fresh…
The afternoon sun blared down on you in a harsh wave of warmth as you stood against the freshly trimmed green grass, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The tip of your tongue pressed out in between your lips, expensive shades pushed up onto your head. Your feet were spread shoulder-width apart, one hand wrapped around the rose gold grip of your golf club.
You carefully winded your arm back just six inches, lightly tapping the golf ball with about as much force as a heavy exhale. You watched as it rolled slowly, following the slight curve of the grass before sliding into the hole with a soft clatter.
“Yes!” You clenched your free hand into a loose fist, pumping your hand in the air as you quickly turned to your husband who was watching with a pleased smile.
“Good job, sweetheart,” He praised with a slow nod and a short clap as he tucked the club grip first under his arm. You shrug lightly as if this type of talent came naturally, stepping aside as your husband subtly jerked his chin towards Pernilla in a silent command to have her grab the ball from the hole. “So, that puts you at what… 35?”
You let out a small, sarcastic laugh, tapping the club head of the club into the damp grass as you approached your husband. “Close, but it’s actually 15.” Titus raises an eyebrow at you, tilting his head slightly.
“15? Is that accurate?” He watches you as the both of you subconsciously make your way towards one another, stopping just at the foot of the golf cart.
“Read the scorecard, baby. One-five, soak it in.”
He leans closer beside you as you pull out the scorecard with a dramatic flourish glancing down at the italicized flourish of your name with a whopping 35 next to it. Your eyes shift down to the neat, bold claim of Titus’ name beside your high score where his score is a gaining with a lower 32 (which was incredibly high even for him, but you knew he’d purposefully been fucking up the entire game). He hums lowly, looking over at you as you’re already looking up at him with a small look he’d gotten familiar with.
He doesn’t say anything at first, studying the little pout on your lips and the pointed look you gave him before quickly caving with a content smile. “Pernilla must’ve miscounted.” Your pout immediately goes away, like a flip is switched, an eager grin slips onto your mouth.
“So, we agree. But don’t worry, I’ll go easy during the last hole.” He laughs at that, letting out a quiet huff through his nose.
His arm finds its way around your waist, tugging you closer to him with a firm grip on your hip. “Thank you, baby. I really appreciate it.” With a steady movement, he guides you towards the golf cart, keeping one hand braced on your back as the other hovered in the air to ease you into your seat.
You accept his extended hand, stepping up onto the golfcart as Titus tilts his head down just a few inches to peer under your small black pleated skirt. But he’s barely caught a glimpse of the colored cotton of your panties before you’re already sitting down. You hand him your golf club without a second thought, as he quickly moves to put your clubs into the cart bag. He moved to slide into the driver’s seat, giving Pernilla four seconds to make her way into her own golf cart before pulling the cart back in drive.
The two of you make your way towards the final hole, golf cart gliding over long hills of bright green as the wind forced the thick dark leaves of the trees to sway loudly. You slid the sunglasses from the top of your head, allowing them to sit comfortably on the bridge of your nose as Titus’ hand made its way towards your thigh.
A comfortable silence stretched between the two of you, tires rolling quietly against the lawn as the cart moved towards the long stretch of empty space. Titus’ thumb rubbed up and down against the smooth expanse of your thigh, occasionally looking over at you to ensure you’re comfortable. You curiously glance over at Pernilla, who’s trailing behind the two of you, turning to look back at your husband. You rest your hand on top of his, rubbing his knuckles with your index finger as he actively fights back a smile.
The cart is shifted into a park as the two of you finally stop at the hole, Titus is the first to glide out of the vehicle. Immediately moving to help you down, though you probably could’ve easily hopped down, the two of you refused to allow yourself to do any simple task like that. Titus quickly grabs your club, extending it your way without you even having to look his way. You turn to him with a bright smile, leaning up to press a lipgloss sticky kiss to his cheek.
“Don’t go easy on me now, I can take it.” You lift up your shades, tucking them into the v-cut of your top as you press a hand to your eyebrows. Blocking the sun from your vision, you squint towards the hole, tapping the clubhead against your shoe.
Titus laughs, stepping beside you as Pernilla places a golf ball on the tee, adjusting it quietly. “I think we both know I don’t do easy,” You side eye him, giving him a blank look as if he wasn’t intentionally losing just to see you win. “Hey, don’t give me that look. It’s windy.”
You snicker slightly, nudging him forward as he makes his way towards the tee in the ground. You stand back just a few steps, watching as he positions himself beside the ball. Your eyes follow the movement of his arm as he reels it back, and for a second you’re actually convinced he’s gonna hit the ball force for. Y’know, taking the last round seriously. His hand ‘slips’, the clubhead barely nudging the ball two feet away from where you both stood.
You gasp loudly, pointing a perfectly manicured finger his way. “Hey! I said don’t hold back.”
His brows lift slightly in faux offense, motioning one hand to the club. “I’m not. My hand slipped.”
“Fine, I’ll try not to wipe the floor with you.”
You brush a stray strand of hair from your face, waiting as Pernilla placed your ball on the tee before positioning yourself in a familiar stance as your husband. Your eyebrows furrow, eyes glued onto the ball in concentration as you drew your arm back up into a 90° angle. With as much strength as you can gather, you swing your arm forward, your clubhead clacks against the ball in a loud thwack.
The ball flies out a good 70 something yards, stumbling over the grass as it rolls to a slow stop somewhere beside a neatly trimmed bush. Titus lets out a low whistle, meeting your excited smile with an approving grin. “Beautiful swing.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
Titus steps four steps towards his ball, as you move horizontally to watch him. Your eyes follow his arm as it moves back before rushing down in a crisp clip against the ball. It flies out, a small chunk of dirt flying off somewhere in the distance as his ball moves towards yours. It falls short by a few feet, perfectly angled towards yours. You clap excitedly, rushing up to Titus’ side. Your hand wraps around his arm as you jump up slightly. “That was perfect!”
He turns his head towards you, a boyish looking grin on his lips at the praise. He doesn’t respond, mimicking your nonchalant shrug from earlier. Instead of taking the time to walk towards the ball, the both of you turn towards the cart again. The thirty second walk time is cut off to a quick six second drive because Titus refuses to allow you to walk and potentially get your pretty little shoes fucked up.
It only takes another heavy swing for the ball to go into the hole, and honestly you were lucky. If it weren’t for that tree in the distance, you would’ve overshot by a foot. But thankfully the thick trunk knocked the ball backwards into the hole in a satisfying plink. Titus follows in suit with two more swings.
By the time you check the score points, your 35 has turned into a 15, which somehow turned into a 10. But considering the happy smile on your face, no one is saying shit about the obvious cheating. Titus sets your club into its corresponding pink bag, before ignoring his own club so he could help you into the cart. Pernilla is probably putting his equipment away as the two of you scramble into the vehicle, but Titus doesn’t check so neither do you.
Your arms are wrapped around his neck, lips pressing repeatedly against his cheek in eager, little peppers. One hand grips the wheel to keep from driving the two of you into a bush as the other is buried comfortably under your skirt. His large hand is heavy against your ass, palm squeezing and gripping your cheek as he revels in your kisses.
“You did great, hon. And that last swing?” He whistles again at the memory, earning a happy hum from you. You lean back slightly, giving a half hearted attempt to wipe away the gloss shining on his cheek. “Leave it, I don’t mind.”
Your hand finds its way back to his shoulder, squealing in surprise as he gives your ass a firm smack. “Stop that, Pernilla might see.” You whisper slightly, but you don’t make an attempt to move his hand away. He looks down at you with a slow grin, intentionally giving your ass another squeeze and a heavy smack.
“I think a little ass smacking is beyond her worries.” You smile despite yourself, running your other hand up and down the curve of his neck. He leans into you, tilting his head down to meet the loud mwah of your lips as you press another kiss to his cheek. His fingers dip under the sides of your panties, pressing against the flesh of your ass for better feel.
“I think I deserve a reward.”
“Yeah?” He looks at you again as he parks the car at the entrance of the Danforth Manor. “Whaddya want?”
You purse your lips as he helps you off, looking up into the sky while trying to recollect the newer things he bought you. A new pair of Jimmy Choo pumps, a new Dior handbag, a gold Chanel necklace. “Hmm,” you trail off as he rests a hand on your hip to keep you in reach as the two of you climb up the steps. “Oh! We should get matching bracelets. Wouldn’t that be so cute?”
“Don’t we already have matching bracelets?”
“Oh, phooey,” as the two of you step inside the Manor, you’re enveloped in a rush of cool air. “Fine, rings then.”
He hesitates, momentarily glancing down at the flashy wedding ring on your finger but being smart he doesn’t correct you again. “That sounds good.”
You turn to him with a soft smile, planting a kiss to his lips. “And I want another handbag. Maybe that Gucci one we saw last month.”
He shifts forward, pressing another kiss to your lips. “The ostrich one?”
“Mhmm… oh, oh! And I saw this cute pair of earrings too.”
“From Gucci?”
“No, Chanel. But I was looking online, and Prada has this gorg—” Titus’ hand moves towards yours, intertwining your fingers with his before kissing your forehead gently to politely shut you up.
summary: alone in a roadside motel, robby finally makes the call caleb told him to. except, the person who answers is nothing like he expected.
|| robby x reader || angst, therapist!reader, resident!reader, reader is kinda snarky, suicidal thoughts and ideations, some humor, conversations about death and life, parental loss, drinking, hurt / comfort, childhood wounds ||
a/n: I got this idea from dr caleb jefferson saying he had another therapist for robby to try. the title is from spinoza's philosophy that there is drive in each living thing that keeps it existing despite hardship
a/n II: katherine lenasa recently said in an interview that there was a deleted scene about how robby's mom died, so that is written here as canon.
wc: 3k
Robby hadn’t factored in just how quiet his sabbatical would be.
He never liked the quiet after a shift, either. He filled his ears constantly. airpods in with music, sometimes a podcast. The television running in the background while he made dinner, while he showered, while he fell asleep. He’d wake sometime around dawn to the silence before the birds even stirred outside his window—the Are You Still Watching? menu glaring at him from across the room.
So, out on the open road for those first few days…
It was really quiet.
The thrum of the motorcycle engine beneath him was a welcome version of white noise that filled some semblance of the silence. He could listen for changes in the motor, watch the road surface, calculate how far he could push before he needed gas. For a few hours at a time, his body had a job.
But it wasn’t enough to keep his thoughts from those he’d left behind.
He wondered if Baby Jane Doe ever found a foster. If Baran was having seizures and still working as if nothing was amiss (Robby hadn't ratted her out like he'd threatened to, after all).
He wondered if Duke ever followed up with his appointments. Robby had called him the second day, and Duke assured him he’d call again Monday. But that was a few days ago now, and when Robby tried his stubborn friend again, he hadn’t gotten an answer.
There was nothing Robby could do about that from here.
He wondered if Dana was handling the ED okay, if she still had a loaded syringe in her pocket every day. Hell, he even wondered if Santos and Whitaker were okay. If Trinity had had any more blow ups with Langdon, if she was still having to stay extra hours for charting. Dennis had sent a text on the second day, letting him know he’d gotten into the house okay, that the plants say hi!. Robby knew it was a welfare check. He even thought Santos had put him up to it, with the way Dennis had anthropomorphized the plants to make the whole thing sound casual.
Robby had responded with a thumbs up emoji and nothing else. Enough for a clear: Yes, I'm still alive. No, I haven't killed myself yet.
Tonight, he was holed up in a shitty little roadside inn with a dingy little bar attached. He’d been sipping whiskeys until last call, and even then the bartender gave him a nightcap to take to his room. Robby had thanked him for not making him ask.
His room didn’t have wifi. It didn’t even have a television because apparently the town he’d chosen to stop in was one where they believed the screen could melt your brain and the blue light would kill you.
It was too bad Robby preferred that outcome anyway.
There was an alarm clock bolted to the nightstand and a laminated card beside it listing the local churches, a bible in the side table. The air conditioner under the window clicked off every six minutes, leaving the room silent until it shuddered back to life.
It was just so fucking quiet.
He took his whiskey into the shower, the hot water scalding the day from his skin and the first layer of epidermis with how hot he'd set the temperature. Even the sound of the water didn't stop him from remembering that little girl who drowned last year. Or Leah. Or Adamson. Or Louie. Or Nick Bradley.
The names just kept coming. Their faces, their stories. The fact Robby knew he couldn't have done any better, but that he should've at least tried.
Fuck. He heard himself grit out, squeezing his eyes shut.
He angrily turned off the water and just stood there, letting himself feel the chill of the bathroom air changing around him, the steam billowing up into the fan. Droplets ran from his hair, down the center of his back, sliding down his calves before slipping toward the drain. He leaned his fists onto the plastic acrylic wall, his head hung low between his arms, trying and failing to erase the vision of all the people he couldn't save from his mind's eye.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He threw back the rest of his whiskey and stepped out of the shower, grabbing the yellow floral hotel towel and drying his hair, then his arms, his legs. Doing something helped a little, distracted by the little scars, then the bruises on his legs from where he’d kicked the stand of his motorcycle down and caught it against his calf.
In the main area of his room, he threw on his sweatpants and a t shirt, then sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his fists deeply into his eyes.
He should sleep. That was the whole point of this, right? To have time away to rest. To distance himself.
But it was so god damn quiet.
He picked up his phone just to scroll. No internet meant nothing really wanted to load. Images remained gray boxes, videos stalled before they began. He refreshed the same pages over and over, knowing it wouldn’t make a difference.
He thought maybe he’d put on a podcast, but couldn’t find anything he remotely cared about.
Some of Abbot’s guided meditations came up in his search through Spotify, having been shared unsolicited by the attending.
Letting Go of Things You Can't Control.
Power of Natural Energy.
Detachment from Overthinking.
Healing the Mind.
He also didn’t want to picture his fellow attending listening to these while doing his naked morning yoga, but could admit it was at least better than the blood that had spurted out of Louie’s breathing tube last week.
It took almost nothing now. One word, one image, and Robby was back beneath the fluorescent lights with his hands overlapped, punching into Louie's chest to try and restart his heart.
He closed Spotify.
Then he scrolled through his texts.
He couldn't burden any of these people with his 2am thoughts of mortality. With the memories. With the humiliating admission that four days away from the hospital had left him sitting on a motel mattress, drunk and afraid of turning off the lamp beside his bed.
He didn't want any of them to worry about him. They probably had to be up in the next few hours for their morning shifts, anyway. Or worse, they were at work, and he’d be keeping them from patients.
A recent text from Dr. Caleb came up.
Call me when things get bad.
Robby picked up on the subliminal hint that Caleb had written when not if.
Without letting himself think too much of it, Robby pressed call.
Shit, he forgot it was 2:30 in the morning, and went to go hang up after two rings. The burring of the line had his stomach flipping for the first time, regretting calling at all now. He pictured Caleb waking up beside his partner, fumbling for his reading glasses because Robby couldn't make it through the night without dragging someone into his messes.
His thumb was going for the big red hang up button when he heard—
"Hello?"
He hovered, finger stopped in its tracks.
That was most definitely not Dr. Caleb Jefferson's voice.
For a second, he just sat there staring at his screen, his mouth opening and closing, brows threading while the gears in his mind struggled toward an answer. He checked the name glowing across the top.
Dr. Caleb Jefferson.
The voice came back again.
“…Helloooo?”
It was a woman’s voice.
Somehow, in some way, it put a record-scratch stop to Robby's hurtling thoughts. Louie disappeared from behind his eyes. The drowned little girl was gone. For the first time in days, there was a question in front of him that had an answer he might actually be able to get.
His curiosity piqued.
“Hello," he said awkwardly, "I’m—I'm sorry, is this Dr. Jefferson’s number?”
“Yes, it is.”
"I'm his…" What was he? Not a client, not really a friend, per say.
Before he could settle on anything, the voice— your voice— was back: “You’re Michael, right?”
Okay, now Robby was really intrigued.
"Yes, this… this is Dr. Robinavitch. I work with Caleb at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center."
There was a long sigh on the other end, "Shit…"
Robby swallowed, his eyes falling to his knees as he brought the phone back to his ear. So you knew about him. Maybe about the trip, or his very public spiraling only a few days ago. Maybe Caleb had told you enough to understand that it had to be bad if he was calling at 2:30 in the morning—
"I had fifty bucks on you lasting at least two weeks, Dr. Robinavitch." you said, cutting off his running throughts, "I really believed in you."
Robby couldn't help the smile that split his face. It felt foreign, his cheeks sore within seconds from not having stretched the muscles in days.
Something felt loosened, if only a fraction, in his chest. His grip on the phone eased, his shoulders fell with the breath he let out.
He laid back on the bed, pushing a hand through his damp hair as he stared at the water-stained ceiling. "And what was Caleb's wager?"
"Oh, he thought it would take four days and two hours." you said easily, "but you've just lost me my hard earned money, doctor."
Robby glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Caleb had only been off by a few hours.
"Sorry about that."
He heard your light huff of laughter through the phone, followed by a deeper breath. Maybe you were settling back into a chair, or sitting against the headboard of a bed somewhere far away, the phone balanced against your ear.
“What can I do for you, Dr. Robinavitch?”
“Robby, please." he murmured. "Everyone calls me Robby.”
“Not Michael?”
“My grandmother called me Michael.” He grimaced, despite the fact that you couldn’t see it. “Just Robby is fine.”
“Aye, aye, cap,” you said. “Robby it is.”
It reminded him of Dana and the collection of monikers she kept for him. Cap. Boss. Usually coined while she unloaded all the patient updates, or called him of her shoulder toward a room where somebody needed something.
Her face when he’d said goodbye flashed through his head. The way she’d known. The tears welling in her eyes, her hair mussed out of place from fighting the asshole who attacked Emma and the harrowing hours that followed. She had looked at him like she wanted to ask whether he was safe to leave alone and knew he would lie if she did.
The little spark of amusement you’d managed to draw out of him dimmed.
“Why are you up at this hour?” he asked instead of answering.
“Why are you?” you shot back.
Robby sighed.
He’d called, hadn’t he? Did he have to say that the quiet had finally become unbearable? That without the emergency department demanding every usable part of him, there was nothing left to stand between him and his own mind. That all the people he couldn’t save still followed him down the highway like ghosts, keeping pace no matter how fast he pushed the bike?
He wished he could just ask you to say some magic words to make it all go away.
“I’m, uh—well…” he tried, and then stopped.
The truth sat heavy on his tongue, swelling to the point it wanted to be spit out, but he just couldn't do it. So he settled for the second best truth.
“I'm at a shit hotel. There's no tv, no god damn wifi either.”
“Oh,” you chirped.
Robby didn’t know what you looked like, but he liked picturing you on a landline, twirling the cord around your fingers, your feet propped up against the side of your bedroom where your mattress met the wall, your back laid on the bedspread. Very eighties rom-com, sure. But the way your voice lit up, the quick retorts that seemed to come to you without effort, had him picturing you as one of those girls. Big shirt, messy hair, a wad of bubblegum in your cheek, maybe a pen tucked behind one ear while you stayed awake for people who couldn’t be alone.
“So I’m just here because you couldn’t doomscroll?”
“I… guess?” His voice cracked around the answer, turning it into a question.
You hummed in understanding.
Robby waited for you to push. Caleb would have, those therapists he tried to sic on him would've had an empathetic smile and big, understanding eyes. Dana would have stared at him until the silence became unbearable. Jack would have said something measured that made Robby feel dissected from three hundred miles away.
“Well, I’m glad you called,” you said anyway.
“You are?”
“Yeah. Means there’s still time.”
Robby’s stomach hollowed out. Heat crawled up his neck and flushed through his chest, his smile dropping from his face.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, fully prepared to put up a fight, to stack his walls higher one brick at a time.
“You tell me, Robby." you said easily. "It’s 2:30 in the morning where you are. You planned this whole ego-death journey, right? Drove yourself into the middle of nowhere, and still decided to send out one more olive branch. One more call for help.”
Robby didn’t like that one bit.
You reading him like this. It was everything he hated about therapy: the calm voices, the careful questions, the way they thought they could strip him down to the studs and tell him who he was.
But fuck, it had been a long few days.
And you hadn’t told him who he was. You’d only pointed out what he’d done.
That distinction, irritatingly, kept the phone pressed to his ear.
“Where are you right now, Robby?” you asked when he didn't answer.
“Middle of bum-fuck nowhere.”
“Go outside.”
He hesitated for only a second before sighing, hauling himself up from the bed, and walking toward the door.
The summer air met him the moment he pulled it open, hot against his still-damp skin. Cicadas screamed from the trees, something smaller chirped from the weeds beside the ice machine. He even saw a pair of headlights move along the highway a block away, appearing through the gaps in the trees and disappearing again.
"Do you hear that?"
He listened for a long moment. And then: "What?"
"That's life, Robby. All around you."
He let out another breath, stepping out into the pale moonlight hanging above the trees. Moths battered themselves against the fixture beside his door, eager for the light, for the heat, for the thing that might kill them.
That was life, apparently.
The parking lot sat empty beneath him except for his bike and two other cars, every door shut, every curtain drawn. No voices through the walls. No footsteps crossing the concrete. No one calling his name from behind him because something had gone wrong and they needed him to fix it.
He was suddenly gripped the railing with one hand while his throat burned, his eyes stung. He blinked against it, staring out at the empty highway until the white lines blurred together.
Life was all around him, sure. Loud in the trees, crawling through the grass, beating itself senseless against a porch light. The heart pushing oxygen through his body without his permission.
That was the thing. He had spent years watching it leave people. Watching whatever made a person them disappear from the body in front of him—every life taken, every flame extinguished, every mortal coil left vacant seemed to take a piece of him with it, until he had begun to wonder how much of himself was left.
“But I... don't want it." he whispered.
Robby lowered his head, voice catching, his fingers tightening around the railing until the metal pressed into his palms when he swallowed and tried again.
“I want to die,” he whispered after a long moment.
He hoped maybe you’d hung up the phone. That the line had gone dead before he said it, because for once he hadn’t dressed it up. No I don’t want to be here. No what if I don’t come back? Nothing vague enough to retract later. It was plain and simple.
He stood alone beneath the moon, one hand locked around the railing, and felt eight years old again. Young and wiry and small, watching the adults make decisions that split his life open without thinking what would happen to him.
His mother had wanted to die, too. She had gone through with it, and Robby had been left with everything that came after. He could remember her empty bedroom, the cold feeling of the bedspread when he sat on it when grown ups would be whispering in the next room, stopping whenever he walked by. Everyone looked at him with the same pitiful eyes, waiting for him to cry.
He hadn't. He'd gotten angry, he'd locked out all feelings, burying them in the crypt of his work.
He’d carried that anger for so long it had hardened around the boy who still missed her. The boy who had waited for the front door to open long after he understood it wouldn’t. Who still listened for her voice in rooms where she would never be. Who had spent years wondering what he could have done differently, what he could have said, whether he could have been better behaved, quieter. If there was something he could've done to change her mind.
Robby felt closest to him—that boy that still existed within— in moments like this, when his throat burned and his eyes filled and there was no one around to see him lose the fight against his mind.
The rage had never pushed the grief out. It had only sat on top of it, keeping him from touching what was underneath.
"I know," you said softly, and your voice almost made him jump out of his skin. “But, Robby…”
He waited for you to say something important. The Next Right Thing. Something typical and therapized, something beautiful and full of meaning. That life was worth living. That there was still so much left for him. That things got better.
“…that would be a really fucking stupid thing to do.”
Robby blinked.
There was something about you—that attitude. No pity for him or careful, measured voice meant to pull him off the edge with cooing words. You said it like he’d might've suggested driving the motorcycle into a lake because he was tired of paying for gas.
A breath split his chest, caught somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.
“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, sniffling.
"Yes, I believe it is. Would you like to hear why I think it's stupid for you to kill yourself, Dr. Robinavitch?"
Robby tipped his head back.
The moon still hung above him in the cloudless sky, full enough to bleach the tops of the trees and catch along the metal railing beneath his hand. He hadn’t noticed how bright it was when he first stepped outside.
He wiped beneath his nose with the back of his wrist, the corner of his mouth pulling despite himself.
“Why, yes, I would,” he said with a little sarcasm, clearing the roughness from his throat.
“Because you called me, Michael Robinavitch." you said, your voice strong. He could picture you, the woman he'd made up in his head, pointing your finger at him, poking his chest as you stared up at him defiantly, "You had every opportunity to disappear quietly, and instead you picked up the phone and gave someone the chance to stop you. That means some part of you is still arguing for tomorrow. I think it would be really fucking stupid to ignore him.”
Robby was stunned into silence.
The words found the tender spot he’d spent the last five days carefully avoiding. He’d called. Whatever excuse he made about the wifi, whatever lie he told about boredom or whiskey or Caleb’s name happening to appear beneath his thumb, he had called.
“And there are still things worth sticking around for, ya know,” you continued, quieter now. “Chocolate cake. The first sip of a perfect cup of coffee. Really good books. The people who can still make you laugh after a long day.”
The tears were streaming down his face now, unsolicited and hot against his skin. He bowed his head, staring at his bare feet on the concrete walkway while they slipped from his jaw and darkened the front of his shirt.
“You save lives, Robby. That’s a burden no one should have to carry every hour of every day.” Your voice softened further. “But you are more than the people you managed to save. You’re more than the ones you couldn’t.”
His face folded before he could stop it.
He turned away from the metal railing, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes as he sank to the concrete, his back catching against the warm bars behind him. His breathing came unevenly, each inhale snagging in his ribs before it could fill his lungs. He hated crying. He hated that it made him feel like that little boy again who'd lost his mother, hated the heat and the wet and the stuffed up nose, the shake in his shoulders, the fact that you could probably hear every pathetic part of it through the phone.
“There’s more to your life than tonight,” you said.
Robby couldn’t answer.
He sat with the moon at his back and his head bowed, letting the railing hold the weight he couldn’t seem to carry himself.
Then you took a breath.
“You know what I think you need?”
He sniffed hard. “What?”
“I think you need a cat.”
Robby’s head lifted. You kept taking him by surprise, making him cry one second and dragging a laugh out of him the next. It came wet and hoarse, breaking apart in his throat.
“What the fuck am I gonna do with a cat?” he choked out. He wasn't sure if it was a sob or a laugh that punched out of him, but the corners of his mouth were pulling up despite it all.
“A cat will force you to get your ass out of bed in the morning. It’ll scream until you feed it, knock your belongings onto the floor, and sit directly on whatever part of you hurts most.” You sounded entirely convinced. “It’ll love you despite all the shit you tell yourself. A cat is perfect.”
Robby laughed again, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.
“This is quite the therapy session,” he said, only then realizing how far you’d gotten him to follow you.
“Oh, I’m not a therapist. I’m Dr. Jefferson’s kid.”
Robby choked on air. “What?”
“I’m kidding!” you said, dissolving into a giggle. “I’m doing a residency rotation in emergency psychiatry with him this year.”
Robby shook his head, still trying to catch up. Just a few minutes ago he’d been sitting on the edge of a motel bed ready to get on his bike and drive off a bridge. Now some intern he’d never met was prescribing him feline remedies.
“You got me, kid,” he said, another rough laugh slipping out. “Got me good.”
“Good. I’m glad I could get you out of your head for a second.”
Robby breathed out through his nose.
The crying had eased. His face felt hot, his eyes swollen, but his shoulders had dropped from where they’d been crowding his ears. He leaned back against the railing again, letting the warm metal press into his spine.
“How are you feeling?”
“Still… weird,” he admitted. “But better.”
“I can stay up a little longer,” you said. “We can talk.”
Robby nodded before realizing you couldn’t see him. “Okay,” he said, his voice quieter. “Sure.”
“Okay.”
There was a small shuffle on your end, the scrape of something across the floor, then the creak of whatever you settled into.
“So,” you began, “tell me about this terrible motel.”
Robby looked up at the paint chipped motel door with the number 555 across it.
“Well, firstly, no wifi.”
“Yes, I’ve gathered.”
“No cable.”
"People still watch cable tv?" you asked.
"I don't really watch it... I just like background noise."
You laughed, and it settled the rest of the tension in his chest.
He told you about the days leading up to now. The long stretches of road, the towns he’d passed through, the sights he thought he might turn back to see after all. You told him you were at home, drinking coffee that had been reheated too many times and ordering more takeout than you could reasonably justify.
The conversation wandered without either of you forcing it anywhere. For a while, Robby forgot to measure every silence between your words.
Eventually, he asked, “How long are you working with Caleb?”
“I have a year left at PTMC. Why?”
Robby rubbed his thumb along the edge of his phone. The question had come to him before he could decide whether it was a good idea.
“So when I get back…” He paused, glancing toward the empty highway. “Can I meet you in person?”
There was a moment of silence on the other end. He wondered if he pushed too far.
Then: “Oh, so you’re planning on coming back now?”
Robby’s mouth pulled at one corner.
“I suppose so.”
“Well, good.” You sounded entirely pleased with yourself. “Glad to know two hundred thousand dollars of medical debt is finally being put to good use.”
He laughed, quieter this time. “Is that a yes?”
“That’s a yes, Robby. And you can still call me from the road. I'll give you my personal cell.”
He tipped his head back against the railing, looking up at the moon again. The prospect of hanging up no longer felt quite so final.
Summary: You take Robby off guard from the very beginning and continue to do so throughout your entire relationship. The first time he fucks you is no exception.
Warnings: +18 mdni, age gap, size difference, inconvenient boners, groping, car sex, oral (both m! and f! receiving), choking (but not rough he just holds u by the neck), dirty talk, explicit consent given, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, semi-public, the glasses stay on (and come off so he can eat u better), talk of alcohol consumption, lightly edited
Note: this was supposed to be a drabble so i'd written it in all lowercase but then it spiraled and i had to go back and edit so if there's some missing capitilization that's why :') also huge thank u to @thykingdoncome for taking a looksie at this (and for putting me on to this sad-eyed man good GAWD)
WC: 3.6k
Robby wasn't used to having a younger girlfriend.
He had never really been the type before you. Had always preferred the maturity of an older woman or one his own age.
But when Trinity jokingly set him up on tinder and he used it seriously one time, he stumbled across your profile. You're so pretty and sweet, with those cute photos with your friends and the one on the back of a boat in a polka dot bikini.
He took a risk. Told himself it was just to try it out. He wasn't doing it seriously or anything. He just needed to get laid.
But that first date? Robby left three hours later than intended, drunk on the ambrosia of your affection and he realized that maybe a younger girlfriend is exactly what he needed.
He used to want to come home to the quiet of his house, to feed the stray cat outside and maybe read a little before bed. He used to like to sleep in on his off days, to spend the time couch rotting with a good book or some mind numbing TV. He used to like ordering takeout and never leaving the house unless he had to.
He saw enough action at work, anyway. no need for more of it.
But you are living life for the very first time and taking advantage of every second of it. Occasionally you'll sleep in until ten, if he's lucky. But you're out the door by eleven. Shopping or visiting museums or driving three hours to a store for some product that finally says it's back in stock.
And Robby—god. He loved to trail behind you the whole time.
He liked to carry your shopping bags and watch you try on clothes just to put them back. He liked to watch you order something new at a restaurant and see your reaction. He liked to watch as you take a hundred photos on your phone and even let you pose him so it turned out exactly like the vision in your head.
He liked hearing your giggle when you turned your phone to show him some silly TikTok he doesn't understand.
He even liked staying out late now, because you're always at a bar or a club. Always on the dance floor with a drink in your hand. Robby liked to watch you dance wildly, liked to watch the lights reflect in your eyes, liked to come home covered in your body glitter and your coconut perfume and your love.
In truth, Robby had been a little nervous thinking about the first time you'd sleep together. Worried he couldn't keep up with you, that you'd want him more often than his age would allow.
Cause, ya know—he's twice your age, and his stamina isn't what it used to be, and you're so alive and so bright and he's so…him. A little grumpy and a whole lot tired.
But what Robby discovered after some time is that his desire for you overshadowed all else.
He looked at your smiling face and all the nerves settled in his head, going from a raging storm to still waters in an instant.
He wanted your first time together to be romantic. Maybe he'd cook you some pasta and the two of you could get wine drunk and stumble up into his bedroom late one evening, and he'd be real sweet and soft. He wanted to make love to you. Wanted you to know just how much you brighten his life, wanted you to know just how cherished you really are.
But what actually happened is far from romantic.
It's not in his bed or even his house. It's in the back of his car, in broad daylight, on a random side street one rainy, Tuesday afternoon.
You'd asked him to stop and try that new coffee place downtown before you went to meet Trinity and Dennis for lunch. The downpour had intensified while you were inside ordering, and by the time you'd ran back to the car you'd both gotten drenched.
An event that would've irritated Robby before you, but how could he be upset about the rain and his wet hair and the droplets on his glasses when you were laughing about it? How could he be upset or irritated when you wore the sweetest smile?
You'd leaned across the center console, took his face in your cold hands, and pressed your mouth to his. you always tasted so sweet, and the combination of your warm tongue against his and the cool, wet slide of the rain on your lips—god. It had him weak in the knees.
Arousal pooled low in his gut instantaneously. He tried to think of other things. Gross things, terrifying things, of anything but you. None of it worked to erase the intensity of his desire.
He was ten minutes away from the diner when he pulled over and admitted what was going on. "Sweetheart, I'm…I'm really sorry, I know you were looking forward to this but I think we might have to cancel."
A crease formed between your brows, and it pained him to see it. "What? Why? What's going on, are you okay?"
Robby's face warmed, and he knew he should probably lie. Make up some fluke of an excuse as to why he'd suddenly had a change of heart and needed to return home at the very last second. But the look in your eyes was full of true concern, and Robby knew he'd never be able to lie. Not to you.
So, he took it on the chin. Swallowed down his embarrassment and said, "Yeah, yeah. But…uhm—when you…when you kissed me, it was really…" he laughed, fingers fidgeting. "It felt really nice. Too nice, actually, and—"
"Oh," you interrupted. "You're hard?"
The words are said so plainly, as if there's nothing wrong with the fact that he'd gotten this worked up over something as small as a kiss. Robby shook his head. "I've tried to get it to go away, but," he scoffed. "It's not—uh, not working, so—"
"Well, let me help you." Your lips turned up at the corners, a knowing smirk forming. you unbuckled your seatbelt and moved closer, leaning over the center console until your mouth is a breath away from his. "Is it okay if I touch you?"
Robby's head turned, glancing out of the rain-clouded windows. There was no one around, and he very much wanted you to touch him, but— "Are you sure? Here?"
Your nod is both certain and enthusiastic. "What better place than here and now?"
He laughed. "Anywhere would be better than here," he said. "My bed, your bed, the damn couch, for christ's sa—"
You palmed at his bulge through the too-thick fabric of his jeans. "Yeah? That's where you wanna fuck me, Mikey? The couch?" Your voice was low and teasing in his ear, sending shivers up his spine.
Robby swallowed, muscles slackening beneath your touch. You squeezed his length in your hand, stroking him with your thumb.
"Or…" you began. "Do you wanna fuck me here?" Your other hand joined the first, aiding so you could unbutton his jeans and slide your hand down the front of them.
He's not wearing boxers—Robby can't stand the extra fabric and the way it bunches—and suddenly your hand was wrapped tight around his aching cock. His head tilted back against the seat, eyes closed as you whispered against the shell of his ear.
"You're even bigger than I thought you'd be. Gonna feel so—so full, when you're inside me." you said, stroking his cock with the perfect amount of pressure. "I think about you fucking me a lot, Mikey. You're just so strong and so big and so fuckin' sexy. You remember when I asked you to send me those pictures when you were in the shower? I've touched myself to them so many times."
It killed him to hear it. To imagine you with your fingers on your clit or buried deep inside you while you're thinking about him. His cock pulsed, throbbing with desire. "This isn't—fuck—this isn't how it's supposed to be. I'm supposed to—to be sweet. Dinner and wine and rose—jesus—rose petals and—"
"I don't want rose petals today," you murmured. You licked at his neck, wet tongue sliding up over his pulse, over the stubble there that he's gone a day too long without shaving. "What I want is to suck your cock. Can I do that, Mikey?"
Robby was nodding before he could think any better of it. He lifts his hips just enough to pull his jeans down, cock springing free and resting against his belly, reaching just below his navel. It's thick and aching for you, resting just on top of the dark hair of his happy trail. "'Course you can, baby."
The smile you gave him in response is nothing short of earth-shattering.
Robby doesn't think anyone has ever seemed this eager for him. No one's been so desperate for it. The realization made him feel dizzy with affection for you and the way you worship him, the way you trust him.
You leaned over the center console, took his cock in one hand, and pressed a wet kiss to his tip. Your mouth is so soft and so sweet and so warm. Your tongue swirled around his length as you eased him into your mouth, tracing each vein over and over as if for memorization.
Robby didn't know where to put his hands. He wanted to touch you, to smooth your hair back away from your face. He wanted to reach over and squeeze the supple flesh of your ass through your leggings. He wanted to reach lower, to press his fingers against your folds through the cotton fabric until you moaned for him.
But he didn't know what was too much, or what wasn't enough, and—
You suddenly swallowed him down, taking all of him in your mouth, nose pressed to the thick hair at the base of his cock and it felt so fucking good that he nearly finishes right then and there.
And Robby, on instinct, grabbed the back of your neck to steady himself. "Oh fuck," he choked out. "Careful, pretty girl. Careful, careful—"
You slowly leaned back, mouth sealed tight around him, sucking hard until his cock pops out from between your lips. You turned your head to look up at him, slapping the underside of his length lewdly against your tongue. Spit bubbled at the corners of your mouth, sliding messily down your chin. "I love sucking your cock," you said.
A smile stretched across his face. Real and true and happy. "Yeah?"
You nodded in response, teary eyes alight with desire. "Mhm."
"Well, it's not fair for you to have all the fun now, is it?" Robby's fingers curled around the back of your neck, pulling you up and off of him. He guided your mouth to his, the kiss wet this time in a whole different way. His free hand found your neck, bracketing your throat completely between his big hands.
You moaned against his tongue and Robby smiled against your lips.
He pulled away only to instruct, "Why don't you go ahead an' get in the back seat for me, baby."
A grin formed on your face—pretty and submissive and alive with hunger. Robby could get real addicted to this, he thought. Real addicted to you.
He let go of your throat, and watched as you hurriedly did as told. Obedient little thing, so perfect.
Robby followed closely behind. He reached tbeneath the passenger seat to push it forward. The space is too small for him; cramped even when he bends on aching knees to the floor of the back seat.
Kneeling between your thighs, Robby hooked his fingers around the waistband of your leggings and pulled them down, over your high top sneakers. His hands come to feel the softness of your exposed skin, roaming up and beneath your shirt, feeling you this close for the very first time.
Robby palmed your breasts over the fabric of your bra, thumbs running over the subtle swells of your peaked nipples. "You're so pretty," he mused, leaning forward to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.
His mouth traveled downward, peppering kisses across your belly until his lips met the fabric of your panties. Robby delighted in the shiver you gave as the warmth of his breath fanned across your cunt. He pressed a kiss right over your clit and grinned to himself as your spine arched.
"Let's take these off, yeah?"
You nodded eagerly, and Robby didn't waste time before pulling your panties away.
"Oh, look at that," Robby muttered. He brought his hand between your legs and slid his fingers gently through your arousal. "So fuckin' wet, isn't she? This all for me, baby?"
"Yes," you breathed out. "Need you, Mikey. So bad."
"I know you do. S'alright, I've got you." Robby took his glasses off and set them on the leather seat beside you, before leaning forward and kissing you right where you needed him most. A shallow breath stuttered out of your chest, but he doesn't give you a moment to gather yourself. His tongue darts out, licking you from your entrance to your clit and then circling.
Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. Robby obliged your silent instruction, suckling your clit into his mouth and flicking his tongue over the pulsing nerves.
His heart was beating fast in his chest, his cock aching to be inside you. He had one hand on your breast, and brought the other to your cunt. Robby finds your opening with two gentle fingers and pushed them in.
"Oh god," you cried out. "That's so good. You feel so—fuck."
Robby curled his fingers inside of you, pushing hard against the softest spot."Talk to me, pretty girl," he urged. "Tell me what feels good."
"M-maybe a little…hmm—a little faster?"
He quickened the pace of his fingers and licked at your clit more feverishly, humming when you give a little gasp in response.
"Fuck—yes, yes. Like that. And—your fingers just a little deeper—just—"
Robby listened like a trained dog, heeding your every beck and call. He pressed deeper, thrusting his fingers upwards until—
"Ohmygod, yes—just like that, just like that please. Don't stop, don't stop—"
He doesn't. Robby licked and sucked at your clit until his spit dripped down onto the leather seat below you. He groaned low at the taste of your arousal, ambrosia made just for him. sweet and youthful and delectable.
He didn't deserve it, Robby knew. Your desire, your love, your light. But he'll eat it all up for as long as you continue to give it.
You clenched around his fingers and Robby pulled his mouth away, strings of saliva snapping against his chin. "You about to cum, baby?"
"Yes, yes, please, Mikey I need it—!"
"Nuh-uh," he said with a shake of his head. He pulled back fully, sliding his fingers out of you and rising to his full height. "M'gonna watch the first time you cum for me. Wanna see it on your face. Wanna feel you milk my cock 'til I fill up that sweet little pussy of yours."
A whimper left your mouth, and Robby could do nothing but smile cause he knew. He knew how needy you feel, how frantic that desire made you. He knew because it lived in him, too.
He pressed your legs upwards, setting the soles of your sneakers against the edge of the backseat. He grabbed at the collar of his shirt and pulled it over his head before picking up his glasses and setting them back on his face. "Take it all off," Robby ordered. "Let me see you."
You do as told, quickly adding your hoodie and bra to the growing pile of discarded clothes.
Robby took a minute just to absorb it all; to memorize the way you looked, spread out for him in the backseat of his car, eyes glassy and pupils blown wide. You're the prettiest little thing. Half his age, half his heart.
That four letter L word flitted across his mind, but Robby doesn't give life to it.
Not yet, anyway.
He dragged his hand down the center of your chest instead, but thought you must be able to feel the love in it, manifesting at the very tips of his fingers.
"I want you inside me," you whispered, bringing your hand to his against your chest, holding tight to his knuckles.
Robby nodded and took his cock in his free hand, sliding it through the syrupy wetness between your legs before he lined himself up with your entrance. He pressed his cock in, just the head at first. Enough for him to notch himself there so he can wrap his hand around the back of your neck instead.
He forced you to look at him, eyes locked together as he slowly pushed all the way inside.
You breathed out synchronized sighs of relief the moment he's seated fully inside you, cock pressed right up against your womb.
You're so tight around him, so wet and warm and perfect. Robby began to gently rock his hips, keeping you steady with his heavy hands. One on your chest, the other at the back of your neck. He can feel your heart beating beneath his palm, pulse elevated in the way his likely is.
"God, Mikey—"
You don't need to ask him to quicken his pace, not this time. Robby heard it in your voice. And some old dogs could certainly learn new tricks.
He finds a rhythm that has your eyes threatening to roll back. The perfect tempo, filling you up and fucking you deep. "My girl," he muttered. "My pretty girl. So good to me. Fuck."
Your spine arched off the back of the leather seat, chest pressed more firmly against his hand. "That's so good, so'fucking—mmm."
"Touch yourself for me, baby," Robby said.
You find your clit and circle it with deft, practiced fingers. Robby took note of the direction you move, cataloging the information for later. "It's so—so big—"
"I know, sweet girl. But you can take it, hm? Can't you?"
The words are broken in your mouth, overtaken by a wanton moan.
"I know you are," he whispered. "Can feel her squeezing me real tight. You gonna cum for me already?"
He'd said it as a taunt, but in truth Robby was no better. He'd been fighting off his own release from the very moment he'd slid his cock inside you.
"Look at me," he ordered, fingers flexed around the back of your neck. And once you do, a satisfied smile formed on his mouth. "Good. Good. Now cum for me, baby. Give it to me."
Your breath halted, the exhale stuck in your chest. And then Robby could feel your cunt pulse around him, and you let out a ragged whimper as your release rocked through you. "Cum with me, please," you cried. "Want you to cum inside, Mikey."
That's what did him in; the sound of your voice, whining out his name. A moniker he only ever allowed you to call him. So fitting, coming from the soft, bright thing you are. "Shit," he hissed, his own orgasm clouding the edges of his vision. "Takin' it all, huh? Yeah, that's it. That's my girl."
He didn't stop, not until he was well and truly spent. Until he'd fucked all of his release into your cunt, until his cock was sensitive and your breathing evened out beneath his palm.
Robby pressed his mouth to yours tenderly and could feel your smile as it formed. He pulled away, stuffed himself back into his jeans and asked, "What's so funny?"
You shook your head. "Nothing, just…I think Trin is calling me."
It's only when you say it that Robby finally heard the buzzing coming from the front seat. He reached towards it, taking your forgotten phone in his hand and examining the screen to find a photo of Trinity with her head in your lap.
Robby remembered the night he'd taken the photo, some third shift party at John's place you'd insisted on crashing. You'd made friends with Trinity in two seconds flat when she'd confessed her part in his Tinder profile to you, much to Robby's dismay.
He passed the device to you. "Wanna answer it?"
You took your phone, clicked the screen once, and pressed it to your ear. "We're late, I'm sorry, I know," you laughed. "We're on our way. Got stuck in traffic. Order me one of those strawberry lemonades."
Robby helped you find your clothes, tugging your panties back over your legs and righting them around your hips. Your leggings were next, and he tried not to think about his cum that slowly spilled out of you to avoid another stop on the way to the diner.
Robby couldn't fight his grin as he found his shirt to pull it back over his head.
"Trin, no. A shot? It's not even noon—well, yeah, now it is, but—!"
You both climbed to the front of his car, and Robby reached over to buckle you in.
"Well…I mean, if it's a mimosa…"
Robby laughed as he turned the key in the ignition. Knew right then and there he'd probably spend half the afternoon taking care of you, but knew good and well that he'd love every moment of it.
He promised himself he'd give you those rose petals later.
But for now, the vibrancy you've painted in his heart is enough.
pairing: soft dom!joel x f!reader
wc: 12k (i am so sorry)
summary: using tommy to make joel jealous seemed harmless enough- but joel had other plans...
warnings: 18+ mdni, jackson au, big age gap (mid 50s and mid 20s), soft dom!joel, protective!joel, pervy!tommy, clingy/needy reader, possessiveness, jealousy as foreplay, praise kink, daddy kink (nickname only used once), rough sex, oral sex (m receiving), food play, oral fixation, deepthroating, gagging, spit, tears during oral, hair pulling, throat holding, spanking mention, semi-public risk, unprotected p-in-v sex
a/n: i had a dream ab going down on joel so this is what transpired...
i swear after this i'm limiting myself to fics under 6k words- bc its physically impossible for me to write something under 11k words... o.O
anyway, i hope yall enjoy! i'll be going through my requests soon so feel free to ask/submit any ideas or whatever while they're open! i love to hear from you guys!!! ♡♡
also: i only proofread this like once...:/
now playing... the giver - chappell roan
Joel Miller tells you no at least ten times a day. Though you can’t remember the last time he actually meant it.
No, you can’t follow him to the stables when he has work to finish. No, you don’t need help fastening every little button on your dress. No, he isn’t carrying you upstairs simply because your feet hurt.
Then you look at him long enough, or curl both your hands around his wrist, or let your lip poke out the way he claims stopped working months ago.
And that usually ends with you perched nearby while he works, his hands working at the front of your dress, or one thick arm hooked under your knees while he mutters something about how spoiled you’ve gotten.
As if he isn’t directly responsible for it.
Joel has catered to every clingy little impulse you possess and kept the reason perfectly hidden from the rest of Jackson.
Nobody knows why you’re always the first person he searches for when he returns through the gates. They don’t know that the key in his pocket belongs to the house you practically live in now, or that half the clothes folded inside his dresser are yours.
And they certainly don’t know what happens after you slip through his backdoor each night.
You tried to hide your clinginess at first.
Because people in Jackson are nosy, and the difference between you and Joel was already impossible to miss. You figured sitting in his lap or hanging from his arm would have the whole town whispering before you even made it through dinner.
Instead, everyone came to the same wrong conclusion.
They thought Joel was taking care of you.
Not fucking you. Not keeping your underwear beneath his pillow because you had a habit of leaving without them.
They thought he was taking care of you in the respectable, almost parental way an older man might look after a younger girl who had become too attached to him. They thought you’d attached yourself to Joel because he was older and dependable and that he indulged in you because refusing a pretty girl young enough to be his daughter was just one of the few survival skills he never learned.
And once they decided that, they stopped examining any of it.
So you stopped caring who saw you cling to him.
Joel, however, remained careful enough for the both of you.
He won’t kiss you in public, and he’d probably drag you home by the back of your dress if you ever tried. But that doesn’t stop you from winding both your arms around his bicep while he talks to someone about patrol duties or resting your head in his shoulder during dinner. You press your face into his chest whenever patrol keeps him gone too long. You stand between his spread knees at community meetings, close enough to feel his breath against your neck while his hand remains respectably above your waist.
Everyone just thinks you’re seeking comfort from him.
They don’t know that same hand held your face against the mattress the night before.
People smile whenever they catch you tucked under Joel’s arm—they think it’s cute. Tommy rolls his eyes and calls you his brother’s spoiled little girl, usually earning a glare from Joel and an embarrassing thrill between your legs.
Women old enough to remember life before the outbreak tell you how lucky you are to have a man like Joel watching over you, a father figure — unaware that he had you crying into his pillow before breakfast for reasons you absolutely cannot divulge to them.
The worst part is how easily you’ve begun taking advantage of it.
You can sit pressed against Joel’s side at the Tipsy Bison with your thighs fitted between his and nobody gives you a second glance. You can play with his fingers under the table, tracing the thick knuckles that were inside you that morning, while everyone just assumes you needed another bit of reassurance. Once, you even fell asleep with your head in his lap. Joel stroked your hair the entire time, scowling down at you because he knew exactly what you were doing.
Nobody noticed the way his fingers closed around a handful of it when you smiled up at him.
They just saw an older man indulging in the poor girl who followed him everywhere like a lost puppy. They didn’t see the erection you could feel beneath your cheek or the warning in his eyes when you rubbed against it.
Yet, those warnings were rarely empty.
He liked making you pay for taking advantage of everyone’s assumptions about the two of you.
If your hand wandered too high beneath the table at the community dinner, he’d wait until he got you home to bend you across his lap and redden your ass. If you accidentally mentioned waking up in his bed within Tommy’s hearing, he made you stand against the bedroom wall with your dress gathered around your waist while he decided what to do with you. And if you managed to sleepily call him daddy in front of half the Tipsy Bison, he’d make you repeat it into his pillow until it was the only word you could manage.
But It was hardly a punishment when both of you knew you misbehaved because you wanted exactly that.
You loved the change in him once you were behind a locked door. He could pin both your wrists above your head with one hand, then use the other to sweep your hair away from your face when it stuck to your lips. His knees forced your legs apart whenever they tried to close around him, but he kissed the tears from under your eyes and told you what a good girl you were for taking him so well.
Sometimes he fucked you hard enough to drive the bedframe against the wall, his palm covering your mouth while he reminded you that the neighbors already paid too much attention to who came and went from his house. Even then, his thumb passed over your cheek, his forehead rested against yours, and every filthy command ended with baby or sweetheart.
But his roughness just came naturally to him.
Joel was a big man with hands that could circle both your wrists and a cock that made your body ache the next morning, even on the nights the sex was slow and gentle. He left fingerprints around your thighs when he held them open. His bread scraped the sensitive skin between your legs raw. Sometimes his hips would strike hard enough to bruise, especially when you clenched around him and his restraint slipped for a few strokes.
But he never took more than he believed you could handle, and he never took anything purely because he wanted it.
You loved that in the beginning. You still do. You love how thoroughly Joel cares for you, how naturally his body closes around yours afterward, how he cleans you up and pulls the blankets beneath your chin. You love falling asleep sore between your legs with his hands spread across your belly.
You don’t have to do anything besides lie beneath him and accept it.
But that’s exactly the problem.
You wanted to make Joel feel good for once.
You wanted to learn his body as thoroughly as he had learned yours—to know what touch made his hips jerk, which drag of your tongue made him lose his train of thought, which gag would finally send him over the edge.
But he’d never even let you taste him.
The closest you ever got was a kiss from his after he’d finished in you then went down on you after.
Joel has never allowed you to kneel between his leg and take him into your mouth. He’d never stood over you with his hand fisted in your hair and taught you how to take him without choking. You’d spent countless nights imagining him using your mouth until tears ran down your cheeks, imagined what he’d look like when you’d glance up to find every trace of patience gone from his face.
He refused to let the fantasy get any further than that.
He always claimed he didn’t need it.
That was the word he always used. Need. Like it was air or water.
And you’d tried often enough to know his refusal had nothing to do with him disliking the idea. His entire body would betray him the few times you managed to get on your knees for him. His thighs would go rigid, his cock would thicken behind the seam of his jeans, and his fingers would flex at the sides of his thighs like he was already imagining a handful of your hair.
Once, you’d actually managed to get to your knees and open his belt before he stopped you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you with his jaw clenched while you rubbed your cheek helplessly over the bulge in his pants. The dark patch at the tip grew against your lips as you pressed a kiss to it through the fabric, and the sound that tore from his chest kept you awake thinking about it for days.
“Teach me, Joel,” you whined, rubbing your cheek over the length trapped inside his jeans again. “I promise I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
His refusal was already there, but it looked painfully close to breaking.
A muscle jumped beside his mouth. His lips parted each time yours brushed the damp patch slowly spreading over his zipper, then they’d press together again before any sound could escape. One of his hands gripped the edge of the mattress hard enough to bleach his knuckles. The other hung beside your head, fingers opening and closing as his eyes followed every pass of your mouth across his cock.
You tipped your face toward him without lifting your chin from his crotch. Your eyes were enormous and pleading from where you were, your lashes fluttering with every blink. And he watched every single one of them. You could almost see him imagining those lashes wet and clumped together while he held you down on him.
“Please, Joel. Just let me try,” you begged. “Let me show you how bad I want it.”
His fist gripped at the edge of the bed again when you turned your head and pressed another open-mouthed kiss to the tip. His cock jerked against your lips, and a broken grunt left his throat, followed by your name bitten out between his teeth.
You could see how badly he wanted to give in. His thighs spread another inch around your body, his heel scrapped across the floor as his hips pushed involuntarily toward your mouth. The hand hanging between your head lifted; his thick fingers passing through your hair, gathering it away from your face until his fist closed near your scalp as he stared at your mouth.
He used his free hand to drag his thumb across your lower lip, pulling it down until your mouth parted slightly. When his cock twitched again under your chin, you could’ve sworn that was is it. He was going to free himself, guide you forward, and finally let you give him everything you’d been begging to.
You leaned into his grip, already opening wider.
You watched his eyes close, and another curse leave him through clenched teeth before the fist in your hair loosened.
“No, darlin’.” His thumb passed once against your cheek again. “Get up for me.”
He slid both his hands beneath your arms and lifted you from your knees, making sure not to let them scrape against the floor. By the time he sat you on the mattress, every trace of that near-surrender had been locked away again—except for the erection still straining against his jeans.
He never let it get that far again.
After that night, Joel got better at recognizing your intentions before you could even think about dropping to the floor. You could barely kiss his belly before his hands were catching your waist and hauling you back up. If your fingers even hesitated near his belt, he laced them through his and pinned them beside your head. You never got another chance to feel his cock jerk against your lips or see how close he could come to losing himself over your mouth.
Naturally, that only made you want it more.
Usually, Joel gave you enough attention to keep frustration from consuming you. It was difficult to remain upset with him when his hands or mouth were on you, and most nights ended with you too exhausted to remember what he’d even refused.
But even that distraction had been taken from you.
Joel had barely been home. Between patrol, repairs near the gate, and whatever someone kept dragging him away to handle, you received whichever parts of him Jackson hadn’t exhausted. A kiss against your forehead while he ate supper standing at the counter. His hand squeezing your waist when he passed behind you. He barely lasted ten minutes tucked beside you in bed before his breathing evened out against your hair.
You loved those parts of him too, though.
Some of your favorite nights spent with Joel had nothing to do with sex. You were perfectly happy sitting beside him while he repaired the torn strap of his gun or sharpened the knife he kept at his hip, your legs across his lap and his thumb passing over your ankle whenever he paused. You loved watching him wash the day from his face at the bathroom sink, sleeves shoved to his elbows and gray curls wet and flattened at his temples. You even liked listening to him complain about his patrol assignments you barely understood, especially when he stopped halfway through to ask whether you were paying attention and found you staring at his hands instead.
You didn’t need him inside you every time the two of you were alone.
You did, however, need more than a sleepy kiss and the back of his shirt clutched in your fist while he passed out beside you.
By that evening, you were itching to see him. Joel had left shortly after sunrise, promising he would be home before supper, and that occupied nearly every thought you had for the rest of the day. You wondered where he was while you finished your morning chores, whether he had remembered to eat when you passed the dining hall, and how much longer he would be gone each time boots sounded against the porch.
He was due back any minute, so you had already made yourself comfortable on his couch to wait for him.
The little blue bowl that rested in your lap, filled with strawberries Joel had hulled and cut for you this morning. Sugar clung to their wet surfaces and collected with the juice at the bottom. Joel always sprinkled more over the top than necessary because he knew you liked scooping up the sweet syrup with your spoon afterward. A tall glass of milk sat within reach on the table next to you, beads of condensation running down the outside and gathering on the coaster under it.
You were lifting another sugar-covered strawberry to your mouth when boots struck the porch.
Excitement had you sitting upright before the latch even lifted. You placed the bowl beside your milk and wiped your sticky fingertips against the napkin you brought with you, already preparing to launch yourself at him the moment he came through the door.
The familiar weight of Joel’s boots crossed the threshold into the house, each step heavy enough to carry through the floorboards under your feet.
You were already pushing up from the couch when another set followed behind his. Louder. Uneven. One heel scraped across the wood before a shoulder struck the side of the door with a dull thud.
You barely had time to process the second pair of footsteps when you heard a drunken, slurred Tommy and a tired, very irritated Joel.
“Tommy, quit draggin’ your feet. Your scrapin’ up my damn floor,” Joel groaned from the entryway.
Tommy lifted one boot and brung it down against the floorboards with a deliberate thud. Then the other. The sound traveling through the house while he laughed at his own joke, one arm still hanging across Joel’s shoulder.
“Calm down, big brother. House survived all this time without you fussin’ over it.”
“House ain’t what I’m worried about. Keep that up, you’re gonna bust your damn teeth.”
All you could hear was a distant laugh from Tommy and another groan from Joel.
You sink back against the couch, plucking the bowl from beside you and placing it back in your lap.
All afternoon, you had pictured Joel coming through that door alone.
You’d imagined wrapping yourself around him before he could even take off his boots, following him into the kitchen while he ate, and stealing back every bit of attention Jackson had kept from you that week.
Instead, one of his arms is occupied by Tommy, and the other is carrying both their coats.
The strawberry between your fingers drips pink juice onto your palm.
You return it to the bowl without finishing it.
Joel looks toward the couch as he walks in. His eyes find you immediately, passing over the half-drunken milk, the bowl in your lap, and the disappointment you haven’t managed to hide from your face. His mouth presses into a line.
“I’m sorry, dar—”
Joel pauses mid-sentence, catching the pet name before it can fully leave his mouth.
Tommy’s head turns toward him, his brows pulling together as he tries to follow an apology that wasn’t meant for him. “Sorry for what? I’m havin’ a wonderful fuckin’ time.”
Joel pays him no attention. His eyes remain fixed on you, taking in the frown at your mouth.
Tommy follows his stare.
To you—curled into the corner of the couch with your legs crossed under you, a white cotton nightgown spilling across your thighs. The hem has ridden up while you waited, leaving most of your legs bare, and dull pink juice shines across your fingertips resting against the rim of your bowl.
Tommy looks at you for what feels like ever.
“Well, hell.” His unfocused eyes travel from your bare legs to the thin straps on your shoulders before his grin spreads. “Would’ve cleaned myself up if I knew Joel had pretty company waitin’ at home.”
“Eyes up,” Joel mutters.
Tommy’s grin only widens. “They are.”
You manage a smile, wiping the strawberry juice from your fingertips.
“Hi, Tommy.”
You like Tommy. He’s funny, easy to talk to, and far more willing than Joel to entertain whatever nonsense comes into your head sometimes.
He also gets shamelessly perverted after a few drinks.
His eyes linger where they shouldn’t, innocent compliments become filthy, and he has a habit of letting his hand remain on your knee long after the joke has ended.
But you’ve never felt threatened by it. Tommy flirts with half of Jackson, and you know he’d pull away the second you genuinely asked him to—even drunk. Usually though, you just roll your eyes and enjoy him anyway.
Tonight, though, is an unfortunate night to be trapped with the drunk, handsy version of him.
Because after spending all day waiting for Joel, the sight of Tommy hanging from the man you wanted makes your chest ache with an embarrassingly childish resentment.
You don’t want to share Joel’s attention with anyone—especially his brother, who seems to be determined to require every bit of it.
“Just for tonight, kid,” he adds, giving Tommy a shove toward the nearest chair. “Ain’t in no shape to make it home.”
“Okay,” you mumble, pulling the bowl closer in your lap.
You know he wasn’t eally asking for permission. Even if he were, you could hardly insist he throw his drunken brother into the street because you’d spent the day planning to monopolize him.
Kid is what Joel calls you when other people are listening.
The word helps everyone keep believing exactly what they already believe—that you’re just the girl Joel feels responsible for, and his attention carries no desire behind it. in public, you’re kid. Occasionally, you’re sweetheart, if nobody is paying enough attention to question it. Never baby, though.. Never his pretty girl. And definitely never the filthy names he presses against your ear while his cock is buried inside you.
Usually, you enjoy the deceit. There’s a private thrill in hearing Joel call you kid while his hand rests innocently on your shoulder, knowing that same hand would close around your throat once he got you alone.
Tonight, it only reminds him that you won’t be getting him alone.
Joel deposits Tommy in the chair and disappears into the kitchen for water. The moment his back is turned, Tommy is pushing himself upright and dropping onto the couch next to you.
He lands hard enough to jostle the bowl in your lap. The wet strawberries slosh against the side, and you catch it with both hands before it spills across your nightgown.
“Tommy,” Joel warns from the kitchen doorway.
“I’m sittin’ down,” he slurs.
“Put you in a chair for a reason.”
“Yeah, and I left it for a better one.”
You can tell Joel wants to argue back, but stops when he realizes it’s not worth the fight with a drunken Tommy Miller.
Tommy stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you, taking up far more room than he needs to—typical. His thigh presses against your folded legs, so you draw them closer to you, but the couch is small and he doesn’t seem to notice—or care—that he’s crowded you farther into the corner.
He looks down at your bowl. “What’ve you got there?”
Your eyes bounce between him and the bowl, one eyebrow slightly raised but not enough for him to notice.
“Just a snack,” you reply, plainly. “Strawberries and some milk.”
“I can see that.” He lifts his eyes back to yours as he nods toward the bowl. “You mind?”
Your eyebrows draw together, lips parting as you search for an answer. “Uh, I—”
You barely get out the first sound out before his hands are moving.
His fingers dip into the bowl, plucking one of the largest berries from the sugar collecting at the bottom. He pops it into his mouth whole, then licks the juice from his thumb.
“Tommy,” Joel calls more sternly from the kitchen.
He glances around his shoulder; his cheek rounded around the berry. “What? She ain’t complainin’.”
You nearly do.
The berry was yours, Tommy is a little too close for comfort, and the whiskey on his breath makes your eyes water whenever he speaks.
But your eyes drift past him. To Joel standing in the kitchen doorway.
His eyes are bouncing between Tommy’s fingers in your bowl, and you curled into the corner of the couch.
For the first time all night, Joel’s attention was on you.
He’d spent the entire week giving you distracted kisses and whatever parts of him Jackson hadn’t exhausted. Tonight, after waiting all day to finally have him alone, he arrived with his drunken brother hanging from his arm.
Now all it takes is one stolen strawberry for him to watch every movement on his couch.
The complaint dies on your tongue.
Because you like Tommy. You do. He’s generous, knows how to make you laugh, and is usually harmless beneath all the drunken flirting. Letting him steal a strawberry isn’t betrayal.
If it irritates Joel, that’s merely an added benefit.
So when Tommy asks what you’ve done all day, you answer. When he tells you your nightgown is too pretty for sitting around in Joel’s house, you laugh and glance toward the kitchen to see whether Joel heard him. You even let him steal two more strawberries, leaving the bowl in reaching distance despite having plenty of time to move it.
You aren’t flirting with him.
You’re simply not making any effort to discourage him.
There’s a difference.
Probably.
Joel returns a few minutes later with a glass of water and a damp cloth. He gives Tommy the water first, then tosses the cloth into his lap.
“Drink. Clean yourself up.”
Tommy wipes it once across his mouth before dropping it onto his knee. “She’s been keepin’ me company.”
Joel answers with half grunt, half laugh as his eyes travel over the arm stretched behind you, Tommy’s leg pressing into yours, and the half empty bowl resting between the two of you. The muscles beside his mouth draw taut, but all he does is nod toward the water.
Tommy drinks half before becoming distracted again.
“You always dress like this for him?” he asks you.
Your fingers pause against the rim of your bowl.
“Quit it,” Joel says firmly.
“What?” Tommy turns toward Joel, attempting an innocence his grin immediately ruins. “Just tellin’ her she looks nice.”
“You said it. Now move on.”
Tommy gives you a conspiratorial grin, treating Joel’s irritation as another private joke between the two of you. “He always this bossy with you?”
Your eyes lift to Joel before you answer, making sure he’s watching.
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” Tommy repeats with a laugh. His hand drops onto your knee as if you’ve shared a joke at Joel’s expense. “Poor thing.”
Joel does not find the joke nearly as funny.
Tommy’s palm remains there, and this time, you don’t pull your leg away.
Your fingertips continue circling the rim of the sticky bowl while you watch Joel take Tommy’s abandoned glass from him. The base strikes the wood hard, sending a ring through the room.
“Hands to you damn self, Tommy.”
Tommy glances down as if he’s only just discovered where his hand ended up. “Jesus, Joel. It’s her knee.”
“And it don’t belong to you.”
The words leave him too quickly.
No one speak after that. Tommy’s eyes narrow as he looks between the two of you, his drunken mind trying to catch hold of whatever slipped beneath Joel’s answer.
But Joel recovers first.
“You’re twice her size, drunk off your ass, and crowdin’ her into the damn wall,” he adds. “Move.”
“It’s okay,” you tell him.
Joel’s head snaps to yours.
You try to look innocent, although the thrill running through you probably shows. Joel stares long enough to make you wonder whether he already knows what game you’re playing.
Tommy gives your knee a tiny squeeze. “See? She’s fine.”
“Move,” Joel repeats.
Tommy lift his hands in surrender then scoots several inches away. Joel watches until a respectable amount of couch appears between you. Then he collects their coats and heads upstairs, probably to prepare whatever space he’s going to throw Tommy in.
You immediately wish he hadn’t left.
Tommy’s attention holds very little appeal without Joel there to witness it. The fun came from watching Joel notice every inch his brother took—the space beside you, the strawberries from your bowl, your knee beneath his clammy palm.
Without Joel in the room, you’re merely sitting beside a trunk man who doesn’t seem to remember what personal space is.
Tommy is filling the empty space before Joel’s even made it halfway up the stairs.
He asks whether you have anyone waiting for you at home, then tells you a girl who looks the way you do shouldn’t spend her night alone. You answer him with enough sweetness to keep him talking, but your attention remains on the stars.
You could tell him to move. You know that.
The trouble is that you’ve spent the last ten minutes smiling at him.
You laughed at his drunken compliments, let him stick his fingers in your bowl and eat from it, and left your leg beneath his hand after Joel told him to remove it. Pushing him away the instant Joel left would make it embarrassingly clear that none of this had ever been about Tommy.
So you let him continue. Only until Joel comes back.
Then Tommy steals his fourth strawberry.
And this time, instead of reaching into the bowl, he takes it directly from your sticky fingers. His fingertips drag across yours, collecting the sugar and juice left behind.
“You gonna eat all these yourself, sweetheart?” he asks, dangling it between your fingers.
You manage a laugh. “I was planning to.”
He sucks his teeth, popping it into his mouth. “Thought Joel taught you to share.”
The words send an uncomfortable pulse through you. Tommy couldn’t possibly know what Joel has taught you, yet your heart still skips a beat at the thought.
Tommy laughs when he sees your reaction. “Aw, don’t get shy now.”
“I’m not shy,” you insist.
“You are,” he teases as he leans closer. “Face gives you away.”
Joel’s boots cross the floor above you.
You lift the bowl out of Tommy’s reach when he tries to take another strawberry, but your smile ruins the refusal. He follows the bowl across your body, his hand pressing into your thigh as he reaches farther.
“Tommy,” Joel shouts. “What the hell did I just tell your ass?”
His words crack across the room.
Joel appears at the foot of the stairs, a folded blanket crushed beneath one arm. His eyes are fixed on Tommy’s palm against your thigh, and the tendons along the back of his free hand stand out where his fingers have curled into a fist.
Tommy sits back, more startled by Joel’s tone than ashamed. “Christ, Joel. We’re just talkin’.”
“Then you can do it from over there.” Joel points toward the opposite end of the couch. “Move your ass.”
Tommy lets out a loud laugh and looks at you for support. “She ain’t asked me to stop.”
“She shouldn’t have to,” he sneers. Joel strides farther into the room and drops the blanket onto the chair.
“You’re drunk, you’ve got her crowded into a corner, and I’ve already told you to leave her alone. What part’re you havin’ trouble understandin’?”
“Joel, it’s okay,” you say, smoothing your nightgown over your knees.
Tommy lifts his eyebrows at him, smug. “See? She said it’s—”
“No, it ain’t.” Joel cuts him off so quickly that the words nearly overlap. Then he catches himself, his jaw working before he looks back at Tommy and continues. “You’re makin’ an ass of yourself. Sit over there, drink your water, and keep your damn hands to yourself.”
Tommy stares at him for a second, then lifts both his hands with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “All right. Jesus. Didn’t realize she needed a damn guard dog.”
“She don’t,” Joel replies. “You just need somebody remindin’ you how to behave.”
Tommy mutters something under his breath as he scoots across the couch angrily, sloshing the remaining water across his knuckles in the process.
The relief you feel when his thigh leaves yours is almost immediate.
You had enjoyed Joel’s reaction for more than you enjoyed the hand that caused it. Tommy’s touch left behind a little more than the fading pressure of his palm. But Joel’s jealousy has your underwear clinging to you under your nightgown. And Joel looks about ready to break Tommy’s hand.
The sight sends another embarrassing throb between your legs.
You’ve spent days desperate for his attention, and now every bit of it is fixed on you—the fist at his side, the anger spread across his face, the possessiveness he has no respectable way to explain. Tommy’s palm has already left your thigh, but Joel’s reaction makes you press them together beneath your nightgown.
You hadn’t meant to cause an argument between them.
But you can’t pretend you’re sorry to discover how easily another man’s interest strips away Joel’s restraint.
Joel glances at you once more before returning to the kitchen. His eyes pause on the fabric gathered over your thigh.
You hold his stare while you smooth the nightgown back over your legs.
His eyes narrow at you.
The difference is minor enough that Tommy misses it. But you don’t. You can tell Joel is beginning to suspect you aren’t quite as uncomfortable as he assumed.
Someone sensible would stop there.
But you spent all week being sensible.
Tommy behaves for less than a minute.
He finishes off his water, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and watches Joel disappear around the kitchen doorway then his attention is back on you.
“Still allowed to talk to you, sweetheart?”
You glance toward the kitchen. Joel has his back to the room, but the rigid line of his shoulders tells you he’s definitely listening.
“Depends,” you say, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “You wanna get yelled at again?”
Tommy laughs and leans closer despite Joel’s warning. “Might be worth it.”
You should end the game. You’ve already gotten what you wanted: Joel is angry, attentive, and painfully aware of every inch between you and his brother.
Then Joel looks over his shoulder.
The directness of his stare nearly wipes the smile clean from your face. You immediately reach for the glass next to you, hoping it’ll hide whatever guilt he might read in your expression. It gives your hands an innocent place to go too—like you’re only sitting there finishing your snack, completely unaware of the game you’ve been playing.
The glass is still cold against your sticky fingers, wet enough with condensation that it nearly slips from your grip. You bring it to your lips and drink much faster than you need to, swallowing mouthful after mouthful while Joe’s eyes lay into you from across the room.
The milk catches at the corner of your lips when you tip the glass too far. One drop slips over your chin and trails down the front of your throat. Another follows, reaching the neckline of your nightgown before disappearing beneath the white cotton. A small splash darkens the fabric over your chest, leaving it damp enough to cling to your skin.
By the time you lower it, the cold has begun to ache behind your teeth.
And Tommy’s attention is no longer on your face.
His eyes have followed the wet path down your throat and stopped on the darkened patch across your chest. The playful grin disappears for a second, replaced by an intent stare that makes your fingers close harder around the glass.
“Spilled a little,” he says.
His tongue passes across his bottom lip before he looks back at your mouth. Another drop remains in the corner.
He leans across the space he’d been ordered to leave between you. “Here. Lemme help you, sweetheart.”
You start lifting your hand, mainly because your first instinct is to wipe it away yourself. Then your eyes drift toward the kitchen doorway.
Joel’s watching again, one hand planted against the counter and his entire body turned toward the couch.
Your hand pauses halfway to your face.
That single moment of hesitation is all Tommy needs. His thumb passes across the corner of your lips, collecting the milk. And instead of pulling back, he drags the pad of it along your lower lip, his eyes following the motion.
Joel is out of the kitchen before Tommy’s hand can leave your face.
His fingers lock around Tommy’s wrist and wrench his hand from your mouth so quickly that the couch jolts beneath you. The milk on Tommy’s thumb smears across his knuckle as Joel twists it away from your face.
“Goddamnit, Tommy.” Each word forces its way through his teeth. “What the hell’d I’d tell your ass?”
Tommy rocks sideways, his free hand catching on the couch. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Joel drags him upright, Tommy’s knee striking the table on the way up, rattling your glass and sending milk over its rim, but Joel doesn’t even glance in its direction.
“I’ve told you three goddamn times to keep your hands off her.”
“I wiped her damn mouth, Joel,” Tommy curses back.
“You put your hands on her mouth.” Joel gives his wrist another yank when Tommy tries to pull free. “After I told you to leave her alone.”
Tommy’s face pinches. “You’re gonna break my fuckin’ arm.”
“The quit fightin’ me,” Joel scolds, giving his wrist another wrench.
Joel releases his wrist only to shove him back by the chest. Tommy stumbles into the table, and Joel follows, keeping his body planted between the two of you. His hands curl into fists, and the veins stand out along his forearms because of it, and each breath pushes hard through his nose as he stares his brother down.
You’ve seen Joel angry before. You’ve watched him handle men outside the gates and silence entire rooms with a look. He usually keeps that part of himself buried around you.
It’s overflowing at the surface now.
Tommy rubs the inside of his wrist. “She ain’t even tell me to stop.”
“Don’t care. I did.”
“Since when do you get to decide who puts their hands on her?”
Joel steps into him again. “Since your drunk ass forgot how to listen.”
Tommy turns toward you now. “She ain’t looked too bothered all night.”
Joel’s head turns.
You’re still sitting on the couch with the bowl clutched against your stomach and milk drying across the front of your nightgown. His eyes move from the damp fabric to your lips, then rise to meet yours.
He knows.
You see the exact second every polite laugh, every strawberry you let Tommy steal, and every glance you sent towards the kitchen arranges itself inside his head.
You should feel guilty now that he’s caught you. Instead, the knowledge that Joel understood exactly how bad you wanted his jealousy, sends another heartbeat between your legs.
“I’m okay, Joel,” you tell him, attempting the same innocent expression that usually earns you whatever you want.
His eyes narrow fast.
“Yeah,” he replies, turning back toward Tommy. “I can see that.”
You suck in your lip to keep from smirking.
Tommy’s eyes move between you. The alcohol no longer clouds all of his attention as he looks between Joel standing in front of you and the guilt threatening to betray your performance.
“Why do you care so damn much?” Tommy asks.
Joel goes rigid.
For half a second, you think he might answer honestly. His lips pull back from his teeth, and his chest expands under his shirt as every ugly, possessive word he can’t say collects behind them.
Then his hand closes around the back of Tommy’s neck.
“Because you’re embarassin’ yourself, pawnin’ at a girl half your age.” He turns Tommy toward the stairs with his hand still locked around the back of his neck. “You’re done. Get upstairs.”
“Get your hands off me,” Tommy hisses.
Joel shoves him onto the first step. “Start walkin’ then.”
Tommy turns as though he intends to argue again. But Joel catches a fistful of his shirt and slams him against the staircase railing, bracing his forearm across his chest. The impact knocks the remaining fight from Tommy’s face.
“You’re gonna go upstairs,” Joel tells him, each word pressed through his clenched jaw. “You’re gonna get in bed, and you’re gonna stay there until you’re sober enough to remember how a grown man keeps his hands to himself. You understand me?”
Tommy just stares at him.
Joel drives his forearm harder against his chest. “Asked you a question.”
“Yeah. Fine,” Tommy replies reluctantly.
“Upstairs then.”
Joel releases him with a shove that nearly sends him to his knees on the stairs. Tommy grabs the railing, curses, and begins his ascent. His boots strike every step unevenly, but Joel remains directly behind him, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt whenever he moves too slowly.
Before they disappear, Joel glances over his shoulder at you.
His eyes drop to the milk staining your nightgown, then return to your face.
The warning there promises he hasn’t forgotten your part in this.
A small knot of guilt forms under your ribs as you listen to Joel force Tommy up the remaining stairs. You hadn’t intended for the game to end with his wrist nearly twisted behind his back. You only wanted Joel to notice. To look at you with the same hunger he kept denying whenever you tried to please him.
Judging by the anger he carried upstairs, you definitely accomplished that.
Maybe tonight wouldn’t be another night spent curled against Joel’s back while he slept. Maybe he’d finally give you more than a distracted kiss and ten exhausted minutes under him. The possibility of that makes it difficult to regret much of anything.
A bedroom door slams overhead. Joel’s boots cross the floor once, followed by the scrape of furniture being dragged in front of the door. Tommy protests, but Joel just tells him to sleep it off, and then the house goes silent.
You remain on the couch with your bowl pressed against your stomach while milk dries against your throat and makes the front of your nightgown stay clinging to your chest. Your lips still carry the strange phantom of Tommy’s thumb, but the sensation disappears when Joel begins descending the stairs.
He looks furious when he reaches the bottom.
His sleeves are shoved past his elbows, exposing the veins raised along his forearms. His gray curls lie disordered across his forehead, and the first buttons of his shirt have been pulled open during the struggle. His eyes find you immediately.
“Kitchen.” He nods toward the bowl in your lap and the glass on the table. “Bring your dishes.”
Your guilt returns. But still, you collect both and follow him.
When you enter, Joel doesn’t look at you. He only takes the dishes from your hands and places them beside the sink. The strawberries slide through their pink syrup when the bowl meets the counter, filling the room with their sugary scent.
Then he catches you around the waist.
Your feet leave the floor in one easy motion. He sits you on the counter and steps between your dangling knees, already reaching for your face.
“Lemme see.”
His fingers cup your jaw and turn your head toward the light. He wets his thumb with his tongue before passing it over the corner of your mouth where Tommy touched you. Then down the line of the dried milk beneath your chin and down your throat. His eyes travel over every inch of skin he uncovers.
“He touch you anywhere else?”
You shake your head. “Just my leg.”
He pushes your nightgown above your knee and spreads his hand across the place Tommy’s palm had rested. There’s no mark for him to find—of course—but after one final pass of his thumb over your thigh, the concern leaves his face.
And the anger stays.
His jaw clenches under his beard. “You like him touchin’ you?”
Your eyebrows lift in confusion, and all you can do is stare at him. You thought Joel had already understood the game; surely, he hadn’t watched you glance toward him after every stolen strawberry and mistaken any of that for genuine interest in Tommy.
“No.” Your answer comes out breathless with a surprise. “Of course I didn’t.”
“Sure as hell looked like you did.”
“Well, I didn’t.” You reach for him, combing your fingers into the gray hair near his temple. “I only let him keep flirting because you were watching. I just wanted your attention.”
His head tips into your hand despite the accusation in his eyes. His cheek brushes your wrist as your fingernail passes through his curls.
“Could’ve just asked me, baby girl.”
“I have been asking.” Your lips push into a pout, but then you notice how firmly his jaw remains set. The possibility that you genuinely hurt him drains the satisfaction from your face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you this upset,” you plead. “I just missed you, and then you came home with Tommy, and I thought you weren’t going to want me tonight either.”
His head rises under your grasp. He draws your face toward his, forcing your eyes back to him while his other palm closes around the inside of your thigh.
“Well, you got my attention, didn’t you, darlin’?” His thumb presses into your lower lip. “Had me watchin’ every time he looked at you. Every time he put his hands where they didn’t belong.”
Your knees part farther as he moves between them.
“Seems to me you need a lesson in how to ask for my attention,” he scolds, the anger in his face and voice tempered by the hand caressing your thigh. “Hm?”
Your eyebrows draw together as you search his face. A lesson could mean a number of things with Joel, and the fingers moving higher under your nightgown gives you very little indication of which one he has in mind. Still, you nod uncertaintly.
He catches your bottom lip beneath his thumb and pulls it down. “Use your words.”
“Mhm,” you whisper, your eyes dropping to his mouth. “Y-yeah.”
“S’right.” His grip eases under your chin, his thumb soothing the place he just pressed into.
“Been beggin’ me to teach you somethin’,” he hums. “Figure we’ll start with that mouth you used to get yourself in trouble.”
The promise hidden beneath his words, sends a thrill through you. Your lips part around a hopeful, little breath and both your hands close around his wrist.
“Really?” You can’t stop the smile beginning to spread. “You’re really gonna let me—”
Joel pulls away before you can finish.
The loss of his body between your thighs leaves you leaning forward on the counter. He takes one step back, gives you enough room to move, and nods towards the floor between his boots.
“Get on your knees.”
Your smile disappears beneath a startled blink.
You had begged to hear those exact words for forever. Still, their abruptness catches you unprepared. Joel has always lifted you from the floor whenever you tried kneeling for him. Now he stands over you expecting obedience, his shirt partly open in his eyes fixed on your face.
And Tommy is directly upstairs. If the floorboards carry even half as much sound upward as they carried his drunken cursing down, he’d be able to hear everything.
But somehow that risk only makes him more eager.
“Now?” you ask.
A hint of affection finally breaks through his stern expression. He reaches for you again, brushing your hair behind your ear before his fingertips trail under your jaw.
“Now, baby.” His thumb passes over your cheek. “C’mon. Been waitin’ so patiently for me, haven’t you?”
You nod eagerly.
He takes your hands as you slide from the counter. He keeps hold of them while you lower yourself, supporting your weight until both of your knees hit the tile. The floor is cold under your skin, but the small discomfort barely lasts once he’s standing above you.
“There.” He smooths your nightgown over your shoulders where the straps have fallen around your arms. His palm remains on the crown of your head afterward, stroking across your hair. “So pretty, darlin’.”
His praise pulls a small smile across your face. You lean into his palm, your cheek brushing the inside of his wrist as your knees inch closer to his boots.
You curl your hands around his calves, as you look up at him, unable to stop touching him now that he’s finally put you where you spent weeks waiting to be. The worn denim under your palms carries the heat of his body; your fingers climb toward his knees until he catches one hand and presses a kiss into its sticky center.
“Eager little thing.” His lips brush your fingertips as he speaks. “Haven’t even told you what to do yet.”
“I know.” You tuck your bottom lip in between your teeth. “Just wanna be good for you.”
“You will be.” He places your hand against your thigh, then gathers your hair behind your head. He twists the length around his fist without pulling, keeping it away from your face. “Gonna teach you. All you gotta do it listen.”
“I’ll listen.”
“I know you will.”
His faith in you makes your chest ache.
Joel brushes his knuckles over your temple, then lets his hand travel down to cup your cheek. The touch carries none of the anger from moments earlier. He holds you as carefully as he does after sex, his thumb moving beneath your eye while he studies your excitement.
“Still got a lesson to learn, baby doll.” His thumb caresses your cheek, while the rest of his hand holds your jaw firmly, keeping your face tipped toward him. “You asked me to teach you, so you listen and take exactly what I give you. Understand?”
You nod, your lashes fluttering faster now.
“Good girl,” he draws out.
Only then does he reach for his belt.
The buckle opens with a muted click above you. Your eyes follow his hands as he pulls the leather free and lets it hang open on either side of his jeans. He takes his time with the button, watching your expression while he lowers the zipper.
Your fingers curl into the denim covering his thigh as he works open the front of his jeans. His eyes drop to your hand, watching it and grip him harder while the zipper begins traveling down.
“Both hands behind your back.”
His command catches you by surprise. You’d assumed he would teach you how to touch him first—guide your hand around the length of him and show you what pressure he liked. Instead, he intends to leave you with nothing except your mouth and whatever he decides to give it.
You hesitate for barely a second before releasing his thigh. Both arms fold obediently behind you, your fingers clasping together against your spine.
He watches you arrange yourself before pushing his jeans lower on his hips.
“Perfect,” he praises, reaching down to sweep more hair away from your face. “You stay just like that for me.”
Your eyes follow his free hand as he finishes popping open the last button on his jeans. The loosened denim has barely begun to separate when a floorboard creeks above the kitchen.
Both of your heads snap upward.
Another groan travels through the wood followed by the muffled scrap of Tommy moving around in the bedroom.
Your face immediately flushes hot.
It was thrilling when he was only a distant threat upstairs. But now, hearing exactly how little separated him from the kitchen reminds you exactly what would happen if he came down here.
There would be no innocent explanation for finding you on your knees with your hands tucked behind your back while his brother stood over you with his pants open.
Tommy would know.
And by morning, he might not be the only one.
You tip your face toward Joel, your eyes wide and searching. “What if he hears us?” you ask nervously. “What if he comes—”
Joel’s palm curved around your cheek, covering nearly half your face as his thumb passes under your lashes. He listens until the floorboards stop creaking above and then returns his attention back to you.
“Then you better not give him a reason to come lookin’.” His pale caresses your cheek again. “Keep that pretty little mouth quiet.”
Your eyes widen a little, suddenly suspecting he intends to test exactly how quiet you can be.
You nod beneath his hand regardless, pressing your lips together around the breath threatening to escape. The danger upstairs now only makes you more eager to prove you can listen.
A small smirk crosses his lip.
His hand lingers against your head while the other finally pushes his jeans and underwear down far enough to free himself.
His cock springs from the waistband and juts rigidly upward, bobbing once before the thick shaft angles toward his stomach. The head is swollen and flushed, a clear bead of precum already shining at the slit under the kitchen light.
Your eyes widen again.
From your knees, all of him seems bigger. His thighs frame your body on either side, blocking anything else beside him. His shirt hangs open above you, exposing his belly and the dark hair interrupted by thin streaks of gray. Even his hands look bigger from down here—one tangled at the back of your head, the other wrapping around the base of his cock.
You stare without attempting to hide it.
And from down here, his cock looks even bigger than it feels inside you. His thick shaft extends past his fist, veined and flushed, with a slight curve toward his stomach. The pale scar crosses one side near the base—the same one you’ve blindly traced with your fingertips in bed—and a few silver strands break through the dark hair surrounding it. His hand can’t even fully close around himself. His swollen head shines only mere inches from your face, and the thought of fitting all of him in your mouth makes your jaw ache, but still, your tongue presses forward inside your mouth at the thought of finally tasting him.
You lean forward on instinct.
The hand he has fisted in your hair tightens and closes near the roots, stopping you several inches away.
“Be patient.”
“I know,” you whine, your body still leaning forward, despite the fist in your hair pulling you back. “But I’ve waited so long,” you add, your eyes still fixed on the shiny tip.
“I know you have.” Joel strokes your hair once, his affection tempering the restraint of his fist. “And you’ve been such a good girl about it, haven’t you?”
You nod, though both of you know tonight has proven otherwise.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Mostly good.”
His free hand reaches past you for the bowl next to the sink. He plucks a strawberry coated in sugar and brings it toward your mouth.
“Open for me.”
Skeptical, you still obey, expecting him to feed it to you. Instead, he presses the berry against your lower lip and drags the wet fruit from one corner to the other. Sugar sticks against your skin, and red juice runs toward your chin, but his thumb follows and wipes it away before it can fall.
“Better use for that mouth.” His thumb smears the juice across your lip. “Should’ve kept it busy with me instead of flirtin’.”
Your brows furrow together again. You’re already forming another protest—ready to remind him that you hadn’t truly been flirting—when he sees it gathering on your face.
“Ah-ah.” He taps the berry against your parted lips, cutting you off before the first word escapes. “No talkin’. Thought you said you were gonna listen.”
Your mouth closes again, though the small crease remains between your brows.
Joel smooths it away with his thumb. “S’my girl. Now bite.”
You sink your teeth into the strawberry. The juice of it bursts all over your tongue and across Joel’s fingers as he holds the rest against your mouth. He waits until you finish chewing before pushing the remaining half between your lips.
“All of it,” he instructs, his fingers still at your lips.
You do as you're told.
You chew and swallow all of it before closing your mouth around his fingers, sucking the sugar from them before he can remove them.
His pupils widen down at you as he scoffs.
“Gonna make this hard for me, aren’t you?”
You release his fingers with an innocent smile. “I’m only listening.”
“Yeah?” he hums, rubbing his thumb over your lip while he strokes himself.
You nod slowly, rejecting the urge to lean forward.
His hand leaves your lip to caress your cheek again, pride and hunger crossing his face equally.
“Let’s see how well you listen with your mouth stuffed full of me.” His thumb collects a final grain of sugar from the corner of your mouth before he brings it to his lips and swipes it clean. “Don’t disappoint me, baby.”
He wraps his fist around the base of his cock and brings the swollen, pink head toward your strawberry-stained lips. He doesn’t let you take him yet. Instead, he drags the tip from one corner of your mouth to the other, smearing the clear bead of precum through the red juice already shining there.
Your lips part beneath the contact, but he pulls back before you can catch him.
“Lick your lips for me, baby girl.”
Your tongue slips out immediately. You trace the path he left across your mouth, gathering strawberry sugar and the first salty taste of him. The mixture coats your tongue—sweet at first, followed by a trace of bitterness that makes you lean forward again.
“Taste good?” he asks, stroking his knuckles over your cheek.
You nod, almost too eagerly.
The hand in your hair holds you in place. “Good. Open wide.”
You part your lips, eager, despite the nerves running through you.
A breath of laughter leaves his nose. “Wider, baby. Ain’t gonna fit in there if you’re shy about it.”
Your cheeks will burn, but you open until the side of your jaw start to ache.
“S’exactly what I needed.” His thumb strokes behind your ear, easing the pull of his fist in your hair. “Knew that greedy little mouth could make room for me.”
He presses the head onto the center of your tongue. His skin is hot against the lingering chill of the fruit in your mouth. He watches your eyes widen as his taste reaches you without the sugar hiding it this time—salt, skin, and the precum slowly leaking from the slit.
“Don’t move yet.” His thumb caresses the base of his cock while it rests heavily on your tongue. “Let yourself get used to me.”
You remain obediently still, your hands still clasped behind your back as your knees start to sting against the tile. You feel the saliva gathering beneath him and starting to slip over your lower lip.
Instinctively, you start to free one your hands to wipe the saliva gathering under your lip, but you don’t get very far. Joel is already drawing the head outward, spreading the wetness across your tongue with it before pressing it in again.
“Close.”
You do.
Your lips seal around the swollen tip, straining at the corners to accommodate the girth. He lets it rest there for a moment, letting you feel the weight of him on your tongue.
“Suck.”
Your cheeks hollow around him at the command.
Pleasure passes openly across his face when you suck for the first time. His sucks in a quick breath, and the fist holding your hair closes until a pleasant pull spreads across your scalp.
“That’s my good girl,” he praises. “Mouth was made for me, wasn’t it?”
His approval makes you suck harder.
He draws himself out until your lips catch beneath the ridge of his head, then guide you forward again, another inch filling your mouth. The thick vein under his shaft drags across your tongue, and you press upward against it, eager to discover what earns another reaction from him.
When his hips jerk toward you, you glance up. Delighted.
“Don’t look so proud.” The corner of his mouth lifts despite the scolding. “Keep your tongue right there.”
You do, tracing the vein each time he moves between your lips. He feeds you more with every pass, guiding your head through the hand wrapped around your hair. He leaves you enough time to adjust before it reaches the back of your tongue.
And your throat immediately resists.
A gag contracts around him, and your shoulders jerk. He withdraws before panic can follow, leaving only the tip resting between your lips while his palm moves in your hair.
“Easy, baby.” His thumb strokes beneath your eye, collecting the first tear before it can travel down your cheek. “Ain’t gotta take all of me yet. You’re learnin’.”
You whine around the head, frustrated with your own body.
“I know.” Joel taps the tip against your tongue. “Want it all right away, don’t you?”
You nod as much as his grip permits.
“Greedy girl.” His affection softens the tease as his hands leave his cock to pass over your cheek again. “Take what I give you. We’ll get you there.”
He presses forward again.
You concentrate on keeping your jaw loose, and your tongue flattened under him. When the head reaches the back of your mouth again, your eyes water, but he holds you there for a second, forcing it, before drawing it out.
“Good.” His thumb catches another tear. “Again.”
He wraps his hand back around the base and guides the length of him farther into the back of your mouth.
You get farther this time.
Saliva spills over your lower lip and runs onto your chin. Your hands twitch behind your back, desperate to wipe it away or reach for his thighs, but he watches closely enough to notice.
“Hands stay where I put ‘em.”
Your fingers clasp tighter against your spine and the smirk on his face dampens your thighs.
He continues guiding you. Each pass pushes another fraction of him beyond your lips until your nose nearly reaches the dark hair at his base. Your jaw burns, and the tile is biting even harder into your knees now.
But none of it matters when Joel’s composure is starting to come apart above you.
His chest is rising fast up and down under his open shirt, the muscles across his stomach squeeze whenever you suck, and his hand has started to grip tighter into your hair, a small sting forming at the base of your scalp.
And now you finally understand why he kept refusing you.
He hadn’t been worried you would enjoy this. He’d been worried about how much he would.
That makes you moan loudly around him.
His eyes flick toward the ceiling and his grip tightens again in your scalp.
“Gotta keep those pretty noises down, baby,” he reminds you, his thumb passing across your wet cheek. “Don’t wanna get in trouble now do we?”
You shake your head at the warning, but it sends another pulse through your underwear, and you have to press your thighs together, but the position offers no release.
Joel’s eyes drop to your legs pressing together under him.
“Gettin’ off on this, aren’t you?” He eases his cock from your mouth, leaving you gasping under him. “Kneelin’ there with your hands behind your back while I use this sweet little mouth.”
You nod fast, trying to swallow whatever he left on your tongue.
He smirks. “Can see it all over that pretty face.”
He reaches past you and toward the glass of milk sweating on the counter. The condensation wets his fingers as he lifts it in front of you.
Your eyes follow the glass until it’s right between you. “What—” You choke a little on your next swallow. “What’re you—”
“Thought I said no talkin’?”
You swallow, closing your parted lips.
He caresses your cheek with the back of his finger. “Open.”
You hesitate for just one second before your lips part on their own, your tongue slipping out in the process.
The hand in your hair loosens to come to the base of his cock. He tips the glass and pours a small amount on him. The milk strikes his swollen head and runs along his shaft in little pale streams, carrying traces of your spit with it. Drop after drop falls onto your waiting tongue, and the rest travels across his knuckles and drips from his fist onto the front of your nightgown.
Cold milk splashes against your chest and the white cotton darkens and clings to your nipples as they tighten under your nightgown.
Joel watches one drop travel beneath your neckline before his thumb presses at the bottom of your lip, dragging it down and directing your attention back to the milk running down the length of him.
“Clean me up.”
You hesitate again, but it barely lasts a second before you’re leaning forward, licking the milk from the underside of his cock. Your tongue follows it from the base toward the head, gathering every drop along with the salt on his skin. He allows you to reach the tip before he takes hold of your hair again.
“Open wider.”
You obey, and he presses into your mouth.
Milk spills around the sides of his shaft when your lips close. It runs over your chin and down your throat, joining the damp patches across your chest.
The first taste is mostly milk, a little cold and creamy on your tongue. Then you suck harder and find the familiar taste of Joel under it, salty and a little musky, and that bitter little trace that’s waiting at the tip.
You suck until there’s nothing left except the taste of him and the slightest trace of milk and strawberry on your tongue.
“Such a good, fuckin’ girl,” He groans.
His thumb sweeps through the mess beneath your lip, but instead of wiping it away, he smears it across your cheek. “Finally got what you wanted, and you’re already covered in it.”
He drives into your mouth again.
“Should’ve put you on your knees weeks ago.”
You gag around him again, closing your eyes, trying to fight the gag—the pain of it every time it hits the sensitive part at the back of your throat—but Joel’s hand is already lifting under your chin, stroking the underside of it.
“Keep those pretty eyes open for me, baby.”
Your lashes lift reluctantly, wet and clumped together. Tears blur him at first, turning his face into hazy mess above you, but you blink until he comes back into focus and holds his stare, despite the reflex still fluttering through your throat.
And you watch his face change.
The tenderness remains in his hand, cradling your jaw, but hunger takes over the last of his restraint. He guides you forward, pushing past the depth that made you gag earlier.
Your throat fully contracts around the head this time.
He pulls back, then presses in again before you can fully recover. The movement becomes faster now, driven more by his hips and the hand holding your hair. Every thrust fills your mouth with the taste left on his skin and forces another wet sound from your lips.
“Wanted me to use you,” he says, clearly fighting to whisper but losing. “This what you were beggin’ for?”
You nod around him, another gag slipping out.
“Could’ve had this instead of lettin’ that drunk flirt with you.”
The mention of Tommy makes you whine.
He drives his hips forward again and pushes his cock to the back of your throat, and keeps it there, holding you full while your eyes spill over. His thumb caresses your temple, reassuring you even as his fist prevents you from escaping the pressure.
“S’mouth belongs to me, baby girl.” He withdraws enough to let air pass through your nose without obstruction. “You remember that next time you think about usin’ it to make me jealous.”
You nod eagerly.
The second your head stops moving, Joel begins fucking your mouth in earnest.
His hips meet your lips with each thrust. Saliva strings between your chin and his shaft whenever he pulls back, broken only when he pushes into you again. Your throat opens for him more easily now, though every third or fourth thrust still makes you gag.
At each time, Joel watches.
He eases when your body needs him to and pushes farther when he sees your fingers remain obediently folded behind your back. His control never disappears entirely, though. One hand uses your hair to guide you; the other pets your face, wipes tears from your cheeks, and checks the muscles working beneath your jaw.
“Take a little more for me,” he breathes.
Your jaw is already stretched as far as it’ll go, the tendons on both sides starting to ache, but you listen and force your mouth wider.
He presses in until your nose meets the damp hair at his base. His cock fills your throat, leaving no room for even a little sound, let alone air. Tears slip freely while he holds you there— not from the pain, but from the reflex your body can’t suppress and the overwhelming satisfaction of finally taking him this far.
A trimmer runs through the thigh beside your cheek, his grip stutters in your hair, then closes again as his hips twitch against your face.
“Jesus, fuckin’ Christ,” he drags out, his head tipping back.
The sounds scraped out of him make the ache worthwhile by itself.
When he finally pulls out, you drag air through your swollen lips as fast as you can. Saliva and leftover milk coat your chin, and strawberry juice stains the corners of your mouth pink. He gives you only a few seconds before tapping the heavy head against your tongue again.
“Still my eager girl?”
You try to speak—to tell him yes. That you can take more—but all you can manage is another eager nod.
“Exactly where you wanna be, huh?”
You nod again, already parting your lips.
He swipes his thumb along your bottom lip and brings it to his mouth. “Greedy girl.”
He feeds himself back into your mouth slowly, and you take him with renewed enthusiasm. You work your tongue under the head and suck hard whenever he withdraws.
You start to feel his cock pulsing more frequently, each throb kicking against your lips. His movements start losing their rhythm, and the hand in your hair trembles. A broken sound catches behind his teeth when you swallow around the tip on the next thrust.
You already know what’s coming before he even has to tell you.
Excitement makes you suck harder.
Joel curses loudly under his breath, and the fist in your hair pulls so tight your scalp starts to throb. He pulls you back until only the head rests against your lower lip while his fists move over the slick shaft, spreading saliva with every pass.
“Gonna come, baby.” His free hand cups your cheek, his thumb wiping a tear from under your lashes. “Want it in your mouth. Tell me you can take it.”
Your head bobs up and down, your sore knees dragging across the floor as you try to scoot closer.
“Y-yes,” you swallow, your lips trembling around the words. “I can take it. P-please.”
This is the part you’ve replayed in your head for months now. The thought of finally getting to taste Joel’s release on your tongue has your fingernails digging into the palms of your hands behind you.
The muscles across his cock jump at your answer. And his thumb moves from your cheek to your lower lip and draws it down.
“So proud of you darlin’,” he coos. His fist starts pumping against his shaft, firmer now. “Gonna keep those pretty eyes up for me and keep that mouth open, yeah?”
You nod eagerly, a breathless “Yes” slipping out before you open wide and extend your tongue beneath him.
He positions the swollen tip in the center, his hand gripping back into your hair firmly enough to keep it exactly where he wants it.
“Stay just like that,” he hums, his fist working faster now. “Gonna give that perfect mouth everything It’s been askin’ for.”
You stay open under him, your tongue shaky, and your eyes glued to his face. His hand moves over his shaft in quick strokes, carrying the mixture of sweat and saliva from the base to the head. Each pass forces another little clear bead from the slit and leaves his cock shining under the kitchen light.
You watch as his expression begins to break apart above you.
The muscles in his forearms are straining, and his lips try to separate around a breath, but it stops halfway out. The fingers threaded through your hair flex hard enough to send another sting across your scalp while you fight the urge to close your mouth around him.
He told you to stay open, and you want to prove that you can follow every instruction he gives you.
“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he hums, tapping the tip against your tongue.
The last of whatever restraint Joel was fighting, breaks through him on the first pulse against your tongue.
The first release spills into the center of your mouth, hot and thick enough to startle you. Salt spreads across your tongue and cuts through the strawberry sugar that was still lingering there.
Then his hip jerk again.
The second spurt reaches farther back, striking near the roof of your mouth before sliding toward your throat. Your tongue dips under the sudden weight of it, and your lips twitch with the instinct to close.
“Keep it open, baby,” he groans, his fist continuing to work over himself. “Doin’ so good.”
You force your jaw wider, blinking up at him.
Another thick release coats your tongue, joining the first two until there’s enough to pool beneath it. The taste is stronger now—salty, musky, and slightly bitter beneath the milk still sticking to the insides of your cheeks. The strawberry barely clings to your lips now, making every part of him taste stronger.
His eyes remain fixed on the pearly streaks, coating your tongue as his fist drags over his swollen head again. A final hard pulse sends another spurt toward the back of your mouth before you can prepare for it, and your throat contracts around it.
A loud gag jerks through you, sharp enough to make tears spill from your eyes. Your fingers tear apart behind your back, but you manage to keep them there while you fight the reflex to swallow.
Joe immediately angles his cock away from your throat. The hand in your hair loosens, his fingertips caressing your scalp instead of holding you in place.
“Easy, sweetheart.” His thumb reaches down to wipe the tear traveling over your cheek. “Got a lot in that little mouth of yours, don’t you?”
You nod carefully, terrified of spilling any.
Pride softens his face as he traces the swollen corners of your lips, catching the thin white line threatening to escape. His thumb pushes it back onto your tongue.
“Kept every drop,” he says, his chest rising and falling. His knuckles stroke your cheek. “Made for me aren’t you?”
Your jaw aches from remaining open, and that thick mixture is starting to slide towards the back of your throat again. Joel lets you hold it only long enough to admire the sight.
You can only imagine what he sees.
Your swollen mouth held wide, your tongue cupped and shaking beneath the pearly white pool he left there, another thin streak slipping free and trailing down the corner of your mouth.
The half empty glass of milk enters your peripheral, streams of it coating the sides, and your certain the two look obscenely similar.
“Go head and close, baby,” he hums, passing his thumb over your swollen bottom lip.
You seal your lips.
The taste is stronger now without the air between you. His release coats the inside of your cheeks and clings to the roof of your mouth, mixing with the last traces of milk and strawberry until you can just barely taste all three with every swirl of your tongue.
His palm cups beneath your chin.
“Swallow.”
Your throat works beneath his hand.
The first swallow clears only part of it. The thickness sticks near the back of your throat and forces you to swallow again, your eyes watering as it travels down. A small amount remains across your tongue, salty enough to make your lips purse.
Joel watches every movement in a trance.
He grips your chin between his thumb and pointer finger. “One more.”
You obey, swallowing until your mouth is empty, except for the taste he left behind.
You drag your tongue across your bottom lip, savoring the saltines of him, and wishing he had given you just a little more.
“Open,” Joel demands.
You part your lips and stick out your tongue for him.
A thin pearly trace remains near the corner, and Joel wipes it forward with his thumb, pressing it into the center, and waits until you close your lips around him.
You wrap your swollen lips around his thumb and suck it clean.
“S’my perfect, perfect girl.” His other hand strokes across your hair, repairing the strands his fists disturbed. “Took everything I gave you and more.”
The approval makes you smile weakly around his thumb.
He withdraws it and caresses your sticky cheek. His cock stands hard enough to hang heavily from his open jeans, damp with saliva, and the release you hadn’t managed to catch.
His hand slides from your cheek to your throat. His fingers close around it and draw you upward while his other arm catches your waist, hauling you from the floor until your body presses tight against him. Your knees are sore and weak; you barely have time to straighten before his mouth is on yours.
He kisses you with none of his earlier patience. His lips force yours apart and his tongue sweeps inside as though he intends to taste every trace of himself you swallowed. The force of it tips your head back against his palm and leaves you clinging to his open shirt.
His grip remains firm around your throat, pressing beneath your jaw while you cling to him.
“Taste so good,” he mutters against your mouth.
You try to kiss him again, but his hand keeps your head tipped back.
“Mouth took me so well,” he whispers into your mouth, his grip still firm on your throat. “Wanna see how well the rest of you does.
You moan against the hand around your throat and the length of him dancing between your sticky thighs.
“P-Please,” Joel,” you whine, trying to inch closer to him.
“Please what?” he asks, his hand gripping tighter around your waist.
“Please, f-fuck me,” you whisper.
He presses a kiss under your chin and onto your mouth, swallowing the desperate sound that follows when he turns you around.
“Anythin’ you want, darlin’.”
He pushes your front against the counter and gathers your nightgown above your hips. Cool air reaches the damp fabric between your legs as he hooks his hand behind one knee and lifts it onto the counter, leaving you exposed with your other foot barely touching the floor.
The bowl, now holding nothing but strawberry syrup, rattles beside your elbow, pink juice lapping against the porcelain while Joel pulls your underwear aside.
His fingers swipe through your folds, gathering the slickness there before chasing it back toward your clit. The brief contact pulls a helpless moan from you, your hips bucking into his hand and searching for more.
“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, pressing a kiss beneath your ear as his fingers caress you again. “Gonna let me fuck that ache away?”
You whimper at his touch, your head nodding helplessly as your cheek rubs against his. “Y-yes. Please, Joel.”
“Don’t worry baby.” He pulls your hips firmly against his. “Gonna take such good care of you.”
He wraps one arm around your waist and positions his swollen head at your entrance. Then he drives inside, filling you in one firm thrust that forces your hands against the counter and sends the bowl rattling toward the wall.
The sudden fullness forces a full-on cry from your chest. His palm rises from between you and wraps around your mouth before the sound can carry upstairs.
“Keep it down, he warns into your ear. “Can’t let him hear us.”
You nod against his hand, tears threatening your eyes.
He releases his it from around your mouth and wraps it back around your throat. He drives into you again, hard enough to push your hip into the counter—hard enough to bruise probably. He doesn’t fuck you with the same patience he usually does. Each drive of his cock forces you onto your toes, your lifted leg trembling beside the bowl while his fingers dig into the flesh at your hips.
It’s exactly what you wanted from him.
His pleasure without apology. His body using your instead of arranging every touch around your comfort. Still though, his care survives inside the roughness—his arm braces your chest when your elbow threatens to buckle, and his palm muffles each cry without stealing your air.
“Takin’ me so well,” he praises into your hair. “Knew I’d fuck that little game right outta you.”
His words send you over faster than either of you expects.
Your body clamps around him, puling hard enough to interrupt his rhythm. His hand leaves your mouth and curls around your throat again, holding you upright while your orgasm tears through you.
“Joel—” you whine.
“I know, baby.” His lips press against your temple. “Ride it out.”
He fucks you through the final contractions, his strokes turning uneven as your body keeps gripping him.
“Missed you so damn much,” he whispers into your ear.
Then his hips drive flush against you and remain there while his cock pulses inside you.
Hot release fills you in several thick spurts, each one accompanied by Joel’s fingers in your mouth to muffle your whimpers. His face buries against your hair as he holds you against his chest until the last twitch passes.
For several seconds, neither of you moves. It’s just the sound of his breathing in your ear and the sound of you gasping for air.
Then Joel lowers your leg and turns you carefully in his arms. Your knees nearly give out, but he catches you and wraps both his arm around your waist before you can fall.
His hand caresses the throat he was just gripping, and he presses a wet kiss to the side of your mouth.
“Learn your lesson?”
You nod, exhausted and pleased, because that’s all you can manage.
Joel raises an eyebrow.
“Yes,” you correct yourself, still breathing heavy. “I’ll come to you next time. P-promise.”
“S’right.” He kisses your forehead and draws your nightgown back over your thighs with his free hand. “My good girl.”
You curl against his chest, smiling into his shirt.
“It worked, though.”
His palm comes down quick against your sore ass, loud enough to make a noise that he doesn’t seem to care about.
Summary: A hot doctor rescues you from a creep outside of your gym and it turns out you have a lot more in common than your choice of workout venue.
Or, the D/s universe getting together fic I've been yapping about for months!
Story Tags/Notes: girly!sub!reader, dom!brendon, reader is a kids' ballet teacher, brendon is a trauma surgeon in the ED, getting together fic, slow-ish burn, kink dynamic/relationship negotiation, communication porn, sugaring/spoiling/gifts, reader is mentioned as not shaving body hair, full aftercare
NSFW Tags/Notes: its a lengthy smut so, panty sniffing, teasing, face slapping, light punishment, black nitrile gloves, inspection kink, breast play, pain play, biting, marks, fingering (f), fisting (f), squirting, multiple orgasms (f), dacryphilia, scent/armpit/musk/sweat kinks, one single line of degradation, lots and lots of praise/affirmation/pet names, choking/breath play, piv (unprotected, discussion is implied), creampie
Content: sexual harassment/intimidation, broken wrist
A/N: everyone say a sloppy slutty thank you to @honestlystop for their generous donation to my birthday fundraiser which led to this being completed! and a personal thank you for always being so lovely and supportive
Word Count: 18.3k
Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.
Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time.
Tonight changes that.
It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.
But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.
The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.
“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”
The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”
Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”
Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”
Brendon rolls his shoulders.
The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.
In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fit knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.
Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrows into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.
But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much there.
So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.
As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.
Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”
With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”
“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”
Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”
Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”
Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.
You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”
“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”
“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”
“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”
“It’s eighty degrees out.”
“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”
With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”
“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”
“That’s hot.”
Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.
“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”
He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”
“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”
“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”
With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”
“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”
Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”
“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”
Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”
Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”
With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.
The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.
Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”
“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”
The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”
“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”
Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”
With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”
Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”
Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”
“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”
Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”
Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”
“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”
Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”
“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”
“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”
“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”
“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”
You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”
He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”
Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”
Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”
Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”
“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”
You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”
Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”
“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a roadtrip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”
“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”
“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook work. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”
You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”
Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.
Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”
“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”
Brendon nearly growls.
Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”
You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”
As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”
“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”
Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”
“It’s America.”
“The bill’s over four grand.”
“Like I said. And?”
“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”
“I barely know her.”
“Whatever you say, Shark.”
You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.
Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md
You have to suppress a squeal.
Game, set, match.
It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.
With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”
“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”
“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”
“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”
“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”
You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him want to vomit. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”
He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”
“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being all stupid about it.”
“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”
Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”
“My friend, huh?”
“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in a long-forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge him and insist, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”
With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”
Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”
Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”
“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”
You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”
“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer to-”
A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”
“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I didn’t expect you to have four grand easily lying around.”
With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”
“How?”
“I have my secrets.”
“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”
“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”
Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinkie with yours. “Good girl.”
Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”
“I’d do it for anyone.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.
It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”
Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”
He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”
You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking around as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.
On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.
As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the damn finally breaks.
Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot stick in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-
“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”
He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”
“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”
“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”
“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”
“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”
You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”
He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”
“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”
He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”
But he can’t resist how damn determined and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.
When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. That was a really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”
You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”
He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”
God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”
Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”
“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”
As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”
Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”
He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.
“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”
He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”
You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”
“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says,“Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”
You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”
He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”
You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”
“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”
He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”
You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”
Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.
As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”
Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”
“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”
You’re about due for a cold shower.
you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇
you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences.
brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests.
you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on.
brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual.
you: yeah?
brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me.
you: never.
brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are.
you: thank you!! i will 💕💕
you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late
brendon (hot gym guy): I never am.
you: that’s hot.
Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve wracking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup for you – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.
Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.
Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.
you: which shoes do you like better?
brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck.
brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language.
you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇
brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t.
brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow.
you: you really do like my girly stuff huh?
brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast.
you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake?
brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄
brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that.
you: omg did you just use an emoji
you: im already making progress on you
brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight.
you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑
brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass?
you: oh my god. yes grandpa
you: you’re so lucky you have me
brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually.
brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.
Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.
Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.
Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”
Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.
“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”
He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in his strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in that sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.
By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.
Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.
Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you here again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”
Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”
“Perfect; go right ahead.”
“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pino grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22. Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”
The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”
The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”
He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”
After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”
“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.
“What face?”
“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”
You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.
Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.
Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him,“You’re staring at me.”
Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”
“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”
“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”
You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”
He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”
You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”
Brendon glances over it, tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”
“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”
Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”
Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”
That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”
You cut into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”
“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”
He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.
Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”
Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”
He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”
After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”
“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”
You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.
When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”
Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”
The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.
Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet for every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”
You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”
She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”
“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display, “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”
“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”
“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”
She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”
“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get their bouquets, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”
“On it, boss.”
“You know I hate it when you call me that.”
She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.
you: most people would’ve texted
bren: Did you want ‘most people’?
you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!!
bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very roman-tic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess?
you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!!
bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them.
you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight
you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕
bren: Me too, beautiful.
bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside.
you: that a promise?
bren: Yes.
you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!!
bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day.
you: yes sir
bren: Careful.
you: rarely 😘
Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky highrise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.
“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”
“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”
Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”
“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”
“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”
She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”
Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.
The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and woods and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.
You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”
Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.
Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.
Deep breaths.
In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.
Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you find a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.
Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.
In the en suite bathroom, across from the massive walk-in closet, there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.
Comfortable, indeed.
One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”
You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk back into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.
While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.
When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”
“Too late.”
Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.
And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”
Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.
You’re in the shark’s den now.
Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper.
“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”
Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”
Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”
You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”
“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”
“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”
“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – an expression you didn’t fully understand until now. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”
You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”
And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”
Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”
He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”
You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.
When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”
You whimper.
He laughs.
Again.
Bastard.
“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”
You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”
Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”
So he gets to work.
First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.
Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unphased by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”
“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”
He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to notice your armpits.”
As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”
It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it grows.”
Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”
After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”
And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a sharp breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”
Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”
“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”
He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tight.
Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”
And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”
“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”
Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.
Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act. “You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”
Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between your legs, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.
Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”
You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”
“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of laying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”
“Just for you.”
“That so?”
“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”
He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”
You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”
“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”
“I do.”
“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”
Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.
Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.
Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”
“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”
Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”
“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”
Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”
He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”
You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “N-No. I don’t think so.”
“And does it still feel good?”
You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.
“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”
You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”
Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly little smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”
“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his encouragement, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”
You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”
“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”
Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”
“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”
When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.
“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”
“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”
“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”
“I- I’ll try.”
“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”
He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”
That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.
“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the bring of supernova, he commands like a servant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”
You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.
His voice.
The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.
“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”
You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.
When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gasping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.
Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.
Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”
With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”
Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”
“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can you fuck me now?”
“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”
“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”
“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”
“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”
Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”
Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.
He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”
“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and late you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”
His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”
You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”
Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”
You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”
“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”
Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.
His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.
He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”
Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.
But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breath, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.
He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.
So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.
Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”
You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.
“If the very first words out of your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”
You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.
Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”
Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.
In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something long-forgotten in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.
Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysiam. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.
Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”
You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.
“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one large hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”
You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”
“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”
You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”
“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up, princess.”
You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”
“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”
Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”
That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”
A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.
“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”
You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”
“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”
Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”
He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”
“Mmm.”
“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”
“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”
“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”
You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”
After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.
“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”
“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”
“And I meant it.”
When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight masterlist | ao3
parker ellis x reader, rabbot x reader
summary: you're robby's favorite reward. when his staff earns it, he doesn't hesitate to offer you up. it's jack's turn to get you ready for the resident he’s chosen.
|| smut MDNI 18+ , f/f, pussy inspection, fingering, praise kink, cuckholding, jack still learning how to dom, robby still a cuck, free use, sapphic thigh riding, dirty talk, cum eating [like, kinda, is this the same terminology for women?], fingers in mouth, breast play, kissing, reader's first time w a woman, period tracking, pet names for reader like honey / sweetheart / baby girl ||
a/n: eeep ! so happy to have this chapter out for you and so quickly! fair warning ellis doesnt have a huge chunk but still the part she does have was fun to write. I don't consider myself 100% straight (who tf is?) but I tend to be interested in women more romantically than sexually, so im sorry if this is a bit more tame than you were expecting. ilysm, enjoy!
wc: 11k
"That last bite is yours."
"No, yours."
Jack smiled at you from across the table, his eyes narrowing with teasing disapproval. The candle between you shifted in its glass holder, its flame catching the tines of his fork when he leaned forward over the remains of dessert.
There was barely anything left to argue over. A single bite of chocolate cake sat in the center of the white porcelain plate, surrounded by dark crumbs and milky streaks of melted ice cream. Still, he turned his fork onto its side and pressed it through the middle with the same concentration that made you think of him as a doctor—the emergency surgeon with a 10 blade in hand, the soldier cutting a crike in the field—dividing the last bite perfectly between you.
You pursed your lips, trying not to smile as he straightened the fork again, speared his half, and lifted it toward his mouth.
“You are so—”
“Charming?” he finished for you.
Your eyes narrowed, though the grin had already started pulling at your mouth. You leaned onto your elbows and collected your own half from the plate, letting him watch you take it.
The chocolate was dense on your tongue, the cake soft through the center and covered in a dark icing that clung to the roof of your mouth. Melted vanilla ice cream had soaked into the bottom layer, cooling the sweetness before you swallowed.
"—infuriating."
But there was no bite to your words, no heat to make them land anywhere tender. Your belly was full and warm, the dark restaurant and the last glass of wine leaving you a little light-headed, your limbs heavy beneath the table. Jack’s eyes caught the candlelight when he sat back to look at you, chin tipped up with a note of amusement.
“I seem to recall someone calling me ‘hot’ a couple weeks ago. What changed?”
“You refusing the last bite of chocolate cake, of course.” You shrugged.
“Sheesh. That easy to lose my title?”
"Mhm," you hummed into the last sip of your wine before setting it down.
"S'just too bad." he said, shaking his head and biting his lip, "worse is that it's 6:45."
This time, your lips did purse in disappointment. The hospital was only a few blocks away. You had known that all evening. It was why he had chosen somewhere downtown, why his overnight bag was under the table, why he had glanced at his watch twice during the movie and again when the waiter asked about dessert.
"Can… I call you in sick?"
“Oh, yeah, that’d go well.” He chuckled, sitting up to set his napkin on the mahogany table, his eyes skating around for the waiter. He caught the man’s attention and made a small writing motion with his hand, asking for the check.
You lifted your hand to your ear in an imitation of a phone.
“Yes, hi, this is Jack Abbot’s friend. I have to call him out because he’s really not feeling well.” You paused, nodding gravely at the imaginary person on the other end. “Oh, yeah, it’s a severe case of hot-older-man syndrome. He’s got it really bad. Okay, thanks for understanding.”
Jack shut his eyes. His head tipped back, his face pulling into a grimace that made you laugh before he had even spoken.
“Okay. Too many things wrong with that.”
“Really? I thought it was pretty convincing.”
“One—friend?”
You rolled your eyes. “Not this again.”
He opened his eyes and looked at you across the table. The amusement was still there, tucked into the corners, but his attention had sharpened.
“Think it’s okay to say we’re a little more than friends, sweetheart.”
Your stomach gave a hard squirm beneath the table. You lowered your hand from your ear. “Fine. Jack Abbot’s very special acquaintance.”
His mouth flattened.
“Lady he occasionally has dinner with? Shares with his fellow attending?”
His eyes danced around the room for a moment, as if checking to see if anyone heard that. Then he stared back at you with an eyebrow raised.
“Fine,” you conceded, unable to keep your smile from returning. “A little more than friends.”
“Thank you.” he said, nodding, and then continued, settling back again, “And two—old man?”
“I said hot old man, thank you very much.”
He scoffed. “I know you’re not talking about me.”
“You’re right. I’m seeing another Jack Abbot after this.”
“Better hope he doesn’t work at my hospital.”
You opened your mouth, but Jack lifted a finger before you could answer.
“And third,” he went on, “I’ve walked into that hospital with a bullet wound in my back. Highly doubt they’re gonna let me call out because…” He tilted his head, considering it. “What? I’m held up with a beautiful girl?”
"I think it would be only right." you shot back, though your skin warmed and not just from the wine.
The waiter appeared before Jack could answer, setting the leather check folder beside his elbow. Jack slid his card inside without opening it, letting the waiter take it right away.
And when they came back promptly, you watched him open the leather booklet, giving a nice tip and his illegible signature.
Dinner had been his idea. The movie too. He had arrived at Robby’s house shortly after three with his hair still damp from a shower and a clean shirt folded over the width of his shoulders. He should have been asleep then, storing away whatever rest he could before a night in the emergency department. Instead, he had taken you downtown because he knew Robby was working and you would spend most of the evening alone.
He hadn't said that was why or let you ask too many questions. Only told you to hurry up and get dressed early.
“Thank you,” you said. “It was really sweet of you to set all this up.”
“Thought it would be nice to do something different.”
He shrugged, but his eyes remained on the receipt for a moment longer than necessary, the pen turning once between his fingers. As if the compliment landed strangely on him. He could accept being called hot without blinking, but sweet still made him look for somewhere else to put his attention.
“It was,” you said.
His expression softened when he looked back up at you, and he pushed his chair back and stood. He straightened the collar of his shirt, bending down to grab his backpack to hoist it over his shoulder. You rose, smoothing your long skirt where it had twisted and rumpled from sitting for a while, and Jack’s hand left the chair and hovered behind you until his palm settled against your lower back, broad and warm through the thin fabric of your top. He guided you between the closely set tables, his fingers shifting whenever you had to angle around a chair or the corner of the bar.
“Besides,” he murmured near your ear, “what were you gonna do all evening before I came and got you, huh?”
The restaurant door opened onto the noise of downtown Pittsburgh. A car horn sounded at the intersection, followed by the heavy bass of music through an open window. Groups moved along the pavement around you, couples and families out for dinner, delivery drivers rushing in and out of places to pick up food for takeout. The sun was still out, though the light was softer as it hid behind tall buildings.
Jack kept his palm at your back until you were clear of the doorway.
“Wait around for you to come pick me up?” you answered.
It was meant to be teasing, but the answer was entirely true.
You had no plans. You might have taken a book outside and sat along the edge of the pool with your feet in the water. You might have worked out in the room downstairs, though you had been telling yourself that for three days. There was laundry sitting in the dryer and half a container of pasta in the refrigerator that could have counted as dinner.
Mostly, you would have waited for one of them to come home.
Jack made a face.
“What?”
“Think you need a hobby, young lady.”
“I am not joining the SWAT team.” you shot back.
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t let you.”
You stopped beneath the restaurant awning and turned toward him. “Oh, it’s let now, is it?”
His smile spread slowly. He bent and kissed the side of your mouth, catching you before your own had fully formed. His lips pressed against the corner for only a second, his hand tightening at your waist before he drew back.
“You can do whatever you want,” he said. “I’d just prefer you don’t choose something with a high risk of bodily harm.”
“I’m not even going to get started on what a hypocrite that makes you.”
You stepped onto the sidewalk, and he followed with a low chuckle.
His hand slid from your waist, down your arm, until his fingers found yours. He threaded them together without looking down, pulling you nearer when a group of people came toward you in the opposite direction.
“I do think a hobby might be a good idea,” he said once the sidewalk opened again. “Maybe something part-time, even. Keep you busy while we’re working.”
“Yeah, but most of the time you guys don’t work together.” You swung your joined hands between you once. “So I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
His mouth twisted.
It was a brief movement, gone when he looked toward the traffic passing through the intersection, but you caught it.
You understood the concern beneath the suggestion. Your whole life had revolved around Robby and the hospital. And Robby had you and his work. But outside of that, neither of you had really ever considered doing anything else. Robby liked his motorcycles, sure. Jack had a life, even if part of his was divided between the ED, the SWAT team, and whatever he kept to himself in the apartment you hadn't even seen yet.
You had them. And you were beginning to realize how easily that could become the whole shape of your life. It felt good.
The pedestrian light changed. Jack tugged your hand and led you into the crosswalk.
“You excited for today?” you asked when you reached the other side.
“For my shift?”
You looked up at him.
He was pressing his lips together to hold back a smile.
“No, Jack.”
“I know, I know.” His thumb moved over the side of your hand. “Yeah. I suppose I am.”
“You suppose?”
“Not really sure what to expect.”
You swung his hand again, unable to contain the excitement that had been building since they first told you the plan for your first visit back.
“Well, I’m excited. Besides, Robby will show you. It can be really fun.”
“Oh, I know it can.”
The smirk he gave you made warmth gather low in your stomach.
You bumped your shoulder against his arm. “Are you still not going to tell me who you picked?”
“Nope.” He let the word pop from his lips.
“Like I said: infuriating.”
Jack laughed, the sound carrying above the traffic for a moment before it settled back between you.
The rest of the walk toward the hospital was easy. As the building appeared closer and closer, you found yourself wishing to slow down time, to stay in this little bubble you'd created tonight. It wasn't like the second you'd step inside you wouldn't see him again for the rest of his shift, but still. You never knew when you stepped through those doors. How slammed they'd been all day, how quickly his fingers might untangle from yours because of a trauma coming in through the doors. You knew it felt selfish to think of it like that, so you didn't say anything out loud.
He held the door open for you, the temperature inside nearly as tepid as the evening outside.
“I’ll think about it,” you said, walking past him. You're not sure what made you want to say it, maybe that you wanted to soak up as much of his attention as you could before the hospital swallowed him in. “The hobby thing, I mean.”
He smiled and tipped his head. “Good.”
You made your way through the second set of doors with his hand still in yours. The waiting room was overflowing, bodies packed into the rows of vinyl chairs and standing along the walls. Jack pulled your joined hands close behind his back so the two of you could squeeze between them, keeping you tucked close as someone shifted a wheelchair out of the aisle.
The double doors leading back to triage felt more looming than they had before.
Because there was something else on your mind tonight too.
Something you didn't mention at dinner, something you didn't even want to think about because it worried you so much.
"Abbot!"
His name was called from the main desk. The charge nurses stood behind it going over shift change, charts open between them. Both pairs of eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then dropped to where your fingers were still interlaced.
"Hey, D." you murmured. "Hi, Lena."
“Well, hello to you too, angel girl.” Dana smirked before turning her attention back to Jack. “They need you in Trauma Two.”
Jack nodded, "Let me get changed and I'm on it."
He turned toward you, but you were already opening your mouth.
“I’m good. I’ll let you know where I end up.” You smiled, even with the disappointment already sinking into your stomach. So much for easing into the night. His fingers tightened around yours in apology.
“Go save lives,” you added, squeezing him back.
Jack smiled down at you, then lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles before releasing it. "I'll find you soon."
You nodded, and he was headed towards the lockers with a quickening pace.
When you looked back, both charge nurses were staring at you in open bewilderment.
You pressed your lips together, and tapped your fingers on the linoleum desk, eyes glancing around. “I’m… gonna go find Robby.”
“You do that,” Lena said, holding back a deeply impressed smile.
Dana chomped down on her nicotine gum, her grin widening as she shook her head. The two of them looked at each other with their brows raised, an entire conversation passing between them that you had no intention of standing there to hear.
You weren't entirely sure where Robby had gone, whether you kept passing like ships in the night from room to room, if he was upstairs checking on a patient from earlier in the day, or maybe he'd just went home early.
Though you'd would've gotten a text about that last one.
You checked your phone anyway, thumb waking the screen. There was nothing from him beyond the good morning text he sent almost every day when he left for work before you were up.
A part of you was worried he could be up on the roof. But Dana would've said something if that was the case, and she wouldn't had been so cheeky in her expression if the day had been really that bad.
Still…
You kept moving through the department, looking through the glass of each room as you passed, until you found Frank Langdon near the supply alcove.
“Frankie,” you sighed with a smile.
He looked up, and some of the tension left his face. “Hey.”
He pulled you into a hug, though it ended before you could properly settle into it. His hand pressed once between your shoulder blades before he stepped back, already glancing toward the patient board over your shoulder.
“How are you?” he asked, glancing down at you. “Feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“I know. I miss you.”
The teasing smile you gave him finally loosened the line between his brows.
“Oh, yeah?”
You nodded. "Always."
“Uh-huh.” His mouth pulled to one side. “I’m sure.”
There was usually somewhere easy for the two of you to go from there. A look held too long. A suggestion disguised as a joke. Instead, his hands disappeared into the pockets of his cotton scrub pants, his shoulders rolling back from the long day.
“Have you seen Robby?” you asked to fill the silence.
“Uh—” His eyes moved from the board to skate across the department. “Yeah. Yeah, I saw him earlier. He’s around here somewhere.”
“How was the day?” Your voice softened.
Langdon licked his dried lips, then caught the bottom one between his teeth. “It wasn’t great.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled and planted his hands on his hips, his badge swinging against his leg. “Listen, I’ve gotta check on a liver lac before they take him upstairs, but I need to talk to you later.”
Your brows drew together, about to ask him what about, when another voice was calling you from behind.
“I’ll find you before I leave,” he said quickly. “I just—it's okay, nothing's wrong I just…I don’t want you hearing it from somebody else.”
Your stomach twisted, but he was already walking away, his eyes darkening when he saw who was approaching.
You watched him go, your brows tightening before you faced Trinity Santos.
“Hey, Trin.” you said.
“Long time no see.” She glanced past you toward Langdon’s retreating back, then returned her attention to you. “Thanks for coming over—jeez, was that the last time I saw you? Two weeks ago?”
You laughed softly, trying to get your mind to unscramble from that strange encounter. “Yeah, I uh, I think so.”
“Jesus, girl. We need to hang out more. Without the entire ED present.”
“For sure." you nodded, eyes averting to your shoes. "I’m down.”
Then you remembered why you had been nervous to come in tonight at all, and your eyes found hers again.
“Actually, Trin… can I ask you for a favor?”
She shrugged. “Course.”
“Privately.”
Her eyes moved over your face. The smile disappeared, worry flattening her expression.
“Yeah. Of course, c’mon.” she whispered. Her hand closed around your arm, and she pulled you toward an empty exam room. The curtain hooks clicked along the metal track behind you before the room went quiet.
"What's going on?" she asked.
“I, um…Okay," you sighed, "you can’t say anything.”
Her eyes only grew more worried.
“Promise me,” you added.
She nodded, folding her arms over her chest. “Fine. Yes. Obviously.”
“Even Dennis?”
Her head tilted. “You need me to promise you my firstborn too?”
“Trin…” you groaned.
“Okay, your whole Julie James routine is freaking me out. Did you hit someone with a car or what?”
“Oh my God—your brain is so weird sometimes. No.”
“Then just tell me!”
You looked toward the curtain, though there was no one standing outside it. Your fingers had begun picking at the edge of your thumbnail.
“Can you just—fuck.” You lowered your voice further. “Can you get an ultrasound machine in here without anyone noticing?”
Trinity’s eyes might as well have bulged from her head.
"Oh, fuck…"
"Trin!"
“Okay, Jesus.” She unfolded her arms, her hands swiping through the air as she squeezed her eyes shut, thinking. “Yeah. Give me a few minutes.”
“Quietly.” you added.
She took a step toward the curtain, then stopped, and looked back at you. “Fuck, seriously?”
Your stomach pulled tighter. Her eyes dropped over you for half a second before snapping back to your face.
“Whose is it?”
“For fuck’s sake, Trinity.” You covered your face with both hands.
“Okay, okay.” Her voice softened, though only slightly. “But if you’re pregnant, you have to tell me whose it is.”
You dragged your hands down your face.
“And I get to be godmother.”
You stared at her in bewilderment. “Yes. Fine. Whatever. Just go.”
She reached for the curtain.
“And don’t let Robby or Jack see you,” you added quickly. “For the love of God.”
She was gone and back within two minutes, pushing the ultrasound machine through the curtain.
“Okay,” she breathed, reaching for the bottle of gel and squeezing a thick line over the end of the transducer that she took from its holder. She then pointed it toward your stomach. “Lift the shirt.”
“Shit, is that going to get all over me?” you cursed, gathering the hem of your silk top carefully between your fingers.
“Should’ve gotten into the gown.”
“Shut up,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.
“Lift the shirt, mama,” she said again, far too brightly.
“Trinity!” you hissed.
She looked back at you with a wide smile, though the bewilderment still had not left her face. “Listen, you got us into this mess. Let me have my fun.”
You groaned, but lifted the shirt to the edge of your bra and held it there beneath your chin. The backs of your legs pressed against the exam bed behind you while Trinity stepped closer and set the probe against the center of your stomach.
You hissed when the cold gel touched your skin, your muscles pulling tight beneath it, but your eyes had already gone to the screen.
Trinity moved the probe once, then again, angling it lower while the grainy image shifted on the screen. Neither of you spoke while the machine hummed beside you, the static of the ultrasound filling the silence.
There was nothing there. Just wide open darkness, the lining of your uterus, gray and white matter and nothing else.
The breath left you first. Trinity’s followed a second later, both of you sagging at once beneath the relief.
Then the curtain rings shrieked across the metal rod.
You jumped out of your skin as you turned and saw Robby standing at the door.
“What the fuck is this?”
It was half breath, half exasperated frustration. You could see the weariness of the day all over him—the crease fixed between his brows, his eyes red at the edges, the new stress-grays stippled through his beard. Now confusion clouded all of it, his attention struggling to take in the scene in front of him.
For one long second, none of you moved.
He stood just inside the curtain, one hand still wrapped around its edge. His eyes moved from you to Trinity, then dropped to your stomach, where she still held the probe against your skin.
Trinity found her voice first.
“Just—just a, uh, quick anatomy lesson,” she stuttered unconvincingly. "We wanted to see inside her guts, ya know—"
She pulled the probe away and dropped it into its cradle, then clumsily tore a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and shoved them into your hands. You started wiping the gel from your stomach, too quickly to do anything except spread it around. The slick edge of the towel caught the hem of your silk shirt, leaving a damp smear across the fabric.
Both of you looked exceptionally guilty.
Your eyes kept moving—from your exposed stomach to Robby, back to your hands, then toward the ultrasound screen where the grainy image of your empty uterus sat waiting.
Robby followed your gaze.
You watched his expression change while the pieces fitted themselves together. The probe. Your shirt lifted to your bra. Trinity’s panic. The image left glowing on the screen.
His jaw tightened.
“Go check on your patients, Dr. Santos,” he said, his voice loud and controlled now. He stood taller, but his head was still tilted to the floor, his eyes not meeting either of you now. “Hand offs are happening in just a few minutes.”
Trinity nodded too quickly, her lips pressed together and eyes wide. “Yep. On it.”
She stopped just past Robby, looking up at him, and then to you, a pleading look in her eyes. I'm sorry.
“Now,” Robby snapped.
Trinity ducked past him and slipped through the curtain, leaving it swaying behind her.
The room went quiet again.
Robby let the curtain fall from his hand and brought both palms to his face and dragged them upward, pressing over his eyes, then down his cheeks into his beard. He did it again, harder, before hooking his hands behind his neck and staring at the floor.
You finished wiping the gel from your stomach and pulled your shirt down. The damp spot clung cold against your skin.
“I can explain—”
“Honey.” His eyes shut. “Do you really think I would make that mistake?”
Your hands stilled at the hem of your shirt.
His eyes opened— he looked exhausted more than anything, his head tipped slightly while he studied your face.
“Do you really think I would get you pregnant without talking to you first? Without knowing if you wanted that?”
Your brows threaded. “What do you mean?”
Robby looked at you for another long moment, as if weighing his words, hands still locked behind his neck.
“I track your cycle.”
You stared at him.
He dropped his arms at last, one hand landing on his hip while the other rubbed across his mouth.
“I know when you’re ovulating. I know when you’re going to have your period.” His voice lowered, some of the sharpness leaving it. “I know when we need to be careful or not do anything at all."
The paper towel crumpled tighter in your fist.
"You… track…"
He nodded.
"Without ever telling me?"
You weren’t entirely sure what to do with that. It was strange, certainly, having him know something so private without ever discussing it with you. But beneath the surprise was the unavoidable fact that he had been paying attention, quietly accounting for the risk while you hadn’t thought twice about it. That he'd been taking care of you all along, whether you realized or not.
“I just didn't think it needed announcing,” he sighed. His shoulders sagged beneath his black hoodie, and he blinked several times without managing to clear the fatigue from his eyes. “We can’t leave that sort of thing to chance.”
You shifted your weight, the damp patch on your shirt sticking cold against your stomach.
“So… did you know I was late?”
“I did notice the new pack of tampons hadn't been touched in the drawer at home.” He looked back at you. “I also knew that didn’t mean you needed to steal an ultrasound machine and drag Santos into some kind of covert operation.”
You sighed, the corner of your mouth lifting as you tossed the paper towel into the trash. “I’m sorry. I panicked. I didn't realize…"
“I know.” A small smile pulled at his mouth too. His eyes lightened as he held his arms out. “C’mere.”
You did as he bid, the last of the adrenaline beginning to drain from your body as his arms closed around you. He pulled you against his chest and released a long breath, resting his cheek on the crown of your head. His scrubs smelled faintly of antiseptic and the coffee he had probably reheated twice without finishing.
"I always got you," he murmured into your hair. "You know that, right?"
You nodded, hands tightening around his middle.
“You get worried about something like this, you come to me.” His palm moved once over your back. “You don’t have to sneak around the department stealing my residents."
A quiet laugh caught against his chest. “Okay.”
“I mean it, honey.” His voice softened. “This. Anything.”
“I know,” you whispered.
You felt his lips press to the top of your head, lingering there as he breathed you in, the room settling around you with only the sounds of the outside chaos muffled behind the door.
“Long day?” you murmured into his chest after a moment.
“The longest.”
You lifted your eyes to his, and just watched him for a long while, both of your eyes just looking at each other. You unlatched your fingers from where they'd been hooked around each other behind his back and slid them up his chest and around his neck, thumbs by his jaw, his prickly beard ticklish against your skin. His eyes were softening, his jaw unclenching, those tired lines on his face still dug deeper, but gentler now.
A thought flitted across your mind, then. The nervousness of the night, of what it would mean if you'd accidentally gotten pregnant… but… you'd never thought of whether or not either of you would ever want something like that.
You wondered if he had ever pictured it. Whether the careful tracking and the certainty in his voice came only from wanting to prevent it, or from knowing it was a conversation he meant to have with you someday.
Your brows pulled together.
"Have… you ever thought about—"
Behind him, movement crossed the narrow window in the exam-room door. A familiar face stopped on the other side.
Jack looked in through the glass, his brows drawn with curious concern as his eyes moved over the two of you.
Robby turned with you still held against him, glancing over his shoulder toward the other attending. Then he looked back down at you, expression still soft and gentle, but with a knew sort of mischief in his eyes you hadn't seen in the past few minutes.
“Guess he’s ready.” he said, his voice cracking with amusement.
You nodded. “Guess so.”
Your question could wait. It would wait.
Robby leaned down then, taking your lips between his for a long moment, and it felt like his entire day drained from him in one long, tired kiss. His beard brushed over your chin and tickled under your nose, his breath warm between you while his arms held you close. His lips were a little dry, his mouth lingering against yours before he finally pulled away.
You slipped from his hold and followed him toward the door, though it took a second for your feet to cooperate. Your body felt light, your thoughts reduced to a low static beneath the sudden rush of anticipation.
The thought of a pregnancy scare left your mind as you walked down the hall with Robby's arm still snug around you, Jack's back broad and shifting beneath his Figs scrubs top ahead of you.
It had been a while since you'd been shared again, here again, in what had been your old version of normalcy. And not knowing who it was—not being able to choose like you used to get away with… it felt exciting, it felt different. A start to a new normal. You wondered what this would look like— Jack taking the reins sometimes. What kind of choices he would make for you, how he would grow into this relationship, into this version of himself, and how you and Robby would make that room for him.
The last two weeks between Jack's first dinner with you and tonight had been slow moving and gentle. At first, the three of you had agreed that anything beyond heavy petting and kissing should happen with all of you under the same roof.
It hadn’t taken long to realize how difficult that would be to maintain.
So the rule had an amendment.
If one of them wasn’t there, there needed to be a text or a conversation first. Some acknowledgment that the third person was still part of what was happening, even from somewhere else.
Jack came to Robby’s often, keeping you company during the day before his shifts. Sometimes it was lunch followed by long naps on the couch. Sometimes you ended up straddling his lap at the kitchen table, kissing until his hands had worked beneath your shirt and the crumbs from lunch sat forgotten beside you. Other days, he only came by to walk through the neighborhood with you, the two of you circling the same few blocks before he had to leave again.
The waiting also created its own kind of denial.
Kissing was allowed when you were alone. So were hands beneath clothes, grinding against Jack’s thigh until your underwear was damp, Robby pinning you against the kitchen counter while Jack was working. But sex belonged to all three of you unless the other man knew what was happening and agreed to be left out of it.
A few days after that first night, Jack had been over while Robby was mid-shift, and he had sent a text.
It wasn’t exactly asking permission.
The photo had showed you in the bed, your cheek resting against the top of Jack’s clothed thigh while he lay back against the pillows. Your eyes were lifted toward the camera, wide and pleading, and your arms wrapped around his leg.
Robby’s reply had come less than a minute later.
Only if I get a video of your cock down her throat.
Which, of course, you and Jack had obliged.
Another night, Robby had been home with you while Jack was working. Robby stripped you down to your bra and underwear, tied your wrists and ankles to the bedposts, then called the attending anyway via Facetime.
The flash from the camera had burst white across your eyes, blinding you from the cocky grin on Robby's face.
“Aren’t you two supposed to be asleep?” you heard Jack ask through the phone, making you squirm.
“But look at her, brother.” Robby chuckled. “Can’t bear to leave her like this. She's fucking soaked through her panties over some grinding on my stomach. Look.”
The words had made humiliation and desperate, wanton need flush through you while Jack had gone quiet for a moment.
And then, his voice low, the sound of a door closing behind him, he said:
“Show me.”
Heat had swept across your skin while Robby moved the phone between your legs, bringing the camera close up, a shard of light spotlighted on your panties. He pulled them aside and played with you while Jack watched the slide of your soaked folds being touched by his deft fingers. Robby kept you balanced at the edge until your thighs shook and your pleas broke apart beneath the sound of both their voices.
Jack gave permission eventually.
Robby ended the call and fucked you deep into the mattress, each thrust driving the headboard into the wall until you thought the wood might split.
So walking toward this now—toward something that had once been normal between you and Robby, reshaped to hold Jack too—made anticipation buzz beneath your skin.
It was familiar enough that your body remembered what came next. Different enough that it didn’t know what to prepare for.
South Thirteen came into view at the end of the hall.
Jack stopped, holding the door open, and you smiled widely at him, your skin feeling more jittery with every bouncing step inside.
“Someone’s a little excited,” he teased as you passed.
You could only nod, a giggle slipping out when his eyes narrowed and his cheeks tightened around a closed smile.
Robby followed you inside. Once Jack shut the door and drew the curtains across the windows, the room settled into a muted quiet. The department still moved beyond the walls—voices carrying past the door, the squeak of rubber wheels over tile, a monitor beeping steadily close by—but all of it sounded farther away now.
You stood beside the bed, your fingers worrying the fabric of your skirt while you waited.
"Remember what we talked about?" Robby asked, his arms folded across his chest.
Jack was making his way to the rolling stool, hooking up the stirrups of the hospital bed, nodding.
“Have a look. Get her warmed up. Then go collect our guest.”
"You're forgetting something." Robby said.
Jack looked up at him, then over at you, still standing beside the bed and waiting to be told what to do.
“How…” Your mouth had gone dry. “How would you like me, Dr. Abbot?”
Heat spread across your face the moment the words left you.
Jack’s expression changed, his attention settled fully on you now, the amusement tightening into something more focused.
“Would you get me my gloves, sweetheart?” he asked. “Size seven and a half.”
You hurried toward the wall where Robby stood beside the glove dispensers. His smile had already turned fond, touched with amusement as he watched you become more embarrassed beneath both their stares.
You bit your lip. “S’cuse me.”
Robby moved so he was more in the way than not, only to make it worse, placing himself directly beneath the box you needed.
You gave him a narrow look.
His smile widened.
“Pretend I’m not even here,” he said cheekily.
You rose onto your toes and reached around him, your breasts brushing over his folded arms while you fought to pull the gloves free without dropping them. Robby’s eyes stayed on your face the entire time.
When you turned around, Jack was smiling too.
Cocky. Pleased with himself already.
They were going to be the death of you.
You knew better than to say anything petulant. Not wanting any sort of reprimand or punishment, you simply crossed the room and held the pair of blue gloves out to Jack instead.
"Good girl." he said with a smile, chin tilted up at you, then jerking to the hospital bed. "Up, please."
You made a show of squeezing between his knees and the raised stirrups, letting your knees brush against him on the way past. Jack’s gaze dropped for only a second before returning to your face, mischief sitting bright in his eyes.
Finally, you pushed yourself up onto the edge of the bed, and let your legs dangle over the edge.
"Lay back, shoes off and feet in the rests for me, sweetheart." he said. He sounded so clinical, so calm—just like the hot doctor fantasy you'd always had.
You kicked your shoes off, and Jack's hand found the delicate arch of your foot to help you into the rests.
"Scooch down, there you go, good girl, that's it." he said sweetly as you moved to be in front of him.
"She really dressed nice for you tonight, huh, Abbot?" Robby said from the other side of the room. You looked around your legs at him as Jack began pushing your skirt up, bunching it over your hips.
"Oh, yes she did." Jack said when he took a look under the pretty skirt you'd chosen. "And look at that."
You let your head fall back onto the mattress, embarrassment making you squirm a little in the bed.
Robby let out a low whistle, coming to stand next to the other attending.
“Oh, honey…” He shook his head slowly. “You’re gonna be the death of us one of these days.”
You didn't mention how you'd had that exact thought only a few minutes ago as Jack’s thumb pressed into the inside of your thigh.
“Not if she keeps following directions this well.”
You covered your face with both hands and shook your head. “Please don't."
The snap of Jack’s gloves had your knees falling farther apart before he even asked. The reaction came so quickly that both men noticed, like it was pavlovian, instinctual.
A single gloved finger slid down the center of your slick, bare pussy.
Robby’s voice lowered.
“Did he ask you to do this, honey?” His hand settled against your bent knee. “Were you such a good listener that you left your panties at home?”
You shook your head.
"No?" Robby chuckled.
“Told her to give them to me at the restaurant,” Jack answered for you.
You peered through the gaps between your fingers. He was looking down at you with his lower lip caught between his teeth.
“Fuck,” Robby muttered from beside him.
Jack hummed, the sound low in his throat, and slid two gloved fingers through your wet folds. They moved easily, parting you with a slick drag from your entrance to your clit and back again, gathering everything you had made him through the evening. The room caught every obscene pass of his hand, and both men groaned at the sound of the shlick arousal as his gloved fingers pushed just barely inside of you.
Your hands fell from your face and slapped down against the mattress when Jack pushed in to his first joints. The stretch came slowly, two thick fingers held together inside your entrance while your body tightened around them.
“Oh, yeah,” Jack sighed, watching you take him. “There we go.”
“Curl your fingers—”
Jack looked over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Sorry, who’s doing this assessment right now?”
Robby lifted both hands and stepped back from the bed. “You’re right, you’re right. Got carried away.” The laugh beneath his words did nothing to hide how closely he was watching.
“Thank you.” Jack returned his attention to the place between your legs, his fingers still resting inside you. “Gotta get you nice and ready, sweetheart.”
Your hips jumped beneath his hand when his thumb brushed your clit. The contact was light, barely more than the pad of his thumb finding the swollen point of you, but it sent a jolt through your stomach.
“Oh—right there, Jackie—”
His eyes lifted to yours. “You’re not usually so demanding, sweetheart.”
“M’sorry,” you mewled, already trying to tilt yourself harder into his hand. “Just—just feels so nice. I want more.”
“I’m sure you do.” He cooed, sweet enough to make the reprimand tingle through your skin, then eased his fingers deeper. The second joint pushed through with a thick pull of your walls, your thighs tensing and your toes curling in the stirrups. He drew them back until only the tips remained, then pressed them in again, slower this time, letting your body stretch around each inch.
Your palms struck the bed again, and you whined.
A sharp click of teeth came from the corner. “Behave yourself,” Robby hissed a warning.
You pouted, but forced yourself still.
Jack’s thumb pressed harder against your clit, pushing the hood back until the small bundle sat exposed beneath the slick surface of his glove. The air against it felt cool after the heat of his hand, enough to make your legs shiver where they rested open.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Breathe.” His fingers stayed buried while his thumb moved in a tight stroke over you. “I know my fingers are a lot, huh? How do they feel?”
Your breath caught in a small hiccup when he pushed all the way until you sat fully on his knuckles, the meat of his palm pressed close. The fullness was more than you expected, even though it wasn't the first time, it always felt like it. They were thick enough that your muscles clamped down around him before slowly giving way.
“Fuck,” you squealed. “So—so thick.”
“Yeah?” His voice softened further. “They feel good, don't they?”
“Yes.” you whimpered.
“How about this?”
He curled both fingers.
The pressure caught inside you so sharply that your head lifted from the mattress. Before you could brace, he began working them in earnest, quick drags over the same tender place with each firm motion. His wrist flexed between your thighs, the heel of his hand knocking lightly against you while his other palm came down across your lower stomach, holding your pelvis flat to the bed.
You squealed like a cat, mewling and crying out. He picked up in speed, yanking his fingers— and the position left you nowhere to move. Every attempt to buck only pressed you harder into his fingers, the hooked tips pulling against you while the weight of his hand kept your hips pinned. Your feet shook against the stirrups. Your stomach tightened beneath his palm.
"Sh, sh, sh," Robby said from the corner, "Don't make me come over there and put something in your mouth to quiet you."
You almost wished he would, but you couldn't answer, because your orgasm was quick approaching—
"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, Jack!" you cried.
"That's it, that's it, your pussy is so perfect, sweetheart, squeezing my fingers so good. Ellis isn't gonna know what hit her—"
Your moans caught, your eyes snapping open.
Jack smiled when he saw the recognition cross your face. He tilted his head without slowing his hand, then rose from the stool and leaned over you, pushing more weight into your hips while keeping his fingers buried and moving.
“Oh?” he murmured. “Did I forget to mention who your first resident back is?”
“Jaaack—”
Your hands came up around his forearm, gripping the tight muscle where he held your hips down. His wrist kept flexing between your legs, each movement yanking another helpless sound from you.
“Oh, I know, sweetheart.” His mouth pulled into a mocking pout. “I know.”
He pushed deeper and curled again.
“She’s gonna fucking love you. She’s gonna love this pussy just like we do.”
Your eyes stayed fixed on his face while the heat climbed through your stomach. Your legs had begun to tremble hard enough that the stirrups shifted against their hinges. You glanced toward Robby, catching the dark focus in his eyes.
“Can I—” Your voice broke. “Can I please come? Oh, God, please.”
“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Jack demanded.
Your eyes returned to his.
“Want you to come all over my fingers.” His thumb pressed down harder while his fingers hooked inside you, wrenching them back and forth with force. “Want you to fucking soak them. Your pretty pussy wants it so bad, doesn’t she? I can feel how bad.”
Your breath left you in short cries just as he pushed his thumb harder into your sensitive clit.
“Oh, yes. Yeah, right there, huh?” His hand kept the same punishing rhythm. “That’s the spot. C’mon now, come for Jackie.”
Your back arched from the mattress. Your eyes rolled shut, and the sound that tore out of you was loud enough to carry through the curtains and into the hall.
Robby was beside the bed in seconds.
His hand covered your mouth, so broad it covered the entire lower half across your lips and cheeks, catching the next cry against his palm while your orgasm broke through you. Your body clenched hard around Jack’s fingers, hips jerking beneath the hand pinning you down. Spit slipped warm from the corner of your mouth and tracked along Robby’s thumb while the two of them held you through it—Jack working every pulse from your body, Robby keeping your cries muffled against his skin.
As your breathing slowed and your mewling cries softened into dreamy sighs, Robby’s hand eased from your face. His palm moved over your cheek instead, brushing back the hair stuck damply to your forehead before he leaned down to kiss your temple.
"Little loud, honey," he chuckled in your ear. You pushed your shoulder up into the side of your head, giggling breathlessly as his mustache tickled your earlobe.
“Not used to having to keep her quiet,” Jack laughed.
He pulled his fingers from you, the latex dragging slickly through the last tight clench of your body. Your feet twitched in the stirrups, a soft whine leaving you at the sudden emptiness.
“C'mon, sweetheart. Up you go.”
He helped your feet out of the rests, your muscles weak and shaking when one of his hands closed around your forearm and helped pull you upright. The room tipped for half a second as you rose, your muscles still loose from your orgasm, and Jack steadied you until you were seated at the edge of the bed.
His other hand was already waiting—the two gloved fingers pushing between your parted lips, the latex made slippery with your arousal. You closed your mouth around them eagerly, licking into the space between his digits and gathering the taste from each crease. The tips pressed against the back of your tongue, drawing a gag and a small whine from your throat.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jack groaned.
His eyes stayed fixed on your open mouth, watching your tongue slide in and out between his fingers.
“You really just do this and go about your shift?”
“Most of the time, yeah,” Robby chuckled. “We’ll have our fun later.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Jack’s mouth twisted. “I have to wait a whole twelve hours, apparently.”
The put-upon edge to his voice made you smile around his fingers.
You wrapped your hand around the thick joint of his wrist, keeping him where he was while you drew his fingers from your mouth. Then you flattened your tongue against them, licking long stripes from the base of his knuckles to the tips.
“When you get home…” You paused to lap between his fingers. “You and I can have fun.”
You turned your head toward Robby, leaving Jack’s hand suspended beside your mouth.
“Right, Robby?”
“Sure, honey.” he said, his eyes darkening.
Robby’s gaze stayed on you while Jack latched his wet fingers around your jaw, turning you back toward him. His thumb pressed into one cheek, the other fingers slick against the opposite side, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was hungry from the start. His lips parted yours, his tongue pushing in to taste what remained on your mouth. One hand stayed fixed around your face while the other settled heavily against your thigh.
“Patience is a virtue, Abbot.” Robby shook his head and started toward the door.
Jack broke away from you, listening to the other attending but still looking at you intensely.
“One that pays off especially well in this dynamic,” Robby added reaching for the curtain at the windows. “I promise.”
That was enough to make Jack step away from you, though reluctantly. He licked his lips, his pupils blown wide, the front of his pants pulled tight enough that Robby’s eyes dropped toward it.
“You may want to…” Robby dipped his chin, a laugh catching low in his chest. “Take a moment.”
“Could take care of it right here.”
“Jack.” The warning sat plainly in Robby’s voice.
Jack’s smug grin only widened. “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.”
“Poor choice of words.” the other attending chortled.
Jack glanced back at him with a smile, then turned toward you one last time.
“I’ll send Ellis in, sweetheart.” His eyes moved slowly over your bare legs and the skirt still bunched around your hips where you sat waiting. “Don’t forget to come say goodbye before you leave.”
“Yes, Jack,” you murmured.
You swung your feet as they hung over the side of the bed, your heels knocking against the metal frame in steady clunks.
Both men paused at the doorway to look back at you.
The matching satisfaction on their faces made heat collect beneath your skin all over again.
And then they were gone.
You’d righted your clothes and leaned back against the hospital bed while you waited, the noise of the department swelling and lulling around the little bubble of South Thirteen. Voices passed the door, wheels rattled over the floor, then faded again.
Sitting still proved impossible. You kept smoothing at nonexistent wrinkles in your chiffon skirt, picking at the edge of one nail, shifting until the paper beneath you crackled. Nothing felt comfortable for more than a few seconds.
By the time the door opened, you were already halfway to your feet, ready to go find Robby and ask whether it was time to call the whole thing and go home.
"Hey, I'm so sorry—"
Ellis slipped inside breathless, one hand still on the door behind her. Her braids had been gathered into a high knot, and she wore black scrubs over a lavender shirt, the sleeves pushed partway up her forearms. Her almond-shaped eyes looked heavier than the last time you’d seen her, the lids lowered with exhaustion, but they found you immediately.
“Hi—oh, it’s okay.” You sat straighter on the edge of the bed. “I was just worried something happened.”
She walked straight toward you without hesitation, the easy sway of her body loosening some of the tension wound through yours.
“There’s a guy in North Five I’ve been tryna discharge for hours, but he keeps thinking of new things wrong with him.” Her mouth pulled to one side, those pillowy lips trying and failing to hold a flat expression. “Like he wants to stay in this hellhole.”
You smiled, watching her hop onto the bed beside you before she let out a long breath.
“Tell him he’s gotta start paying rent soon.” You laughed, then looked her over again, taking in the fatigue settled around her eyes. “Wait, were you on days today?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Pulling a double.”
“You’re insane.”
“Possibly.”
Ellis tipped her head back toward the ceiling and closed her eyes, letting her head lull side to side with a stretch. The movement exposed the clean line of her throat above the collar of her undershirt, her cheekbones catching beneath the fluorescent light, and then she turned her face toward you again.
“Can we lie down?” she asked, looking at the mattress. “Don’t think I’m gonna get another chance.”
"Oh!" you said, too busy staring at her, "Yeah, yeah."
The two of you moved until you were lying side by side. You folded your hands over your stomach, but the stiffness in your arms gave you away, your elbows held close to your sides.
She was so near that you could feel her arm brushing against yours, could smell the shea butter that clung faintly to her skin beneath the sharper smells of the hospital. There was coconut too, maybe from her body wash, softened now by antiseptic and the hours she’d spent moving between patients.
“I won’t bite, you know,” she murmured. "I mean, unless you ask me to."
When you looked over, she was smiling. The exhaustion still sat in the heavy hood of her eyes, but amusement warmed them, catching there the same way it had beneath the colored lights the last time you’d gone out together.
You sighed, letting your mouth pull into a little bashful grin, looking away. “I know.”
You gathered your courage and turned onto your side to face her, propping your head in one hand, your elbow sinking into the pillow beside her head.
“I only have a few minutes,” she whispered, her gaze lowering to your mouth.
You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, nerves fluttering through your stomach and down into your hands. “Okay.”
“You look really pretty today,” she said, even quieter.
Your smile widened before you could stop it. Heat crept up your neck, and you glanced down at your silk shirt where it had twisted across your chest when you rolled toward her. From where Ellis lay, the neckline had shifted enough to give her a generous view.
“Yeah?” Your voice barely carried between you.
She nodded.
Her eyes moved over your face once more, slower now. You noticed how soft hers became when she wasn’t trying to hide behind that deadpan look, how the corners tipped downward in a way that made her seem thoughtful even while she stared openly at your lips.
The two of you stayed like that for another moment, close enough that either one of you could have closed the distance.
“Can I touch you?” she asked.
You nodded.
Ellis brought her hand up, hesitating only for a moment before letting it settle against your face. The soft pads of her fingers touched your brow first, then drifted lower along your cheekbone. She tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and traced the line of your jaw, her touch so light that you found yourself leaning into it without meaning to.
You watched her pretty almond eyes study you. Watched her tongue slip out to wet her lips when her fingers moved over your bottom one, then traced the cupid’s bow of the top. You pursed your mouth enough to kiss the tip of her finger and held her gaze while you did it, catching the way her pupils widened, the way her next breath came a little deeper.
"I've never been with a girl before," you whispered.
"S'okay," Ellis said back, shaking her head a little, "You don't have to do anything today, just let me take care of you."
You nodded, the last little bit of nerves leaving your body at her words. With all the unease finally drained from you, you leaned in, and took her lips in yours.
She was so fucking soft.
Her lips were every bit as pillowy as you had imagined, moisturized and easy beneath yours, so different from what you were used to. There was no scrape of beard against your chin, no five o’clock shadow catching beneath your nose. Only the smooth press of her mouth, the soft give of it when you kissed her deeper.
She breathed you in, and the hand that had been tracing your face slid behind your head, her fingers settling into your hair to keep you close while her mouth moved against yours. Her nails grazed your scalp before she gave the strands a light pull, tipping your head back enough to pull a gasp from you. Ellis took it from your mouth, her tongue slipping beneath your top lip to trace the tender skin. Your tongue dipped to meet hers, slick and tentative at first, then pressing closer until both of you let out quiet moans.
Your body had begun to squirm beside her, your knees shifting against the sheet while heat gathered low in your stomach. Every soft drag of her lips felt sharper for the lack of roughness, her cheek smooth where it pressed against yours, her fingers firm in your hair.
“Why don’t you go ahead and use my thigh, baby girl?” she murmured against your mouth. “Can tell you’re already all worked up, hm?”
She eased her thigh between your legs, the pressure making your breath catch. You lifted the hem of your skirt with one hand and shifted your knee over hers, the fabric gathering high around your hips.
“M’not—” you gasped when Ellis kissed the corner of your mouth.
She hummed and continued along your jaw, each kiss wet enough to cool against your skin once her lips moved on. Her mouth found the side of your neck, lingering there while you tried again.
“I don’t want to ruin your scrubs.”
Ellis pulled back just enough to look at you. “What do you mean?”
You reached for the wrist still braced behind your head and guided her hand down. Her fingers slid beneath the bunched chiffon, over the warm skin of your inner thigh, until her palm found your bare center.
She went still.
“Shit.” Her breath drew in sharply, her head pulling back so she could look at your face. Her hand remained cupped against you, close enough that the smallest shift of your hips made your slick folds drag over the pads of her fingertips. “I never knew you were such a bad girl.”
"Not bad," you pouted, kissing her lips as if asking for forgiveness, "Jack took them."
"Aw," she cooed, kissing you back, "It's okay, here, let me take these off."
You nodded, and she worked her scrub pants down over her hips, the fabric catching briefly against her thighs before she shoved it lower. She wore simple black panties beneath, cheeky and comfortable looking, the skin of her thick thighs so pretty in the light. “Don’t need you gettin’ any germs from my day on you anyway, baby girl.”
The mattress shifted beneath both of you when she settled back onto her side. She looked down between your bodies, then guided her knee higher.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Go on.”
Her thigh pressed into the crux of your legs, soft skin meeting your already swollen folds. The contact made you gasp. You were still tender from Jack’s fingers, every nerve left close to the surface, and the warmth of her skin spread through you where you opened around her.
Your hips moved before you thought about it. The first drag was slow, your arousal smearing across the smooth plane of her thigh while your clit caught against the muscle beneath. You shuddered and did it again, pressing down harder this time. The movement pulled at your stomach, a thick stroke of pressure that made your toes curl on the mattress.
“You really are a good listener,” she murmured.
Ellis took your face between both hands and kissed you harder. Her thumbs pressed near the hinges of your jaw while her tongue pushed into your mouth, keeping you there as your hips found a rhythm against her thigh. Each roll left you wetter, the slick friction spreading warm between you, your breath breaking into her mouth whenever the pressure landed exactly where you needed it.
You whined and moaned, and soon she was bringing her hands down to the hem of your shirt, lifting it above your head.
"Don't know the next time I'll be able to see these beautiful tits, baby girl, let me see 'em," she muttered, her palms immediately finding your bare breasts the moment they hit the air, warm against the cool room.
"Let me touch you—wanna make you feel good," you panted between moans, reaching for her scrubs.
"You are making me feel good," she teased her fingers pinching and rolling your nipples, making your back arch into her, "Gonna be thinking about this for weeks."
Her thigh flexed beneath you, and your breath caught.
“If only I had my fucking strap right now.”
The words made your skin rise in gooseflesh, your eyes rolling back when the firm ridge of muscle caught your clit, the words and pressure mixing together in a delicious way. Your rhythm faltered, then turned rougher, your hips grinding down with less control as slick heat dragged over her skin.
“You wanna come on my thigh, baby girl?” she murmured, catching your bottom lip between her teeth. Her one hand was back in your hair against the pillows where you'd laid back down, and the other squeezed the globe of your breast, thumb brushing over the nipple again. “That what you need?”
"Oh, god, please," you moaned, "feels so gooood, Parker."
“Fuck.” Her breathing hitched, “Love hearing you say my name like that. Ask me again.”
“Parkerrr,” you whined, the syllables stretching when she tensed her thigh beneath you. “Please let me come.”
“Just from riding my thigh?” She clicked her tongue. “Needy little thing.”
You nodded quickly, mouth open, every breath coming thinner.
“Go on, then.” Her hand slid to your hip and pulled you harder across her. “Wanna feel your pussy take what she needs. Come for me, baby girl.”
Your mouth fell open before the cry tore out of you. The tight coil in your belly snapped, your whole body freezing against hers while pleasure pulsed through your clit in sharp waves. Your pussy clenched around nothing, thighs tightening around Parker’s leg as your muscles locked up. She kept moving you anyway, hand firmly on your hip, rocking you through the orgasm.
Her mouth hung open with yours, both of you breathing the same air as she watched every shudder move through you.
When the tension finally left your muscles, you sagged against her. Your breathing came back in small pulls, and Parker kissed you softly, her tongue brushing over your parted lips before she drew away.
You smiled, a little dazed. “That was… very fast. I’m sorry.”
Her smile widened. “Could’ve made you come even faster with my strap, I bet.”
“Cocky,” you chastised.
You started to sit up, but her hand that was in your hair held you where you were.
“Ah, ah—”
You stopped.
“Who’s gonna clean up your mess?”
Your eyes widened. When you shifted your leg away and looked down, you saw what she meant.
Your arousal had smeared along the length of her thigh, shining against her skin. Parker dragged one finger slowly through it, that you watched the slick gather over the pad before she brought it to her mouth. She moaned around the digit, and then her hand in your hair guided you down to her thigh.
You didn’t hesitate, your tongue flattening against her skin, licking up the wet trail you had left there. The salt of her skin mixed with the musk of your own arousal, warm against your mouth while her fingers tightened lightly at the back of your head.
Even after you had cleaned her skin, you kept going. You pressed kisses higher and higher, following the line of her thigh up to the edge of her black panties. Your eyes lifted to her face, taking in her expression: lips parted, heavy eyes on you while her chest rose beneath her scrubs.
“Will you show me?” you whispered, your mouth close to the fabric. “Next time?”
A knock landed against the door. Shit.
"Ellis!"
It was Dana.
“Patient in North Five is askin’ for ya.”
Parker groaned and threw her head back. The arousal dropped out of her expression in an instant, replaced by a deep furrow between her brows and a pout pulling at her lips. "Ughhhhh…"
You giggled and kissed over the edge of her underwear, then higher, skipping the fabric of her scrubs until your mouth found her neck. You nipped beneath her jaw before reaching her lips again.
She kissed you back, both hands cupping your face now, gentler than before.
“To—be—” You kissed her between words. “Continued.”
Parker let out a real laugh that crinkled her eyes and softened her face, kissing you again, slower this time around her smile, taking what little was left before the hospital pulled her back out of the room.
It wasn't long that the two of you were dressed again, and she was saying her farewells. As she turned to leave the room, Robby had opened the door, looking between the two of you with his Carhartt jacket on, his backpack over his shoulders and two helmets in his hands, his eyes flitting between the two of you.
“Have a good night, doc,” Ellis chirped as she slipped past him.
“You… too,” he said, a little amused, watching her go.
Then his eyes came back to you, a knowing smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.
“Ready, honey?”
You nodded and crossed the room to him, still trying to school your face into something less obvious.
He didn’t comment. He only shifted the helmets into one hand, slid his other arm around you, and guided you out of the ED.
tysm for reading! im sorry for keeping it pretty tame - I don't want every chapter to be the same (in terms of smut) and I've only ever been with a girl one time so was just trying to keep it in my lane of knowledge 😅
Robby has never been a fan of birthdays. This year, loneliness drives him to download Tinder on an impulse, only to come across the last person he expected to find there: his favorite resident.
warning/tags: minors DNI, p0rn with little plot, masturbating, sexting, pet names (sweetheart and good girl) robby loves talking you through it, unprotected piv, pussy eating, multiple orgasms, body hair, fingering, creampie, handjob, kinda softdom!robby, age gap (I imagined reader being in her 20s or 30s but could be in her 40s too, tried to keep it broad)
He knew this was stupid, plainly a terrible idea. On any other day, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but today wasn’t any ordinary day. Today was his birthday. Fifty-five years old, and he had never felt more lost in his own life. Nothing had turned out the way he’d once imagined it would. If someone had told him, back when he was a resident, that he would still be coming home to an empty apartment at this age, no wife curled up on the couch waiting for him with a tired but loving smile, no chorus of small feet thundering toward the door, shoving drawings into his hands and saying “Look what I made for you today, daddy!” he would have laughed in their face and called it a cruel joke.
Yet here he was. No relationship had ever survived the weight of the hours and the way his mind stayed trapped in the ED long after he left it. He couldn’t be present anymore, not the way a partner deserved. The job had hollowed him out in ways he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
It had been almost a year since he ended things with Noelle, not long after he returned from his sabbatical. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do. Maybe it really was better this way. At this point in his life, trying again felt pointless, almost selfish. He was saving whatever good women were still out there from the inevitable complications of loving Michael Robinavitch.
But today the emptiness hit differently. The apartment felt quieter than usual, and his thoughts were louder, circling like a vulture. He knew it was the birthday doing this to him. Birthdays had a way of dragging the sorrows out into the light, every missed milestone, every abandoned version of the life he thought he’d have. Jack had tried to pull him out of it, offering a beer after shift, but Robby had politely declined. He wasn’t in the mood for forced cheer, for anyone raising a glass to another year of the same.
He’d made it clear to the whole department that he didn’t want any birthday cake, no cards, no presents, nothing. Still, the well-meaning murmurs had followed him all day: “Happy birthday, Dr. Robby,” each one met with a progressively wearier smile until the words blurred together. By the end of the shift, he was only managing quiet nods of acknowledgment, the kind that said thank you and please stop at the same time.
So here he was, in an apartment that was too big for himself, lying on a couch that felt even bigger, downloading Tinder on his phone. He rubbed a hand over his face, he’d tried Tinder once, maybe two years ago. Downloaded it, swiped for a week, then deleted it when the superficial nonsense started bothering him too much.
He started with the basics. Photos. Robby opened his gallery and scrolled slowly through the meager collection. Most of the images were work-related, grainy screenshots of charts, or blurry shots of trees and roads he’d taken during his bike rides. After a long hesitation, he picked a silly selfie he’d sent Jack a few weeks earlier. He was holding up the book the two of them had been texting about, half-smiling at the camera like he felt ridiculous even taking it. It wasn’t terrible, he supposed. He looked… friendly. Approachable, maybe.
Next, he chose one from the department barbecue he’d actually forced himself to attend last summer. He was wearing the sleeves rolled up on a button-down shirt, and holding a beer in his hand. He didn’t hate it, it showed a version of himself that still showed up for people, even when he didn’t feel like it. The last one was from the hospital fundraiser gala two years ago. He looked elegant in that photo in a black suit, but he had to crop Jack out of the frame, his face was still half-visible over his shoulder. Three photos, not exactly a compelling portfolio, but they were honest, he wasn’t pretending to be anyone other than himself.
He moved on to preferences. Gender: Women. Age range… His thumb froze. At first, he set it to 50–60. Women at the same stage he was, maybe divorced, maybe widowed, or just tired of feeling alone. But then something flickered in his chest, part curiosity and part desperation, and before he could talk himself out of it, he dragged the lower end down. Twenty to sixty. The wider net felt reckless, almost embarrassing. But what if the love of his life existed somewhere in that range? What if he missed her by something as stupid as a single year on a slider?
As if the love of your life was sitting on Tinder on a Sunday night, he thought. Don’t be fucking stupid, Robby.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, and with a quiet sigh that sounded too much like surrender, he tapped confirm. Now it was time for the bio. Robby stared at the blank field for a long minute. What the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t looking for anything specific. Company? Distraction? Someone who wouldn’t mind a man who came home at crazy hours, sometimes covered in blood and whocarried more baggage than he could carry?
He typed slowly what felt the most honest: “ER doctor in Pittsburgh. Love long bike rides to clear my head and 70s rock. Not entirely sure what I’m looking for here, but if you can handle sarcasm and odd hours, we might get along.”
He read it back. It sounded stiff, after all, he wasn’t used to this. But it was him, and so he hit save before he could overthink it more. The app prompted him to start swiping. Robby leaned back against the couch as the profiles began loading, smiling faces, pictures of holiday destinations, and bios full of lists of requirements. He swiped left on most without much thought.
Left. Left. Left. Some of the women seemed nice, but nothing pulled him in. He kept going until the endless scroll of faces started blurring together. No one stuck, just the same hollow feeling that had driven him to download the damn thing in the first place.
But then your profile appeared. Robby’s entire body froze. The photo loaded first: you, one of his own residents. You were standing in scrubs outside the Pitt with the same smirk you got after a particularly chaotic shift. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered as the heat crawled up his neck. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling right now.
At work you were talented and dedicated, but still green enough that he rode you hard during shifts. And here you were on Tinder, of all places. The thought that you, or anyone else from the department, might stumble across his profile made his stomach twist with embarrassment. He could already imagine the gossip: Dr. Robby on Tinder. How pathetic.
He should swipe left immediately, delete his profile, and pretend this never happened. Instead, curiosity won. Robby tapped on your profile, telling himself it was just… professional concern. Making sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. He cared about his residents. Yeah, that was it.
Your bio loaded beneath the main photo: “If you like girls who will force you to watch her Letterboxd top four and then talk your ear off for hours about the hidden meaning behind her favorite songs, then I’m your girl. Emergency med resident with zero free time. Not looking for anything serious, just fun, meeting people, seeing where it goes.”
Robby let out a chuckle despite himself, the sound was unexpected in the quiet of the moment. He had only ever seen you in the chaos of the ED, running on adrenaline and too little sleep. But this version of you felt… different. He found himself thinking about how little he actually knew you. How little he’d allowed himself to know.
He didn’t know where you were from, or what your family was like, whether you had siblings who called too often or parents you tried to make proud. He didn’t know what you did outside of the hospital besides the occasional beer in the park, or what made you laugh until your sides hurt. All those small and ordinary pieces of a life that existed outside the emergency department.
It felt strangely intimate, seeing you like this. Like stumbling across a part of you he wasn’t supposed to have access to. A version of you that wasn’t filtered through the hierarchy of resident and attending. Up until now, you had been “his resident”, contained within the professional boundaries he’d carefully maintained.
He started swiping through your photos. The second picture was you laughing in what looked like a group hike, with your hair windblown and your eyes bright. You looked undeniably pretty. Objectively, he’d always known you were attractive. The kind of natural attractiveness that turned heads in the hospital corridors even when you were exhausted and covered in sweat. But once again, he’d never thought about it. You were a resident, he’d gone down that path before, and it’d ended badly. That made you off-limits, end of story.
The third photo was of you in a cozy sweater, curled up with a book and a mug of coffee. It was cute, almost sweet. The kind of image that made the loneliness in his chest ache. He kept swiping until the last photo hit him like a defibrillator. You were on a beach somewhere sunny and sandy, wearing a bikini. Your skin was glowing under the sun, and you were smiling at the camera in a confident pose, the kind of effortless beauty that could stop any man cold. Holy fuck, your body barely contained by the fabric of the bikini, the photo capturing the gentle swell and the way the light played across your body.
Robby’s mouth went dry, the heat flooded his face and then lower down his body. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t let himself imagine you like this, outside the hospital, undeniably a woman and not just one of his residents. His pulse kicked up, the nervousness made his hands shake and his grip slippery. He fumbled the phone, trying to swipe left fast. Swipe left, damn it, he thought.
But he accidentally jerked his thumb the wrong way, to the right, and the screen lit up with that unmistakable animation.
It’s a Match!
On the other side of Pittsburgh, you had been lying in bed, still trying to unwind after another brutal twelve-hour shift. Sleep felt miles away, so you’d given in to the guilty habit of late-night Tinder scrolling. Sure, swiping at 1 a.m. probably looked desperate to anyone else, but who cared? It wasn’t like you had much of a life outside the hospital anyway.
You swiped left with efficiency. Guy whose entire bio was just a link to his podcast. Left. Gym mirror selfies and nothing else. Left. Self-proclaimed “entrepreneur in the crypto market” with a Lamborghini in the background that probably wasn’t even his. Left.
How was it this difficult to find someone even remotely decent? You weren’t expecting to meet the love of your life in this digital dumpster, but was it really too much to ask for a man with basic social skills and a profile that didn’t scream immediate red flags? Someone whose opening line wasn’t just “u dtf?”
Guy who still clearly lived with his mom. Another left. “No feminists” in the bio, followed by a rant about “high value woman.” Left.
Then your thumb froze mid-swipe. Michael Robinavitch. Your heart slammed against your ribs. There he was, Dr. Robby, looking straight into the camera in one of the photos, that familiar half-smile you’d seen a thousand times in the ED, only now it was on a dating app.
You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly wide awake. What the hell was Dr. Robby doing on Tinder? You’d scrolled through this app for weeks and never seen him before. He must have created the profile recently. The man you’d been quietly (and not-so-quietly) thirsting over since your very first day of residency was right here. One match away.
How could you not like Robby? He was everything you’d ever wanted in a man, strong, steady, impossibly smart, and so damn capable it made your legs weak every single time he gave you a calm and yet authoritative instruction in the middle of a trauma.
You’d lost count of how many times he’d gently reprimanded you for being distracted while charting. He always assumed you were just tired from the long hours. He had no idea that you kept getting lost in vivid daydreams about him: running your fingers through the silver-flecked hair and that coarse, greyish beard, feeling those big hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close.
You loved the way his eyes crinkled warmly behind his glasses when he smiled, the way his voice dropped into that gravelly register when he needed to command attention in the ED… it did things to you. Dangerous, addictive things. Sometimes getting in trouble with him felt more exciting than it had any right to.
His Tinder bio was unexpectedly adorable. He looked a little lost, like he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged on the app but was willing to put himself out there anyway. That bike is not the only thing I’d like to ride, you thought, as a little smile tugged at your lips.
His pictures made you melt and sigh at the same time. That warm, contagious smil, the glasses that struck the perfect balance between hot and endearingly sweet. The silver threading through his beard that made you press your thighs together at the mere thought of feeling it against your skin, between your legs, specifically.
You swiped slowly through the rest of his photos. Those wide shoulders, that tall and solid frame, that soft belly under the button-down shirt… you wanted him in a way you had never wanted anyone before.
It was almost pathetic the way your heart did a little skip every time he complimented your work on a tough case. The way your thighs squeezed together almost involuntarily whenever he stepped in close during a complicated procedure, guiding you step by step, his voice low and patient near your ear. “Yeah, grab the blade like that… make a two-inch incision, softly, very gently.” “Hold the tube with your left hand, tight, don’t move it.”
It made your mind wander to dangerous places. Was he like that in bed too? The kind of man who talked you through it, calm and devastatingly attentive? In your fantasies, he absolutely was. Late at night, alone in this very bed with nothing but your hand and your imagination, you could almost hear his voice murmuring against your skin: “Keep your legs open for me, nice and wide… just like that.” “Look at you… already making such a mess. I’m gonna start with one finger, okay? Think you can be good and take it for me?”
Should you swipe right? It felt like the only logical choice. If he swiped left, which seemed like the most likely outcome, he would never even know you’d swiped on him. But if he did swipe right… then maybe, just maybe, you could end up in Robby’s bed.
Your hopes stayed low. Never in a million years did you actually expect Robby to be attracted to you the way you were to him. You would’ve noticed something by now, maybe in lingering stares, subtle flirting, or any shift in the way he treated you. But he didn’t. He treated you exactly like the rest of the residents: a young doctor he needed to teach, who could sometimes be frustratingly distracted.
Still, you couldn’t contain the tiny, thrilled scream that escaped your lips when the screen lit up:
It’s a Match!
Robby had matched with you. He wanted you too.
“Shit!” Robby dropped the phone onto the couch like it had burned him. It bounced once and landed face-up, the match confirmation still glowing on the screen. He and you had just matched on Tinder. All thanks to that goddamn bikini photo and his clumsy, nervous fingers.
He stared at it, feeling his heart hammering harder than it had during the worst trauma cases. This was mortifying. You’d seen his profile, you’d swiped right, and now you were going to see that he’d swiped right as well. Part of him, the tired and lonely part that had downloaded the app and widened the age range, wondered what you’d think.
A dozen what-ifs tumbled through his mind. What if you saw his profile and laughed? That disbelieving laugh when something genuinely surprised you. What if you messaged him first? Maybe it had been a mistake on your end too. Maybe your phone had slipped, or you’d been swiping too fast after a long shift, half-asleep and a little buzzed. Or maybe… maybe you’d swiped right on purpose, just to tease him. He could already picture the text popping up on his phone: “Oh my god, Dr. Robby. What are you doing on Tinder? lol.”
Robby ran both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. He picked the phone back up, looking straight at the Send message button. He shouldn’t. The responsible thing would be to delete the app, pretend this night never happened, and go back to being your attending, not your Tinder match.
Instead, he opened your profile again. Robby tried to move past it, he really did, but his eyes lingered on that last photo far longer than they should have. You in a bikini, your skin glowing under warm sunlight. He couldn’t believe that was what you looked like underneath the baggy scrubs you wore every day in the ED.
It felt wrong. Like he wasn’t allowed to see you like this, like he was intruding on something deeply private, crossing a line that should never even be approached between an attending and his resident. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but it wasn’t enough to make him look away.
His body reacted anyway, a sudden heat stirring unwanted, a throb of arousal he hadn’t felt this sharply in longer than he cared to admit. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, hating himself for it even as the reaction deepened. What the hell is wrong with you, Robby? he told himself, but the self-reproach did nothing to dull the pull. What could he do? You were a woman. A beautiful one, and for the first time, he was seeing you not just as his resident, but as someone undeniably, breathtakingly desirable.
Before he could delete his account and go to bed as he should, your message popped up.
You: hii :)
Robby’s breath hitched in his throat. For a split second, he swore his heart actually stopped. Then it slammed back into rhythm, pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears, in his temples, in the tightness of his chest. The little smiley face stared back at him from the screen, innocent and cheerful, as if it hadn’t just flipped his entire night upside down.
You had matched with him. At eleven at night. On his lonely fucking birthday. What the hell was he supposed to say to you at 11 pm. after accidentally matching with her on Tinder? “Hey, funny seeing you” here felt pathetic. “This is wildly inappropriate” felt like a lie because the rush of heat still lingering in his veins said otherwise.
He set the phone down on the coffee table for a moment, dragging a hand over his face for the millionth time. Part of him wanted to delete the match immediately, pretend it never happened, and go to bed like the responsible, professional attending he was supposed to be. But another part, the part that had been sitting alone on his fifty-fifth birthday, couldn’t bring itself to swipe left on this one unexpected connection. So he picked the phone back up and stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.
Another message came through a minute later.
You: robby? it’s me from work... guess you saw my profile too haha
Robby let out a long breath, he couldn’t avoid it now that you’d initiated a conversation with him. It was better to be direct, explain the mistake to you, and shut this down before it got any more awkward.
Robby: hey
yeah, I saw it
listen, this is embarrassing as hell, i was messing around with the app, dropped my phone and it must have swiped right by accident
sorry about that, didn’t mean to make things weird
He hit send and immediately regretted how cold it sounded, but it was the truth. The phone stayed quiet for a moment that stretched too long. He had his eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for your reply so he could shut down this awkward conversation and delete this stupid app before he accidentally matched with anyone else from work.
You: oh. so it was a mistake? damn, i thought you had swiped right on purpose. bummer.
Robby’s eyes widened. You were being direct, not beating around the bush or deflecting by saying it had been a mistake on your end as well. He could practically hear your voice saying it with a teasing edge.
Robby: Sorry about the confusion
i know it might be awkward finding me on here. probably the last person you expected, i don’t usually do this.
You: honestly it was surprising. didn’t peg you as the tinder type at all.
but hey, we all have our moments i guess
Robby: i’m not the type
this is my second time ever downloading it and i already regret it, should probably delete the whole thing before i make an even bigger fool of myself.
You: yeah i get it. i thought the match was mutual so i figured i’d say hi. sorry for texting if it was just an accident. didn’t mean to make it weirder
Robby read your message twice. Thought the match was mutual. The words echoed in his brain. You had swiped right on purpose, not as a joke, not out of morbid curiosity about your boss’s sad dating life. You had chosen him willingly. The realization of what that meant sent a confusing rush through him. You liked him, that had to be it. The thought of you… having a crush on him made a warm feeling run through his body, one he immediately tried to shove down.
Robby: What do you mean you thought it was mutual?
You: idk... i saw the notification and figured you wanted to match with me since it happened. that’s why i said hi right away. didn’t want to leave it hanging if we were both curious
He stared at the screen, his heart beating a little harder. You were so honest and blunt about your feelings, he found himself almost intimidated by it. Some rational part of his brain was trying to tell him this had to be a big joke, there was no way in hell you could like him. You were… you. What would you see in a man like him?
Robby: you wanted us to match? seriously?
You: lol yeah i did swipe right, didn’t i? your profile was actually really nice. the book pic is cute and the 70s rock mention made me smile. plus... i don’t know, you’re interesting. figured why not. no pressure though
Robby: i thought maybe you did it out of curiosity
or just to see if I’d swiped on you didn’t expect you to actually want that
You: well i did. but if it was an accident on your end then no big deal. we can pretend this never happened and go back to normal tomorrow. i won’t mention it at work or anything. promise
Robby let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes for a long moment as he exhaled heavily. He knew exactly what the responsible Chief of Emergency Medicine should do right now: unmatch immediately, delete his profile, and pretend the entire night had been nothing more than a lonely fever dream.
But tonight… tonight he didn’t want to be responsible. He didn’t want to be Dr. Robinavitch, the attending who had sacrificed nearly every personal connection, every version of a fuller life, on the altar of the ED. For once, he wanted to be Michael. Just Michael. The man who had matched with you on Tinder. The man who was currently staring at his phone with his heart hammering like he was twenty years younger.
Before he could piece together a polite but firm way to end the conversation and retreat back into the safety of professional distance, another message appeared.
You: i think your profile’s part of the reason i swiped right. the book pic’s really nice
He smiled faintly at that, a rare genuine twitch at the corner of his mouth. Robby leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
Robby: your profile’s pretty good too, better than most of the ones i’ve seen tonight
You: aww thanks. your’s so much better than the usual bullshit on here which is not that hard
but still finding you here is a nice change :)
Robby: you on this app a lot? seems like you’ve got the profile down
You: not really. i’ve been on a couple dates from here but it’s honestly exhausting. hard to find someone decent in this city. most guys are either looking for hookups with zero conversation or they’re boring as hell. you know how it is
Robby: fair enough.
your age range must be set pretty high if it pulled me up
fifty four isn’t exactly the usual crowd for you or is it?
You: haha yeah well
i like older men
Those four stupid words hit him square in the chest like a defibrillator. “I like older men.” Robby reread them slowly, feeling a dangerous warmth bloom low in his belly and spread outward through his chest. He was an older man, and apparently, that fit exactly into your preferences. Was that flirtation? Were you subtly implying that he was the kind of older man you liked? Or was it just a casual, throwaway comment, something you’d say to any guy on the app who happened to have a few gray hairs?
No. He was spiraling too deep, overthinking it the way he always did. Your words didn’t carry some hidden, special meaning meant just for him. They couldn’t. And yet… No matter how hard he tried to talk himself down, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of validation that lit up inside him. He felt desired, really desired. Not just by anyone, but by you: someone younger, and so strikingly pretty it almost hurt to look at your photos for too long. Someone who, in his mind, was clearly way out of his league.
Robby: It’s okay to have preferences
everyone does.
You: yeah exactly. i just find older guys more attractive than the ones my age. they’re usually more mature, know what they want, have actual life experience. it’s... hotter, i guess. plus the conversations are better
He swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He could practically see your face as you typed those words, maybe biting your lower lip in that teasing way you sometimes did right after nailing a difficult procedure.
Then the bikini photo from earlier flashed unbidden through his mind, and the heat in his body flared hotter. He pictured you exactly as you’d looked in that shot: sun-warmed skin, curves barely contained by the fabric. The thoughts he had no right to entertain came rushing in anyway, pulling him deeper. Thoughts of having you all to himself, of finally being able to run his hands slowly over every inch of that bare skin, tracing the line of your waist, sliding up your ribs, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. Of putting his mouth on you and every sensitive spot until you were trembling beneath him.
Robby: makes sense
i usually go for women closer to my stage of life
we have more in common that way
You: do age gaps bother you?
Robby: in what way?
You: like as a concept. are they a problem for you?
Robby: i’m okay with consenting adults doing what they want
as long as everyone’s on the same page it’s not my business.
You: have you ever been in an age gap relationship or anything like that?
Robby: i once dated a woman a bit younger than me
but usually around my age
He paused before sending the next part, he shouldn’t keep engaging in this deeply unprofessional conversation, but curiosity was getting the better of him. And you were simply so easy to talk to that he couldn’t stop himself from letting his walls down a little.
He typed before he could second-guess himself.
Robby: how much older are we talking anyway?
the men you usually like i mean.
Your reply came fast, like you’d been waiting with the phone in hand.
You: usually over fifty up until their sixties or so. around that range. but it’s just a preference, nothing crazy. i feel like older men usually treat you better. they’re more gentlemanly, know how to actually listen, and they tend to understand what a woman wants... in every way, if you know what i mean ;)
Robby read the message twice. Three times. Four. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck me. You weren’t just being polite or making casual conversation. That winky face, the implication hanging there about “every way”. You were deliberately flirting with him, there was no other way to see it. He shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of his own body and the fact that it had been a long damn time since anyone had spoken to him like that.
He took a slow breath and replied, trying to keep some semblance of control.
Robby: do you date men closer to your own age too?
or is it mostly the older crowd?
You: i have tried guys closer to my age. some of them are sweet but a lot are still figuring their shit out. you should try dating a woman younger than you sometime though. maybe it’s exactly what you need.
Robby didn’t know what to say. The words hung there, full of possibilities around them. He was still wrestling with a response when another message from you popped up.
You: anyway sorry again for the confusion earlier. i’ll leave you alone so you can keep scrolling through profiles. i’ll go back to robbing the graves haha (joke, get it? because i like older guys... sorry that was sooo bad)
Robby chuckled despite the whirlwind in his head. The joke was cheesy, so perfectly you that it cut through some of the tension. But it also gave him an out, you were offering to back off and let this weird moment fade into nothing before tomorrow’s shift made everything awkward as hell. Part of him wanted to take the exit ramp, wish you a good night, unmatch, delete the app, and pretend none of this happened. But another part, the one that had been sitting alone on his birthday didn’t want the conversation to end.
He tapped over to your photos again, almost against his will. There it was the last one. You on the beach in that bikini, with the perfect swell of your tits catching the sunlight. Holy fuck. He wanted you, the realization hit him all of a sudden, making him switch back to the chat and move his thumbs almost on autopilot.
Robby: Nothing to apologize for
honestly you’ve kept me better company tonight than I expected
You: see? younger women can be good company too :) you shouldn’t close the door so fast. you could meet someone nice if you give it a chance
Robby: you shouldn’t close the door on guys your own age either
there are decent ones out there, you’ll find someone who can keep up with you
You: out of all the guys i’ve matched with here... you’re easily the best one. no contest
Robby: Really? that can’t be right
you’re selling yourself short.
You: no i mean it. you’re exactly the kind of man i’d usually go for. tall, older, smart... and hot
The word hot hit him harder than it had any right to. His face flushed deeper, his clothes felt constricting, his pants uncomfortably tight. Robby’s cock was already half-hard, thickening and pulsing insistently against the zipper of his jeans with every new message.
All because you’d called him hot. Just a little cheeky, playful comment, and it was enough to unravel him. The touch starvation wasn’t helping. It had been so damn long since anyone had looked at him with real interest, longer still since he’d felt this fluttering feeling low in his stomach. This rush of ego, this sharp need to be close to someone, to be wanted, to touch and be touched.
Robby: thanks i guess
you’ll meet someone worth your time, you’re a good girl
The message was sent before he could fully reconsider the wording. The second it went through, Robby winced. It sounded weirdly sexually charged, maybe it was because he was feeling sexually charged, painfully so. A Freudian slip at its finest.
You: good girl? 😏
Robby: shit i didn’t mean it to sound weird
just a figure of speech i suppose.
You: should i call you daddy then? ;)
Robby nearly dropped the phone again. The winky face, the bold suggestion, the way it played so perfectly into the tension that had been building sent a bolt of pure want through him. He could imagine your voice saying it, teasingly so, with that mischievous glint in your eyes. His mind supplied far too many vivid images: you in nothing but your skin looking up at him, you saying it in person with a flirty smile. He was fully hard. Actually hard, just from a fucking text conversation.
The professional alarm bells were clanging loudly in the back of his head. This was his resident, the age gap, the power dynamic, the fact that you’d have to face each other at the Pitt in a few short hours... it was all wrong. But god, it felt good. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
He glanced down at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, his cock straining against the fabric like a flagpole. He couldn’t believe it. One flirty text from his resident and he was rock hard. Don’t get hard for your fucking resident, he thought. She’s one of your own. Off-limits. This is insane. He adjusted himself uncomfortably, trying to will it down through stubbornness, but the ache only sharpened.
You: too much? sorry i was just messing around lol
Robby exhaled and typed back, trying to sound more composed than he felt.
Robby: Don’t worry about it
i know it was a joke, no harm done
You: it was... unless you don’t want it to be a joke
He let out a surprised laugh, his cock twitched again at the follow-up, you were relentless, and something told him you were noewhere near done.
Robby: you’re funny, i’ll give you that.
You: that’s what i’ve been told. glad you’re having fun with me tonight
Robby: Well, I guess I should let you get some sleep
early shift tomorrow and all
You: i don’t mind staying up. i swiped right on you, remember? yk for a minute i really thought you were gonna flirt with me or maybe even ask me to come over to your place or something
The words hung there. You had been excited, you had hoped he would flirt. The image flashed through his mind, you showing up at his door in the middle of the night, stepping inside and… He shifted again, pressing his hand down against his insistent erection through his sweatpants, trying to get some relief even as guilt gnawed at him. This was crossing so many lines he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross after Heather. But the loneliness that had driven him to download the app in the first place was quieter now, replaced by an electric tension.
Robby: that would be very inappropriate
i’m your boss and there are lines we can’t cross
You: but you’re not dr. robby my attending in here. you’re michael robinavitch, 55, the guy who loves 70s rock and long bike rides. and i’m not your resident in this chat. i’m just a girl who likes movies and older men... and who is really, really into you right now
You were separating the roles so cleanly, drawing a line between the hospital and this private space. It was tempting, dangerously tempting.
Robby: you know it doesn’t work like that
we can’t just turn it off when the shift starts tomorrow
You: nah i’m pretty sure i can
Robby: No.
You: If we really can’t meet then we can do it over text, you know.
He stared at the screen trying to guess if you really meant what you were saying.
Robby: what do you mean?
You: sexting, duh
He let out a short breath, Jesus fuck you were actually gonna kill him tonight.
Robby: that’s basically the same thing.
You: no it’s not. technically we’re not doing anything if it’s just messages. no one has to know.
Robby rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mind was screaming at him to shut this down, but his fingers were already moving. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering to do this.
This was a terrible idea. What difference did it really make whether it was real sex, his hands on you, feeling your heat around him, or just describing it in detail over text messages? A line was still a line. One he had promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. He didn’t want this to end with you giving up your residency, transferring to another hospital, another city, once things inevitably fell apart.
But fuck, his cock was achingly hard, straining against the front of his pants like a caged animal that desperately needed to be freed. The thought of you right now, maybe lying in your bed in, pressing your thighs together, that sweet slick already soaking through your panties because of him… it made it impossible to think straight. He couldn’t leave you like that, so wet, so needy, aching for him.
Robby: what do you want me to say?
You: i don’t know… just say something hot. you’re goot at being hot
He hesitated, he wasn’t sure of what to say. He was scared of seeming naive and old school to you, but he wasn’t used to this whole… sexting thing. The most spicy exchange over texts had been insinuating pictures before asking someone to come over. Okay think Robby, if you can save someone’s life under extreme preassure then you can sext with a woman, just say something typical, he thought
Robby: who’s been a naughty girl?
The second he hit send he regretted it. He winced, already typing another message to backtrack when your reply came through.
You: lmao that was the best you’ve got?
Robby groaned out loud, dropping his head back against the couch.
Robby: forget it. i’m going to bed
You: nooo wait. let’s try again :(
He should’ve put the phone down. He really should’ve. Instead he waited to see if you had anything else to say.
You: you’re so good at giving orders and guiding me at work. maybe you could do that now too? tell me what to do
You were right, in theory. He was good at instructing, guiding, teaching. It came naturally to him to step into that mentoring role, he had always been the one others looked to for direction.
Robby: i feel stupid doing this.
You: pleeeease. i’ve always thought you were the kind of guy who talks people through it in bed. it’s the same here, just write it instead of saying it. tell me how you want me to touch myself
Your words hit him hard. He reread the message twice. He had never consciously thought about it before, but yes… that did sound exactly like him. Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden: the commanding tone he’d used with past partners, the way he’d instructed them. “Open your legs for me.” “Turn around.” “Look at me.” He remembered the way their breathing would change, the way they’d tremble under the weight of his voice and his hands.
Robby: you really want me to talk you through it, sweetheart?
You: yessss that was so much better. keep going
If anyone had asked you how it happened, you honestly wouldn’t have been able to explain it. You weren’t even sure yourself. One moment you were typing a slightly embarrassed apology to Robby for matching with him and the next, the conversation had taken a turn and you were the one demanding he sext you so you could get off. It was bold, stupidly reckless, and yet it felt inevitable.
Robby: good girl that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, i want you to get those pretty legs spread nice and wide for me, can you do that?
You whimpered softly and obeyed him instantly, letting your knees fall farther apart on the mattress. The cool air hit your exposed pussy making you shiver.
You: yes. they’re open
Robby: Perfect
i’d be on my knees between them right now if I could
run your fingers up the inside of your thighs for me slowly, feel how soft they are
As you trailed your free hand up one thigh, you imagined his callused palms and the scratch of his greying beard following the same path.
You: doing it… feels so good thinking about your hands instead.
Robby: that’s my girl
now slide two fingers through your pussy and ell me how wet you are for me
You did exactly as he says, gasping as two fingers glided easily through your slick heat. You were soaked, embarrassingly so, the wet sounds filling the quiet bedroom as you stroked yourself.
You: So wet… i’m dripping. all because of you.
Robby: fuck i knew you would be
i want you to circle your clit for me now
Do it slowly and imagine it’s my tongue instead, licking you just the way you need
i’d take my time, taste every inch of you
Your mons got louder, tipping your head back against the pillows as your fingers obeyed, traxing circles around your clit that sent sparks up your spine. In your mind, it was Robby’s mouth devouring you while his strong hands pinned your thighs down.
Robby: how does that feel, sweetheart? tell me
You: so good, i’m so sensitive. keep talking please
Robby: Good
now slide one finger inside that tight pussy, nice and deep
curl it up just like I would, searching for that spot that makes your legs shake
i’d be watching your face the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look spread open for me, how good you are for listening
When you pushed a finger inside yourself, you curled it upward as instructed to hit that sensitive spot while your other hand kept working your clit in circles.
Robby: add another finger and stretch yourself open
i’d be so much thicker than your fingers, but we’ll start like this
imagine me pumping them in and out while i rub your clit
Adding a second finger, you continued fucking yourself to the rhythm of his words on the screen. It was not enough, it was nowhere near enough to calm the hunger and desperation that was threatening to consume your whole being. You knew nothing would be enough, only feeling him inside of you.
You: wish it was you inside me. can’t get off like this. i need you robby please
Robby: you were the one who told me to do this
You: i know i did. but it’s not enough
send me your address
He was tempted, so tempted that for one second his fingers almost started typing on an impulse. But the reality crashed back in immediately. The risks, the morning after, the way he’d have to look at you during rounds, knowing what you’d done. He was rock hard and aching for you, but the responsible part of him still refused to crumble completely.
Robby: what for?
you’re not seriously thinking about coming over right now, are you?
You: robby i’m literally only like 2 miles away from you. are you dtf? not as dr. robinavitch and his resident, but as two adults who casually matched on tinder tonight. there’s no title or hospital here. it’s just us.
Two miles. You were so close. He stared at your message, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. His cock gave another insistent throb, the head already leaking a little against his underwear. The thought of you actually coming over, right now, in the middle of the night, made his mouth go dry.
Robby: Send me your address and I’ll order you a ride.
You sent your address a moment later. It really was only two miles away. He confirmed the ride, watching the estimated arrival time tick down. Fifteen minutes… only fifteen minutes until you’d be at his door.
You: this is exactly what i meant earlier about older guys. so much more gentlemanly. taking care of the details instead of just telling me to get there
You had no time to get ready, and honestly, you didn’t care. Makeup? Hair? None of that mattered when you were this desperate, this aching for him. You climbed out of bed still wearing the thin tank top and soft sleep shorts you’d worn to bed, and threw an oversized jacket over everything, one that swallowed most of your body and made you look far more put-together than you actually felt.
Your hands were shaking as you grabbed your keys and phone. The rideshare arrived sooner than you expected. The drive across the city felt both endless and far too short, but eventually the car pulled up outside his building.
You stood on the sidewalk for a second, staring up at the apartment complex, suddenly hit with the full weight of what you were doing, showing up at your attending’s door in the middle of the night, soaked and trembling with need, because a stupid Tinder match had spiraled completely out of control.
But you didn’t hesitate for long, you took a deep breath, pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, walked toward his door and knocked on it.
Robby opened it right away. He didn’t say a word, the second you were in reach, you had one of his strong hands cupping the back of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss. It was electric to say the least. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His beard was scraping deliciously against your skin as he moved his lips with experienced urgency. You melt into it instantly, fisting your hands in his shirt, tasting the pure, overwhelming taste of him. Finally. Here he was, kissing you like he’d been starving for it just as much as you had.
He kicked the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his taller frame. You felt the warmth of his hands roaming everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, squeezing the curve of your ass through the fabric of your shorts. In your mouth, he groaned, making a vibrating sound that went through you as he explored every inch he could reach, like he was memorizing the feel of you.
Your breasts were the next to get his attention, he was cupping them with his big hands through your tank top, brushing his thumb over your already hard nipple, while he tangles his other hand in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
You pulled back just enough to gasp against his lips, “It took you long enough.”
Robby chuckled, the sound coming out breathless. “Took you long enough. You have any idea what it’s like waiting twenty minutes for you with a hard-on?” He pressed you closer, letting you feel the thick and insistent bulge against your stomach.
As if they had a mind of their own, his hands couldn’t stop moving, squeezing, caressing, claiming, running down your back, over your thighs, everywhere he’d fantasized about touching. Before you could respond, he bent slightly and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively.
The strength in his arms, the way his broad chest felt against you, sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs. He carried you through the house with purposeful strides. The door to your room swung open and he layed you gently on the bed, climbing on top of you immediately until his full weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress.
The kissing resumed instantly, slower now but no less intense. Robby’s mouth was moving from your lips to your neck, sucking lightly and scratching you with his beard in the most perfect way. Now his hands got bolder, continuing their exploration but this time sliding under your tank top, pressing his palms against your bare skin. He lifted the fabric higher, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room.
“Fuck,” Robby groaned, and maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, but you could see his soft brown eyes turning darker as he stared down at you. “Look at you. These tits… so perfect. So fucking pretty.” His voice was rough with want, the same commanding tone. He cupped them reverently, as if they were something precious, circling your nipples until they pebbled tighter under his touch. “They’re made for my hands. For my mouth.”
He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. The wet touch of his tongue made you arch into him with a moan, threading your fingers through his hair as he kept lavishing attention on your breasts.
From one side to the other, Robby switched sides, licking and sucking the other while his hand massaged the first, rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual sensation, the tingly heat of his mouth and the firm squeeze of his callused hand, had you writhing beneath him, making you so wet you were soaking through your shorts.
The humming of his mouth against your skin sends sparks straight to your core. “So responsive,” he murmured, switching back to the first breast and sucking it harder than before. “These tits are going to ruin me. I could spend hours right here.” Sliding his free hand down your side, Robby gripped your hip possessively, continuing with the worshipping of your chest, licking broad stripes, sucking marks into the soft flesh, massaging and kneading until he had you panting and grinding up against the hard line of his cock through his pants.
The age difference between you only heightened everything, his experience was showing in every skilled touch, in every perfect flick of his tongue. He was being patient but hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long. You could feel how hard he was, he was making you feel it, pressing insistently against your thigh. The knowledge that you did this to him made you even wetter.
Robby lifts his head briefly to lock his eyes on yours. His lips were swollen and his beard slightly damp with his saliva. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, but his hands never stopped, squeezing and caressing, teasing your sensitive nipples with his thumbs as he waited for your answer.
You shook your head, pulling him back down. You’d rather die than stop right now. “Don’t stop. Please.”
His mouth trailed a hot path down your sternum, over your stomach, scraping you teasinglywith his beard against your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands followed strong, sliding down your sides and gripping your hips as he settled between your spread thighs. The weight of him, the sheer size and presence of this man, made your core clench with anticipation.
“These shorts have been teasing me since you walked in,” he murmured with the same steady tone he used in the pitt, but now turned intimate and commanding. Robby hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly peeled them down your legs, taking his time as he revealed more of you. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart. Good girl.”
You obeyed instantly, lifting your hips so he could slide the fabric off completely, leaving you in just your thin panties and the tank top. Robby smoothed his hands up your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle but firm pressure. “Keep your legs open like that,” he instructed you. “Nice and wide for me. Don’t close them unless I tell you to.”
You were already moaning softly, and he wasn’t even touching your core yet. Robby dropped his eyes to the damp spot on your panties, making the fabric cling to your pussy lips, and he let out a groan of desire and hunger. He cupped you over the fabric with one hand, pressing his palm firmly against your heated pussy while his thumb found your clit through the material and began rubbing slow circles.
“Oh god,” you moaned, twitching up your hips into his touch, seeking more of the contact. The friction was simply perfect, it was teasing, and it kept building higher and higher. Robby’s callused thumb was applying just the right pressure on your swollen nub.
He watched your face intently through his hooded and lustful eyes as he worked you higher. “Feel good?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady even as his own breathing grew heavier. “You’re so wet already. Soaking through these panties for me. That’s it… rock against my hand, sweetheart. Show me how much you need this.”
Your moans only grew louder and more unrestrained, as he kept rubbing your clit with precision. The fabric added a delicious layer of friction, and every circle sent sparks shooting up your body. He got you gripping the sheets, your thighs already trembling as you fought the urge to close them around his hand.
Robby leaned down to kiss the inside of one thigh, scratching your skin deliciously. “You want my mouth? Want me to taste this pretty pussy? You gonna wrap these gorgeous legs around my neck while I do it?”
“Yes,” you gasped, nodding frantically. “Please, Robby. I need it.”
He hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down slowly, revealing your glistening, bare pussy to his hungry gaze. “Fuck… look at you. So wet and perfect.” He kissed along your inner thighs, taking his time, brushing his lips and beard against the sensitive skin as he worked his way closer. “Wrap them around me, sweetheart. Lock your ankles behind my head if you need to. I want to feel you holding me right where I belong.”
You did exactly as he said, wrapping your legs around his broad shoulders and pressing your heels into his upper back. The position left you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed. Robby groaned, the sound vibrating against your core as he finally leaned in.
The first lick of his tongue was broad and slow, dragging from your entrance up to your puffy clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and it made you cry out loudly, threading your fingers into his greying hair as he began to devour you with the same intensity he brought to every procedure at work. He licked and sucked with precision, alternating between long and flat strokes to tight and quick circles around your clit.
His beard was scratching your inner thighs and outer lips in the most delicious way, adding a kind of texture that made your toes curl. “Robby… Oh fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, rolling your hips against his mouth.
He hummed in response, pulling back with his lips glistening with your arousal just so he could speak to you. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart. I want to hear it.”
“So good… your tongue—oh god, your mouth, Robby. It’s driving me crazy. Don’t stop, please.”
“You’re being so good for me,” he praised, diving back in to suck your clit into his mouth, flicking it rapidly while applying suction with his lips.
Before you could register it, he teased your entrance with two thick fingers, slowly sliding them inside you, letting your own greedy hole swallow them. Once he curled them upward to find that perfect spot, the sensation had you moaning loudly and arching off the bed.
Robby pumped his fingers steadily, matching the rhythm of his tongue with his digits. A few moments later, he stopped again briefly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes and shiny lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Spread open for me, taking my fingers so well. This pussy is perfect, made for me. Keep moaning for me. Let me hear how much you love my mouth on you.”
You obeyed, your moans spilling freely as he returned to his task with renewed hunger. The pleasure built fast and faster, making your thighs tremble around his head and your feet dig into his back as you held him exactly where you needed him. Robby gripped your hip with his free hand, holding you steadily while he worked you closer and closer to the edge with expert skill. Every command, every praise, every flick of his tongue pushed you higher.
Robby didn’t relent, he kept his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking with rhythmic pressure, devouring you like a man starved. “Robby—oh fuck, yes!” The pleasure was overwhelming, every single nerve ending in your body was alight as he worked you higher.
“Keep those legs open for me, sweetheart,” he growled against your clit. “Don’t you dare close them. I want to feel you squeezing around my fingers while I eat this pretty pussy.” He added a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, the burn blending perfectly with the pleasure. “That’s it… take three for me. Feel how full you are? You’re doing so well. Such a good girl taking everything I give you.”
The wet sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping pussy and his mouth sucking hungrily on your clit filled the air. You were soaking his beard, his chin, his wrist, but he didn’t care. Robby slid a hand under you, grabbing a firm handful of your ass and lifting your hips slightly off the bed. The new angle let him bury his face even deeper, working your clit with more precision while he fingerfucked you harder. “Just like that,” he praised you between licks. “Grind on my tongue, baby. Use my mouth. Show me how bad you need to come.”
You obeyed helplessly once again, rolling your hips and bucking them against him as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The pleasure built in powerful waves until your thighs started to shake violently around his head. Robby kept talking you through it, pushing you closer to the edge.
“You’re getting so close, aren’t you? I can feel this tight pussy clenching around my fingers. Come on, let go. Cum all over my tongue. I want to taste it. I want to feel you fall apart for me.”
The orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity, making your back bow off the bed, a loud and broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy spasmed hard around his digits. Your thighs were squeezing his head tightly, your heels digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. Robby didn’t stop though, he kept sucking your clit through the peak, curling and thrusting his fingers to draw out every last shudder.
You came harder than you ever had. So hard that your vision went white for a moment as the pleasure bordered on overwhelming. Your moans turned into whimpers as the orgasm slowly ebbed, leaving you limp and gasping on the bed.
Robby finally eased back, gently lowering your hips and kissing softly along your inner thighs. He looked up at you with dark and satisfied eyes. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So beautiful when you cum for me.”
You lay there panting, your thighs were still twitching, completely wrecked and already aching for more of him. Robby climbed back up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. He was so close that his hard cock was pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants.
“That was… amazing,” you whisper with your voice hoarse from moaning. “So much better than I ever imagined.”
Robby chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine against your neck as he pressed a kiss there. “Yeah? Better than your hand?” His eyes were sparkling with lust.
You laughed breathlessly, nodding. “So much better. Your mouth… God, Robby. I’ve never felt anything like that.”
He hummed in satisfaction, grinding his still-clothed erection slowly against your bare, sensitive pussy. The thick ridge of his cock was being pressed perfectly against your clit, giving him some much needed relief while teasing you both. “I loved doing that for you,” he murmured. “You were so good for me, sweetheart. So responsive, so wet. The way you moaned my name and squeezed my head with those pretty thighs… fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”
Robby rolled his hips deliberately, the friction making you whimper and arch up into him. You could feel how achingly hard he was and how much he’d been holding back. You slid up your hands down his chest, feeling the soft flesh beneath his shirt.
“I want you,” you breathed, looking up at him with need. “Please, Robby.”
He stilled for a moment, as if to pulling himself together. “Tell me what you want. Be specific.”
You bit your lip, feeling the warmth invade your cheeks. “Your cock. I want you to fuck me. I need you inside me.”
Robby let out a groan, sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing out the anticipation. You sit up slightly, eager to help, moving your fingers to tug his pants down along with his underwear.
“I’ve been dying to see you,” you confessed as you pulled his pants down his hips. He caught your wrists before you could push his boxers down.
Robby looked almost nervous, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Wait… I, uh—” He cleared his throat, flicking his eyes away for a second. “I haven’t trimmed down there in a while. This whole night was… unexpected. I would’ve cleaned up if I’d known we were gonna end up here.”
He said it like it was something to be embarrassed about. Like it might actually make you want him less. It made you soft, you cupped his jaw, turning his face back to yours.
“Robby. Do you honestly think I give a damn about that? It’s just hair.”
He let out a self-conscious breath, still looking a little defensive. “I know. I know it’s just hair. It’s just… it’s probably a fucking jungle down there right now. You don’t have to— I mean, you don’t have to do anything if it’s too much.”
The way he was trying to give you an out was almost painfully endearing. You shook your head. “Just let me see you,” you whispered.
You slid his boxers down his thighs and freed his cock, it sprang out, thick and hard, the head flushed in a dark red with arousal. It was beautiful, so long, girthy, with a slight upward curve, prominent veins running along the shaft. Exactly like he’d warned, there was a thick, dark mat of coarse hair at the base, dense and untrimmed. He looked completely natural, it was so him, deeply masculine and unpolished.
A fresh rush of wetness slipped down your inner thighs. Your fingers twitched with the need to touch him there.
You looked up at him through your lashes “I love it,” you slowly carded your fingers through the thick hair at the base of his member. “You look so fucking hot like this. I like every single inch of you.”
Robby’s whole body shivered under your touch. “God…” he rasped as he stared down at you. “You’re gonna kill me tonight.”
Almost with instinct, you wrapped your hand around it, stroking the shaft slowly from base to tip, feeling the heat and weight of his member.
Robby hissed in pleasure, twitching his hips forward into your grip as he watched your hand move up and down his cock. “Fuck, your hand feels good,” he groaned, letting you stroke him for a while, savoring the sight of your smaller hand working his thick length, making a bead of precum leak from the tip.
After a few moments, he gently stopped you, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. “Lay back down for me, sweetheart. Keep those legs open nice and wide. Just like before.”
You obeyed, lying back against the pillows and spreading your thighs for him. Robby reached over toward the nightstand, stretching one arm past you as he pulled open the top drawer. He rummaged through it for a few seconds, before his hand closed around what he was looking for.
A moment later he sat back, a condom held between his fingers. He held it up, searching for your eyes with his. “I’ve got this if you want me to wear it.”
You shook your head, reaching up to touch his arm. “No. I want you bare. I’m on the pill.”
You both knew it might not have been the smartest option, doing it raw, with nothing between you. But there was a deep, unspoken trust between the two of you, forged through long shifts, that made you feel safe. And in that moment, that trust felt solid enough to lean on.
The hunger that had taken over both of you made anything else almost unbearable. The need to feel each other completely bare, skin on skin, heat on heat, with nothing separating you, was overwhelming.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” He tossed the condom aside, leaning down to kiss you deeply again. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want to feel all of you.”
He groaned, positioning himself between your legs and nudging the thick head of his cock against your slick entrance. The anticipation felt electric, this was the culmination of over a year of longing, of hours of texts, and now all that was left was this desperate connection. Robby gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he looked down at you with hunger.
The night is only beginning, and the way he’s looking at you promises he’s going to take his time ruining you in the best possible way.
As his cockhead was being rubbed up and down your folds, teasing your clit with every pass, coating itself with your juices, the sensation felt maddening, promising everything you’d fantasized about for so long. You whimpered, twitching your hips up instinctively to chase more contact.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Robby commanded you softly, the same authoritative tone that had guided you through countless procedures was now guiding you through this. He cupped your chin gently, tilting your face so your gazes locked. “Keep looking at me the whole time. I want to see you while I fuck you.”
You nodded shakily, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Robby continued rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness, drawing out the anticipation until you were squirming beneath him.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “So wet for me already. This pussy is going to take me so well. Breathe for me, relax and let me in.” He pressed forward slowly, breaching your entrance with only the tip. The stretch was immediate and intense, opening you up inch by inch as he sank deeper. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, but you forced your eyes open, locking them on his as he watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face.
“Easy, baby,” he cooed, stroking your thigh soothingly while the other braced beside your head. “You’re doing so good. Feel how you’re stretching around me? So tight and warm… fuck, you feel incredible.”
You moaned loudly as he continued sliding in, the deliberate thrust filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt, until his hips were flushed against yours. The fullness was overwhelming, his thick cock stretching your walls like nobody had stretched you before, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.
Robby stayed still for a moment buried deep, resting his forehead against yours as he looked straight into your eyes. “There you go. All the way in. You took every inch.” He started to thrust with deep rolls of his hips that drag his cock along your walls with exquisite friction. “Wrap your legs around me. Hold me close while I fuck you.”
You did as he said, locking your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his lower back. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and you cried out in pleasure, digging your nails into his shoulders. Robby kept talking you through it, just like he knew you liked.
“That’s my girl. Feel that? I’m hitting that spot inside you, huh?” He angled his hips slightly, grinding deep on every stroke. Robby slid one hand up to cup and squeeze your breast, rolling your nipple as he thrusted harder.
Robby moved his hand from your breast to cup your chin. His grip was gentle enough not to hurt, yet firm enough that you felt every one of his fingers pressing against the bones of your jaw. “Look at me. Don’t look away. I want to see how good my cock feels inside this tight pussy.” He tilted your face up and held it there, leaving you no choice but to meet his eyes.
And God… what a glorious sight he was. This handsome man, with his face flushed, his brow glistening with sweat, devouring you with his gaze as he kept driving his cock into you.
His face was only inches from yours, and he kept fucking you in long strokes while he held your chin like that, as if he were starving for every single expression that crossed your face. He loved watching the way pleasure wrecked you. The way your lips parted around helpless moans, the way you bit down on your lower lip only for it to slip free again with a broken sound. The way your eyes went glassy and pleading, silently begging him for more even as your body trembled around his cock. He drank it all in like a man who had been thirsty for years.
With his free hand, he gripped your waist, holding you in place so he could drive into you with more power. Every slide of his cock stretched you perfectly, dragging the fat tip along your g-spot like that was what it was made for.
“Robby—oh god, yes!” You moaned loudly, raising your hips to meet his thrust and tightening your legs around him. Your tits were bouncing with every powerful stroke, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth again, flicking his tongue as he continued fucking you.
“You feel so good,” he groaned against your skin, switching to the other breast. “So tight and wet around me. This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it? Taking me so deep.” His hand on your waist slid down to grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly to change the angle as he thrusted harder. “Lift your legs higher for me, sweetheart,” he said against your neck,kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there. Ronny held the back of your thigh, helping guide your leg up. “That’s it… over my shoulder. Let me get deeper.”
You whimpered as he assisted you, hooking your leg over his shoulder. He did the same with the other, folding you nearly in half beneath him. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, until he was pressing the head firmly against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, grinding against your g-spot relentlessly.
“Fuck—Robby, it’s so deep like this,” you moaned, fluttering your eyes shut for just a moment as the intense sensation washed over you.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he chided gently but firmly, cupping your jaw with his hand to tilt your face back to his. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Keep them open. I want to watch you while I fuck you like this. Don’t look away.”
You forced your eyes open, locking onto his hungry gaze as he continued hammering into you. The eye contact made everything more intimate and overwhelming. The feeling of his hand leavinf your jaw and sliding down between your bodies made you shiver. Robby found your swollen clit and began rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.
The combined stimulation was devastating. The pleasure was burning higher in your core, so close to finally exploding. Your body was arching and squirming beneath his frame as you scratched down his back and trembled over his shoulders. Every thrust, every rub of his fingers on your clit, every moan and grunt that escaped his mouth pushed you closer to the edge.
“That’s it,” Robby groaned, never removing his sight from yours. “Look at you taking my cock so deep. You’re getting close again, aren’t you? I can feel it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you cum all over my cock. Keep your eyes on me when you do.”
You bowed your back off the bed as your climax took over your body. A loud cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched rhythmically around his length. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders and you dug your nails harder into his back when the waves of pleasure crashed through you. Robby sekpt thrusting through it, drawing out your orgasm with deep strokes and continued pressure on your clit.
“You look so beautiful when you cum for me… that’s it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. You’re being so good.”
By the time he finally slowed and gently pulled out of you, you were still trembling and gasping. Robby layed back on the bed beside you, with his cock hard and glistening with your release. “Come here, baby,” he said. “Get on top. I want to watch you ride me.”
He helped you shift positions, gripping your hips firmly to guide you as you straddled him. “Easy, sweetheart. Take your time… that’s it. Feel me right there? Let me watch you take every inch.”
You positioned the head at your slick entrance and began to sink down, inch by inch. The stretch was intense all over again, his girth opening you up as you lowered yourself onto him. Robby kept his hands still on your hips to steady you, stroking your skin soothingly while watching every expression on your face.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groaned. “You’re doing so well. Keep going… take a little more. Feel how full you are?”
Louder moans left your mouth as you sank lower, the fullness was overwhelming in the best way. Bracing your hands on his broad chest for balance, you finally took him to the hilt, resting your ass against his thighs. Robby squeezed your hips encouragingly. “Ride me. Roll your hips like that… yes, just like that.”
Whn you started moving, rolling, and grinding your hips in a steady rhythm, the pleasure built quickly. His cock was dragging along your walls as you found a rhythm that made your tits bounce and your clit grind against his pelvis.
Robby kept moving his eyes are everywhere, watching where your pussy stretched around his shaft, sliding up to your bouncing breasts, then locking onto your face. He reaches up with both hands, cupping your tits and rolling your nipples as you ride him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Keep going… faster if you want. Take what you need from me.”
Without a word, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward. He sat up just enough to help you pull it off, and the second the fabric cleared his head, your hands were on him.
God, you loved his body. Your moved your palm slowly over his chest, feeling the coarse hair and the thud of his heart beneath your fingertips. You dragged your hands lower, mapping the soft, rounded curve of his belly with desire. It turned you on more than any gym-honed torso ever could. As you pressed your palms into the softness, your fingers dag in gently. Then you smoothed your hands over it again and again, savoring the way it yielded under your touch.
You were mumbling praises and moans between gasps, completely lost in the sensation. “Robby… you feel so good… so deep… fuck, I love your cock inside me…”
At one point, Robby planted his feet firmly on the bed, bent his knees, and started thrusting up to meet you. The change felt devastating, he was now fucking you from below with powerful strokes that made you cry out loudly as he droveinto you.
The slap of skin on skin grew louder when the slamming into you intensified. “Fuck—Robby!” you moaned, letting your head fall back as the pleasure overwhelmed you.
“Eyes on me if you can, sweetheart,” he growled, moving his fingers down to rub your clit again. “I’m getting close. You feel too good. You’re gonna make me cum.”
You were a moaning and squirming mess on top of him, riding and grinding as he thrusted up harder. His fingers on your clit and his cock hitting deep pushed you toward another peak, but it was his impending orgasm that had you focused on him.
“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, snapping his hips up faster. “Fuck—can I cum inside you? Please, I want to fill you up.”
“Yes,” you gasped, riding him desperately. “Cum inside me, Robby. I want it. Fill me up. Please—”
With a deep groan, Robby thrusted up hard one last time and came, pulsing nside you, flooding your pussy with thick and warm ropes of cum. He held you down on him, gripping your hips tightly as he emptied himself completely. The feeling of him cumming inside you, fully claiming you, triggered your own smaller orgasm, making your walls clench rhythmically around his pulsing cock.
You both stayed locked together, panting. Robby stroked your back and thighs as you came down from the high befor pulling you down against his chest, kissing your forehead, keeping his cock still buried deep inside you as his release slowly leaked out around him, so much that you could feel the hot nd sticky evidence of his climax.
There were no more walls, just the two of you, finally giving in to everything you’ve both wanted and repressed for so long. You stayed draped on top of Robby for a long stretch of time, both of you catching your breath as the intensity slowly ebbed. Eventually, you lifted your head and looked at him. “That was… amazing. I wouldn’t even have dreamed that it’d be that good.”
He hummed in agreement, continuing his soothing path along your back. “It was. Better than I let myself imagine. You felt perfect.”
The praise made a warm feeling bloom in your chest. After a few more quiet moments, Robby gently helped you sit up, easing you off his cock with a shared sigh. You both winced slightly at the loss of connection and the feeling of emptiness, but he pulled you down beside him on the bed, wrapping his arms around you again as you cuddled into his side.
“So… you don’t regret it, do you?”
He met your eyes as a small smile began tugging at his lips beneath the beard. “Right now? I can’t regret having amazing sex with you. My mind is still somewhere up in the clouds.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow when reality hits, but tonight… no regrets.”
You nestled closer, throwing one leg over his. The cuddling felt easy, natural, like you’d been doing this for years. For tonight, the outside world, the hospital, the guilt, the what ifs didn’t exist. There was only the two of you, and Robby might be right about reality hitting tomorrow, but right now, in the darkness of his room, everything felt right.
A/N: Two attempts at posting this fic, and two times Tumblr’s stupid AI mistakenly flagged it😭 I’ve spent days trying to figure out what was causing the problem and doing everything I could to finally get this fic posted for all of you. So if you’re reading this, it means it worked. Hopefully.
If you end up enjoying the fic, I’d really appreciate it if you could help me share it with a reblog (only if you enjoyed the fic) cause I’ve put a lot of work on it
Well, I hope you enjoyed this little something I worked on when inspiration finally struck me. I don’t know if I read it somewhere or if we all collectively decided it, but Robby absolutely feels like the type of guy who talks you through it. You’re telling me the man who spends all day teaching med students and residents how to do procedures wouldn’t also be guiding his girl in bed? It’s literally in his nature!!! This TikTok also got me inspired because, yes, he absolutely looks at you through it too.
I also think Robby’s canon texting style is weirdly inconsistent. In that scene in season one where he’s texting Jake, sometimes he starts messages with capital letters and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he ends sentences with a period, sometimes he doesn’t. In my head, he has perfect grammar but deliberately tries to sound Gen Z and chill when he’s texting someone younger than him lol. Anyway, I tried to replicate that here too.
Thank you all so much for your patience. I really appreciate it, and I hope I can stick around for good this time🩷
- sworn protector!gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader
synopsis. You drink wine that someone mixed with something that makes you desire touch more than all else. Touch from someone particular. You need his touch, or you’ll die. Luckily, your sister—the queen—can be quite the matchmaker.
contents. SMUT, no war au (rhaenyra is queen), reader is a targaryen princess and rhaenyra's younger sister, gwayne is her sworn protector, reader has fem anatomy and is addressed as a princess, sex pollen/fuck or die, mentions of suicide, oral (f!recieving), loss of virginity, unprotected sex, p in v, finger sucking, slight praise kink, not proofread
Your body burns.
No, it feels more like if your body was actually truly burning in a fire, perhaps from that of your dragon, as if you’d told it to rain flames upon you. You may consider that option if it comes down to it. If someone didn’t touch you soon, you were going to explode.
Instead you were writhing and squirming on your bed in front of your own sister—the queen—and you would much rather be dead. She looks at you with that callous smirk, as if she thinks she knows something. Something you don’t want to tell the maesters.
“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.
He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”
“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.
Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.
The windows are open.
“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.
“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.
“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”
Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.
“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”
“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.
Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”
She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”
“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.
She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.
“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.
You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”
“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t, Your Grace.”
She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”
You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.
And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.
You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.
You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”
Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”
“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”
“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.
You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.
“What did you say?” she asks softly.
“I had a potion brewed.”
Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“
“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”
“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”
“No…” you mumble.
“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”
You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.
The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.
“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.
You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.
You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.
The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.
Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.
The door swings open again.
Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.
The person unveils themself from the shadows.
It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.
Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.
“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.
The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.
You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.
“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”
“Help with what?” you breathe.
He remains silent.
“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.
Silence.
“Tell me. I command it.”
His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”
“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”
He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”
“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.
“How it can be cured,” he adds.
Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.
When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.
You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.
“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”
Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.
“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.
“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.
Not only is he able, he is willing.
He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.
You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.
Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—
You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.
“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”
You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?
But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.
Why must you tell him?
You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.
He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.
You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.
Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”
And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.
It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.
You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.
He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.
Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.
An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.
Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.
Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.
Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.
It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.
But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.
He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.
“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.
“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.
“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”
“My what?” he pants.
“I need you inside,” you mutter.
Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.
He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.
Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.
You nod lazily.
He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.
They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.
He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.
You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.
Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.
Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.
His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.
Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.
Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.
His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.
Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.
He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.
His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.
“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.
You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.
He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.
His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.
“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.
“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.
“Kiss me.”
As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.
Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.
“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.
It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.
You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.
“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.
“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”
You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”
“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.
You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.
Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.
“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.
He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”
You chuckle breathily.
“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.
“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.
Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.
In less than a minute, you’re beneath him again, his fingers pumping in and out of you.
Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Summer Barbie!Reader
WC: 6.6k
Summary: Dr. Robby has to clock in on your first vacation together, thanks to an overeager jellyfish.
Contains: 18+ MDNI, smut, p in v sex, oral (m and f receiving), dirty talk, sex on a boat <3, domestic dr robby, reader gets stung by jellyfish :( probably medical inaccuracies, very vaguely proofread and a horrifically rushed ending, lmk if i missed any!
A/N: divider from @/pxrce-lain ! pt. 2 of my summer barbie!series <3 i hope you guys love it!
Meet the Reader! | Series Masterlist | Part One
An early morning sun shines on a sparkling sea, the salt air flooding your senses through the open window. Rubbing sleep out of your eye, you flail your hand around the mattress, not entirely surprised at the lack of Robby that greeted you.
It's the second morning of your first vacation together, and you've already come to notice some new things about your boyfriend. For one, he's a morning person, even when he doesn't have to work. That. you'll never understand.
You glance at the digital clock on the wall, 8:47. Groaning, you stuff Robby's long abandoned pillow over your face. Still too damn early. The darkness that the cologne drenched cushion almost allows you to fall back asleep. The real Robby isn't so kind.
He lifts the pillow gently from your face, and you crack open an eye to see him giving you a sweet smile. You can't help but return it, eyes falling shut once more.
A quiet 'mmph!' escapes your lips as he presses a sweet kiss to them, the point of his long nose lodged against your cheek. Your hand finds the nape of his neck, keeping him there for a moment longer.
He gives you one, two, three more kisses as his hands find the bare skin of your thighs peeking out from your nightgown. His long fingers fiddle with the flimsy fabric, lifting it higher and higher until he exposes your panties, your tummy.
Your belly is warm, butterflies occupying the space as you squeeze your legs together. His touch is soft, and, for the most part, pretty innocent. He rubs his hand on your tummy, giving the plush skin there a little squeeze before placing another kiss to your lips.
"C'mon, angel," he says, punctuating with another pinch, now to your inner thigh. "Up, let's go."
With two sharp claps of his hands, he pushes the curtains wide open. This elicits a long groan from you, desperately attempting to save your sleepy state with two hands over your eyes. The cawing seagulls and bright light still manage to will away any hope of returning back to your former state, and you accept defeat.
You sit up, finally getting to take in your boyfriend. He's dressed for the day already, which, in Cape Cod, has been a strict uniform of unbuttoned shirts and swim shorts.
His round glasses frame his pretty, big eyes, a cup of coffee hiding the small smirk you still see as he takes a sip. Your heart skips at the sight, the sweet domesticity that a life with Robby provides.
Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you pad over to him. You wrap your arms around his generous waist, head planted firmly in his chest. His free hand finds your hair, still a bit mussed from your sleep, running his soothing fingers down your head.
"Good morning, angel," he whispers into your hair, and you mumble a greeting of your own into his body. He laughs at this, at how grumpy and tired you most definitely sound. He loves to tease you when you're tired, and unfortunately a beachside vacation is no exception.
"Coffee's still on, baby, left it for you in case," he mutters, giving you one more squeeze before letting go, making his way over to the little kitchenette. "Want cream and sugar?"
You nod, sliding onto a stool at the breakfast bar. Chin in hand, you admire how he flits around the kitchen, how pretty he looks painted by the early morning sun as he pours sugar into your mug.
"You're pretty," you mutter, and his head shoots up.
His brow is cocked, a small smirk lifting his lips.
"Yeah?" He asks. It's sarcastic, and you hate it. "Not as pretty as you, love bug."
He presses a sweet kiss to your head as he hands you the mug, your legs wrapping around him to keep him in place.
"Don't do that," you point a strict finger in his direction, the rest of them clutching the warm, pink mug. His brow raises, and you continue.
"Don't deflect," you clarify. "You love to do that. Makes me sad," you jut out your bottom lip to make your point, but he just kisses your pout away.
"How do you know me so well, baby?" He coos, question still laced with his dry, sardonic humor.
"Because," your gaze follows him throughout the small cottage, "I actually listen to what you say and pay attention to what you do."
He stops at this, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. You study him, what this might mean. It doesn't take long for you to conclude his face as a desperate plea to keep tears at bay.
Your heart cracks, still not entirely used to how sensitive Robby really is. His facade is strong, something that had you fooled, albeit very briefly, at the very beginning of your relationship.
At the end of the day, though, there's a small boy in there that just wants to be loved. It breaks your heart that it took him so long to find it, but you're grateful it gets to be you.
"Hey," you prompt, and it seems to help. He shakes his head a little, and you know he's trying to actually shake his thoughts away. "I love you, you know that, right?"
His familiar self-deprecating smile stretches across his face, and he refuses to make eye-contact. Still, he nods.
"Good," you hop off the stool, closing in on him with an intense gaze. "You're pretty. Now what do you say?" You ask, hooking a finger under his chin and dragging his gaze to meet yours.
"Thank you," he mumbles, cheeks pink and lips trembling.
"Yay!" You squeal, planting a sweet, sloppy kiss on him. "You're welcome!"
He barks out a sardonic laugh at the change in tone, rolling his now teary eyes at your devotion.
"Y'gotta stop making me cry, sweetheart, it's bad for the brand," he croaks, and you can't help but laugh yourself.
"Who told you about a brand?" You ask, wrapping your arms around him once again.
You both get lost in each other for a moment, lips ghosting over each other, noses grazing. Against your lips, though, he speaks.
"Dana did," he mumbles, and you can't help but laugh. "Her and Trinity. They told me everybody has a brand, said mine was 'grumpy old man who somehow bagged a woman way too pretty for him'."
His words are blanketed in finger quotations, and you rear your head back.
"What?!" You scoff. "You made that last part up, no way they said that."
"Oh, I'm serious, baby. Ask them the next time you come visit me. They'll be happy to relegate the information," he croons, placing a sweet kiss to your lips.
Your mind goes a bit hazy at his lips on yours, allowing him to swallow your senses for a brief moment in time. When his words really process, though, you quirk a brow.
"Wait, so, if that's your brand," you start, brows furrowed, hands on his chest as you pull away, "why am I bad for it? Is that not, like, exactly what has transpired this morning?"
He rolls his eyes at this, unable to hold back his. now genuine, smile. It sparks your own, and soon you're just smiling into each other, like two fools.
"See this?" He flits a finger between you. "This is what I mean. 'm not grumpy at all anymore," he slinks his arms around you as he talks, your chest pressing into his. "Got me smiling too much, baby," he grumbles, his nose dragging up and down your neck.
You close your eyes, fingers finding his scalp and giving him a soft scratch. He shivers at this, and you smile.
"Oh, I'm sooo sorry baby," you drawl. "Guess I'll just go make another man smile then."
You make a show out of walking away from him, but his fingers grip your wrist in record speed. He pulls you into him once again, your back to his chest, planting a kiss to your temple.
"Don't you fucking dare," he growls in your ear, and you shiver as he gives you one last pinch to your backside. "Get dressed, we're going on the boat."
-
When you'd arrived in Cape Cod three days ago, the first thing Robby did was rent a boat for the two of you. He's eager to show off his newly acquired boating license, and you're never one to turn down drinking on a boat.
Your wedge sandals clunk on the wooden dock of the marina. Robby's close behind, carrying your bags for the day. He's bogged down by a cooler, and both of your beach bags. You'd insisted on taking at least one thing, but he refused, his strong arms slinging them onto the parked boat.
You jut a hip out, leaning all your weight on it as your jaw goes slack. It's blatant, the way you ogle the little show he's putting on for you. He can deny all he wants, can make his cheeks flush that pretty pink that makes you weak in the knees, but deep down, he knows exactly what he's doing.
The drive on the water is a perfect sequel- his strong arms and large hands steering, his effortless leadership butterfly inducing. About halfway to your "surprise destination"- his words- he turns his head to rest on his shoulder.
"I can feel your eyes burning a hole in the back of my head," he teases, and you scoff in faux-annoyance.
"Am not!" You chirp, standing from your spot to stand behind him, resting your hands on his shoulders.
He reaches back, offering a hand to you, keeping the other on the wheel. Your smile is large as you enclose both of your own around it, bringing it to your mouth for a sweet kiss.
"Are too!" He bites, returning the favor.
"It's not my fault I have a hot boyfriend," you murmur, pressing your cheek into his shoulder.
He tenses a little at this, and you squeeze his hand. This helps, but he continues the rest of the ride in silence.
He parks the boat in a secluded little cove, the perfect amount of sunlight peeking through. He's beautiful in this light, it breaks your heart he doesn't see it.
He moves from the driver's seat, going down the few steps to grab a bottle of wine in the little drink fridge. You're about two sips in when you start to feel it between your legs, a blooming heat that Robby is doing nothing to quell.
He's leaning on his two palms, legs outstretched, ankles crossed, tummy on full display. It's mouthwatering, damn near pornographic.
With another big gulp, you mount your steed, thighs encasing his own, hands resting on his shoulders.
He's a bit surprised by this, setting his own glass down and clutching your waist in his hands. His eyes are wide, but excited, genuine. A light laugh escapes him, too. Your heart flutters.
"Oh- hi honey!" He coos, a sweet smile on his face. "How's the weather up there?"
You laugh at the dad joke, sinking your weight fully onto him. This knocks the wind out of his proverbial comedic sails— a groan erupts from his chest at your full weight, his cock already hardening.
"Hi, handsome," you drawl, scratching at his scruff with your nails.
He tenses again, averting his gaze. You don't let him escape you, following his gaze with your face.
"Hey," you press a quick peck to his lips. "Start with thank you, how about that?" Another kiss.
He blushes. "Thank you," he murmurs against your lips, pressing a short one to you now.
You kiss him deeper, then, and it takes him a moment to adjust. He does this, sometimes, like his body is still moving on touch starved autopilot, still not expecting your affection.
You've never once made him feel bad for this, pressing sweet kisses to his face as he warmed up, truly let himself go. It just makes you crazy that he's been made to be so guarded. You want to send the person responsible to that godforsaken ER of his.
Your hands slide down from his cheeks to his neck, his shoulders, finally pushing down the linen sleeves that have taunted you all morning. Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, your hands continue their journey down, down, down, halting at the swell of his tummy.
It's a necessary pit stop, reveling in the little gasp your touch elicits, and the moan that follows. Your lips follow in suit of your hands, sinking down in front of him, ass perched up as you pepper kisses over the skin there.
"Fuck," he whispers, reaching to grab your ass.
He's still a bit too gentle with you, still too closed off. You have more work to do, most definitely.
"When are you gonna believe how pretty you are, hm?" You ask, fingers tracing the waistband of his swimsuit.
Your lips are still hard at work, now lazily slugging over his skin, sinking your teeth in every now and again.
"Never-ah!" He jumps at a particularly hard bite. "Never been called that before you," he punctuates his confession by sinking his hands into your hair, tugging on your scalp a little.
This is good, he's letting a bit more of his inhibitions go. You're still not done.
"That's such a shame, honey," your coo, your lips now following your hands as they tug down his shorts.
Your mouth rests on his pubic bone, nose buried in the little hairs decorating the skin. You press more kisses into him, desperate to get your lips on any piece of him you can.
"Can I show you how pretty I think you are?" You ask, and he nearly whines out a 'yes'.
You reward him by grazing his balls with your nails, juggling them when he gasps. You don't break eye contact as you open your mouth around his head, tongue splaying on the underside of his cock.
He gasps, and you let him go with a little pop! A hand wrapping around his length, you bring his tip to your open mouth, smacking it against your tongue.
He groans, and you sink your mouth down on him. It's only halfway, as you're still working on taking all of him in one go.
It gets the job done all the same, punching a low moan from his chest as you hollow your cheeks. His hands sink in your hair, helping you take a bit more of him.
"Thaat's it," he breathes, his chest heaving. "Ooohhh, fuck, that's it, baby."
His free hand finds your ass once again, laying a harder smack this time. It spurs you on, finally taking him to the hilt. Tears prick your eyes as you let him stay there, taking deep breaths through your nose.
"Oh my God," he whines, bucking his hips up and down, up and down. He finds a rhythm soon enough, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each thrust.
He collapses after a few, but you maintain the pace, using your hands as an aide. His head hangs in bliss, and you reach a hand up his chest. You grip his skin, play with the hair there.
Swirling your tongue, you bring him all the way out once more, a string of spit connecting you to him. Selfishly, you take a moment to stare at it.
His tip is a deep red, his generous length curving upward. It's dripping, little beads of pre-cum adding to the mess. You circle your thumb around the tip, and he jerks his hips.
"Baby, baby. stop!" He gasps, and shoves your hand away. "That was…so good," he says between deep breaths. "Too good, didn't wanna cum yet," he remarks, laying you on your back now.
He unties your bikini top, lips attaching to the plush skin in record time. His kisses are sloppy, lazy even, reminiscent of the love you'd given his tummy. Your heart swells thinking about it, pushing your chest further into his face.
"So pretty, honey," he murmurs into your chest. "Love this body," he kneads your skin in his hands, leaving little slaps every so often. They don't hurt, they're not mean. Just little reminders of his love, in his own, special, fucked-up-Robby-way.
You preen, leaning into them with an open heart- and open legs, but that's neither here nor there- before he moves lower down your body. His lips make a trail down your own tummy, leaving you with your own little marks by the time he's untying your bottoms.
He nearly cries at how wet you are, at how you flutter around nothing. He tells you so as he moves a finger up and down your folds.
"So pretty…" he coos, his fingertip catching on your clit. "Love how wet you are for me," he presses a kiss to your pussy at that. "Love how eager you are for it."
He sinks in the tip of his middle finger, making your hips jerk in his hold. His free hand pinches the skin there, another slap accompanying it. You whine, and he furrows his brow.
"Ooh, I'm sorry baby," he leans down, presses a kiss there. "I'm so mean, aren't I? Such a mean old man with his finger in your cunt."
You squeal at his words, carding your fingers through his hair. His cheek is resting on your tummy, gaze trained on how your pussy reacts to his fingers.
"Good girl," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your skin once he's knuckle-deep. "That's so good, so good for me, hm?"
You nod, and his mouth attaches to your clit.
"Michael!" You gasp, pulling on his hair.
He groans into your pussy at this, and you tug harder.
"I know, honey, so good, isn't it?" He asks, and you nod. "Tell me, honey," he pulls his finger out, only to thrust back in, ring finger now in tow. "Gotta hear words."
His free hand finds your mouth, thumb tugging at your lip. You wrap them around his digit, a gentle suck reminiscent of your earlier activities. He pulls his thumb out, pinching your cheeks in his big hand.
"It's so good," you splutter through pursed lips. "You're always so good, Mikey."
He dives back in at the nickname, tongue pressing flat against your clit as his fingers resume their work. You arch into him, wiggling your hips against his. He shushes you at that, pushing you down.
"Easy, easy, baby," he coos, placing sweet kisses to your clit, giving it a few kitten licks.
"Just so good, honey," you whine, and he groans into you. "Yes!" You squeal.
The vibrations tighten your stomach, a familiar bright heat growing with each thrust of his fingers. He wraps his lips around your clit, and sucks.
His fingers find your sweet spot, pressing into it again and again and again. The coil in your tummy twists even tighter, and you pat his head, his shoulders, desperate to tell him.
"I know, I know," he mumbles into you, pressing two sweet kisses before opening his mouth on you again. "Gonna cum for me?"
You nod, not caring if he can't see it.
"Gotta tell me, princess, you know how this works," he takes his fingers out, circling your opening to tease you.
"Mikeyyy!" You draw out, kicking your leg up and letting it fall on his back.
He slaps your thigh at this, and you can't help but kick again, another squeal leaking from your lips.
"Hey!" You whine, tears burning your eyes as he continues his merciless teasing.
"Are you gonna tell me what I wanna hear or are we gonna stop? Your choice, princess," he rests his chin on your mound, wide eyes looking up into you.
You whine, letting your head fall back in defeat.
"Please make me cum, Michael, I wanna cum on your fingers so, so badly," you wiggle your hips, his absence already unbearable. You're surprised you'd made it that long, actually. "Please, I'm so wet," you beg, your voice watery. "It's all for you, Mikey."
"Ooh, poor baby," he wraps his lips around your clit again, and you almost scream. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he inserts his fingers back where they belong, and tears stream down your face. "Didn't mean to make you beg so much, you know you always have me, you know that, right?"
"Of course," you mutter between deep breaths, knowing he'll stop if you don't use your words.
"Good girl," he murmurs against you. "Always got me, okay? Any time you want, you have my fingers, my tongue, my cock."
You're teetering the edge at his words, your entire body tensing up.
"Gonna give you that last one next, hm?" He asks, and you grow even tighter around him. "Ooh! You like that idea, huh?" He mocks, and you wail. "Like the idea of getting pounded by my cock after stretching you out on my fingers?"
This does it, the coil snapping, shockwaves rippling over you as his mouth refuses to let up. Trails of fire speed up and down your veins, warming you from the inside out.
You dissolve into the pleasure, putty in his hands as he helps you through it, the waves ebbing as you go.
"Good job, wooow, look at all that, good job," he whispers, pulling his fingers out, only to collect your release, and push it back inside you. His tongue nearly lolls out of his mouth as he watches it seep out of you again, bringing his fingers to his mouth.
"Great job, princess, feel good?" He asks, and you nod.
"Yes, Mikey," you whine, and he hums in approval. "Thank you."
He settles on top of you, and your arms wrap around his neck in greeting.
"Hi, honey," he smiles. "Never gotta thank me, okay?" You nod, and he lets you get away with it this time. "Always wanna make my girl feel good, yeah?" He lines himself up with your entrance as he speaks. "It's my job, 'm not being a proper boyfriend if I can't make you cum."
With that, he sinks his tip in. You both freeze, just for a moment, jaws slack, eyes wide and boring into each other's. You're tense, shivering a bit, even, as he continues to bully his thick length into you.
"God," he groans, eyes trained on where you meet. "Doesn't even matter how much I stretch you out, 's always hard to take me, isn't it?"
You nod, tears springing up once again as he sinks in even deeper.
"Yes! God you're so big, it's always so much," you whisper, planting your feet flat on the floor so he can spread your knees even wider.
"Yeah?" He whines, bottoming out inside you. "Always so big, hm? I'm sorry, honey, sorry that it makes you so dumb, that I can see it in your tummy right now, that it's gonna make you scream and shake and cum."
You're speechless, your body following suit, as if it could hear him. Your legs begin to tremble around him, a shit eating grin on his face when he feels it.
"Already so close? Fuck," he throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as he pulls out, and thrusts in. "I absolutely love how desperate you are for me, y'know that?"
You nod, displaying your widest, prettiest eyes. He bites his lip, picking up his speed, only a little. The pace is torturous— long, slow drags of his hips against yours.
"I love you, Mikey," you whimper, bottom lip jutting out.
He rolls his eyes, biting back another wide grin.
"I love you, too, princess," he lifts your legs over his shoulder as he talks. "Even when you pout to get what you want."
It's only when you whine, paw at his chest that he fucks you in full, the way he knows you like it. Butterflies bloom in your tummy as he slides in and out, in and out, your orgasm sizzling deep within you.
There's a wet slide as he moves, and your cheeks heat up. Plopping your palms on your face, you receive a slap to the outer thigh.
"Look at me," he pleads— not strict, but desperate, almost wanton. You open your eyes to find his shiny, but bright all the same. "There she is," he coos. "Prettiest girl in the entire fucking world and I get to put my dick in her," he picks up his speed at his words, bliss taking over.
"Michael!" You squeal. "You're so filthy."
"You love it," he mutters, hips unstoppable as he continues to pound you.
You tighten around him, and this catches his attention. He stops, thrusting all the way in and staying there. The friction of the hair littering his pubic bone against your clit sends electricity flying through you, your release just out of reach.
"God, please!" You wail, grasping at his biceps.
"Not God, just Michael," he jokes, picking up his hips again.
"You're the worst," you roll your eyes, a big smile on your face.
He leans down, his thrusts are once more ruthless, maybe even more so than before, as he plants a sloppy kiss to your lips.
"Let go, baby," he encourages, sneaking a thumb to your clit. "You can do it, c'mon, I'd be so proud of you."
This does it, and you arch off the floor of the boat, into his chest as white noise takes over. Time stops, your head falling back as your orgasm rips through you.
It's electric, lightning bursting through you with each shockwave. The ripples soon slow, but the bliss you feel is still intense.
"God, it's still going, isn't it?" He huffs out a laugh.
You nod, completely lost in it and uncaring of how desperate you look. He kisses you at this, muttering how he's 'so fucking close, just keep being good for me.'
You nearly dissolve into the pleasure, Robby's thrusts growing sloppy, his own release not too far behind.
Coming down around him, your pussy flutters as he pistons inside of you, throbbing with the threat of his own release. Gripping his bicep, you reach your lips up to his ear to whisper sweet nothings.
"You got it, Mikey," you press a kiss to his lobe. "I love you so much, you always make me feel so good," a kiss to his neck. "Taking me on a fancy trip," another kiss, "driving me around on this boat," and another. "God, you looked so fucking hot behind the wheel of this thing, I almost couldn't wait till we got here."
That does it for him, a guttural groan escaping his chest as you feel him twitch, his hips stilling against yours as he spills himself inside you.
Scraping your nails up and down his biceps, you revel in his goosebumps as he shakes and shivers and moans.
"Good job," you whisper, and he nearly sobs. "I'm so proud of you, Mikey, love you so much."
Another cry wracks his body, and you rub your hands up and down his skin as he collapses into you. Dampness floods your neck, as well as little kisses he presses there.
"I hope these are happy tears," you say, pulling his face back so you can really see him.
He's teary, as expected, but he's also…lighter. He's smiling, a carefree one that takes over his whole face. It prompts your own, and you bring your mouth to him, kissing him slow and sweet.
"I love you," he mutters against you, sliding out slowly.
You whine at the loss, making grabby hands for him as he sits back on his haunches.
"Sorry, princess," he coos, extending a hand to you. "Gotta get you cleaned up, hm?"
You shake your head, not quite ready to leave this little reprieve you guys have created for yourself.
"Nuh-uh," he insists, giving you one last swat to the thigh. "C'mon, gotta go pee, honey."
He scoops you up, clutching your trembling form to his chest as he carries you down the little steps, into the teeny bathroom. He's not far as you clean yourself up, reveling in the proximity.
Your legs are soupy as you climb up the steps, Robby not far behind. His hands splay against your backside to help prop you up, or so he says.
To your delighted surprise, he's even packed a little lunch for you two— something light, to accommodate your desire to go swimming.
He forces you to wait 30 minutes after eating, rolling his eyes when you insist that theory has been debunked. You pretend to mind, pretend to be annoyed at the extra time you get with his hand on your belly, your back to his chest.
You don't get a lot of time like this when you're home, the school year and hospital typically in full swing. Leaning your head on his shoulder, you tell him this, how thankful you are to have this time with him.
"You're sweet, princess," he coos, rubbing his nose against yours, pressing a chaste kiss there, too. "We can do this more often, y'know."
You sit up a bit, turning toward him with big eyes.
"Mikey, you know I won't be able to afford that. I can't ask you to spend all this on me more than once, I already feel bad enough about this trip as is," you say, and he just waves a hand.
"Please," he insists. "I haven't had anyone to dote on, I don't think ever," he confesses. It roils through you, like it always does when he opens up more of himself, of his lonely past. "I want to, would you let me if I said I really want to?"
You secede, nodding your head and settling back into him.
"I guess so," you mutter, hands gripping his forearm that's wrapped around your body.
"Mainly, I just want to see you in a bikini more," he jokes, and you slap his bicep. "And fuck on a boat again. That cannot be the only time we do that."
Your laughter launches you from him, back arching off his chest. Flopping on him, you see his own smile in your periphery.
"No, I'd have to agree there," you muse, looking around at him. "That can't be the only time."
"It was too good…" he trails off, his fingers skimming the waistband of your swimsuit.
He doesn't get far, though, as your fingers wrap around his wrist, halting him in his tracks. You turn to him to see a little pout, and you kiss it off.
"Nice try, horn dog," you roll your eyes playfully, standing up to make sure he gets a good view of your ass in his face. "Come on!" You twist at the waist, looking down at him. "I still want to swim!"
Without waiting, you jump off the boat, swimming out of the cove and into the large body of water you've parked in. The cool water rushes through you like a drug, your veins coming back to life in the brutal summer heat.
He's not too far behind you, and you're eager to cling to him. Wrapping all your limbs around him, you're like a koala as he takes you two further out, the boat getting smaller in your line of vision.
He's hesitant to let you go, careful as he does so. With a soft push, you float backwards, kicking your feet and paddling your arms.
It's then that you feel it— a sharp, burning pain along the expanse of your shin. You squeal, unable to control the guttural noise ripping from your throat, the tears that spring to your eyes.
Robby moves immediately, his shift into 'doctor mode' practically visible at this point. He's got you in no time, shushing your cries and smoothing your hair over with his hand as he holds your face in his hands.
"What is it, sweet pea? What hurts?" His eyes are worried, scanning all over your body to find the cause of your tears.
"My leg," you croak, lips trembling with more tears.
He wraps his arms around you in record time, lifting your leg out of the water. Lo and behold, an iridescent blue is sticking to your skin— an unfortunately beautiful creature pumping its venom into you.
"Ohhh, angel, I got you, let me peel it off, okay? Might hurt," he coos, ensuring each tentacle and needle is as removed as possible. "There's still a bit more in the skin, baby, let's get back to the boat and I'll take care of it, okay?"
You nod, thanking whatever powers are above for giving you a doctor boyfriend.
"Good girl," he croons, and you just cry more.
A gentle hand lowers your leg into the water once more, another rush of pain sweeping through you.
"Oww," you whine, squeezing Robby's hand. "Michael, 't hurts."
He's nearly tearing up at your words, working overtime to get you back to the boat.
"I know, angel," he affirms, "but the saltwater is good for it. It'll kill the venom."
You trust him, you think you'd follow him to hell if he said it'd take the pain away.
"It hurts so bad, Mikey," you whine, nearly lifeless as he helps you onto the boat.
Once you're on flat feet, it's an immediate collapse. Robby's quick to protect your head, a gentle hand coming up behind your neck and lowering you the rest of the way down.
"You're okay, you're okay," he whispers, and you can't stop crying. "I'm gonna go get the first aid kit, I'll be right back, okay?"
You nod, biting your lip. Fear fills you as you watch him disappear, but you already feel clingy enough. You let him go.
Thankfully, you're just dramatic, and he returns in record speed with a white plastic box. Propping it open, he finds a pair of tweezers.
"I'm gonna pick out the rest of the needles, and then we're going straight back to the cottage, got it?" He instructs, and you nod, feeling like one of his interns.
It hits you, then, that he's essentially had to clock in on vacation. More tears spill, a shaky cry accompanying your woe.
"What is it, honey?" He murmurs, thoughtful, but concentrated. "Talk to me, does it hurt?"
"No," you blubber, hiding your face with your hands. "I'm making you work. I'm so sorry."
Your apology is punctuated with a few more cries, and he lifts the tweezers from your shaking frame.
"Hey, hey, hey, sweetie, deep breaths," he mimics what he'd like you to do, and you follow suit. "Can't help you if you're fussy," he resumes his work, but keeps talking to you. "I don't want you to worry about me, baby. I'd take care of you if it was the apocalypse and a zombie was actively eating me. This is nothing compared to that!"
You laugh at this, watery but light. It triggers his own smile, and a smooth, 'there's my girl.'
He speeds a bit on your way back, your leg propped in his lap so he can 'keep an eye on it'. Docking at the marina, he runs you to the cottage with an efficiency that only comes with 25 years in an emergency room.
You fluff his hair with your fingers as he carries you, prompting a little look from him.
"I love you," you sigh, resting your head on his shoulder.
"Feeling's mutual," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips and kicking the door open.
He sets you on the couch, leg extended while he puts a pot of water on the stove.
"Okay, now that we're back, we need to immerse it in boiling water, and hit it with some vinegar. I'm going to get a rag for the water, okay? Don't wanna burn you even more," he assures at your wide eyes.
You nod, still unsure, and he kneels down to your eye level.
"You're gonna be okay, do you hear me?" He asks, and you can only nod again. "You know that's not what I want," he growls, and you tear up again.
"I understand," you croak, and he tugs on your bottom lip with his thumb.
"Good girl," he praises, moving to the stove once more.
"Are you sure you're not upset? I totally ruined our day," you mutter, looking to your lap in shame.
"Baby, you didn't ruin anything, it was that damn jellyfish," he laughs, moving the now bubbling pot to a different burner.
Dunking a rag in it, he holds his free hand underneath as he brings it over to you.
"This is gonna be really hot, okay?" He looks up at you for confirmation, and offers you his hand. "Here, squeeze if it gets really bad."
You do, a sharp, prickly burn pumping up and down your limb at the touch. Sucking air in between your teeth, your head falls back onto the arm of the couch.
"Mikeyyy," you whine, and he kisses your injury-free leg.
"You got it, it's okay," he coos, dabbing the rag once, twice, before going to get more water.
"Gotta kill the venom, baby," he informs, resuming his previous work.
"But it hurts!" You kick your good foot, and he holds it down with his hand.
"Do you wanna try that again?" He asks, and you immediately shake your head no. "I know it hurts, princess, just gotta be a little patient, okay?"
Tears prick your eyes again as he continues to work, leaving the hot cloth around your skin while he wanders back into the kitchen.
He returns with vinegar and cotton pads, the application near immediate. It stings again, this time, surprisingly, is worse than before. You wince, doing your best not to kick and cry.
"Yeah, I know honey. It's killing that venom, baby, it's helping. I know, I know," his coos are endless, and the tears spill anyway.
"We smell like salad now," you whine, as he reaches into his emergency bag for hydrocortisone cream.
He laughs, gentle fingers applying the ointment to your still-burning skin.
"That's okay," he murmurs, still concentrated on you. "I'd rather smell like salad than let you get an infection, or worse."
You shudder at the thought, tears finally subsiding as he puts all his materials away. He plops down next to you, your bad leg up on his lap. He strokes the top of your foot, up to your ankle, stopping just below the injury.
"Are you okay, angel? That was scary, huh?" He asks, free hand smoothing over your cheek.
You nuzzle into him, eyes closing as he pinches your skin.
"Yeah, hurt really bad," you grip his forearm with both hands, giving him your prettiest eyes.
They work every time, and now is no different. He pouts, cooing as he pinches your cheek even harder, leaning over to press a kiss on the afflicted skin.
"You did so good, sweet pea, so brave," he praises, and you let it wash over you.
You feel the cortisol and adrenaline flush from your body, your heart rate returning to normal.
A moment's silence falls over you, like a blanket on a chilly night. Your eyes drift shut, already tuckered out from today's fiasco. How Robby does this everyday, you think, you have no idea.
Your thoughts are interrupted, though, by a low growl coming from deep in your belly. Robby laughs at this, his hand squeezing your tummy next.
"Hungry?" He asks, and you nod, eyes still closed. He reaches in his pocket, fishing out his phone. "We're getting pizza. Sound good?"
