thank you for answering that! I was a little worried that asking might provoke some overly sensitive responses from others? but you have every right to feel the way you do about such comments, and I think it's important for people to remember that fic writers aren't machines... have a good day! love you!
Thank you for being polite about it & caring enough to ask! You too & ty!! 🩷
hey anngel <(^_^ if it's ok to ask, I was wondering how you feel about comments that immediately ask for "part two? part two!" on your fics. I feel like those can be a bit rude at best, but maybe that's just my perspective. do you welcome them, or can they be a little frustrating?
Oh, I'm so glad someone finally asked about this. To preface with so I hopefully don't hurt anyone's feelings: I'm not mad at anyone who has made such comments before, nor have I ever deleted any.
That said, yes, they do actually bother me. I sometimes stretch myself thin as it is by pumping out lengthy one-shots, especially when they're posted back-to-back. It sucks to check a comment, only to see that it's: "part 2?", "part 3 when?", or "where is part 2?".
It feels demanding & even a bit entitled sometimes, like I'm not doing enough. Or that I need to work harder, faster, & should sacrifice even more of my free time than I already do for the sake of crowd consumption. Idk if it's bc of TikTok & the rise of content creators or what, but such comments didn't used to be so commonplace once upon a time in fandom spaces. Now, they're everywhere.
As a fic writer myself, I've never, nor will I ever post commentary like that on anyone else's work. It's not encouraging. It just feels like pressure, which makes me want to make more parts even less.
Side note: there's a difference between "Part 2 when" vs "Oh my God, I absolutely loved X fic & hope you make more of it one day!" I appreciate only the latter.
mmm thx for making that charlie piece legitimate noncon. sometimes i do not want to read a piece where the mc secretly does like it and wants it. always an audience for that if u feel up to more in the future🥲
At that point I'd consider a piece dubcon, tbh. Glad you enjoyed! And I intend to hopefully write more dark content in the future!
I need to tell you that the Charlie fic changed something in me. I don’t know what it is. But I know somethings different (in the best way) and I just had to give you a personal round of applause for that.
First off I love your fanfics. And I have some questions when you start writing how do you situate it on tumblr and the other question is how do you actually start writing your stories when you get a plot idea i want to start writing but I don’t know how to start writing them once I get a idea
Thank you! Glad you're enjoying!
Both of these questions are going to have very lengthy answers, so I'm putting the entire thing below a cut!
By "situate", I'm not sure if you mean how do you set up a blog with a nice layout, or how do you get a following, so I'll answer both.
Ok, first one: before I made my current main blog @annsscrapbook, I used to have like 30 sideblogs off my old one (I know that sounds excessive but I had a lot of fun w/ making blogs whenever I would get bored at work lol), so I've got some experience with this.
Steps:
Pick yourself a theme (what your blog is going to be centered around, I mean). Whether that's writing, a fandom, a season of the year, a particular interest, a character, etc.
Pick a URL. Something that you like the look of, yes, but that also fits said theme.
Adjust your settings for what notifs you want to see, how locked down or open to interaction you want it to be (asks, messaging, replies, can it be found in Google searches, etc), things of that nature.
Now personalize it. How much you do is up to you, but there's: a title, description, ask title, header, icon, do you want a pinned? what do you want it to look like? how organized?, tagging system, accent & background colors, badges, a custom theme for desktop & by extension custom pages if you so like.
Once all that is done, do try & provide credit for the resources you're using (either in a note or tags or by hyperlinking) like I have w/ my icon, banners, & dividers (I would for my header, but because I saved it to my phone yrs ago & reblogged the source post to my old deactivated color blog, I have 0 idea who made it (I've tried reverse image search & nothing came from it)). People spend hours & longer making things for the rest of us to use for free or cheap & deserve their due credit!
I know that all sounds really overwhelming, especially when you start messing around with personalizing it on desktop, but it can be a lot of fun. For me, my fave blogs (this one & my RP one) are spaces I have & do spend a lot of time on, so I like to make them spaces I love & enjoy partaking in. Otherwise, if I hate the look of my blog, imma be less interested in investing time into it.
As for finding a following: all you can do is post & use the tagging system to the best of your ability. I know it's a major temptation to jump onto X popular fandom/character bandwagon, in terms of content creation, to hopefully garner followers that way, but I implore you to only invest your time & talent in what you're actually passionate about. If you create only for attention & not bc you're inspired to, you're not only going to get burnt out, but will inevitably lose interest in your hobby & come to resent it, if not yourself & your followers.
Also learn how to say no. I know it can be difficult, especially if you're open to requests, but just thank someone for reaching out to you & politely decline. Maybe while also granting them permission to seek out someone else to fulfill their wishes. And remember that you're in control of your online space. If the negativity starts to get to you, it doesn't make you weak to cut off all avenues of contact just so that you can use your blog. Or if you need to, take a break altogether for as long as you require.
I've had to delete asks myself that were previously in my To Be Written tag bc I lost interest in creating something for them & that's okay. Maybe sucks for the person who sent the request, but if I pushed myself to make a fic that I didn't really want to, it's going to block my creative process & prevent me from writing something I actually want to in the long run.
On writing now.
This is a sidebar from your question (answer to said question below beginning w/ bolded text if you wanna skip this tangent), but it's something I want to say regardless, bc once you start writing, these're issues you're going to encounter. First being comparison. It's why I've majorly cut back on how much fanfic I read (but don't ever stop reading in general, bc it can help you find new styles, cadences & vocabulary which can be a major aid when you're in a rut), bc when I spend too much time holding my creations up to others' & feeling like mine come away as lesser, it makes me want to halt creation altogether (helloooo Manacled!).
To that I say: to make something "good", you must make it first exist. Not an original sentiment I just came up w/ all on my own just now, but nevertheless an accurate one.
The Tumblr-famous cake analogy goes along with this.
You go to a party & your contribution to the table was a simple little two-tier cake. The icing isn't smooth, there's no special filling on the inside, no decor, & the plate is something cheap from the dollar store.
Next to it is a gorgeous five-tier cake w/ icing so smooth it looks like it was painted on. The decorations don't even look like candy or icing bc they're so lovely. The plate, you come to learn, was stupidly expensive & imported from France.
You never want to bake again.
Meanwhile, the party-goers don't see the imperfections you do. They see that there are now 2 cakes, meaning they can have more to eat & enjoy. Sure, they see which one is "prettier" (which we must remember is subjective), but in the end, everybody gravitates toward the one that captured their particular interest. Or, they tried a bite of the messier one bc why not? Free food! And guess what? They loved it just as much, if not more than the aesthetic option!
You must remember that the person who baked the five-tier confection didn't wake up one day as a master of their craft, though. They spent days, weeks, years perfecting it. They started out with a silly little lopsided cake, too, then pushed their self to keep trying until they were happy with their skill.
I also hold this quote from Stephen King dear: “Sometimes you have to go on when you don't feel like it, and sometimes you're doing good work when it feels like all you're managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position.” — On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
What that quote sort of says to me is that, as stated above, it's easy to be hard on yourself, especially when you've been staring at & re-reading something repeatedly for way too long & no longer with a fresh set of eyes, at that. But someone else out there will love what you have to offer. I guarantee it (I just felt like the fuckin' Dos Equis guy w/ that lol). Too many fucking people on this planet for that not to happen.
Addressing your actual question: as stated previously, all you can do is write. Multi-chapter story too much? Write half that. That too much? Write a one-shot. That too much? Write a ficlet. That too much? Write a drabble. That too much? Write a couple sentences.
Build off of what you're able to. Write what is there in your head & heart first. The rest will hopefully come to you later. Such a thing isn't guaranteed, but with every word you write, you're sharpening your ability to do so in a way that you finally like.
Do you think what I put out now is the same quality as the horror story I wrote about vampire cats & a disappearing house when I was a 5? Or the Twilight rip-off I wrote at 11? No. But without those predecessors, I wouldn't be where I am now. I wouldn't have people coming to me all these years later, almost like I'm the mouth of God on the craft (I promise I'm not trying to be egoist when I say that), asking me how to get better at doing it.
I just had to keep going, and shovel shit from a sitting position.
tagged by: @an-abysma1-0bserver. ty! 🩷
tagging: @sylasthegrim @vampyshlut @shes-an-odd-bird & whoever else would like to!
when did you start writing?
When I was 5! But I didn't get more invested in it until I was 11.
what fic do you wish could get a little more love?
Literally any fic of mine that's focused solely on Robby. It sucks knowing that if I wrote the exact same fics, but with the name exchanged with Jack's, that they'd get triple the notes.
first fictional or famous crush?
Darien Shields. 🌙
how open are you to people irl about writing fanfiction?
I tried sharing with a few exes in the past, but one made a mocking comment, another called me out for my OC being a self-insert, & another fell asleep when I tried to read him literally just 1 scene I was proud of, so prob won't be doing that w/ any partner(s) in the future ever again!
As for family, I've read various snippets to my dad (not anything I published here other than a couple funny scenes from a Robby fic I did) from a few different works & he keeps telling me to try & get something published so he can finally retire & travel loool.
♡ I Get What I Want (3.3k) | After taking over as Deputy Chief, Charlie saw it fitting that he should have his own personal secretary. But clerical work was never going to be the only use he intended for you to fulfill.
♡ synopsis: after taking over as deputy chief, charlie saw it fitting that he should have his own personal secretary. but clerical work was never going to be the only use he intended for you to fulfill.
♡ content: non-con, he is truly a scumbag i mean it, dacryphilia, he spits on her hoohah, power imbalance, age-gap, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, creampie, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, misogyny, threatening behavior, reader dissociates during
♡ a/n: never watched any episodes that shawn was in, just some clips on yt, so hopefully i sorta captured his portrayal accurately!
When Reid came on as Deputy Chief, he was met with the reception of open arms. He was seen as a welcome addition to the department, particularly after the late former chief's tragic passing by his own hand. To have someone fill his shoes finally put things back in order at long last.
But along with his cushy high-rise position came many extra responsibilities. Unbeknownst to you, the older man has had an eye for you since his stint with the Office of the Superintendent. As such, because of your ignorance to his infatuation, him plucking you from the Bureau of Patrol where you processed traffic citations daily to instead be his personal secretary came as a complete surprise.
You hardly complained, however. There were never-ending stacks of paperwork and emails to get through, as well as a phone that was constantly ringing off the hook, but the bump in pay made it all worth it.
Maybe you could finally get yourself a new used car from your exciting raise, you thought.
You could've never dreamed how much it would cost you, though.
You should've known something was amiss with all the muttered pet names, sly touches when no one else was looking, and compliments toward your dresses when all he actually seemed able to focus on were your physical assets. It made your hair prickle on occasion, but you had been naïve—of the innocent belief that no one would be able to climb so far if they were corrupt; dirty. In the end, that's exactly why he managed such a feat.
Makes things easier when you have the right people paid off or indebted to you, turns out.
"Thought I was the only one here," Charlie remarks from behind you.
Turning this way and that, you glance over your shoulder and study the sight of the deputy chief casually leaned against the doorway of his office with crossed arms and a devious smile painted across his lips. Pushing off it, he stalks toward you with steady strides; his heavy department-issued boots thumping across polished tiles. "Pulling a late one, huh?"
You turn back to the illuminated desktop in front of you and blink away the blurriness overtaking your tired eyes. "Just trying to finish a few things up," you explain quietly.
Dragging over a chair from the desk across from yours, the wooden legs scrape across the floor like nails on a chalkboard. You grit your teeth until he finally spins it around and straddles the back of it.
"My girl," he purrs while sliding a palm along the curve of your neck. "Working hard for her chief. Knew I made the right choice when I hand-picked you."
You force a wavering smile and continue typing.
Massaging the sides of your neck with his fingertips, he speaks again. "You like working under me?" Charlie inquires with tilted lips and darkling eyes.
You swallow. "I do."
He hums in satisfaction. "Hell of a lot better than the Traffic Division," he rumbles. "Nice desk right by my corner office," he continues while sliding his hand lower, to your shoulder. "Breaks. Hour long lunch."
He stands and you mistakenly hit an incorrect key.
Coming round to stand behind you, he plants each of his calloused palms atop your tensed shoulders. Bearing down and kneading knotted muscles from you being hunched over all day, he keeps talking. "Holiday bonus." He leans down close to the shell of your ear. "Had to pull a few strings to get the last one on your paycheck, so I hope you appreciate my efforts."
"I-I do," you stutter.
With every violent coronary contraction that thumps between your breasts, your breathing grows more shallow. You should've left along with everyone else hours ago. The work constantly flows; it's never-ending. As such, it could've waited until morning.
"Thank you," you tack on quickly.
"Thank you for being polite," he whispers.
"Now, I hope you don't take this as me being greedy," he begins while releasing you to instead flip his previously abandoned chair back around. Seating himself upon it with spread legs, he slaps his palms against his thighs. "But I have been hoping for a little something in return."
Acid roils in your stomach and crawls its way up the back of your throat.
"Sweet young thing that you are, I'd hate to see you fall into the wrong hands," Charlie croons while moving a hand to your thigh. "It can just...be too much to carry sometimes, y'know? All the pressure weighing on me."
With fingers left hovering above the keyboard, you glance down to where he's made contact and watch as he verges closer and closer to your inner thigh.
"I just need a way to relax," he finishes.
"I—I think I should head home now," you whimper while making to grab for your bag.
He clamps down with a pinching squeeze. "Be polite," he growls. "Mind your manners."
Falling back against your chair with stinging tears brimming in your eyes, you consider breaking one of his fingers, or stabbing him in the eye with a sharp, metal letter opener. The first would be no good—he's so much bigger and stronger. You'd never make it to the door.
As for the second... Would anyone believe you if you told them why you had to do it?
He leans in close; close enough for you to inhale the warm, heavy scent of his cologne. "Considering a way out?" Charlie asks quietly.
You remain still.
"Feels rather insulting," he jeers. "Thought you liked me," he finishes with a feigned pout.
You don't justify what he's said with a response. He's like a wolf playing with its food before inevitably chomping down on an artery—every bit of struggle you display only spurs him on all the more.
"I want you to listen to me," he grates while inching closer to the hem of your dress. "You're not going to tell anyone what I'm about to do to you. If you do—look at me!" he suddenly shouts, causing you to shriek in terror.
Jerking your head in his direction, he grips your chin painfully tight to keep you steady. "Eyes on me," Charlie commands while prodding against your panties with his fingertips. "If you think to tell, just remember what kind of power I have. I own this department now. I have other cops, judges, and criminals alike in my back pocket."
He curves a finger and shoves it toward your covered opening. "I'll get you blackballed throughout the entire fucking justice system. And where you've been here for a few years..." he purses his lips and shrugs. "You'll be damned either way. Leave the PD off your resume, and questions'll be asked about such a considerable gap in your work history. Put it on, and they'll be contacting me for a reference."
He tangles his fingers in your hair and tugs your head back. "But don't you think for one second that I'm letting you go anywhere." He cups you over your panties. "This?" Charlie leans in ever closer. "You? Belong to me now."
A quiet sob spills past your lips and he grins. "We have an understanding, sweetheart?"
You nod vigorously.
He releases you and kicks his chair back and sends it skidding across the floor in the direction he took it from. "Good."
Grabbing your upper arm, he wrenches you out of your seat and sends you staggering into his sturdy side before leading you into his office.
"W-What're you—" you try to pull away. "P-Please don't."
"I get what I want," he mutters before dragging you over the threshold and shouldering the door shut behind him.
Shoving you in the direction of his desk, he surveys you with ravenous hunger, teeming in eyes which have bled from brown to black in the lack of lighting. "Why're... Why're you doing this?!" you screech while searching the space for his utility belt.
You need to get his gun!
"I've wanted this for so fucking long," he says huskily before pinning your squirming waist to the edge of the desk. Gripping your chin in the space between his thumb and forefinger, Charlie trails wet, searing kisses up your sensitive neck. "If you fight me, it'll only make things worse for you. So just do as you're told and it'll all be over soon. Got it?"
You begin to sob hysterically. Broken cries interrupted by choking hiccups that get caught in your restricted airway block out the sound of a small fan whirring in the corner and the hum of a computer tower beneath his desk. Your terror is all which remains in this suffocating room.
Grabbing your hips, he situates you atop the desk, then pulls a switchblade from his pocket.
You wail harder.
Shoving your dress up to your stomach, he grabs the waistline of your underwear and slices through the material in one fluid motion on either side. Once he's yanked them free from your bottom, the thin material flutters toward the floor.
"You don't get some cut-and-dry narrative about tonight," he murmurs while planting each of your feet atop the desk to give him plenty of room to work. "One where you call me a monster and claimed I forced myself on you."
Sinking to his knees, Charlie closes his mouth for a moment, then puckers his lips and spits on your exposed cunt. "You're going to come, and then the real fun begins."
Dragging the pad of his thumb through your folds, you buck your hips and wonder what you might accomplish if you went toppling over the desk backwards. If you hit your head, would it be at an end? Would he rush you to the ER? Would you find a shotgun in the space under it and be able to rack a load in time to use it on him?
"Are you clean?"
Interrupted from your deliberations, your brows furrow. "What?"
He circles your clit next. "Are you clean?" he repeats exasperatedly.
Clean? What does he mean clean? You shower every night. What is he—
Oh.
"Yes."
"Thought so," he utters before diving between your legs.
You squeeze your eyes shut when he drags his tongue through your slick folds, and dig your nails into the carved wooden edge of the desk to maintain composure. You refute the warm feeling which blooms between your spread thighs when he sucks on your clit; ignore how your fleshy walls squeeze tightly around his thick fingers when he eases them inside you.
You project from your body and into another room when it begins to respond with rocking hips and moans falling from your lips in an act of betrayal.
Bearing witness to Biblical temptation from afar, you watch through shaded windows as you keep your legs spread like a greedy whore, wanting for more of what he's offering.
If you're so very willing, then maybe this is deserved.
Looping his arms around your thighs, Charlie rests them over his over his shoulders and his face disappears entirely until all you see is a field of silver curls just below your belly. "God," you groan with your head throw back.
Slurping your arousal and smacking his lips against your own second set, your body begins to calm from its earlier erratic state. Circling your sensitive bundle with a speared tongue, Charlie doesn't see fit to stop until your orgasm bursts through you cataclysmically—complete with trembling legs, sweaty skin, and mewling whimpers escaping your mouth as your head spins and your body goes numb from a sense of euphoria.
When he rises, it's with a contained groan and hands planted upon aging joints.
You watch quietly as he pops the shiny tines on his leather belt loose while staring directly between your legs and licking his shimmering lips.
Covering your mouth, you start to cry again. Oh God, what if it makes him angry? "I'm—" you try to muffle yourself. "'M sorry," you whimper while dipping your chin.
"Don't be," he says while swiping away a salty tear with the pad of his thumb. He smiles affectionately. "I want you to."
Planting a hand against your shoulder, Charlie pushes you back. Before you can react, he shoves his cock inside you with a single thrust.
At some point—rather, after you began slapping and kicking him in protest of your own assault—he pulled you off the desk, flipped you around, and began pounding into you from behind. That was after he pinned your wrists above your head and threatened to make your life here a living hell if you didn't behave yourself.
Like it won't be anyway now.
You're also completely naked and have jumped up, onto your tiptoes to make his ministrations easier to take.
Your bunched-up dress lies balled-up in a corner somewhere, mocking you from afar for giving up and in so easily to his wicked whims. With your breasts pressed flat against the desktop, you're also left feeling a bit cold.
Your body trembles.
Charlie's grip around your hips has grown so tight that it's sure to leave bruising come the morn, but perhaps that's part of his design—an unspoken reminder of where he's been; what he's done to you.
Grunting as he snaps his hips against your ass, it sends ripples through the plump skin.
You tried counting the thrusts to make the time pass faster, but he's rather quick about it. You lost track after 20.
You wish he'd hurry the fuck up and be done already.
Like your prayers have finally been answered, his hips stutter and his breaths become ragged. "Oh f—Oh fuck. Mm, I'm gonna come," he groans.
You stare at a dying plant on the widowsill.
You should save the poor thing.
"Fuck—fuck," he utters before clutching a handful of your hair and wrenching you back against his bare chest where he's left his shirt unbuttoned. Wrapping one hand around your throat and the other around your waist to keep your body flush against his, Charlie's cock begins to twitch, and just as thick spurts of cum begin to fill you, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, causing you to scream in frenzied anguish.
You claw at his hand to try and free yourself, but it's no good. He has you right where he wants you.
Eventually, his breathing slows, his mouth retracts, and his hold loosens.
Once it's finally over, the chief pulls out of you—leaving semen to run down both your thighs as you slump lifelessly over his desk. He tosses a box of tissues at you and commands you to clean yourself up while he wipes off his girthy, soiled cock.
You quietly excused yourself to the restroom after. You took your time washing away the evidence of what he did.
You can't tell.
You had considered it, though. If someone came, he'd be caught red-handed. Even if he tried to argue that it was consensual, he would still be disbanded from the force for having sex with a subordinate.
But you forgot your phone at your desk.
Once you've peed, his cum has stopped dribbling out of you, and you've scrubbed the tears from your face, you return to gather your things.
You never look at your broken reflection.
One by one—with stiff limbs—you tuck your personal belongings away. Cellphone, charger, lip balm, hair band.
You briefly forget how to get yourself home when you begin to think on it.
You don't feel like yourself.
It's like he's still buried inside you, stretching you in half until your cunt melds perfectly around his every vein and ventricle.
"I'll walk you out," Charlie states while locking his office up for the night, causing you to jump quietly; you'd forgot he was here. "Not safe out there alone," he jests with a wink while sidling close and wrapping an arm around your shoulders.
You remain hauntingly silent as the quiet clicking of your shoes echo across an empty building you never wish to return to.
"Just so you know," Charlie begins while leaning against the driver side door of your vehicle to prevent your escape, "I don't plan on sharing my new stress toy. You'll soon come to learn that I'm a jealous man."
You clutch your bag close to your chest and merely nod. You're not even a person now, but instead something to be played with.
You'd been right about the animal analogy after all.
Resting the heels of his palms against the windowsill, he tilts his head while studying your withdrawn, sullen expression. If you mean for it to be a deterrent, it's having the exact opposite effect. The erection stretching across his upper thigh is proof enough of that. "While you were in the restroom, I put an app on your phone to track your location."
Your eyes meet with his.
"Before you try to go searching for it, though, it's fairly well hidden." He shrugs indifferently. "Right electronic shop could locate it, but... Minute I find out you've uninstalled it, or deactivated the device, you can kiss your job here goodbye."
You sniffle and take a small step back. "Could just leave it at home," you sneer.
He grins. "Same goes for your car." Charlie pats the door. "Don't go searching the undercarriage unless you want trouble."
When... When did he—
"Since I can already see the cogs turning: right after making you my secretary." He chuckles. "Told you, I'm possessive."
Taking you suddenly into his arms, Charlie brings you against his chest and brushes a kiss over the crown of your head. "You just do what your new boss tells you and everything'll be fine. I promise, sweetheart."
Turning your face toward the crook of his shoulder, you start to cry.
He clicks his tongue, then softly shooshes you while running a palm down the back of your head. "Aw, my little cuddlebug tired?" he taunts.
You nod while nuzzling against his chest. "Do you get off on humiliating me?" you mumble.
He snorts. "That's so cute: you already starting to figure out how I work."
While you'd like very much to hurt him in truly horrific ways... Your only option right now is to remain plaint and agreeable. Otherwise, he could bring your entire world to a standstill. More than he already has.
After he bent you over his desk, you just wanted to be held. Comforted.
He's the only one who knows what happened, so he's the only one who can provide what you need. Isn't he?
An image of a finely sharpened #2 pencil stabbed through his jugular flits through your mind and you take solace in it.
Winding your arms around his waist, you shuffle your feet to stand closer.
"You be good to me," he whispers. "And I'll be good to you," he finishes with a kiss on the tip of your nose. "Since I have every intention of continuing on like this, I need to ask: are you on anything?"
You slowly blink bloodshot eyes open. "Like what?" you ask numbly.
He cards his fingers in your hair. "To prevent any unwanted consequences."
Oh. That.
"Yes."
Charlie scoffs. "Didn't take you for the type of girl who gets around."
"It helps with my periods," you spit. "Makes the flow not so heavy."
Dumbass.
He hums. "Didn't know that." He runs a hand down your back. "Just make sure to keep on top of it."
Your eyes flit around the empty parking lot. "But... Birth control doesn't always work—"
"Well, I have always wanted a family," he coos. "Could always benefit you if it did happen. Just think: you'd get to stay home barefoot and pregnant, and never have to work again. With my salary, you'd be well taken care of. What sort of young woman wouldn't want that for herself?"
Misogynistic bastard.
Peeling you away from the warmth his body momentarily provided, he pops your door open. "Something to consider," he states while resting his forearms atop the seal and his chin atop them as he studies you with sparkling eyes.
♡ synopsis: when you accidentally slip up at work and refer to robby by a paternal nickname, you shut down from embarrassment. unfazed, however, he encourages you to continue doing so in the future if it provides you with a feeling of stability in the workplace... and then he takes things outside of it.
♡ content: fauxcest, age-gap, power imbalance, daddy kink (reader calls him dad, dada, & daddy), fingering, cuddling
You brought an unexpected spark to Robby's life when you started your residency at PTMC. Not because you were a firecracker, but rather a warm, beautiful fizzle that never seemed to taper.
Something he could rely on to provide light in the darker moments which were slowly morphing into an endless tunnel.
He never meant to lean on you, but was nevertheless grateful when you finally seemed to do so back, indicating to him that his affections weren't quite so one-sided like he initially feared. You were like two pillars, who, if one fell, so did the other. But so long as they remained perfectly aligned, they would never topple.
He's made an effort over the years not to show favoritism—it serves only to be a distraction and, not to mention, hindrance toward med students' and residents' educations and training—but it just... Came natural to him with you.
Robby knows others have started to catch on. Whether his staring, affectionate touches, pet names, draping you in his hoody when you seem cold, or bringing you treats before you each start your shared shift is the culprit for their noticing his adoration, he's not sure.
Doting on you is one thing. A welcome aid in helping you flourish beneath his tutelage. But the growing attraction he's garnering toward you—someone young enough to have come from him—is a problem.
It is the aforementioned distraction.
Instead of studying charts or emptying the board over the nurses station, he chooses to stare at you. Instead of tugging on gloves during a trauma case, he takes an extra millisecond to brush a palm along your arm or back just to make physical contact. And instead of listening to the more solid differential diagnoses of his fellow attendings or senior residents, he asks for your train of thought just to hear your voice.
His own personal spot of sunshine.
You've slowly become his religion.
He'd be a better physician and teacher for it if he finally managed to create a bit of needed distance and reign in his adulation, but that idea goes right out the window the day you call him an unintended name, and your dynamic soon thereafter shifts entirely.
Treating a UTI is something Robby should've delegated to someone below him so that he could otherwise assist on a trauma case next door, but when he saw you wander into South 10 to aid, he couldn't help himself.
Now that the room is empty, save for the pair of you, you're enmeshed in silence while you each put various packaged supplies away before jumping onto the next case.
"Dad, can you—" Suddenly, and with quiet alarm, you go entirely still.
With shoulders now drawn tightly together, you blink dewy eyes in silent panic.
Oh God. What did you do?
His head snaps back in your direction and Robby studies you with a look of surprise. "What do you need, sweetheart?" he asks quietly while leaning back on his heel. Standing across the room, he attempts to glimpse your face, but you're turned too far away for him to see it.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just came out." Wiping away unexpected tears, you shake your head then continue on.
Robby slowly rounds a gurney and takes calm, measured steps toward you. "It's alright," he reassures soothingly. "I didn't mind."
He's just trying to minimize your mortification, you think. Somehow, though, it just makes you want to call him as much yet again.
"Is that how you think of me sometimes?" Robby asks while sliding a hand down your back.
You shrug.
"Talk to me, honey," he insists.
"Around here," you begin while swallowing down the lump in your throat. "Everybody does, I think. And... I can't imagine how much that must weigh on you. How heavy it is to carry all of us; this hospital. So, I don't mean to make it worse—"
"You didn't," he interjects with a shake of his head. "It means something to me that you see me as that: a father figure. Someone to be trusted in that capacity."
You can't keep talking about this.
"It won't happen again," you assure while stuffing sterile gauze back into a supply cart.
Robby's hand retreats into a pocket. "I'm not saying that you can't. At least when we're alone together."
Your brows knit together and you turn to him. "What?"
Robby's head tilts and he studies you with a fond smile. "I haven't always done the best job at hiding my favoritism of you." He ghosts the back of his index finger down your soft cheek. "Means you get preferential treatment."
He shrugs casually. "So, if calling me that puts you at ease when you're here, you can." Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, he shuts the drawer you've now finished with. "I'd prefer it."
It's been three days and you haven't done it again. If anything, it seems like you're avoiding him now. Every effort Robby makes to reach out to you is met with resistance when you slip from his grasp to instead work with McKay, Langdon, or even Dana.
He's chomping at the bit to pull you back to his side where you belong.
"How's my girl?" Robby asks with a playful smile while rounding on you.
Glancing up from the glossy iPad you're currently getting a quick bit of charting accomplished on, you blink up at him. "Oh. I'm okay. You?"
Robby bobs his head from side to side. "Be better if I understood why you seem to be avoiding me all of a sudden." He slides the least bit closer while resting a forearm atop the counter in front of you. "This behavior have anything to do with what happened the other day?"
Returning to the tablet, you try to flit through the thoughts in your mind like organized folders, but ultimately come up blank in terms of a reply.
Pressing the wealth of his broad chest against your side, Robby leans in closer. "I told you I was okay with it, sweetheart." Cupping your opposite shoulder in his hand, he brings his lips close to your ear. "I keep hoping you'll say it again." He shrugs. "Just to see how it feels."
"I-I already did," you stammer.
"It'd be intentional this time," he mutters. Robby watches you type for a moment. "Can you try for me? If you feel comfortable with that?"
Your fingers halt atop the digital keyboard. This seems rather important to him, but the potential of calling Dr. Michael Robinavitch a paternal name... The butterflies in your stomach are now fluttering so hard that you fear you may be sick from nerves.
"D—" you pause and swallow thickly.
"Go on, honey," he encourages. "It's just you and me."
"Dad," you whisper.
A smile tugs at his bearded lips. "Thank you," he rumbles with renewed relief blooming in his chest. "Remember, anytime we're alone. Alright?"
You tilt your head to look at him and your nose nearly brushes against Robby's because of how close he's standing. "Okay... Daddy."
You figured you'd try it. Maybe it'd feel less strange and cringe-worthy than the more formal 'dad'.
He cocks his head and squints an eye in silent debate. "Much prefer the other one," he states with a peck on your forehead.
In the last handful of weeks, you've become rather accustomed to your new... Well, you don't know what other word to use for it, other than arrangement. It took a bit more incentive on Robby's end to keep the momentum going at the beginning due to your hesitation, as well as laughing from nerves every time he tried to lay down some fatherly conviction initially, but now it's become a daily custom.
Hourly, really.
He's unaware, but his ordering you lunch a few times and offering to buy whatever it was that he glimpsed in your Amazon cart when he spied over your shoulder to see what you were window-shopping for one afternoon weren't the reasons you kept doing it. It was because of how happy it seemed to make him—how he'd beam each time you gently gripped the sleeve of his hoody with a playfully murmured 'Hi, dada' during slower moments in the ED. Robby doesn't seem to mind that one either, so you fluctuate between it and Dad.
Like this morning, when you were hopping up and down in the staff lounge, trying quite poorly to knock down a coffee cup so that you could have a bit of caffeine before your day officially began. You were just considering dragging a chair over to stand on when Robby swung inside. "Somethin' you need help with, sweetheart?"
Shrinking in embarrassment, you eye a stack of paperboard cups that're mocking you from the top shelf. "They're supposed to be kept on the counter next to the coffee pot," you complain.
He chuckles. "Honey, if you wanted coffee, you could've just called or texted me. I would've picked you up some on the way in."
With ease, he grabs the desired items and sets them down in their rightful place. "Have you ate yet?" he questions with crossed arms.
Tugging a cup free from plastic wrap, you pull out the coffee pot and begin to carefully pour. "Well... No. Not yet."
You nearly wince when he sighs.
Time for a lecture.
"Sweetheart, how many times do I have to tell you to stop leaving the house on an empty stomach? Every time you do, it's only two hours into your shift before you start shaking from low blood sugar."
You frown, then turn toward the fridge and roll your eyes while searching for creamer.
If Robby saw you do that, there'd be hell to pay for it later. He dislikes when you get bratty, even minimally. You've gathered that he prefers you sweet.
"It's a choice between breakfast, or another half hour of sleep." You unscrew the cap of caramel creamer and begin to pour. "I choose sleep," you mumble.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "God forbid you do what your father asks you to."
Tucking the bottle back away in the shared fridge, you almost burst into laughter.
Sometimes this still feels like a bizarre form of roleplay to you. Maybe if you were closer in age, or he wasn't the chief attending of the ED and so incredibly intimidating to top it all off, then you wouldn't find it hysterical.
"Not trying to make you mad," you say quietly while sipping your steaming drink. "It's not your job to worry about me. Especially when there are people coming in with heart attacks, strokes, and—"
"As my daughter, yes, it is," he states firmly with hands planted on hips.
You sip again, but very slowly to hide your smirk.
You're mostly amused because he's taking this whole thing so very seriously.
"I'll eat a bagel on my next break, ok? Or a candy bar."
He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "This fuckin' kid," he murmurs. Lowering his chin again, he glares daggers at you through narrowed eyes. "Candy bar. So pure sugar."
You sigh, then go to step past him, until Robby grabs you by the forearm. "I will get you something from the lunch cart when they bring it around. And whatever I put in front of you, I expect you to eat. Understand?"
"Yes, dad."
He runs his thumb along the soft skin of your inner arm while silently considering. "Come back to my place with me tonight so I can make you dinner," he says with a much softer tone.
You glance up to him.
Releasing you, he cups your cheek instead. "As my..." he sighs. "I want my little girl to feel just as comfortable at her dad's place as she does at her own. And if the only way I can get you to eat something decent is by making you, then so be it."
You smile up at him while batting your lashes. "Chicken nuggets for dinner?"
His smile instantly fades while a brow is raised instead.
You snort, then take another sip of your coffee. "I'm kidding," you explain. Standing on tiptoes, you kiss his stubbled cheek. "Whatever dada wants, he gets."
On the dot two hours later, a wrapped sandwich is tossed down in front of where you sit at your work station. "Eat up," Robby barks. "Dad's orders."
Walking over to a computer cart with long, steady strides, he retrieves his readers from his scrub pocket and slides them over the wide bridge of his nose before watching you from a distance.
You look at him out of the corner of your eye and note how he only turns to the monitor in front of him once your meal is halfway gone.
Once naught is left but plastic wrap, you swivel in his direction, ball it up, then toss it into a trash can.
He nods while mouthing 'good girl' before heading into an exam room.
Your tummy squeezes excitedly when you watch him go.
Kneeling beside you, Robby rests a forearm atop the counter you're seated at charting. "You got much left to do?"
You shake your head and pluck the dictation device from your lap again. "Just the rest of this chart."
He slides a palm over your knee before giving it a solid pat. "I'll wait 'til you're done, then."
Watching as he leans back before fishing his phone out of his pocket, you nod with a grateful smile. "Ok, dada."
Slipping his glasses onto his nose, Robby slides his legs under yours.
"Oh, shoot," you hiss. There's a particular remark you meant to make on your last patient, but neglected to. God forbid you forget it again while finishing up with your current chart.
It never ends.
Swiping a stack of sticky notes from the edge of the desk, you glance around in search of an ink pen. "Could you hand me that, Robby?" you ask while nodding to a ballpoint resting next to his elbow.
He continues studying his cell, so you wait a second. Reading something, perhaps?
"Robby," you exclaim with a raised brow.
Is he ignoring you?
"Hellooo?" you drawl.
You could swear a smirk just ghosted across his lips... And with his legs beneath you, you can't just roll over there.
A figurative lightbulb dings to life then. "Dad?" you bark with growing irritation.
Locking his phone, he grants you his full attention. "Yes, honey?"
You shake your head with a sigh. "Pen."
Plucking it from the desktop, he hands it to you with a smile, accompanied by a mischievous wink.
Now being within the confines of his home, you'd think Robby would feel far more at ease. Instead, watching as you stare up at him waiting for direction, he feels suddenly out of his depth.
He doesn't want to squander this moment.
"Would you like to take a shower while I get started on dinner?" he asks with a thin smile.
"Oh," you say with a start. "Well, besides a change of scrubs in my bag—"
"You can wear something of mine," Robby suggests while pulling you along toward his bedroom.
"It'll be more like a nightgown," he remarks while holding up a dark blue t-shirt. "But at least you'll be comfortable."
You gingerly take the soft cotton garment from him and clutch it happily to your chest. "Thank you, dada."
His eyes shimmer in the low light the moon provides through the bedroom window that stands at his back, and he cups the base of your scalp. "You're welcome, sweetheart."
He dithers for a moment, then with the quiet scuffle of socked feet on hardwood floors, turns you around to lead you toward an awaiting shower.
Dining on a heaping plate of saucy, seasoned spaghetti—he made more than he should've in an effort to impress—and buttery slices of garlic toast, Robby watches from beneath his lashes and in-between bites of his meal as you gradually clean your plate.
He can't help the sense of satisfaction that settles upon him at the sight of you so safe and content in his home; at his table. Washed in his soaps, wearing his clothes, eating food he prepared for you.
He wants to ask if he's a good enough dad to you, but feels strange about it. Is he being ridiculous? Somehow immature? A man his age playing surrogate father to his work subordinate because he's that fucking desperate for a family...
It's not your problem to solve.
What if you've only kept on with this whole ruse because you're afraid of displeasing him?
Pushing the dish away, he finds that he's suddenly lost his appetite.
God, he's fucking sick.
"You okay?" you ask after a swift slurp of spaghetti, followed up by a generous sip of tinkling ice water.
Crossing his arms, you feel the energy of the room shift suddenly into that of tightened tension.
"Just lost my appetite," he rumbles.
You drop your fork and it clatters against the edge of your porcelain plate. "Did I...do something?"
He lowers his chin and shakes his head infinitesimally. "It's not you."
Your chin wobbles. "Do you want me to leave?"
Robby's eyes of darkened brown flit to yours. "No. No," he replies while leaning across the table toward you. "I'm just...getting in my head. I'm sorry, baby."
"About?" you ask warily.
"Are we—" he sighs and scrubs a calloused hand down his tired face. "Are we being foolish here? Playing at daddy-daughter like we have some right, or even valid reason to?" His eyes search yours for an answer. "You're not just going along with it to stroke my ego, right? Because it'd gut me to find out that the only reason you've let it ride like you have is to benefit me."
"Oh, Robby," you sigh dolefully.
Prying his strong arms apart, you lace your fingers between his and hold fast to him. "No. Not at all. I know sometimes it's been for the sake of playfulness. At first, did it feel a bit absurd? Sure. But not now. Now, just like you wanted, it brings me comfort and makes me feel...special. That you see me in such a way in return, I mean; want me to be that for you."
He rolls his head to the side and studies you. "Are you sure?"
Lifting his hand to your lips, you press a tender kiss to the back of it. "Yes, dad, I am."
Now consoled, his lip twitches in contentment. "C'mere," he commands with a slight jerk of his head and wave of his hand while pushing his seat back.
Rising from your own, you settle yourself sideways in his lap and circle his neck with your arms.
Sliding a palm between your legs, he encourages them apart with a careful push. "Spread your legs for me, baby."
Plopping one foot on the floor, you grant him requested access to what lies between your thighs. Pressing two fingers against already slick folds, he prods gently against your fluttering entrance.
Lying your head on his shoulder, your eyes gently close when Robby swipes a lubricated fingertip across your clit, followed by easing a single digit inside you. "That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs.
You card your fingers in his hair while clutching at the neck of his shirt with your other palm. "Y-yes, dada," you whimper.
"Good girl," Robby utters with a kiss.
Apparently work isn't the only place Robby sees fit to teach you at.
You feel like you're learning new things about your body right now. Like how if someone pushes down on the lower portion of your belly—right above your pubic mound—while fingering you with rapid abandon, it feels even more pleasurable than ordinary masturbation.
Interrupted only by the occasional swipe of his tongue across your swollen clit, you clutch helplessly at smooth sheets of dark grey which smell satisfyingly of Robby. His cologne: hints of pine and fresh rain, and soap: a hint of masculine musk.
His personal aroma is like that of the color evergreen. Homey, verdant, and wild.
Lifting your hips slightly, Robby pushes them back down while hammering his fingers away between your slick, stretchy walls.
"Ooooh my fucking God," you cry while letting your legs fall apart again.
"Hey," Robby pants while staring at you from beneath hooded lids. "Look at me, young lady."
Lifting your head, you force yourself up onto your forearms. "W-What?"
"I don't wanna hear foul language like that ever again. If you do say it again, I'm washing that mouth out with soap," he spits.
You throw your head back down against a fluffy pillow. "S-sorry, dada," you whine.
"It's alright, sweetheart," he coos. "Just know..." he says while swallowing the saliva that's pooling in his mouth. "That you're never too old for me to put you over my knee."
Your eyes roll back in your head. "Ah... Okay."
Pulling his fingers from your cunt, he snaps his hand, then flexes it while you start to whimper from the loss of sexual stimulation.
"Please," you blubber while digging your nails into your scalp.
"Fuckin' hand is cramping," he mutters. Easing his index and middle fingers from his non-dominant hand between your pulsing walls, he gets back to work.
"Y-You just cursed," you complain.
"Dad gets to set the rules," he states before kissing your clit with a loud smack. "Doesn't mean he's obligated to follow them."
Your head lulls to the side. "No fair," you whisper.
He chuckles. "Think you'll forgive me when you finally cum all over dada's fingers."
Cuddled against Robby's soft chest, you snuggle against warm, doughy skin that's smattered with curls of dark hair.
You love it here.
"There's something I've been thinking about," he mutters before pressing his lips to the crown of your head.
You hum in interest.
"I worry about you and burnout," he elaborates. "Some days I can tell are better than others, but... The ED is the one place where I feel like I have use; purpose. After, I come back here—to a silent, empty house where the only person I have to look after is myself."
You slide a leg between his and curl it around his calf.
"I wouldn't mind having someone to take care of. I mean, do you like living alone? Having everything resting squarely on your shoulders?" Robby questions while stroking your arm.
You yawn and plant a palm against his pec. "Are you...asking me to—"
"Move in," he interrupts. "At least temporarily to see how it works out." He lovingly kisses your brow. "I always assumed I'd have a wife one day. Kids. Maybe one of which would be a daughter." He tightens his arms around you like vines. "Seems those things found me in the end."
He chuckles darkly. "Two for one, apparently."
You smoosh your face against his chest. "Whatever dada wants," you say while readying yourself for sleep. "Dad gets."
He splays his palm against your naked back. "Thank you, honey."
You tilt your head back, and he brushes a kiss over your lips.
