Older!price going through his storage with you, helping you put some of your stuff up while you move in, right?
And he stumbles upon something he hasn't seen in years: a sex tape. He holds it up to you with a smile "I was around your age when I made this, kid. I think I still had piercings back then, heh."
Which is how you both end up watching the grainy footage of a much younger price getting his back blown out. It takes you a moment to realize the bear of a man that has price moaning like a bitch is nikolai. Price is hardly recognizable too.
"I didn't know you were a twink, john." You snort, nodding at the much skinnier price. Still muscled, but missing that delicious fat you love so much. Shaven face, brow piercings glinting between static. Price is flushed and panting, you've never seen him so wrecked before, and you can't help reaching a hand between your legs.
"Seriously, kid?" Price smirks, but he's got a hard-on too.
You end up jerking off to the footage, then having price fuck you while you watch it a second time, then beg price to invite nikolai over someday. Whether to recreate the scene or to put you in it, you haven't decided yet.
Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT — if you’re uncomfortable with elements of dubcon and socially-conditioned misogyny, please do not read. A full list of warnings (including spoilers) has been provided here. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (m!receiving). Breeding kink.
Note: This story is set in the universe of Ira Levin’s 1972 book, The Stepford Wives. I would definitely recommend checking it out if you have the time (it’s a relatively short, easy read!). The original film adaptation is also amazing 🫡
Word count: 5.6k
August 2nd, 1971
Joel always came home at six o’clock.
By four-thirty on the dot, you were preparing dinner. Three doing laundry. Between noon and two, cleaning the upstairs rooms and tackling those especially-tough-to-banish stains that managed to crop up in the grout of your tiled showers. In the mornings, before the heat grew to be too stifling, you gardened out back—garlic, kale, Brussels sprouts, parsley, spinach, and cauliflower.
Life in Stepford, Texas was nothing short of idyllic. Suburban life, your mother had warned you many, many times over the course of your life, had this sly, insidious way of luring folks in and lulling otherwise free-thinking ladies into a state of perpetual complacency and ennui. But this wasn’t that. You were happy, and no one understood you better in this world than your husband.
Doting, devoted, and deferential to a fault, Joel Miller was a good man. A pillar of your community, and kind.
It had been his idea for you to wait to get married in the first place. Finish your schooling, I’ll still be around after you get that great big diploma, I promise, darlin’. He wasn’t like most husbands of his time; he wanted to see you succeed in and out of your relationship, in every way. He’d marched in the Women’s Strike for Equality last August and spoke fondly of Betty Friedan. He’d read Simone de Beauvoir without you ever having to mention the name and could quote Audre Lorde on command.
He’d even been compassionate enough to give you a year to breathe between having babies—some men didn’t care for their wives’ comfort and simply demanded as many children as they could bear.
Joel wasn’t like that. He’d been an absolute doll with your two daughters since the day they were born—Sarah, almost three, and Ellie, ten months old this week—and he never once complained. That was the main reason you didn’t count time with your girls among your daily ‘chores,’ truthfully. They were a joy to raise, and you knew as soon as your husband was home, he’d help.
Presently, you smoothed the front of your dress down your legs. The hem fell past your knees, and the fabric was a pretty marmalade color, a favorite of Joel’s. You knew he’d want a son eventually, but with Ellie being so young and Sarah starting preschool in a week, the fact you’d just moved to Stepford a few short months ago, well...what was the rush? You could spare an extra year or so to get fully settled and discuss plans to expand your family from there. Joel would understand. He always did.
At exactly six, the front door swung open, and you greeted your husband in a flurry of hugs and kisses. Sleeping peacefully upstairs, the girls gave you more than enough time to talk, eat, laugh, commiserate over Joel’s stick-in-the-ass boss—you’d met Dale Coba at a couple different luncheons and dinners put on by Burnham-Massey-Microtech, and you agreed, the guy was a real piece of work. Joel adored the coq au vin you’d prepared for him. After the meal, he beckoned you over, and you gave him dessert in the form of a blowjob.
Wiping your mouth clean with the back of your hand, you felt disheveled. Good girls don’t get on their knees; it’s a degrading thing, and boys won't respect you if you do it, alright? In the back of your mind, the voice of one of your high school teachers still echoed from time to time. Your eyes drifted to your husband’s, now heavily hooded, glazed, and sated as he watched you back, and you wondered if the same rules for good girls applied to good wives. Joel seemed to like head as much as anything.
A knuckle brushed your cheek. A lopsided sort of half-grin graced your husband’s lips as he tucked himself back into his briefs and slacks and then shifted back in his seat. He retrieved something from out of his pocket.
“Almost forgot,” he mumbled, before holding up a simple silver box a moment later. You’d almost forgotten it, too.
Ever since Ellie had been born, you and Joel agreed it would be wise for you to get on the pill. You weren’t crazy about swallowing anything that had such a funny taste—it had taken you ages just to get accustomed to your husband’s cum without gagging, like he liked—but you knew that it was a necessary evil to prevent getting pregnant before you were ready to have another baby. You were grateful to have that protection nowadays.
Swallow and smile. Smile and rise back to your feet, to get started on the rest of your tasks for the night; those would take another three or four hours at the very least.
And when, at the end of the evening and your skull had a pulse you could feel and your muscles ached with every movement, you almost dreaded having to put the girls back to bed. You’d cleared the table, done the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, tidied the den, breastfed Ellie, bartered with Sarah for twenty minutes over what ‘yucky’ food she would have to eat before she could play with her toys, and now you were ready to collapse.
You opened the door to Ellie’s bedroom and found your husband cradling your oldest, holding her over the crib.
“Say night-night to your sister, Sarah,” Joel cooed as he rocked her gently. The toddler squirmed in his arms and made a pass as if to reach out. “Say: ‘Night-night, Ellie.’”
Sarah beamed. Instead of clawing at her little sister in the usual fashion of a kid under three, she mimicked what her father was doing. He waved, and she waved.
Joel smiled, and she smiled bigger.
“Ni-Ni, Ellie,” she repeated, ‘Ls’ sounding more like ‘Ws.’
You couldn’t see it from where you stood at the door, but you imagined your younger daughter grinning back, kicking her tiny feet as she made something more like a gurgle than a coherent string of words. Your heart ached.
And, in such a state, it was no wonder that when Joel turned around to face you, still holding Sarah and still helping her wave that pudgy little hand, that you didn't bat an eye at what he said. He spoke it so casually then.
“Bet’cha can’t wait to have a baby brother soon, huh?”
Joel’s gaze drifted over to yours, and he seemed to hold it on purpose while he kissed the crown of Sarah’s head.
You watched him in a daze.
He was so good with your babies.
Later that night, you and Joel made love not once, not twice, but three times before heading to sleep. You nodded off with a sticky mess between your legs and thoughts of Joel’s mini-me running amok in your head.
Someday soon.
But not yet.
August 21st, 1971
“He’s perfect.”
Cradling the newborn to your chest, surveying every last sweet and unperturbed feature as the baby lay half-asleep in your arms, you meant it. He was beautiful.
No great surprise there, either, as Ruthann Hendry and her husband, Royal, were arguably the most attractive couple in Stepford, but still. You couldn't get over how cute their newest addition was. And he hadn't cried once.
You yourself were currently worn ragged from a nonstop-screaming baby and a toddler who absolutely despised going to daycare since she’d started it two weeks ago.
Ellie had caught a bug of some kind and couldn't bear to part with you longer than five minutes unless she were asleep, so now you were taking your respite in the form of visiting friends while she napped. It was Saturday, and Joel had been kind enough to forgo an outing with his buddies from the Men’s Association to watch the girls.
You loved your family dearly. You also couldn’t deny you’d never felt this drained in your life, and exhaustion weighed in your muscles and bones like cinder blocks.
Less than a month ago, you’d felt like you could’ve conquered the world on two hours of sleep—which you often had to do with two young children—and now you could scarcely even keep your eyes open just sitting here
You handed Ruthann’s boy back to her, blinking twice.
“He’s perfect,” you repeated, and smiled. “Precious.”
“Have you been getting enough rest? Relaxing, too?”
Your friend looked genuinely concerned as she took her son in her arms and scanned your frame, as if the answers to her questions might’ve been painted there.
You shrugged.
“No less than I was the last time we spoke. I just feel... worn out, sometimes. Or—Or all the time, I guess. I—”
“You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” you laughed.
Ruthann’s expression softened some, but not much.
She’d become one of your closest friends since you’d moved here three-and-a-half months ago, and, true to her kindly nature, she couldn’t stand seeing you unwell.
“Are you sure of that?” She raised her eyebrows at you.
“Just got my monthly visitor last week,” you replied.
“Alright. Good. I mean, it’s much too soon to be thinking about having another since Ellie’s only, what, eleven months old? I tried spacing mine out by four years, and even that was a struggle. I think I’m done after this one.”
Ruthann gestured to her boy, and you smiled again.
“Well, Joel does want a son at some point.”
“Joel isn't the one giving birth, is he?”
For whatever reason—maybe feelings of sleep deprivation and delirium—you let out a giggle. You shifted in your spot on the sofa, but then had to stop, shortly, when a sharp, biting pain seized your lower back.
“I—” A slight wince, a wrinkling of your nose. “—I wouldn’t mind having another in a few months’ time. I just wish I wasn't so...tired all the time. And achy, too.”
“And foggy and sluggish and vacant?” Ruthann added.
“That, too.” You blinked again. Wondering how she knew.
“You sound just like Jo did last week. Must be something going around Stepford. It’s strange.”
“Really? I haven't spoken to her in ages, it feels like.” Joanna Eberhart, another one of your friends in town, had always made it a habit to call you at least once a week. You’d been so busy with housework and the girls and feeling like someone was pulverizing your muscles with a meat mallet every other night you hadn’t noticed.
“Yeah, I spoke to her then, and she said she felt like she'd been hit by a truck. Sore and spacey and achy and all that stuff. Could barely leave the house. Then I saw her at the supermarket yesterday, and it was like—like, well...”
“What?” you pressed.
You watched Ruthann’s lips twitch down.
She paused for a second before going on, a bit more softly, drawing her child closer to her chest: “I don’t know, honestly. She looked great. Hair and makeup done to perfection, clothes as pristine as l’d ever seen on her, and her whole demeanor just...glowing. If I hadn’t known her better, I almost wouldn't have recognized her there. And she talked so polite and sweet to me then, it was like all that malaise from the week before had just slipped away and left her completely at peace. Like magic.”
“I need some of that,” you mused lightly. Smirking.
Ruthann shook her head.
“No, it didn’t feel right, I mean. She was a whole different person. No jokes, no laughter, no silly, snide remarks like she’d always used to make. She was damn near robotic.”
“You think something's wrong? Like, at home?” you said.
“Royal stopped by their place earlier, and he said the house was spotless. Joanna dusted the tops of the bookshelves while he and Walt went over some new projects, and he said it was like a TV commercial—Jo looked and acted like somebody advertising a cleaner, or something. Said it felt kind of eerie. But Walt was fine.”
“So now we’re vilifying women for cleaning up a little?” You didn't mean it to sound so teasing and smug, but it came out that way anyway, and your friend gave a slight roll of her eyes. She tried for an easy, affable smile after, but it formed a bit more like a grimace, and you felt bad.
“Sorry, I didn't mean—” you started, words sober.
“No, that’s alright,” Ruthann interrupted, and now she was smiling some. Laughing at herself, almost. “Royal thinks I’m a little nutty over this, too. It just sort of rubbed me the wrong way, I guess. But I'll get over it. Joanna’ll go back to normal, and then we can all do drinks over at that French place in Eastbridge, after you and Ellie get to feeling better, too. We’ll be just fine.”
“Sounds like a plan,” you said, pushing to stand.
Ruthann walked you to the front door, no doubt aware that your social battery was dwindling fast, and you said good-bye to her and the baby on the stoop. Tiny brown eyes opened to meet yours briefly from where your friend held him out, and time seemed to slow when he smiled. Your heart swelled at the sight, and you touched one soft, chubby cheek to prompt an even bigger grin.
“And tell Joel to lay off for a while, alright?” Ruthann called as you started down the steps. Her tone was playful, but there was her own kind of weariness there. “It’s nobody’s body but yours that has to carry his kid around, so you might as well be allowed to make that decision yourself. Don’t do anything ‘til you’re ready.”
“Agreed!” you shouted back, already halfway to your car.
And then, for good measure—also because you were slaphappy and tired as hell—you turned again, yelling:
“No more babies for me for a long time, I promise!”
September 10th, 1971
Joel’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ and didn’t budge.
When you sank lower, a moan tumbled out of it.
“Oh, fuck. Just like that, honey,” he panted.
Another three weeks had passed, and you were practically sleepwalking through life at this point.
Eyes bloodshot and slow, muscles atrophied and limp, your limbs were like noodles, and your bones brittle. Your mind was a wild discombobulation of thoughts, fears, and paranoid rovings, but you somehow always managed to do this OK. Your husband had had some tranquilizers prescribed to you to help soothe the pain.
“You always ride me so good. Always do it just right,” Joel praised you over and over again, while your hips burned and your stomach ached. His cock beat a relentless, rhythmic cadence inside you and stretched your walls just about as far as they would go, it felt like.
You pressed a palm to his chest, steadying yourself.
Seeking pleasure and finding very little of it there.
“I love you,” you babbled. “L-Love…doing this.”
“I know you do.”
Joel’s hair was mussed, and a fine sheen of sweat shone on his chest. He held you tenderly but firm, eyes never leaving your undulating form while you gave him his daily dose of stress relief. He’d been working such long hours at the plant of late, and that prick of a boss Dale Coba...
A sharp thrust from below almost sent you flying off him.
Your teeth ground tight, and a whine slid through them.
“Joel—”
“I know, baby, I know.”
He pushed you back on the bed, and suddenly you were lying flat, Joel’s hips between your legs, and his dick pounding you harder and faster than it had all night.
Stars flew behind your eyelids, and that felt mostly fine.
You were just so tired.
Joanna hadn’t called you back in weeks; Ruthann happened to bump into her at the library, and she said that she was just as unrecognizable as she was before.
Damn near robotic.
Foggy. Sluggish. Vacant.
Your eyes closed reflexively when Joel hit that special place deep within your center. His strokes were sloppy and quick, a little more rough than you would’ve liked it, but honestly, you were just glad to be getting a break—not having to cook or clean or scrub Sarah’s cheeks of the cinnamon from the cookies that you told her not to eat, or hearing Ellie’s wails reverberate down the hallway.
Joel’s lips fell to the side of your neck, and he sucked.
His hips dug even deeper into yours, and he pushed, grinding your lower half into his like he was starved.
The tip of his cock kissed your cervix repeatedly, insistently, while his lips and tongue and teeth carved a fiery path down the column of your throat. You groaned.
“Oh, sweetheart,” your husband rejoined, voice hoarse.
Cock plunging within the furthest recesses of your body and plugging your hole full of that pulsing, stabbing heat.
“Squeezin’ so tight you don't want him to leave, do you?”
By ‘him,’ he meant his dick, of course.
In any other position but this, you would’ve agreed.
But as it was right now, your legs were on fire and your head was heavy. Your ribs burned with each new breath.
Your body just might’ve given out altogether and melted into a little puddle on the bed, gray matter of your brain functionally fried beyond repair as it oozed out of your ears, but then words stirred you back to consciousness.
They rumbled, and they stunned you stiff, spoken low:
“Gonna let me put a baby in here again?”
Joel’s hand slid to your stomach.
It pressed. It left a mark.
As light as that touch happened to be, you could feel the warmth sear your skin like a brand. Your thighs tightened around your husband's sides, and your eyes peeled open.
You gripped the sheets beside your head, feeling an influx of pleasure start to claw up between your legs.
That was instinct.
Your head knew better.
“J-Joel, p-please,” you stuttered.
What was left of your wits fought it, anyway.
Your mind was all but drowning in anoetic rebellion, and now you found it difficult to form words. You blinked, swallowed, whimpered, writhed, and moaned, trying to think of something to say, but kept drawing blanks every time. The bed creaked and groaned with the weight of Joel's thrusts, and you could tell both of you were close.
“You’re gonna let me do it again, ain’t ya? You want it.”
More wet, frantic, jostling thrusts, paired with Joel's grunts getting louder and louder. He lifted his head.
He grinned and watched your body peak. Instinct.
You came without thinking. Joel followed swiftly.
And really, there must have been something wrong with you then, because why were you dreading that like a danger? Why would your husband—your sweet, solid, loving husband who understood you better than anyone else in this world—not be the single most potent motivator to wanting babies again? It didn’t make sense.
It also didn’t fully compute why your eyelids were growing heavier and heavier by the second once you came. Why your vision blurred. Why the heat between your legs was lost so suddenly, spend coating your insides but Joel withdrawing just as fast to move back.
All you knew was that his touch felt good on your cheek.
He stroked lightly, running his knuckles back and forth, up and down, and your eyes fell shut without a thought.
Something wrong, wrong, wrong, you said to yourself.
It also didn’t matter; you were falling asleep now.
Deep down, you were grateful for one thing:
At least you were still safe and on the pill.
September 26th, 1971
The pills should’ve worked by now.
Joel Miller had been fucking his pretty, silly wife raw for how long? Four-and-a-half months? He’d swapped her birth control pills for the other stuff ever since they’d moved in to Stepford, and still, nothing on that front.
You were being stubborn. He had wanted a son, and somehow, you’d gotten it in your thick head that it was OK to wait—to say, ‘No, honey, I think I’d rather not have a baby for at least another year. I am an independent, liberated woman in the twentieth century, after all.’
Bullshit.
Bull-fucking-shit, shit, shit, and Joel was sick of it.
Four months was the standard for the drugs to work. That was how long it had taken Joanna Eberhart to turn, and Bobbie Markowe before her, and Charmaine Wimperis before her, and on and on and on until you’d covered damn near every hausfrau in Stepford. The only remaining women with their brains still in their heads were Ruthann Hendry and you. Joel had about had it.
Wives these days were getting to be too headstrong, that was all. Read one too many blurbs from Gloria Steinem, took off the apron every now and again, and hired a maid, and suddenly they thought it was their place to tell a man how to run his home. That was why all the sane husbands in Stepford had decided a few years back to do away with that: replace the women’s brains with ones that wouldn’t complain. That couldn’t say no.
It was for the best. You would look better, dress better, cook and clean and mop and dust and fuck him even if you weren’t ‘in the mood’ to do it at all—robots didn’t have lasting attitudes, thankfully—and at the end of the day, your family and household would benefit. Joel just had to wait the prescribed three to four months for the drugs to kick in and allow for the transplant to happen.
And before that, by his birthday, he’d hoped to knock you up, so you could stop entertaining any ridiculous ideas of leaving the home and getting a job of your own.
Thankfully, at least, you’d gotten to be so run-down and slow that you hadn’t had the energy to argue that point any longer. Even if you weren’t pregnant yet, the pills seemed to be having some effect, and it would probably only be a couple weeks before you’d finally go to sleep—then, with one operation, wake up the girl of his dreams.
The bedroom door creaked open, and you tip-toed in.
You were balancing a plate in your left hand, then closing the door again with your right. Your steps were snail-paced and shaky, as was everything about you nowadays, and Joel watched from the bed.
Two big digits sat atop a tiny cake: 40.
He was getting old.
He couldn’t wait to make things different.
“Happy birthday, honey,” you said, voice soft and low.
Joel blew out the candles and kissed you. Without shame, he wished for you to drop dead in the next five minutes so he could go on and haul you off to the Men’s Association, where the final stage of your transformation would take place. When you asked him what he’d wished for, he smiled and said, ‘Nothin’. I’ve got it all right here.’
You got on all fours on the bed. Cake conscientiously set aside on the nightstand, you were then free to lower the sheets over Joel’s legs, where he was naked and erect.
Joel closed his eyes and grinned again.
“You’re too good to me, baby.”
He waited for your mouth.
And he got it, shortly—just not in the way he expected. Before you reached down to grip the base of his dick in your pretty, manicured hands, you took hold of his wrists. Joel opened his eyes and caught you just in time to see his arms being lifted, up, up, up, and back.
“Relax, baby,” you purred in his ear.
One click.
Two clicks.
Either one of Joel’s wrists were handcuffed to the metal bed frame behind him. His smirk stretched even wider.
“You little minx,” he cooed back, tone teasing and light. He was always the dominant one in bed, but he supposed he could be cajoled into accepting this position for now. It was his special day, after all.
You were already lowering between his legs. Arching your back and shaking that cute little ass in the lilac-colored nightie he’d bought you last summer. You curled a hand around his thigh, smiled, then moved your mouth even lower; pretty, glossed, pouting lips tempted. If he weren’t currently cuffed to the bed, he would’ve had your hair in his fist and your face bobbing up and down on him, fast.
Patience, Joel, patience.
Like with the baby, the new brain his wife was about to get, the head she was mere seconds away from giving…
Joel chuckled.
Head and some more head.
Head as often as he liked, probably deeper than you—
“—could even believe,” you finished presently.
Joel blinked his eyes back open.
Your strokes were languid.
“What’d you say, darlin’?”
“I said I couldn’t believe it, when she told me the news.”
What news?
Before Joel could even pose the question, your mouth was lowering again. Your lips were ghosting the tip of his cock—never making contact, but rather dragging a slow path over it. Your tongue glistened pink behind your teeth, and that was when Joel saw it: you were beaming.
“My doctor. I went to see Dr. Chandler yesterday.”
Your OB-GYN.
“And?” Joel pressed.
He didn’t even need to hear the words, or see your mouth form a syllable; after that moment, he could feel it. He sat up, and his jaw went slack, ‘You’re pregnant?’
You nodded.
He lunged forward to hug you, but the cuffs stopped him
“Take—Take these off. Wanna hold you, baby. C’mere.”
Before him, your grin must’ve been a hundred watts.
Instead of heeding his wishes, though, your grip tightened around his length. You began to stroke upward, then down, gaze trained solidly on him.
Joel wasn’t in the mood for that any longer.
He just wanted to hug you, kiss you, congratulate you on what an incredible thing that he made happen, secretly.
Your fingers squeezed him.
“Don’t you want a blowjob, Daddy?” you giggled.
“No, sweetheart, I don’t. Just wanna give you a h—OW!”
Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain clawed up his length.
Your grip had constricted even tighter, and those rounded, red-lacquered nails that he adored so much were bearing down: carving crescents into his shaft.
Joel would’ve slapped you right across the face if he weren’t tied to this bed. He would’ve made you bleed.
“Are you fucking—” he started out in a bellow.
“Dumb?” you laughed back at him.
What the fuck was your problem?
Joel would be sure to program that characteristic out of your new brain—suffocating his dick when it wasn’t your throat, and using your nails to do it, then jeering at him—but fortunately, before he could even try to articulate as much, your hand was letting him go. Easing the pressure and, in turn, the pain, and forcing a sigh out of his throat.
Then came the blade.
It appeared from out of nowhere: that nine-inch, steel, serrated knife. Joel immediately recognized it as the one he used to carve turkey, ribs, and brisket at family meals.
His heart seized and almost fell through his stomach when he saw you press the edge to the base of his dick.
“Hey, hey, no—”
“Am I dumb, Joel?” you posed again. Your brows knit.
“You’re fucking crazy!” he shouted. “Let go of it!”
“Let go of it! Let go! Please! I’ll do anything.”
You were mocking him now, lip trembling in pretended fear. Joel jerked forward in an effort to break free from his restraints, but of course, that failed. He couldn’t throttle you like he wanted to, killing you on the spot.
“I thought you’d be happy to hear I’m carrying your child,” you went on, faux-wounded tone unchanging.
He was.
He would be.
As soon as he tore the brain from your sku—
“That was your plan all along, wasn’t it, Joel?”
So, you knew.
Drugged and docile and dumb, you still learned the truth.
Why bother hiding it now? Joel sank back into the headboard, face grave as he watched you watching him.
When you pressed the blade even tighter to his dick, he only winced the tiniest bit, then grit his teeth into a snarl.
“So what if it was?” he said. “You wanted my baby—”
“I wanted a choice,” you snapped back instantly.
To Joel’s dismay, he felt the knife sink even further, blade venturing deeper, and just when it seemed the steel was seconds away from fulfilling its purpose and finally, finally puncturing soft, precious flesh, you stopped.
Again.
You held his gaze, and for the first time, he saw real hurt.
“Dr. Chandler said it was a damn near statistical impossibility for me to get pregnant using the stuff I was on,” you said, voice lowering. Lips pursing together before going on. “So she asked me to bring in my pills, just so she could make sure that the dosage was right.”
Oh, fucking hell.
Your eyes had an unmistakable sheen, like the calm before tears. The whites were no longer bloodshot.
“You were feeding me drugs that she’d never even seen before. They weren’t my birth control pills but these…these…sedatives. These inordinately strong sedativ—”
“Doctor don’t know what the hell she’s talkin’ about,” Joel interrupted. Shaking his head. “She’s fuckin’ crazy.”
Crazy.
That made your jaw clench. Grip constricting again, nostrils flaring, you held onto the knife even tighter.
Joel yelped when it almost broke the skin in two.
“Sweetheart, please—” Fighting to be nice. Wanting, deep down, nothing more than just to snap your neck. “It’s not what you think. I would never hurt you like that.”
“Just drug me and make me sick ‘til I can barely walk?”
“It was for your own good, I—”
“—and Joanna? And Bobbie? And Charmaine? Carol Van Sant and every other glass-eyed doll of a housewife around here who can’t take a fuckin’ breath without mentioning what cleaner she uses on the kitchen floor?”
Joel had never heard you curse like that before.
It was jarring, in much the same way hearing you mention the state of the Stepford wives now was.
The knife was lowering again.
Joel’s life flashed before his eyes.
“You’ve got to believe me, sweetheart,” he pleaded. He had no idea what all you’d been told, or what you knew. All he needed was for you to stop, just long enough for him to get out, get on the phone, call the other men. “There’s a reasonable explanation for whatever you heard about them, and—and I-I can try to tell you, if y—”
“No.”
You lowered the knife.
“—take these cuffs off me and just let me expl—”
“No.”
Your voice didn’t waver.
Despite the bare, unmitigated fury painted across your face, the way your wrist trembled while you held out the blade, or how you must feel—pregnant with his child, nowhere to run, undoubtedly fucked from the second you set foot outside your home, thanks to Joel’s connections—you kept an even tone. You spoke slowly.
“No.”
“No, what?” Joel hissed.
“No, you can’t.” Your eyes shone. “Have me.”
Yes, I can, was the man’s first instinct to think.
Yes, I can have you. Hate you. Control you. Fuck you. Ruin you. Do whatever I damn well please, because I can
Joel felt a pain in his side, shortly.
He didn’t even register the feeling fully until he saw it—the blade sticking out from somewhere in his abdomen.
Shock ebbed, and he realized that you’d stabbed him.
He couldn’t even reach down to stop the bleeding, or hold it in pain—‘What the fuck did you just do to me?!’—and while he bucked and strained and cursed, jostling all three or four inches you’d impaled in his gut even further.
You smiled and fed him another. Then withdrew it clean.
You pointed at the big, gaping wound in his stomach.
“That’ll need prompt medical attention,” you said.
“You crazy fucking bitc—” Joel wailed in agony.
Pain radiated up and down his body, focalized in that open, now-oozing region, and made him cut himself off.
He tried to double over at the feeling but, again, only made his restraints squeal against the metal frame.
You rose to your feet.
“I’m leaving,” you announced, sounding as matter-of-fact as if you’d just kissed him good-bye, not punctured his spleen. “I’m taking the girls with me, and once we’re safely out of Stepford, I’ll call a doctor for you, alright?”
“Like hell you will.” Joel was spitting now, apoplectic.
Why, he could snap his fingers and have half the town—
“With the right treatment in a couple hours’ time, that puncture wound won’t kill you. Wait a day and you might bleed out and die. If anyone tries to stop me on my way out, I’m not calling for help, and you can spend your final moments naked, chained to this bed, and crying like the pathetic little bitch I know you are. Wanna test it, Miller?”
Joel kicked and bled and cursed, then bled some more.
His senses were already awash with adrenaline, head swimming at the feeling and at the blood trickling out of his body bit-by-bit. He knew that you were right, no matter how abhorrent it was to see—he’d die without your help, and that death would be painful and slow.
So, grasping at some semblance of control, floundering:
“You can’t do this to me. You—You can’t. You’re my wife. Those are my children. You can’t fuckin’ leave. You can’t.”
You grabbed your purse and your keys. You set the blood-drenched knife beside his cake, his very own homemade birthday cake, and then you put on your coat
“No, no, no, no, NO!” Joel was writhing on the bed, fighting against his restraints and going nowhere fast.
Next, your socks. Your shoes. You’d probably packed up the rest of your belongings while he’d been fast asleep, and this ensemble was just to get you out of the house. A soft, easy quietude trailed behind your every movement.
“No, no, no, no,” Joel groaned again, gritting his teeth.
You were walking back to him now. Leaning down.
“No,” he muttered helplessly. He felt a little dizzy.
Was it the loss of blood, or something else?
To his shock, you kissed him.
Then you grinned again.
“Goodnight, Joel.”
Within seconds, his vision was blurring at the edges.
Your smile was the last thing he saw before he fell asleep.
once he was able to settle into the role of captain and take less orders than he gives, it spiraled a little out of control and into his personal life. his wife turned into another thing to control and boss around. so she left him before they could have any kids. before she was tied to him forever.
he wasn't that heartbroken, just a little annoyed he didn't have anyone to get his cock wet whenever he wanted. finding birds at bars wasn't hard for him, he just couldn't be bothered.
that's when he finds you aimlessly wandering around the base with a big sticker on your sweater that read "CIVILIAN". he asks if you need assistance, you blink up at him and ask him where Kate Laswell is and the lilt in your voice goes straight to his groin. he just smiles and guides you across the hall to where Kate's office is. you'd been a few feet away from the damn nameplate on the wall and still couldn't find it. so pretty and so dumb, his favorite combination.
now...it's his job to help, but it's not his job to stare at your ass as you walk away. but every curve on you was so enticing, he really couldn't help himself. so he waits like a patient predator for you to leave, catching you on the way out and asking if you'd like him to walk you to the entrance so you don't get lost. you just smile up at him and nod.
kate tried to chastise him for dating you, she really did her best to prevent your demise. you were too young, too soft, too innocent for a man like him. the rest of the team held the same thoughts, but would never voice them. everyone was so damn concerned about you and your wellbeing. and you never understood why.
sure, he asked you to move in after 3 months. but he was right! it made more sense since he wasn't home all the time, if you lived with him it made seeing him a lot easier. and yes he proposed only 2 months after you moved in, everyone in your life (and his) telling you it was way too soon and that you didn't really know him yet. but when you know, you know! sometimes the pitiful stares really confused you, the way Kyle and Johnny smiled weakly at you when you visited John on base, belly already round with child #1 only a few months after he slid that diamond on your finger.
it was as if everyone thought you were some trapped animal. snatched from your home in the rainforest and dropped into a cramped cage in the middle of a busy metropolitan city zoo, destined to live out the rest of your pathetic life cooped up there.
but no one understood that you were exactly where you wanted to be. so what if John had a preference over what clothes you wore and food you ate? those types of decisions were boring and quite frankly it was nice to have someone do it for you. yes he made you quit your job so he could "provide for you", but you hated that dead end office anyway. he expected a lot of sex, but he fucked you so good and full it was almost impossible to say no.
so you let everyone think John was in charge. especially John. he really thought he had it made, a pretty little wife that asked how high when he said jump. one that always had tea on the table and a whiskey ready for him when he got home. one that dutifully opened her legs and her mouth whenever he said the word.
but you ran that house with an iron fist. albeit a manicured one.
squeaky cupboard door? he better fix it, no matter how long his day was. favorite heels wearing thin? he better buy you three new pairs in different colors. he wanted to act like a big strong man? he could take the trash out, fix your car, tend the garden, build you furniture, and entertain the kids while you have a nice long soak in the bath.
you let him fuck you six ways to Sunday almost nightly, desecrate and violate you in ways you would never suggest on your own, and get you pregnant mere months after you've pushed out another one of his kids. so damn right you're getting a foot massage even though he's the one who's been on his feet all day.
so yes, you let John (and everyone else) think that he's in control. that you're some sweet little housewife that John caught in his web. too dumb for your own good.
but it takes John three tries to get the kids to quiet down.
it only takes one look from you to get them in line.
Can you make a smut story where you move into a neighbourhood and your neighbour is Joel Miller from the last of us
…BLUEBERRY PIE
mechanic!joel miller x neighbour!reader, no use of y/n, swearing, suggestive material, age gap (reader is 26 and joel is 48), smut!, teasing, flashing?, oral (m receiving), blunt!joel, throat fucking lowkey, smut!, unprotected p in v (don’t do this!!!!!),
ive never seen the last of us so i hope this is good !
(masterlist) (nav)
“fuck fuck fuck!” you cried out, slamming your hands on your dashboard. you weren’t going anywhere were you needed to be urgently, but your car wasn’t starting again. you weren’t sure what was wrong with it, and you didn’t have enough time to call a repair man or whatever.
the grocery store was going to close in forty-five minutes, and your cabinets were empty. your head is flung back on the seat, wondering what your next move will be, until you hear a light tapping to your left. you turn to the window, and sure enough, it was your neighbour.
he was a conventionally attractive man, his beard lightly peppered with grey hairs and smile to die for. he wasn’t an annoying neighbour, he lived on his own and only ever had family over.
you roll down the window, plastering a small fake smile on your face. “hi” you say, more eager than you meant to. “y’know, i’ve seen you been having troubles with your car the last few days. i can take it down to my shop if you want my to fix it up” he suggests, leaning on the car.
you take a breath in, eyes darting around the car. there wasn’t many decisions to be made, so you let him. “y’know what, that’d actually be great” you reply, deciding maybe doordash was the way to go for tonight.
“alright, when d’ya need it back?” he asks you. “well, it’s kinda late, you sure?” you ask him. “yeah, don’t you worry your pretty head. where y’off to?” he asks as you step out of the car. “oh just out” you smile. every fibre in his being wants to know where you’re going, who you’re seeing, and what you’re doing. he composes himself, leaning on the door.
“i can start working on it right now if y’d like.” “i mean if it isn’t a burden to you” you say. “sweetheart it’s prob’ly nothing.” he reassures you. “pop the hood, will ya?”
ever since you moved in, he’s been waiting for a moment to strike. however, when he got tired of waiting for that moment, he may or may not have replaced your perfectly fine starter with a faulty one from the shop while you were out. it was a simple excuse to talk to you, no matter how invading it was.
you open the hood of your car, and before he even takes a look he comes with a conclusion. “it’s your starter” you look up at him, the hood of the car ajar, not even propped fully open yet. “oh… did you get a chance to take a look?” you ask with unease lacing your voice. he silently curses himself for being too eager and runs a hand over his face. “yeah, i’ve just seen this uh… problem lots and the lead cause is a faulty starter.” he stammers, and you just shrug.
“so how do we fix that?” you tilt your head. “we gotta change it.” he notices your head tilt even more so he elaborates. “i might have a spare in my garage.” you nod, wanting to question further, but remembering he’s a licensed mechanic.
you weren’t really paying attention to what he was doing. his large hands ran over his hair, and you noticed he didn’t have a ring on. you wanted to ask about it, but you respected his privacy. “hey?” he says, snapping you out of your thoughts. “car’s done.” you smile, “lovely, thank you! how much would it be?” you ask, reaching for your purse to get your wallet.
“don’t worry ‘bout it.” he shrugs slightly. “oh c’mon, i insist.” you state. “absolutely not, it’s nothing. helping a neighbour out.” he smiles. you sigh, “if you’re sure, but i will pay you back.” he stifles a small chuckle.
time skip a few days
ever since that day, you realized all of the ‘coincidences’ you never really did. how whenever you were gardening, joel just happened to be on his patio. or, whenever you needed to walk down to the market, joel needed to walk his dog.
so, if he was watching you, you decided to give him something to watch. it was after you came back home from the tennis court down the street and noticed joel staring at you from his window. you smile when you notice him and he nods. what was this, the eighth time you caught him staring this week? such a perv.
you walk up to your front door, noticing a package sitting on the step. a smile touches your face when you notice joel still staring in your peripheral vision. you bend down to reach the package, exposing your ass about halfway, only for him to see.
you pick it up, unlocking your door and walking in, catching joel’s eye. you set the package down and shut your door, smiling to yourself.
you get in the shower, scrubbing sweat and dirt off your body as you think to yourself about joel’s flustered look, the way his eyes widened…
a few hours later, you finish some work and decide to bake something. baking was always a hobby of yours, most of the time you didn’t eat them but gave them to your family. you prep your ingredients for a blueberry pie.
it doesn’t take you long to make it, moving with practiced ease as you guide your way around the kitchen. after about forty-five minutes, you put the pie in the oven to cook. you sit at your table, scrolling through your pinterest boards and answering texts for a bit.
then, you hear someone knock on your door. you walk to the front door, lo and behold, it’s joel. perfect. you open the door to be greeted by his beautiful eyes.
“hey, sorry to bother you, but i think one of my packages got shipped here?” he asks. you remember the parcel you picked up earlier, teasing joel. “oh- oh yeah i think it did. come on in, it’s cold out.” you invite him in. the autumn weather was always chilly in the afternoons. you placed the parcel on your table earlier whilst examining it.
“here you are mr. miller” you smile, handing him the package. your voice and the name you called him made him hard. he tried to cover it by placing the package over his crotch, when the oven beeps. your blueberry pie was done, so you excuse yourself to get it. “smells lovely” joel informs you, to which you smile.
“would you like to try some?” you ask, turning your head to meet his. “that’d be wonderful.” he says. you inform him that it’s hot, and grab two plates to put two slices of pie on. “can i get you a glass of wine?” you ask, placing the plates down. “well- i… why not, thank you.” he says. you grab two wine glasses and pour a rosé into them, then two forks.
you sit across from joel, placing the wine and forks down. the two of you talk and eat, practically a date. it might’ve been the few glasses of white wine you had earlier, but you were hot and bothered. apparently your eyes lingered on him for a bit too long, and he notices.
“y’staring, sweetheart.” he whispered. shit. “ ‘s rude.” you look down at your half eaten pie, then back at him. “was not” you say, batting your lashes at him. “really? then explain why i’m so hard.” his bluntness catches you off guard. “y’invite me in, butter me up, bat those pretty lashes at me, of course i’m as hard as a rock.” your breath catches in your throat.
“y’want me to do something about it?” you ask, tilting your head. he sits back, giving you a look of approval. “be my guest” he says, and you don’t waste time.
you’re on your knees, undoing his jeans. he’s made a tent in his boxers, and you run your hand over it. he was bigger than you expected. nonetheless, you take his boxers off, wanting to make him proud. his member is already leaking precum, to which you lick up.
you flick your tongue over his slit, a jolt of pleasure running through him. his hands tangle in your hair, holding your head ever so slightly. you take him halfway in your mouth, warming his cock. your head slowly bobs up and down, feeling him grow even more excited.
“fuuuucck.” he groans, slowly pushing his hips up more. he slightly thrusts more and more into your mouth until he’s face fucking you. just the feeling of him down your throat makes you wet in your panties. you feel for something to grind against, anything, but are met with nothing.
you moan, sending a vibration on his dick to which he thrusts harder. broken words and groans escape his lips until he’s holding your head while his seed coats your throat. his breaths get heavier as you get up and wipe your lips with paper towel.
“get on the couch” he instructs. you just stand there, watching him fully take his jeans off. “couch. now.” his tone is authoritative now, only making you wetter. you obey, walking over to the couch and sitting down.
he isn’t wearing any clothes as he pulls your shirt off. “shit” he licks his lips at the sight. he lays you down on the couch horizontally, pulling your leggings down. there’s an obvious wet patch on your panties, to which he smirks.
he cups your cunt, softly running his fingers over your clit. you whimper at the softest of touches as he pulls your panties down. “fuck… you’re teasing me all the time- you don’t know how long i’ve waited for this.” he says, pushing two fingers inside of you. you gasp at the sudden change of pressure, grabbing onto his shoulders for support.
“fuck… joel please” you groan, and he smiles at the sound of his name on your lips. “please what?” you groan again. “please fuck me… fuck i need you so bad please…!” you whine. he takes his fingers out of you, replacing them with his cock.
you groan at the pleasurable stretch. his thrust start slow, but grow faster over time. your moans are filling the room as he repeatedly pushes into your cervix.
“j-joel…! i’m gonna cum!” you moan, dragging your nails across his back. “fuck show me how good you feel sweetheart… that’s right” he groans. “fuckin’ cum for me… what a good girl.” he coo’s at your fucked-out state, riding out his high as his seed paints your insides. “fuck…” you moan quietly.
“y’gotta start making me blueberry pie more often sweetheart.”
everyone was joking about trump dying today and I think that's really horrible and cruel. PLEASE do not joke about trump dying unless it's true and confirmed!!! I got really excited and then when I found out he was still alive i was really disappointed!! like that's so mean to do to people
New cat :p btw!!! Loving him was never enough is in the making! Sorry for the long while ! If anyone who was interested in it I will be making a taglist 🍣
dr. robby x f!forensic psychologist!reader
masterlist
you can read this fic on ao3 here
content: 18+ mdni, discussions of homicide (reader is evaluating a minor who is currently in the pitt he is being transferred to psych after being charged with the murder of another classmate), discussions of toxic masculinity, use of homophobic f slur by minor oc (once), discussions of addiction (alcohol), on the page panic attacks, minor violence (not on page, just aftermath), sexually explicit content, age gap, swearing, alcohol, smoking, vomiting, some angst with a happy ending, biker!robby my beloved
words: 15.5K
synopsis: reader meets robby while evaluating a client in preparation for his upcoming murder trial. soon enough, robby finds himself wanting to evaluate you instead.
a/n: when two avoidant motherfuckers link up to maximize their joint slay!! i took some inspo from the netflix show adolescence so if ur reading and ur like “hey this reminds me of—" yes 🙂↕️ exactly 🙂↕️ also i made a playlist for Them and posted about it which i will link here if anyone is interested. as a disclaimer i DO have a psychology background, but not in this specialty so please take everything with a grain of salt, i am sure it is largely inaccurate. hope you like, i had a lot of fun with this one. as always please come yap with me about it later. <3 syd
The smell of antiseptic and the copper tang of blood was nauseating as you stood by the nurses station, hands clasped on the tabletop. Your hair was tucked neatly behind your ears. Piercings sat undecorated on your earlobes, shirt buttoned nearly to your chin. Your hospital guest pass stuck just at your breastbone.
It was a Tuesday in Pittsburgh and it was raining. Wet orange and brown leaves stuck to most surfaces, slimy with rot. The air was heavy with the smell of decay that came with late October. You thought, then, of the dead girl and whether she liked the fall or preferred the bright heat of summer.
Unhelpful. Your brain chastised, and you shook off thoughts of her. You weren't here for her, you were here for the boy.
"Can I help you?" A woman with short blond hair, secured neatly in a clip at the nape of her neck looked at you with vague annoyance. She had an iPad in her hands and glasses slid low on the bridge of her nose.
You cleared your throat, "Yes, I'm looking for a Liam Anderson? He was supposed to be admitted to psych for an eval, but I'm told he's still down here waiting for a bed."
The woman eyed you skeptically and looked down at her iPad, "You a relative?"
"Uh, no, I'm with the state. I'm here on behalf of the public defender's office."
She looked back up at you, "I don't think it's really necessary for the kid to be seeing a lawyer right now, do you?"
"I'm not a lawyer, I'm a psychologist." You slid your ID across the counter and watched as she picked it up, "His lawyers asked me to come."
She slid your ID back to you, "Again, feels unnecessary at this stage. Come back when he's been admitted to psych."
She began to walk away, but you followed after pocketing your ID, "It's really, really crucial that I get as much time with him as possible while they're preparing for trial. And before the psychologists upstairs really dig their teeth into him."
"Kid, I gotta tell ya, I really don't have time to argue with you. We don't do visitors for patients down here unless they're family. Now, please, I have work to do—"
"Dana," A tall, bearded man with deep creases by his eyes and darker circles underneath, stopped directly in front of the two of you. He held a small coffee cup in his hand and a stethoscope was draped around his neck, and his gaze traveled to you, "Who's this?"
"The latest pain in my ass," Dana grumbled next to you, but you didn't falter. You were used to being unwanted when trying to gain access to a client, "You deal with her, she's from the state, trying to visit a patient."
The man in front of you frowned at that, but before he could ask clarifying questions, Dana disappeared and you reached a hand out to him to introduce yourself.
His hand was warm and rough as it wrapped around yours, "Nice to meet you," He said, sounding anything but, and he began walking, "Look, I'd love to figure out why you're here and why you're harassing my nurses, but frankly I don't have the time so I'd appreciate it if you could just locate the nearest exit—"
"I'm just trying to do my job the same way the rest of you are. If you could just direct me to my client, I'll do my evaluation very quietly and it'll be like I was never here."
He stopped walking again and turned to face you, sighing, "What is it you're here to do?"
You handed him your ID, "I'm with the public defender's office, I'm here to see Liam Anderson."
He looked from your ID up to your face, then back down again before handing the piece of plastic back to you, "The kid that killed his girlfriend?"
You bit back a sigh, "He is being charged with the murder of a fellow student, yes."
He nodded, "You don't think he did it."
You shook your head, "I'm not a cop, that's not my job."
"Then what is your job?"
"I'm a forensic psychologist. My role is to spend as much time with the client as possible and determine if, in my professional opinion, he seems capable of committing such a crime."
He tilted his head slightly, "You work for the public defender's office, you said?" You nodded, "So what happens if you think he did it?"
This time, you did sigh, "Again, I'm not in the business of evaluating guilt—"
"Right, but what happens if you feel he is capable?"
You shrugged, "The defense just won't call on me to testify. They'll probably find another psychologist who disagrees with me. It's just an opinion, it's not really evidence. But juries find it compelling, nonetheless."
He scratched the back of his head, "You really shouldn't be here, it's family only down here—"
"You won't even know I'm here, I swear."
He seemed to weigh his options before sighing heavily, "I assume giving you what you want will be the easiest way for me to get back to work?"
You smiled, "Undoubtedly."
He narrowed his eyes at you, watching you closely in a way that was beginning to give you hives and made you feel like you had something in your teeth, "What if I told you he's been really polite and just like any other twelve year old that rolls through here?"
You cocked your head to the side, "Has he interacted with any women while he's been here?"
He hesitated and pulled back, as if surprised by the question, "Uh, no, actually. I don't think so."
You shrugged, "Then I'd say it's mostly irrelevant, but I'll keep it in mind."
He started walking again and gestured for you to follow, "I really don't think he did it."
You were growing annoyed at his fixation on the duality of the situation, "Don't know how many times I have to say it—"
"I know, but you have to have an opinion, right?" He stopped outside a room labeled "Behavioral Health 2". You could see Liam through the window, sitting at a table, doodling on a notebook in front of him.
You watched him carefully, tried to make out his scribblings on the page, but his arm covered most of it from your view, "It would be difficult to do my job well if I was always wondering about the truth," You turned back to him, "It'd be irresponsible for me to have an opinion. Besides, this is the first time I'm meeting him."
You remembered that he said he was really busy before, but now seemed more interested in you, still eyeing you curiously, "Have you ever gave an opinion that you regretted? Later found out the person was guilty?"
You blinked at him, "Are you asking this in a judgmental way or are you genuinely curious?"
"Curious. Must take a toll on you, no?"
You shrugged, "I don't spend day in and day out with a client. I base my opinions on the few hours I get every so often when they're prepared to see me. There will inevitably be clients who are very good at putting on a show. I can usually spot them, but I'm not perfect, I have biases like everyone else."
He raised his eyebrows, "You've really rationalized all this. Detached yourself from it."
You gave him a tight smile, "I don't deal in feelings, I deal in behavior."
Finally tearing his eyes from you, he nodded to the security guard who stepped to the side so he could open the door, "If you need anything, ask for Dr. Robby."
You exhaled in relief and ducked under his arm as he held open the door for you, "Thank you."
When the door fell shut behind you, the din of the emergency room quieted significantly and you felt yourself straighten.
"Hi Liam," You said gently, "Your lawyers asked me to come talk to you today. Would it be alright if I sat down?"
You gestured to the seat next to him and after a moment, he nodded.
"I brought you orange soda," You fished the bottle you had gotten from the vending machine upstairs out of your bag, "Your mom said it's your favorite."
He stared at it for a few beats before reaching for it, "Thanks," He whispered, his voice rough from what you assumed was nonuse. Or, perhaps overuse, if he had done a lot of screaming and crying. But Dr. Robby's evaluation suggested otherwise.
You looked over his drawing as he drank the soda. It was some doodles of what looked like classmates playing baseball. Some sketches of the nurses and doctors, even the security guard outside the door. Nothing out of the ordinary for a twelve year old. They were all quite good.
"Do you know any card games, Liam?" You said, before digging into your bag for your deck.
***
Robby peaked over to BH2 every so often, growing more perplexed every time he did. The two of you were laughing and playing and sharing snacks. For hours. He doubted you were discussing anything of substance.
So when you finally came out of the room, he was right behind you. As you turned to walk away, you walked right into his chest.
"Christ—!" You swore.
His hands steadied you, but he otherwise acted unphased, "So what's the verdict, huh? He's a normal kid after all? Didn't kill the girl?"
You scoffed and walked around him, "Once again, I'm not here to determine guilt."
"You don't think he could do it, though, right? Otherwise, what the hell have you been doing with him all day?"
You opened your notepad and began jotting things down while standing at the hub, a crease between your eyebrows as you did. Robby idly wondered what you'd do if he smoothed it out with his thumb.
The truth was, he found you fascinating. All hard edges until you got alone with the kid and then you suddenly softened. Now he started wondering which was the act?
"I have no idea, Dr. Robby. I am building rapport, surely you've heard of it?" You looked up at him with a snarky smirk on your face, "I'm just trying to get him to trust me right now so he'll remove whatever mask he's wearing."
"That seems… awfully manipulative."
You sighed tiredly. It wasn't the first time you'd been accused of being manipulative and it wouldn't be the last. But it felt awfully hypocritical coming from a doctor, "Really? You're telling me you've never been a little manipulative with a patient to gain their trust?"
Robby scoffed and shook his head, "This is hardly the same thing." He jerked his thumb towards BH2, "That's a scared kid you're taking advantage of."
"I'm trying to help him. If anything he tells me hurts his case, no one else will ever hear it. Except his lawyers." You flipped your notebook closed, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another appointment to get to. I'll see you tomorrow."
He watched you walk off, a bit dazed, and when you were nearly out the door it hit him that you said you'd see him tomorrow.
You'd be back for the boy. He looked back over at BH2, noticed the boy was smiling a little to himself now as he doodled in his notebook.
He really shouldn't have let you sit with him today and now you'd be back again tomorrow to break the rules again. He sighed heavily and headed back into the fray, deciding that that was a problem for future Robby.
***
Like clockwork, there you were again at the hub the next day. Your outfit a variation of the previous day, another button up, another pair of slacks, another pair of loafers. Neat and tidy. Not a hair out of place.
You were the psychologist, but Robby got to thinking that the way you dressed probably said a lot about you. You cared a lot about how people viewed you and clearly you wanted them to view you as controlled, careful. He watched you bite your lip as you were jotting down some notes and thought you were probably a bit of a perfectionist, perhaps a touch anal.
Even so, he'd be remiss if he didn't acknowledge that he found you absurdly pretty. He loved the way you bit the pen cap between your teeth and the furrow of your brow when you were concentrating. He still longed to smooth it out with his thumb.
But all of that was irrelevant, because you couldn't be here again today.
He walked up to you and leaned against the counter, "You can't see him today."
You didn't look up from your notes, "This again?"
He leaned on his forearms, knowingly testing the limits of how close you'd let him get before you moved away. But still, you either didn't register his proximity or it didn't bother you. "What're you writing anyway? You haven't seen him yet today."
"I can't take notes while I'm seeing clients, makes them nervous and it makes them start assuming what I think is important. They'll start tailoring their answers accordingly. So I have to try and remember everything important and write it down afterwards. I just came from another client."
He hummed, "So, guilty or not guilty?" You looked up at him with disdain and he chuckled, "I'm just joking. But seriously, I can't let you see him again. You shouldn't have seen him yesterday, you have to wait until he gets admitted upstairs."
You chewed the inside of your cheek, "How is he today?"
He sighed heavily, "He's antsy. He's been stuck in that room for days. He's been pacing and banging his head against the wall, not enough to injure, but…" He shrugged, "He's a kid stuck in that little room, no privacy. He's probably scared."
You angled your head around Robby so you could get a good look at BH2 and Liam was standing at the window. When he saw you, he smiled shyly and waved and you smiled back, "If you let me see him, it might help." You said, "I brought him snacks. Besides," You turned back to Robby, "He's seen me now, he'll probably throw a real tantrum if I leave without speaking to him."
Robby slowly shook his head, a smirk on his face, "You're a real piece of work."
You smiled back at him and he found himself a bit proud of the fact that he had made you smile.
"So you'll let me see him?"
His eyes searched your face as he pondered. It had gone fine yesterday. And you were right that he'd probably throw a fit now if you left. He sighed, "You can stay for one hour. One. That's it."
Your smile widened until he saw teeth, and fuck, he found it unbearably charming.
"Thank you, Dr. Robby." You said cheerfully and closed your notebook, hoisting your bag over your shoulder and headed to BH2.
"Thought you said you weren't letting her in again?" Dana said at his side, both her and Robby watching as you walked into Liam's room.
"I wasn't," Robby said and scrubbed at his face, "But he saw her and got excited. I figured it would be worse for him if he didn't see her."
Dana looked up at Robby and then over to BH2 again, where you were handing Liam a candy bar and a bag of chips, "This is the kid they're saying murdered a twelve year old girl. You know that, right?"
Robby shook his head, and gestured to you and Liam, "Look at him. You really think he did that?"
Dana shrugged, "They must have some pretty compelling evidence if they arrested a kid."
"Cops fuck up all the time."
"Yeah," Dana said and looked back down at her iPad, "Not with white kids."
She walked off before Robby could reply. His eyes trailed back to BH2. Liam had grown at bit more somber since he last looked, eating a chip slowly and intently watching you as you spoke. He still thought maybe the cops had got it wrong, but what if Dana was right, what if they hadn't? And he had allowed you to lock yourself alone in a room with a killer?
In the end, he shook it off. You were fine yesterday and you'd be fine today. But he did check up on you more frequently than he had the day before. Just in case.
***
While Liam settled in to eating his chips, you looked over his doodles. More of his classmates, more of baseball. You pointed to them, "Are these your friends?"
He nodded while he chewed, but didn't elaborate, "You must miss them." You pushed, but he only shrugged.
"The doctors said you seemed a bit lonely earlier. That you were pacing around and banging your head on the walls."
He paused to look at you for a moment, then he looked back at his bag of chips, "They think I'm crazy," He said softly.
"What makes you think that?"
He shrugged again, "They locked me up in here. Won't let me talk to anybody."
"They let you talk to me."
"That's different."
"How so?"
He was silent for a while, avoided eye contact, then, "Can we play cards again?"
You kept your facial expression neutral, "If we have time later. I'd like to talk about your friends for a bit."
He sighed, as if this was an inconvenience to him, "There's nothing to say."
"Surely, there's something you could say about them. Their names, for starters—"
"I'm not gonna give you their names."
You tilted your head to the side, "Why not?" He stared stubbornly ahead, a scowl on his face, "Liam," You said gently, "I'm not gonna get them in any trouble. I work for your lawyers, I'm not the police."
You waited and waited, but he was still silent. "What did you guys do together?"
"I don't know," He said finally, "Hung out. Played video games. Walked around the neighborhood."
"Are your friends all boys or were there girls who hung around as well?"
He gave you a funny look, "No, just boys."
"Why'd you look at me like that? Like I said something strange?"
"Well, I'm not a fag." He said fiercely.
You paused a moment. "You think hanging out with girls would make you homosexual?"
He huffed, "Not, like—Like as friends. Boys don't hang out with girls as friends unless they're gay. Which I'm not."
You nodded slowly, "So what sort of circumstances would hanging out with a girl not be considered 'gay'?"
His cheeks grew red and he looked down at his hands, "I don't want to talk about this anymore. I wanna play cards."
"Okay," You said, "Once you answer that last question we can play a round of cards."
He threw himself back in his seat and sighed, "I don't know, like, going on a date with a girl."
"So, romantically, then is okay?"
He shrugged, "Yeah, I guess."
"So if the girl was your girlfriend she'd be okay to hang out with your friends?"
He frowned, "If I had a girlfriend, why would she hang out with my friends? She's not gonna fuck them."
It could mean nothing, you told yourself. There were plenty of young boys who had been influenced by podcasters and Youtubers that sold an alt right, toxic view of masculinity. The idea that all women were good for was fucking and as they got older, hosuework. It didn't make him homicidal. It didn't necessarily make him violent at all, just probably misguided.
But it was clear he wasn't going to tolerate this line of questioning for much longer. It was too soon to push him too hard.
"Let's play some cards." You said eventually, and fished the deck out of your bag.
***
You were waiting for the bus at the front of the hospital, still diligently scribbling notes from the session into your notebook.
"Hey," Robby strolled up to you, a helmet in one hand and his backup over his other shoulder, "You left before I could ask you how it went."
You shrugged, "Fine."
"That's it? Fine?"
"I really shouldn't be telling you anything," You said, "Anything he tells me in there is confidential."
He scoffed, "He's my patient."
You closed your notebook and looked up at him, forcing a smile, "It went fine."
He watched you for a moment longer before breaking your gaze and running a hand over his beard, "I can't let you back in there with him if you come back and I don't care if he screams about it. So, do us all a favor and don't come back."
You hummed, "Okay, I'll take that into consideration."
He laughed, "There's nothing to consider. I won't let you back in there with him. It's dangerous and puts the whole hospital at risk. You'll only waste everyone's time if you come back."
You sighed, "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, Dr. Robby."
He huffed a laugh through his nose. Unfortunately, it didn't bother him as much as it should that he'd be seeing you again.
"You'll be waiting forever for the bus, why don't you let me give you a ride home?"
You eyed his helmet skeptically, "An ER doctor that rides a motorcycle?" You looked up at him, "You'd think you'd know better."
He smirked, "You should see the number of us who smoke."
You gave a short laugh, "Appreciate the offer, but I'll wait for the bus. I don't like the noise."
"I have an extra helmet, it'll cover your ears and muffle most of the sound."
You narrowed your eyes at him as you considered. Was he flirting with you or was he really just trying to be nice? You always had a hard time telling the difference.
Finally, you sighed, "Alright, fine."
And so that was how you ended up on the back of Dr. Robby's bike, dopey looking helmet snug on your head. You punched your address into his phone, which he then clipped to his handle bars so he could see the GPS.
"You alright?" He asked after getting on the bike in front of you.
"Yeah."
He turned to look at you, "You look scared."
You swallowed. No point in lying. "I am a little, yeah."
He took your wrists and wrapped your arms snug around his waist, "It'll be fine," he said, "Just hold on."
It had been a long time since you had touched anybody and the warmth of his body against your skin almost alarmed you.
"You ready?" He shouted over the roar of the engine.
"Yeah," You shouted back.
Immediately, you nearly fell backwards as he pulled out onto the street and sped up. You had been trying to keep some semblance of distance between your bodies, but you quickly found you were unable to keep your grip unless you plastered yourself to his back. So that's what you did, arms tight around his middle and chin resting on his shoulder.
The streets passed in a blur and you were struck by the intimacy of this whole thing. It hit you hard when, stopped at a red light, you went to lean back to give him space and instead he had placed his hands over yours where they rested on his stomach, ran his thumb gently over your skin, keeping you pressed to him. It shocked you to find that you wished you could take your helmet off so you could press your ear to his back and listen to the steady thrum of his heart.
You had been annoyed with him just hours ago, but you were so goddamn touch starved a single motorcycle ride had you wondering what you wouldn't do to keep holding him like this.
But you didn't live very far from the hospital and it was all over too soon. Parked outside the home you were renting, he didn't stop you this time when you pulled your hands away from him.
As you got off the bike, he wrapped a hand around your wrist to steady you, which was lucky because once on solid ground, you lost your balance.
"Thank you," You said, pulling the helmet off your head and handing it back to him. From the smirk on his face, you thought your hair likely looked a little insane. You tried to comb it down with your fingers.
"You're welcome," He ran a hand through his hair and rested it on the back of his head, "Tomorrow, though, we're back to being rivals if you show up in my ER again."
His tone was light and playful and you smiled. Strange. You couldn't remember the last time someone had pulled a smile from you so easily. You had always been hard won and harder to keep.
"Yes, sworn enemies. Noted." You said and started backing away towards your house, "See you tomorrow." You said, and mock saluted him before turning away.
***
Robby was trying desperately to keep his temper in check while Gloria walked behind him, periodically taking bites from his protein bar as he took stock of the ER, his residents, his med students. Gloria and her constant buzzing in his ear was not helping matters.
"Robinavitch," She said exasperated, "Please tell me you did not leave a young woman, unsupervised, in a room with a murderer."
"What happened to innocent until proven guilty?"
She huffed behind him, "Sure, but we still treat those charged with violent crimes with caution. Especially in this hospital. If anything happened to her, do you know the lawsuits—"
"He's a kid, Gloria. And besides, Ahmad was right outside the whole time."
"We were instructed by the police not to leave anyone alone with him in there."
Robby sighed and turned around to face her, "You know, Gloria, none of this would be happening if there was a bed upstairs for him in psych. Instead he's been waiting down here for days with staff that are ill equipped to handle his needs—"
"I didn't come down here to talk about boarding, I came down here to tell you that if she comes back here today, you need to have security escort her out. Am I understood?"
Robby waved her off as he saw Dana trying to get his attention, "Yeah," He called out behind him, "Got it."
And he thought he did. He had every intention of telling you you'd have to leave if you showed up. And show up you did, but he didn't find you at the hub this time. He found you already in BH2.
Well played, he thought mildly to himself as he walked over to the room and knocked on the door.
You looked up and when your eyes met his, he thought he saw you fight a smile.
"Hi." You said as you stepped outside the room.
He shook his head, "You gotta go."
You nodded, "I'm almost done, I just need another, like, thirty minutes."
He scoffed, "How long have you been here?"
You shrugged, "I don't know, almost two hours I think."
He scrubbed his face with his hands and then laced them behind his neck, "You have to go, now."
You tilted your head, "Come on, Dr. Robby. You don't mean that."
"I really, really do—"
"Robby—Incoming MVA, ETA six minutes." Dana shouted as she walked by.
Robby started backing away, "—And I don't have time to argue with you, so please, please just get out of here. I don't wanna tell you again."
And then he was gone. You stared after him for a moment or two, debating whether or not you should listen. But you were finally really getting somewhere with Liam and if you left prematurely it would derail all the progress you'd made.
So you walked back inside BH2 and shut the door behind you.
"What was that about?" Liam asked as you sat back down.
"Oh, nothing of consequence," You folded your hands in front of you on the table, "So, where were we? I think we had made our way back to talking about your friends and your girlfriend."
"Don't have a girlfriend."
"Chloe wasn't your girlfriend?"
At the mere mention of her he balked, "No." He said finally.
"Was she your friend, then?"
"I told you, no. I'm not friends with girls."
You pressed your lips together, "Well, I guess I'm just confused because from what I understand she was with you and your friends the night she died."
"Who told you that?" He asked, voice raised.
"Is it not true?"
He pulled at his hair in frustration and looked away from you, "It's true."
"So you're not friends and she's not your girlfriend, but somehow she ended up at the arcade with you and your friends."
"We just ran into her, that's all. Her and her friend Julia. Julia's dad came to pick up Julia and Chloe was gonna walk home. So we offered to walk her."
"That was nice of you."
He shrugged, "Her house is like a block from mine."
"So you walked her all the way home that night?" He nodded, "Did you talk at all? On the walk to her house?"
He frowned, "What?"
"I'm just wondering if there was any conversation."
"I—No. No."
"So you three boys walk Chloe home—"
"It wasn't the three of us."
You frowned, "What do you mean?"
"My friends, their houses were in the opposite direction. It was just me and Chloe."
You hoped the shock wasn't evident on your face. The official interview from both the police and his lawyers said that all three of them walked Chloe home, and the last they saw her, she was alive. You weren't allowed more information than that. You knew there was some sort of physical evidence they had on Liam, but knowing too much impacted your objectivity. So you didn't know the specifics. But Liam admitting that it was just him and Chloe on that walk… That was something he hadn't said before, you were sure of it.
You cleared your throat, "Okay, so just you and Chloe. And you walked in silence the whole time?"
He shrugged, "I don't know. We talked about school and stuff, I think." He scratched his head impatiently, "I don't really remember."
You nodded, "So you get to her house, what happens next? You keep walking and she goes inside?"
"No, I walked her to the door." He cleared his throat and you watched as a flush crept up his neck, "And then, we um, and then we—we kissed."
You raised your eyebrows, "You kissed Chloe when you dropped her off?"
He shrugged and smirked, and you got the impression that he was trying to show off. That maybe he was trying to impress you. And a knife of ice cold dread wedged itself in your stomach, began to spread through your veins.
"She kissed me," He said confidently, "Even put her hand on—on my dick."
You swallowed and looked down at your hands, "I'm sorry, Liam."
He frowned, "Why're you sorry?"
"Well, because Chloe's dead. It must be hard knowing that you shared such an intimate experience with someone who's no longer here."
He paled considerably, "Why the fuck would you say it like that?"
"Like what?"
"That—like—she's—"
"Dead?"
"Shut up!" He shouted suddenly.
"I worry you're not grasping the permanence of the situation—"
"I know what it means to be fucking dead."
"Then why are you so angry with me?"
He shook his head in frustration, "Fucking cunt," he said under his breath.
You opted to ignore his swearing, "What happened after she kissed you?"
He shrugged, looking down at the table now, avoiding your eyes, "I went home."
You inhaled deeply, "Liam, are you being honest with me?"
"Yes."
"Okay," you sighed, "Because I just find it strange that someone who, by your own account, was not your friend, not your girlfriend, not someone you really even talked to very much at all would initiate kissing you the first time you're alone together."
"Oh, you find it strange because you think I'm ugly, is that it?" His voice was raised again, "You find it hard to believe that a girl would want me?"
You shook your head, "I've spoken with your teachers, some of your classmates, I've spoken with Julia. All of them say the same thing, that Chloe didn't like you very much. In fact, in some cases, actively avoided you."
"Well what the fuck do they know, huh?" He stood up so abruptly, he knocked his chair over and began pacing the small room.
"Liam, I need you to sit down—"
"They weren't fucking there that night!"
"—Sit down. Now."
"Nobody was fucking there! Just because you think you're too pretty, too good for me doesn't mean she thinks that! You think you know everything— Well you don't fucking know anything!"
He was very close to you now, leaning over the table and screaming in your face while you remained seated, face impassive.
"Liam," you said quietly, "Please sit down."
He was breathing hard and after a moment pulled his face away from yours and turned his body away from you. You allowed him a few moments to calm himself before he righted his char and sat down again.
Your stomach was roiling with nausea now and you thought you might be sick. He was lying about the kiss, you were sure. But you thought there was likely a bit of truth there, based on his outburst. You wondered if he had walked her to her door and tried to kiss her then gotten angry when she rejected him.
You saw flashes in your mind of the crime scene photos. The friendship bracelets she wore on each arm nearly up to her elbows. The butterfly clips she used to decorate her hair.
If you couldn't get it together, you were going to vomit. You swallowed the saliva that had pooled in your mouth and looked back at Liam.
"This is our last session."
"What—?"
"—I've really enjoyed our time together, getting to know you—"
"No—Is this because—Because I shouted? I didn't mean to—I'm sorry!"
"No, we always had a limited amount of time together, Liam, you knew this when we started—"
"But it's only been three days!" His eyes were wet and frantic when you looked at him, much like a panicked dog.
And despite it, despite what you knew your evaluation would say, what you knew he likely had done, you felt a little sorry for him.
Here was a twelve year old boy whose whole life was ruined, now, because of a split second fit of rage. You remembered how his mother had described him to you. Sweet and precocious most of the time, but quick to anger. Rage that could bring down a whole house. But up until this point, had never harmed anyone.
And you wondered if that rage hadn't been so normalized, hadn't been packaged as just the average prepubescent mood swings of a boy, if someone would have gotten him help sooner. If it would've made a difference, if he would've ended up here anyway, in this room with you.
If Chloe would still be here, bracelets jangling up her arms as she walked to class with Julia.
"I'm sorry," you said softly. You felt your own emotional resolve fraying as you did.
Liam was screaming incomprehensibly at this point. The security guard came inside, added his own shouting to the ruckus. Liam was throwing things; the snacks you gave him, the soda, his notepad, anything he could get his hands on. You thought you heard Robby shouting something as well.
You ducked out of the room, walking fast towards the ambulance bay. You barely registered that Robby was following after you, your name falling from his lips as you stumbled outside.
***
Robby was very irritated as he followed after you. You had very nearly gotten assaulted after he had asked you to leave. You were both exceptionally lucky the situation hadn't escalated further.
As he followed you out to the ambulance bay, he intended to shout at you about how irresponsible you had been and how you better not ever step foot in his ER ever again. However, once he stepped outside, he saw you vomiting in the bushes nearby and he immediately softened.
"You okay?" He asked, soft and gentle behind you as you pulled back, wiping your arm across your mouth as tears streamed down your cheeks. He thought it must have been the most out of control he'd ever seen you.
And you laughed softly at his question, shaking your head and lowering yourself to the ground.
Robby lowered himself to the ground as well, crouching in front of you. You stilled when he took your face in his hands, scanning for injury, "Did he hurt you?"
You shook your head again, gently pushed his hands from your face, "No, he didn't touch me."
"What happened?"
Your hands trembled as you rubbed them over your face, impatiently pushing the tears from your skin. Robby waited as you seemed to gather the words, stopped himself from taking your hands in his to stop the tremors.
"I'm not usually this… effected when I make an evaluation," you sniffled, "but he's just a kid and… And I thought maybe they had gotten it wrong. I wanted them to be wrong about him and I let myself get too wrapped up in it and then when he—" You recalled the smugness in his voice when he lied to you about Chloe and a fresh wave of nausea overtook you. You closed your eyes, took a slow, deep breath, "It's not helpful, but sometimes I imagine if I had met some of my clients before… If it would have made a difference?"
Your tears were beginning to choke you and you swallowed them down, "It sucks being the person called in after the horrific tragedy has already occurred because all I can do is try to create a narrative for what I think went wrong. And what good does that do anyone? That little girl is still dead. He's still gonna be locked up at least until he's eighteen. And what sort of irreparable damage will that do to his psyche?"
Robby cleared his throat, "I see patients all the time," he said slowly, "who die under my care and some of the time, I have to let them go with the knowledge if they had just gotten to me fifteen minutes or a half hour sooner, I would've been able to save them." He shrugged when you looked at him with bloodshot eyes, "It doesn't make the work you're doing irrelevant. We can still learn from your evaluations what to do better next time so things like this don't happen again."
You tilted your head to the side as you looked at him, "Why're you being so nice to me? I snuck in here without your permission and then stayed after you told me to leave."
He smirked and shrugged his shoulders, "Guess I have a soft spot for women who break the rules."
You managed a small smile and said, voice hoarse with tears, "Thank you, Dr. Robby."
"Just Robby," he said softly, then, after a moment, "please."
Your face softened, relaxed just marginally and he felt a bit of relief. He hadn't realized how worried he'd been, seeing you fall apart like this, until that moment.
"Thank you, Robby."
He felt his heart constrict in his chest at the sound of his name on your lips and thought he was probably done for. And you were going to leave today, probably never to come back. But that was fine. It was probably for the best.
So he just nodded and rose to standing, reached a hand down to you to help you up as well. Then he watched you walk through the parking lot, briefcase held tight to your chest like a shield as you went to stand at the bus stop, eyes still wet and furrow still between your brow.
***
You haunted Robby's thoughts for the rest of his shift. He kept replaying in his head the way you had said his name, like a prayer of salvation. He needed to get you out of his head.
So when the shift was over, he headed to a bar for a beer or four to drown out thoughts of you. But when he walked inside, he stopped cold over threshold.
You sat at the bar, laptop in front of you as you typed furiously, a pen held between your teeth as you looked down at your open notebook to the side of the laptop every few moments.
Robby couldn't decide as he stood there if this was luck or a disaster waiting to happen. Romantic relationships for him usually fell in the latter category.
He didn't believe in fate, but if ever there were a time to, he supposed this might be it. So eventually, he forced his feet to take him to the seat next to you. You didn't look up or even seem to notice him until he was pulling out the chair.
And when you did, eyes coming up to meet his, your face lit up. "Robby," You said, and you sounded happy to see him.
"I swear I'm not following you." He said as he sat down, "You bring your work to the bar?" He asked, nodding at your laptop.
You nodded, "Sometimes. If it's a hard case and I'm writing up the evaluation alone in my house I can…" you swallowed, "well, I can go to a dark place. So it's better if I'm around people."
"What're you drinking?" He nodded to your glass that was now just melting ice, "I'll buy the next round."
"Oh, I don't drink," you said, and flagged down the bartender, "It's just a Coke."
You turned to the bartender before Robby could say anything, "Vinny, could you get Robby a drink and add him to my tab?"
Vinny nodded and smirked at you, "Your tab, huh?" he said, voice teasing, "Should I add another Coke to your tab as well?"
You returned his grin, "Yes, please, and don't forget the cherries."
The bartender shook his head and then turned to Robby, "What can I get you, pal?"
Robby was now looking between you and the bartender, feeling a pained sort of jealousy that he felt ashamed of feeling. "Uh," He managed finally, "Just a Stella Artois is fine if you have it?"
Vinny nodded, "You got it."
Robby turned back to you, "So you don't drink tonight or you don't drink ever?"
"Ever." You said, eyes traveling over the screen of your laptop.
"You don't find it difficult to be sober in a bar?"
You shook your head, "I've never drank so I don't have the temptation."
Vinny slid a glass of Coke to you with a comical number of Maraschino cherries sitting on top of the ice and then slid Robby's beer to him. Robby nodded his thanks and looked at you in amusement as you popped a cherry onto your tongue.
"You've never drank?" You shook your head, still with a cherry in your mouth. "Not even a sip?"
You swallowed your cherry, "Alcoholics run in my family. Both my parents were alcoholics and it ruined their lives. I didn't really need any other convincing after that, but when I started getting older and my friends all started to experiment, my aunt sat me down. She very… gently explained to me that while many of my friends could drink and would likely never have a problem, my genetics make it so that one drink for me is the equivalent of willingly swallowing a bomb that I have no way of knowing how to defuse," you shrugged, "And maybe the timer won't ever run out, but my family history makes it more likely that it runs out as soon as I take that first sip." You took the straw of your Coke between your lips, "So I don't drink."
You had said the whole thing nonchalantly, but he tilted his head to look directly in your eyes, "I'm sorry about your parents."
You shrugged, "It's okay. My aunts, Vinny's moms, took me in when my parents couldn't take care of me anymore. I would've been way more messed up if it weren't for them."
Robby raised his eyebrows, "Vinny is your… cousin?"
"Oh, yeah. Sorry, I should've mentioned. He owns this bar, it's why I come here to hang out. He gives me all the Cokes I want for free."
He felt a bit ashamed at the relief that pulsed through him at this revelation. "I was raised by extended family as well, my grandmother. You're right I think, in a strange sense, that we were lucky. I don't know what my life would've looked like if she hadn't been around."
You gave him a sad smile, "I'm sorry about your parents," you said, parroting him earlier.
He nodded and took a sip from his beer, "Thank you."
"I hope I didn't make too much of a mess for you earlier. I can be… impulsive sometimes. I'm told."
Robby chuckled, "You're told?"
You shrugged, "I think I'm impulsive a reasonable amount of the time. Others disagree, as I'm sure you would about today."
You had made quite the mess for him. Gloria had come straight downstairs to rip into him as soon as she had heard and it had taken him a good ten minutes to calm her down and assure her there had been no injuries and that you wouldn't be filing a complaint.
However, Liam's behavior had finally gotten him moved straight up to psych, so in the end Robby thought you had inadvertently done him a favor.
So he shook his head, "I can also be persuaded to make rash decisions on behalf of my patients. So I don't really blame you. But if you had gotten hurt, we'd probably be having a very different conversation."
You hummed, "You probably wouldn't have been so happy to be running into me tonight then, huh?"
He smirked and shook his head, "I think I'd be hard pressed to find any situation where I wouldn't be happy to run into you."
You laughed nervously and looked down at your drink, "The feeling is mutual."
Even off the clock, you were still attempting to be put together and fight any kernel of chaos. He recalled the way you had tried to comb down your hair after getting off his bike the other day and he had silently wished you wouldn't. He thought the only time you had ever thrown caution to the wind was probably within your work. Like he had seen you today, falling apart.
He wanted to see you lose control again, but because of him. He remembered how hesitant you had been to wrap your arms tightly around him on his bike and he instead wanted you to be clawing at him to get closer. He yearned to have you say his name again, but desperate and wrecked, begging for release only he could give.
"Any chance you want to get out of here?" He asked softly.
Your eyes snapped to his, then to his hand, wrapped around his beer bottle, "With you?" You asked, eyes still on his hand. He didn't miss the way you bit your lip when he lightly tapped his fingers against the bottle.
"With me," he confirmed and your eyes locked on his again.
He wasn't sure what sort of internal debate you were having, but you were silent a few moments as you looked him over. You glanced at your laptop where your evaluation sat, unfinished, and then sighed, "Okay, but it has to be my place."
Ah, a way for you to maintain control. Fine. He'd allow it, for now. Besides, it would give him the chance to get to know you better and get to know the sides of you you didn't allow anyone else to see.
"Deal," he said and stood, pulled out his wallet while you packed up your things. He knew you said to put him on your "tab" but since your cousin owned the bar, he had a suspicion that just meant he was drinking for free. And even though it was just one beer, he didn't like that. So he placed a ten dollar bill on the table and walked you out of the bar.
***
You felt borderline insane as you walked him to your door. It wasn't that you hadn't had a one night stand before, you had had plenty. But you had sworn them off more than a year ago after the last guy you brought home took a piss in your kitchen sink. Said he couldn't find the bathroom in the dark. Never mind the fact that you intentionally left a nightlight on in your bathroom for this very purpose and that he would've had to walk by it to get to your kitchen sink.
Regardless, you had decided you didn't want strangers in your house anymore and you certainly would not willingly enter a stranger's house. So your sex life had taken a very dramatic pause ever since. And maybe that was why you hadn't needed much convincing to bring Robby home. He certainly didn't seem like the type of man who would piss in your sink.
But also, something about him had you wondering if the second he touched you, you would combust on the spot.
Or maybe it wasn't him at all. Maybe you really were just that desperate to be touched by anyone at all.
When you opened your front door, you smiled immediately at the sound of your Russian Blue making herself known and reenacting her usual routine of meowing at you in distress until you scooped her up.
Which you did, and she nuzzled into your chest, "We have a guest, Zelda, so you have to be on your best behavior." Her purrs rumbled through you as you scratched behind her ears.
"You have a cat." Robby said, and reached to pet her as well, fingers brushing yours.
"Is that a problem?"
He shook his head, "No," he smiled as he scratched under her chin and was rewarded with her purrs, "Zelda, like, Zelda Fitzgerald?"
You chuckled, "No, Zelda like the video game. The Legend of Zelda."
His eyes went back up to yours and he smirked, "You play video games?"
You shrugged and bent down to let Zelda go. Now that she had yelled at you for leaving and you had apologized with scratches, she would disappear probably until Robby left. She never much cared for the men you brought home.
"Helps me decompress. I've played them since I was a kid, but less often now. I don't always have the time." You turned to look at him and found him watching you, a fond look on his face, "What?"
"Nothing," he said again, still that slight smile on his face, "It's just that I walked into your house moments ago and I feel like I've already learned more about you in the last minute than I have in the last three days."
You nearly physically flinched at that, but turned away to hide your facial expression from him. This wasn't exactly what you had brought him here for, to get to know you. You just wanted to get laid by a seemingly normal, handsome doctor.
"Do you want something to drink?" You asked as you headed towards the kitchen, "I don't have any alcohol but I have some seltzer or soda?"
"Sure," he said, "I'll have a seltzer."
As you rummaged through your fridge you heard him call from the next room, "Is it okay if I play something on your record player?"
Despite your earlier thoughts, that you didn't want him to know you, you were endeared that he seemed to be losing himself in your things, in your house.
"Go ahead," you called back and grabbed two cans of seltzer.
By the time you got to the living room, he was playing All the Ways by the Secret Sisters. You were pretty sure it was the same record you had left in the player the last time you used it.
"You know this song?" You asked, as you handed him a seltzer.
He shook his head and popped open the can, "No, I was just curious what you were last listening to. I like it, though," he said as the verse progressed.
You sipped your seltzer and feeling his eyes on you, turned to look at him, "What?"
"Dance with me?"
You laughed, "You don't strike me as the dancing type."
He shook his head, "All this song calls for is swaying, which I can manage." He put his seltzer down on your coffee table and held out his hand to you.
You rolled your eyes, but decided to humor him, placing a hand in his and the other on his shoulder. You hoped he couldn't hear the way your breathing quickened with his hand to your back and your chest pressed to his.
And it was nice, being held and swayed while the record spun. This was quickly becoming something other than what you imagined a one night stand to be. Perhaps a bit more romantic than you were explicitly comfortable with. Usually, by this point your pants were already off, but you thought maybe it was a symptom of his generation that he was taking his time.
As the song swelled and ebbed, you felt him press his face into your hair, then to the skin just below your ear. And suddenly you were tilting your head to fully expose your neck to him, like a dog rolling over onto its back in submission. He moved his mouth slowly and sensually along your neck, hands squeezing your hips gently as if to anchor you to him in case you were to pull away. He needn't worry about that, though, because you were on another plane of existence entirely, drowning yourself in the feel of his lips and tongue and teeth against your skin, the drag of his beard along your throat.
Until you couldn't take it anymore and you were pulling his face up to meet yours so you could kiss him properly. He kissed slowly and purposefully, like there was no rush, like he didn't want to waste a single second. When he slid his tongue against yours, he moaned into your mouth, and the sound sent a thrill through you. So much so, that you began kissing him harder, faster—
But he only brought his hands up to your cheeks, held your face firmly as he reasserted the pace, until it was devastatingly slow again. You whined, which was very unlike you, and you felt Robby smile against your mouth, "It's okay, baby," he said softly, "there'll be time for hard and fast later. Just humor me for a while."
Oh. Oh, you really liked the way he said that, the way he'd called you baby. Another thing you weren't used to, being directed, being told what was going to happen. It was usually you calling the shots and another man's poor attempt at dirty talking you. You once pressed a hand over a man's mouth to quiet him enough to allow you to come as you rode him into oblivion.
But Robby's voice was both rough and smooth, soothing. You thought he could probably murmur the most vulgar words in your ear and you'd still want him, badly.
You let him direct you, let him set the pace, let him slowly, agonizingly undress you until you were in just bra and underwear. And he pulled back slightly to look you over, eyes darkening with lust, "Take me to your bed?" he asked softly.
You took him by the hand and led him to your bedroom, licked your lips when he pushed you back onto the bed and began to undress.
When he was in just his boxers he crawled over you and you ran your hands eagerly over every inch of his skin you could. He leaned down to kiss your neck again, one of his hands trailing down your chest, your belly, until he was rubbing you over your underwear. Your hips lifted up and into his palm and he covered your mouth with his own when you moaned.
"You're soaked," he whispered, smug, "I've barely touched you."
You took his lip gently between your teeth and then released him, "I've been thinking about you while I touched myself the last few days," you whispered before you could think better of it, "I think it's sort of a weird Pavlovian response now."
The groan he made sounded pained as he slipped his hand fully into your underwear. "You were thinking about me, huh? When you were getting yourself off?"
You nodded, unable to form words as his fingers slid up and down your folds, denying you the friction you really needed.
"And what was I doing in your head, hm?" You sighed when his finger circled your puffy clit, "Was it this?"
"Something like that, yeah." Your back arched when he slipped a finger inside you, so much thicker and longer than your own, he reached the deep spot inside you that had your toes curling effortlessly.
You sighed into his mouth as he curled his finger up just slightly, slowly thrusting in and out. His pace was so languid you began moving your own hips, trying to encourage him to quicken, but he placed his free hand on your stomach, "So impatient," he tutted, "is it always a race with you to come?"
Yes. It was, in fact. You were always trying to come as fast as possible so whoever you were with wouldn't lose interest. Even with Robby, you worried he might get you close to the precipice and then decide he couldn't wait anymore, that he needed to come first.
And then, what the fuck would be the point of all this? You took this man into your home, let him meet your cat, let him into your bed, and what? No orgasm in return?
But you couldn't say any of this, worried you'd come across as a greedy bitch and also it was difficult to form coherent sentences once he added a second finger.
So instead, your stupid, dumb, pleasure addled brain decided to just beg, "Please."
He pulled his face back marginally so you got a full view of him, perched above you. His eyes were black pits of desire, but beneath that, there was something else. A gentleness, a fondness, a tenderness. Directed at you.
You didn't think anyone had ever looked at you with such adoration. He didn't even really know you. The intimacy of his gaze embarrassed you and so you closed your eyes so you wouldn't have to see it.
Eyes closed, you felt him kiss up your jaw to your ear, fingers still moving at a snail's pace.
"You sound so pretty when you beg," he crooned, his hot breath on the shell of your ear, "wanna hear you do it again."
You hated the way your body responded to his voice, a fire low in your belly stoked by his words, and still you could only whimper in response, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes. You couldn't recall a time a man had ever had you like this, that you had allowed a man to have you like this, so vulnerable and desperate for him.
"You can do it," he cooed, all condescension as he pulled his fingers out of you. Before you had a chance to complain about that he slapped your pussy lightly and it sent shockwaves through your clit, "Beg me to come."
You groaned, pushed your face up and into his neck, "Please, Robby."
He covered your mouth with his own again, kissed you hard, teeth dragging over your lower lip, "Good girl," he murmured and kissed you again, his praise sending chills up your arms.
He kissed his way down your body until he was between your legs and he pressed his mouth to the damp spots on the fabric of your underwear. He kissed you thoroughly through the fabric, his moan vibrating off you. He was such a fucking tease but you absolutely would not beg him again.
"Robby," you said again, but this time in warning.
He laughed, "Alright, alright," he pulled the waistband of your underwear down, allowed you to lift your hips so he could pull them off you, "message received."
When he lowered his mouth to you, his tongue expertly working you, a stray, fleeting thought passed to the front of your mind that maybe this was why people got married. Maybe if you found someone who could make you feel this good, that made you think this must be why people believed in heaven, in God. Maybe that was enough reason to tie yourself to someone forever.
The thought was there and gone like a passing shower, almost as if your brain was too afraid to acknowledge why you would be experiencing that specific sentiment. And then Robby focused his mouth on your clit and slipped his fingers back inside you and there was no room to think anything at all.
Your walls tightened around his fingers as his tongue flicked against your clit until your climax ripped through you. Your body writhed against his mouth as you rode out the waves until they crested and receded.
You were breathing hard, eyelids fluttering open, when you felt him pull his fingers out of you. He sucked your juices from his fingers and even after finishing, your stomach tightened in response.
It shocked you how easily everything he did turned you on. Your eyes trailed down his chest, catalogued his Star of David necklace, his freckles, the smattering of chest hair, down to his belly, the hair that grew there and disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers, you filed it all away.
His erection was obvious in his boxers as his mouth came back up to meet yours, "you doing okay, sweetheart?" he murmured into your mouth.
You felt yourself melt. With every passing moment you started to wonder if this man was ruining you for sex with anyone else ever again. You managed a nod and kissed him back. Part of you wondered if he had realized just how undone you were by him. Still, you wanted more. And this, like so much of this sexual experience, was foreign to you. You were used to going through the motions to make another man come. Most of the time, you resigned yourself to being a pillow princess, not really an active participant, more of a let's get this over with attitude.
But with Robby, you yearned to touch him, feel him, wanted to be filled to the brim with him. When you reached into his boxers to stroke his cock with your hand, it was his turn to moan. As he did, he reached for your face. He gently pressed fingers that were just inside of you to your lips, "Open."
His word was firm, meant to be a command, and yet there was a question in his eyes. You met his eyes, gave the smallest of nods as you opened your mouth. You took his fingers into your mouth, sucked on them obscenely while you pumped him with your hand. Each time you brought your fist up to his head, you noted the precum there and sucked on his fingers a little harder.
"Jesus Christ," he panted as he watched you, his hips involuntarily rutting into your hand.
When he pulled his fingers from your mouth, you rose up to meet his lips, needing to kiss him, to taste his tongue and feel the roughness of his beard against you. You needed more of him, sucked on his tongue as if it were oxygen after resurfacing from the ocean. He made needy noises, grinding down on your soaked pussy still with the fabric of his boxers between you.
You pulled on them impatiently, no longer able to disguise your neediness, not caring if you seemed desperate anymore. He met your desperation, quickly pulled them down and off, "Do you have a condom?" He asked, breathless.
You did, but for a moment you considered asking him to fuck you raw. You felt crazed, reckless in a way you had never been before. You couldn't fathom the idea of creating another barrier between you. But you blinked, reminded yourself you didn't really know him. You had an IUD, it wasn't pregnancy you were worried about. You knew you were clean, but who could say that he was? He was a doctor, so you'd hope he wouldn't lie about that sort of thing, but again, you didn't know him.
You cursed the rational side of your brain and reached for your nightstand. You hastily ripped open the condom wrapper, hushed his laughing at your impatience with a kiss and worked the condom onto him.
He cradled the back of your neck as he kissed you, guided you back onto the pillow, and then you felt him poking, first at your leg, then he nudged your entrance and inhaled sharply.
You locked eyes with him as he slowly pushed himself inside you, the two of you sighing collectively as he filled you to the brim. You whined at the stretch, immediately wanting him to move, "Please," you begged again, wiggling your hips in a useless attempt to create friction.
He gave you a lopsided grin, pressed his face into your sweaty neck, "It's not a race, sweetheart." He chided again, took your earlobe between his teeth as he finally started to move his hips. He moved slow, but his thrusts were so deep and strong, he pushed you up until your head hit the bedpost.
It didn't hurt, and you barely noticed it for the stars you were seeing every time he pushed into you, but after a moment you registered that your head was hitting his hand instead. He had placed his hand between your head and the bedpost, kissed your forehead as he rutted into you, "sorry, sweetheart," he murmured.
Oh, it was dizzying the way you felt delusional with lust one second and the next wondering if this is what it felt like to be in love. You had thought you'd been in love before, but it had never felt like this, all consuming. You had only known him a few days but you wondered how anyone he slept with didn't fall in love with him. Maybe they did. Maybe he was just that legendary a lay.
It was close to being over, you could tell. He was moving faster, he'd buried his face in your shoulder, bit down to muffle his moans. When he came, you stroked his head, didn't mind the way his sweat mingled with yours, damp skin sticking to you.
And with his orgasm, your head began to clear of the lust laden fog. Breathless, his mouth searched for yours, sucked your bottom lip between his own. Suddenly, you felt terrified of your own want. There was an ache so deep inside you, reserved just for him, that you felt tears burn the backs of your eyes as he kissed you.
Gently, you pushed him off of you, murmured something about going to take a shower, and ran out of the room.
You turned on the shower with a shaky hand, felt the onset of a panic attack impending in your chest. You sat on the floor of the tub, let the warm spray of the water regulate your breathing.
This was supposed to be a one night stand. You were supposed to fuck him and forget him, like you always did. And like what always happened, you would get out of this shower, walk back to your bedroom, and he would be gone. You always used the shower after sex to provide your guests with a good excuse to leave. That way there were no awkward goodbyes and you could go to sleep having cleaned them off you.
It didn't matter that, actually, if you weren't so tired you thought you'd probably like to fuck him again. Maybe this time, you'd count each freckle underneath his eyes and watch the fucked out expression on his face while you rode him.
You scrubbed at your face, stood up and turned off the shower. There wouldn't be a next time, you reminded yourself. One and done, that was your rule. You liked your life the way it was, clean and neat, just you and Zelda. Relationships were messy. Love was messy. Unnecessary.
You wrapped a towel around your body and headed back to the bedroom. Walking through the open door, you started when you saw him, still sprawled out on the bed. He had put his boxers back on and a pair of readers was perched on his nose as he read the book in his hand, Psychological Evaluations for the Courts: A Handbook for Mental Health Professionals and Lawyers.
This was all surprising enough, but what really threw you for a loop, was Zelda curled up on his bare shoulder, her face smushed into his as he used a free hand to scratch under her chin. Zelda always stayed away from your guests.
"Hey, can I borrow this?" He asked, nodding towards the book.
You blinked, "You're still here," you said softly.
"Oh," he pushed his glasses up onto his head, "did you want me to go?"
You opened and closed your mouth, "N-no. I just, um," at that moment, Zelda meowed and jumped off the bed to your feet, "Usually, it's just that while I'm in the shower usually my… guests… leave."
He smirked at you, "I don't have to stay—"
"I want you to stay," you blurted, "but I should tell you that I get nightmares. Sometimes."
"Yeah, okay. Me too." He shrugged and looked back at the book, "Seriously, can I borrow this?"
You smirked and dropped your towel, grabbed a clean t-shirt to throw on. You felt his eyes rove over your body until you pulled the t-shirt over your head, "You want to borrow one of my reference books?"
You crawled back onto the bed, tried to ignore the gnawing thought in your head that you shouldn't be doing this. This broke the rules. You should've sent him home.
He shrugged, "It's interesting."
Zelda hopped back on the bed and settled on top of the place where your body connected to Robby's. And Robby looked down at her and smiled, scratched the spot under her chin again. Fuck. If he could win Zelda over, a feat only ever achieved by you, it was over for you.
"Yeah, sure," you said, "you can borrow it. But that means you have to see me again."
He hummed and lightly stroked his knuckles across your cheekbone, "Was already planning on that."
***
You follow them home, watch Liam walk her to the door. There's a chill to the night air that comes at summer's end when the greens and blues of the season begin to dull.
You can hear the friendship bracelets bounce against one another as they walk. There's a moment, when they stand on the stoop, where Liam leans his head towards Chloe— and she steps back.
They're speaking, but you can't hear them. Liam's hands are balled into fists at his side and you feel that ice cold dread again. You want to go to him, pull him away from her, but your feet seem glued to the ground.
There's nothing you can do but watch as Chloe turns away from Liam and to her door and Liam picks up the aluminum baseball bat abandoned by the stairs—
You resurfaced from the dream as if clawing yourself from your own grave having forgotten how to breathe, cheeks wet and chest heaving.
"What—what's wrong?"
Robby's voice was rough with sleep as he fumbled for the lamp on the bedside table. You couldn't pull enough air into your lungs to speak, but even if you could you weren't sure what you'd say. You had forgotten you had fallen asleep with him, limbs entangled.
If you had the wherewithal to care, you'd probably be embarrassed about the fact that he kept seeing you like this, falling apart. Something no one else had ever had the privilege of seeing. You kept having to remind yourself you had only known him for three days. That eventually he would leave, would grow tired of you, of this. Likely sooner rather than later. The infatuation would fade and so would he.
But when the lamp switched on and his eyes landed on you, heaving for air, you saw nothing but soft concern, "C'mere," he said and opened his arms to you.
You hesitated for only a moment before you collapsed against his chest, pressed your ear to his skin so you could hear the steady beat of his heart.
He held you silently while your breathing leveled and your sobs reduced to hiccups.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" He asked finally, mouth pressed to your hair.
You shook your head and watched the moon from your window, "Can we take a ride on your bike?"
"Now?" He asked, surprise heavy in his voice, "It's 3AM."
You took a shaky breath, "Need some air."
He seemed to ponder this silently for a moment before sighing, "Yeah, okay. If that'll make you feel better."
The two of you got up from bed and dressed quickly and quietly. The silence of the nighttime and the cool crisp air immediately had you feeling more like yourself.
Robby grabbed his extra helmet and before he went to place it on your head, hovered above it, "Is it gonna make you claustrophobic?"
It was sweet that he even thought it, that it would trigger your panic attack again having to put something over your face. But that wasn't the sort of anxiety you had. In fact, being in enclosed spaces (like his arms), was comforting. So you shook your head.
He put the helmet on your head like you were a child, made sure it was buckled properly, and then he was climbing onto the bike, putting his own helmet on.
You pushed the windshield on your helmet up so you could feel the wind against your face as he drove through Pittsburgh. Your arms were clasped firmly around his waist and just like the first time, whenever he stopped he stroked his hand gently atop yours.
It took you a while, but you recognized when he was driving out of the city where he was taking you.
His headlights lit the road into West End Overlook Park, the lights from the city lit up the skyline even at this hour. Robby parked and turned off the engine, held your hand as you dismounted.
After taking off your helmets, you walked to the railing so you could see the city fully. Robby twined his arms around your waist from behind and rested his head on top of yours, "You feel any better?"
"Yeah," You grabbed at his arms and pulled them tighter around you, "Thank you. Sorry I woke you."
"Nothing to be sorry for, I don't sleep well anyway."
You closed your eyes while he kissed down your cheek to your jawbone, reveled in the feel of him wrapped around you like this. And you ignored the voice in the back of your head that reminded you it couldn't last.
***
The next weeks and months passed in a blur. On all of your spare days and nights you were either at Robby's or he was at yours.
You expected for the infatuation the wear off, for the high of the sex to fade, but the sex only got better as you learned each other's preferences and you still had a dopey smile on your face whenever you opened the door to see him on the other side.
He spent hours sitting in the chair by your window reading with Zelda in his lap while she watched the birds fly by the window. Robby became so enamored by her, he bought her a harness and leash, said he wanted to train her to go outside so the two of you could take her on hikes.
But still, there remained a wall between you. You both occasionally had nightmares and though you were both willing to provide physical comfort, neither of you ever raised the topics of your demons. Not explicitly. Robby had asked you that first time, but that had seemed to be only because he felt like that's what was expected of him. And the second you said you didn't want to talk about it, he took it as permission to never bring it up again.
At first, you thought this was a win. You had no desire to be more vulnerable with him than you already were. The sex was good, the company was nice, why complicate things unnecessarily?
But then things started to take a turn when he'd come over miserable and wrecked from work and refuse to talk about it.
After one particularly lousy day, he'd snapped at you when you asked him one too many times if he was okay.
"I've told you at least three separate times now that I'm fine, so could you please fucking drop it?"
You swallowed, tried to ignore his tone, "Well it's just that what you're saying doesn't match your whole attitude so I'm trying to give you a chance to tell me what the problem is—"
"Why? So you can fucking psychoanalyze me? I'm not one of your clients."
You bristled at that, "You know I'm not a therapist."
He huffed out a breath through his nose, "Right. Could've fooled me."
You nodded slowly to yourself, tried not to let the hurt show on your face as you headed to the entryway, "You know, I just remembered I have this evaluation I really should be working on so—"
"Hey, come on," You heard him sigh, his steps following after you, "I'm sorry, don't go."
You were grabbing your coat from the hooks by his door, but he snatched it out of your hand and rehung it before stepping in front of you and walking you backwards until your back hit the wall, "I'm sorry, I don't know why—" He cut himself off and sighed, took your face in his hands and started kissing your cheeks, your jaw, down your neck, "I'm sorry," he repeated against your skin.
And you hated yourself because your eyelids fluttered closed at his touch, like they always did. You allowed him to make you forget, or alternatively, make you remember why you kept coming back. He picked you up, hoisted your legs around his waist as he still pressed your back firmly to the wall. With every stroke of his tongue against yours, you couldn't remember why you ever wanted to leave in the first place.
It became a pattern with you both. One of you pissed off or hurting and refusing to tell the other why, the other deciding they were sick of the bullshit and wanted to leave, until the clothes started to come off.
But even then, you couldn't keep the emotions and the sex separate. They began to bleed into one another, frustration coming out in rough and hard sex, devastation occasionally leading to crying after orgasms, and steadily it became more and more of a mess.
You both began to withdraw, and though you felt yourself doing the same thing to him, you felt heartbroken and devastated when you invited him over and he said he was too busy. Then you were angry at him, but more angry with yourself for allowing yourself to do the very thing you swore you wouldn't; fall in love. Because there was no fucking denying it now.
Not when he ghosted you and you felt like you couldn't breathe. When you woke up from a nightmare and he wasn't there, so you had to picture his arms around you instead to calm yourself down. Only to then start crying and wish you could call him, just to hear his voice. It was excruciating. You would have tried anything to get rid of the feeling. If you believed in the Devil, you may have attempted to summon him to strike up a deal.
The day he left your reference book in your mailbox without ringing the doorbell, no note, no text, you decided you hated him. But it wasn't the truth. It was just survival. There was nowhere else to put all the love you had for him, the ache in your chest when you heard a motorcycle go by. You always checked to see if it was him, but it never was.
It was over, you thought. The first and last time you had fallen in love. You wouldn't be this stupid ever again.
***
Robby was miserable. Had been since he stopped answering your texts. The day he left your book in your mailbox, he had intended to ring the doorbell, to see your face one last time. But he couldn't do it. He thought he didn't deserve to. And you didn't want him and his baggage anyway. He had been hurting you consistently for weeks. He felt it. He knew you felt it too by the way you had started pulling away.
Before, work had been miserable, but at least he had you for a while to go home to. But now, it was just work and home alone. He tortured himself with the thought of you. Jerked off in the shower thinking about your tits in his mouth and the way you used to beg for him. If before he had been occasionally moody at work, he was now insufferable, snapping at everyone.
When there was a Code Tan called after Jack had just arrived for shift change, he thought nothing of it.
"You go home, brother," Jack said, lightly tapping him on the chest as he passed, "I got this."
And so, he had begun to pack up his things, had his backpack over his shoulder and his helmet in his hand when he turned for the exit—
Only to see you walk in from chairs, eyes red rimmed and a cold compress pressed to your cheek. You looked tired and frankly more resigned than he could ever recall seeing you.
He didn't give himself time to think when he dropped his backpack and helmet at the hub and walked towards you.
"What're you doing here?" He asked sharply and on instinct, brought his hands up to check your injury, but you reeled away from him. He frowned at that. He knew he had hurt you in the days and weeks leading up to when he disappeared, but he had thought when he Houdini'd out of your life he was doing you a favor. And it had been at least a month since then so he thought you'd be fine. You were always fine. But there was an inferno in your eyes now.
"I'm the code tan," you said, "a client got in a good punch while I was upstairs."
He clenched his jaw, "They don't have security with you in there?"
"I asked them to wait outside," you said, "it helps with rapport to let them think that I trust them. Backfired on me this time, though."
He decided not to reprimand you on that, "Let me take a look—"
You pulled back again, "I don't want you, I want a different doctor."
Before Robby even had time to properly register the venom in your voice, Jack joined you, "Hey, is this our code tan? Thought I told you to beat it, Robinavitch."
"I can handle this one—"
"No, I'd prefer it if Dr.—" You looked towards Jack, waiting for him to give his name.
"Abbot."
"—Dr. Abbot. I want Dr. Abbot to look me over."
Robby's chest tightened, "Sweetheart—"
"Don't call me that."
Jack looked between the two of you in mild confusion, "Okay…" He said, stretching out the word, "why don't you follow me? Robby, go home."
"Jack—"
"It's what the patient wants!" He called over his shoulder as he ushered you away from Robby.
Jack took you to an open bed, had you sit down, and you saw that you had a clear line of sight to the hub. Robby was now sitting at a workspace, eyes zeroed in on you.
"Would you mind closing the curtains?" You asked.
Jack turned his head back toward the hub, saw Robby and sighed before drawing the curtains around the two of you. Then he raised two gloved hands, "May I take a look?"
You nodded, pulled the compress from your face. Jack didn't betray any opinion. Whether or not he thought the injury was bad, his face remained neutral.
"How'd you get this?"
"I was punched by a psych patient upstairs."
His eyes darted from the injury to your eyes, then back again, "You're the psychologist Robby was seeing?"
Now it was your turn to eye him, "I didn't think he told anyone. It wasn't… It wasn't anything, really."
"Well," Jack shined a light in your eyes, watched your pupils react, "Whatever it was, it fucked him up. More fucked up than he was to begin with."
It went against everything you had presumed in the last few weeks, that Robby was mourning you. He could've texted, he could've called, he could've showed up at your door in the middle of the night and you likely would have forgiven him.
"Yeah, well. He's not the only one it fucked up."
He sighed, "It might help if you talk to him."
You snorted, "Right, yeah. Is that your recommended treatment plan?"
He shook his head and took off his gloves, "No. I want you to get a CT just to make sure nothing's broken, which I don't think anything is. Then when you go home I want you to ice it for about ten to twenty minutes at a time for the first 24-48 hours. Swelling should go down after that. You'll probably have some bruising for the next two or three weeks."
"Thank you."
He looked you over again as he stood, "He's been fucked up since it ended, but when it was going on, I'd never seen him that happy. If you were even a third as happy as he was… I think you should talk to him."
And then he was gone and you were grateful that he kept the curtain closed around you so Robby couldn't see it when you started crying.
***
The CT came back clean and you gathered your things to head home, but as soon as you walked back into central, there was Robby. Waiting for you.
He matched your stride, walked with you towards the exit, "Let me take you home."
"No thank you."
"I don't understand why you're so upset with me, could you just talk to me—"
It was so ridiculous, you barked out a laugh, "Now you wanna talk? After you ignored my messages and dropped off my book without even ringing the fucking doorbell? Too much of a fucking coward to face me?"
You had walked outside now and he grabbed your wrist, spun you to face him, "I thought it was what you wanted. I didn't ring the doorbell because I knew if I saw you I'd beg you to let me back in again and I didn't think that was fair to you."
You were so frustrated, so appalled by the idea that after reaching out to him with no response that you didn't want to hear from him, that you couldn't form words. You pulled your wrist from him, placed your hands on his chest, and shoved.
"Hey—Stop—" You shoved him again, "Stop that—" This time, when you went to shove him again, he grabbed your wrists and backed you against the wall of the hospital, "Enough."
This close to him, looking into those warm brown eyes again, your anger began to slip replaced by the seemingly unending devastation you had been trying to dampen since he disappeared, "I hate you," you said, chin wobbling, "You made me fall in love with you and then you left."
You watched his face transform with your admission, both soften and sadden, "You never told me you loved me."
You laughed, a tear escaping to carve a path down your cheek, "And would it have made a difference?"
"Maybe!" He said fiercely, "Maybe if you ever let me in fully it would have been different, not this half in half out bullshit."
"Oh, okay, so it's all my fault then."
He shook his head and released your wrists, looked down at the ground, "I didn't say that."
"What about you, huh? Every time I asked you to tell me what you were feeling you'd bite my fucking head off."
He looked back up at you, "You didn't really want to know, I was following your lead. You never fucking shared anything with me unless you were fully breaking down and even then it was like you were so careful about what you did tell me. I didn't think you wanted anything deeper so I kept it to myself."
You bit your lip, let the silence fall between the two of you and leaned your back against the wall. After a moment you dug into your pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, "Do you have a light?" You asked, voice rough and flat from the shouting and crying.
You watched him out of the corner of your eye dig a lighter from his pocket. You put a cigarette between your lips and leaned into him, tried not to notice the warmth of his hand as he cupped a hand around the light to keep the breeze from blowing it out. After you leaned back and took a couple of drags, you passed the cigarette to him, which he accepted.
"Did you love me?" You asked, staring off into the distance, not capable of looking at him in case he gave you the devastating answer. You felt him watch you for a moment before he looked forward again.
"I still love you," he said softly, passing the cigarette back to you.
You tried to calm the rapid beating of your heart, took a long drag from the cigarette, "Zelda misses you. She makes me sit in that chair by the window you used to sit in and watch the birds with her, but I don't think she enjoys my company as much as yours."
He chuckled, "I miss her too."
You inhaled a shaky breath, "I don't know how to do this. How to be in a relationship and be… emotionally available. But I think I want to try. With you."
When you looked over at him he had a small smile on his face, "I would really like that."
You put out your cigarette and finally let him touch you. His hands coming up to cradle your face, he carefully avoided your injury. And then his lips were on yours and you thought your knees might buckle with the relief.
"I'm sorry I left, for snapping at you, for not ringing the doorbell, all of it," he said frantically in your mouth, "I was stupid, I was scared, and I didn't think you felt the same."
"I forgive you," you murmured, "And I'm sorry too. For all of it."
He pulled away from you slightly, gently ran his knuckles across your cheek, "We'll figure it out."
You nodded, nudged your nose against his, "Do you think you could take me home now?"
He smiled against you, "Absolutely."
He led you by the hand to his bike, kissed your forehead before pulling the helmet over your head and buckling it beneath your chin.
It likely would never be easy between the two of you. There would inevitably be more fighting, more silence. But you thought it might be okay now, knowing that the love was there. Knowing that neither of you would leave like that again. You were hopeful and you were done denying yourself what you wanted. You thought Robby might be done with it too.
You held onto him tightly as he rode through the streets of Pittsburgh, towards the sunset, towards home.
I would give them their meds and vitamins every night, install a handrail in the shower, make sure the music is never too loud, turn on Jeopardy/Wheel of Fortune every evening, bring them the morning paper, schedule their shuffleboard games, etc.
It's transactional. You give him information about the underbelly and its seedy misdeeds, inching them one step closer to Makarov, and he, in turn, will clear the staggering debt you owe.
Quid pro quo, really. Until it isn't. Until it somehow becomes so much more than you could have ever imagined.
》 SERIES WARNINGS: THIS SERIES WILL BE 18+ | Standard cyberpunk warnings—high tech low life, corruption, corporate greed; body modification; technological supremacy; the existential crisis of questioning your humanity; murder; violent themes.
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