you, you, you -- ex!michael robinavitch x fem!reader (part two)
Nobody look at how fast I wrote this ok, just let it happen 😭 (Reader's therapist is based off my old one, shout out to her!!) (...also there will be a part three)
<< Part One
Summary: Clarity comes the morning after letting Robby back in, and you have to make difficult decisions. Can you trust him again? Can you try? Should you? ["You You You" by Maisie Peters]
Warnings: so much more angst, brief allusion to suicide, therapy scene, talks of reader not eating after the breakup, reader's sister makes an appearance!!, god everything is so complicated how do people do this
WC: 5.9k
Robby has no right to feel any sort of upset when he wakes to an empty bed, but he still does.
It takes him a moment to remember where he is, to remember what happened yesterday. The neverending shift from hell. Beers in the park. All of it leading him here to you.
You, who Robby can hear in the shower, who all but asked him to sleep in your bed, who fed him dinner and gave him a change of clothes and let him cry, even after he was so mean to you. You, you, you.
He turns his head to the side, until he can smell your shampoo on your pillow. Maybe it’s inappropriate, maybe it isn’t. Maybe he’d blush if you caught him doing it. Maybe he’d pretend he wasn’t doing it.
Your shampoo is different, or at least the scent is. He wonders when you changed it. And how many things you changed when you left. If you needed to change everything in order to move on. If you needed to carve him out of your life, including everything he once complimented, touched, or bought you.
Do you know, then, that you left so many things at his apartment? And that he hasn’t touched them, hasn’t even moved them someplace else to store them?
Your favorite blanket is still on the back of his couch, draped over in the exact way you left it. Two of your favorite books, one left on the bottom shelf of his nightstand, the other left on the side table by the couch. Both bookmarked, unfinished. He always thought (hoped) that they represented the two of you. That one day the two of you could try again. Take out the bookmark, keep reading, all the way to the end of time.
He hears the water shut off and he composes himself, wrenches his face away from your pillow to sit up and stretch. He makes the bed as quickly as he can, just finishing tucking the covers when you come back in, towel wrapped around your body, water droplets on your shoulders.
Fuck.
There was once a time when he’d walk over and kiss you, lick the water from the dip in your shoulder just to make you laugh and push his face away and call him gross, just before pulling him back in for a kiss on the lips.
Now? Now he just has to pretend you aren’t wearing only a towel. Now he just has to pretend he doesn’t know exactly what you look like underneath. Now he just has to leave the room to let you get dressed.
“Sorry,” your smile is sheepish. “Muscle memory. Didn’t think to grab my clothes.”
“It’s fine,” he shakes his head, looking down, already feeling the heat crawling up his neck. “I’ll probably head out soon.”
“No coffee?” you ask idly, rummaging through one of your dresser drawers. He can tell you’re trying not to sound hurt.
“I should--” He tries to think of the right words. He comes up empty. Because what he wants to say is I want coffee and breakfast and to wake up beside you every morning and to know what shampoo you use again and why you don’t use the other one anymore but he can’t say any of that. Because that’s not fair.
Your smile has turned sad by the time you look back up at him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I just need to shower,” he says. “And change clothes.”
“Robby, we don’t have to get coffee. We were both tired when I suggested it. It’s fine.” You shake your head. “It’s probably a bad idea.”
“No, it’s--” It’s a good idea. Amazing, even, because you suggested it. Because you want to spend time with me. “Please,” he says, not even caring that he sounds so desperate. “I just need to shower and put fresh clothes on. We can meet in an hour? Our usu-- Our old place?”
He sees the hurt flicker in your eyes. The hesitation. But you eventually nod. “I’ve got therapy this afternoon,” you say. “So I can’t stay long.”
“Just one coffee,” he says, trying not to sound like he’s begging, but fuck. If you want him on his knees, he’ll do it.
“Just coffee,” you tell him. “And I’m buying my own.”
“Understood.” He can accept that. It’s not a date.
“And no relationship talk,” you add. “I meant what I said last night. Therapy first. Then we can talk about it. Maybe.”
You’re more stern than you were last night, and it rattles him even though it shouldn’t. You were tired last night. He had shown up unannounced, caught you off guard. He was in probably one of the worst states you’ve ever seen him. Of course in the daylight after a full night’s rest, your brain is going to be clearer. Of course you’re going to be thinking more logically.
“I’ll text you when I’m on my way,” he says, backing out of the room so you can get dressed and so he can stop thinking about what you look like under the towel.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” you tell him.
He nods again. Understood. You’re going to get coffee before therapy. Whether or not he joins you is up to him.
He understands your hesitation. He knows that with the way things ended, all the things he forgot, it seems like this might slip his mind too, that he’ll get “caught up” and blow you off like he used to.
But not this time.
This time, he’s practically sprinting to his apartment, backpack haphazardly zipped because he was stuffing yesterday’s clothes into it as he left. This time, he’s taking the stairs two at a time. He’s flying around his apartment like a madman to get in the shower, get dressed, and be out the door in time to meet you at the cafe. The same one the two of you used to frequent.
As he’s a block away, it hits him. This was your favorite place for coffee when the two of you were together. He hasn’t been back since the breakup. Have you?
Suddenly he’s not so sure this was a good idea at all, but he can’t change it now. He’s walking up to the doors just as he sees you crossing the street, headphones in, no doubt blasting music that he used to hear you singing around the apartment, unaware that he was home yet.
Back before he made you feel unwelcome. Back before he made you feel like you weren’t allowed to take up any space around him, when the truth is you’ve always taken up so much space around him, even in your absence. He still feels you all around the apartment, he still feels you right now, as you cross the street and haven’t even looked at him yet. He feels it in his chest, the same spot where you used to lay your head every night.
He stops by the doors, stands a little straighter, waits for you to notice him.
When you do, you smile. But it’s not the same as it used to be. It doesn’t reach your eyes, and frankly, you look a little surprised to see him.
He guesses he deserves that.
He holds the door open, waving you in. “After you, my lady.”
You try not to giggle at him. He hears it anyway. Counts it as a win. “Thanks.”
You step in and hop in line, staring up at the menu and not even giving him a second glance. It’s not a date. The two of you aren’t here together necessarily, just both grabbing coffee.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, trying not to lean down closer to you because that invades your personal space in a way he’s not allowed to do anymore.
“Not sure,” you say. “Haven’t been here in a while.”
You confirm it without confirming it. His heart aches.
“Me too,” he says, then scratches the back of his neck. “We can go somewhere else if it’s…I don’t know, too much.”
You turn and raise your eyebrows at him.
“Or I can fuck off,” he chuckles awkwardly, looking back up at the menu, nodding to himself. “That’s always an option.”
You laugh at him then, shaking your head. “It’s fine, Robby. I’ve missed this place. I just never really have a reason to be over here anymore.”
Right. Because this is on the way to the Pitt. And why the hell would you be on your way there anymore?
“How’s Dana?” you ask, turning to him suddenly, and there’s that sadness again. Because when you left him, you had to let go of all the people you became friendly with in the Pitt, too. Including Dana.
“She’s good,” he says automatically, then cringes. “Had a bad day yesterday, like all of us. Patient got violent with her.”
Your eyes widen. “What? Is she okay?”
“She’s okay, you know her,” he says, remembering then how Dana said she thought she was done, but he doesn’t really believe that. Not yet, anyway. “The police got the guy.”
“Good,” you mutter, shaking your head. “Some people.”
He nods, the conversation waning as you step up to order. It’s not the same drink as it used to be, and it just makes him sad.
You pay and step aside, and Robby orders his usual black coffee, nothing fancy. He swears he hears you scoff, but he doesn’t say anything.
He tries again to pick up some idle conversation. “Still with the same therapist?”
You nod, staring off a bit. “Yep. Trying to figure out how to explain to her that I had my ex boyfriend in my bed last night,” you pause, smirking. “I’m betting she’ll think I’m joking.”
He chuckles, tries not to think about how your therapist (and your sister, and your friends too) probably hates his guts. “Well…good luck, I guess?”
“Thanks,” you scoff. “I’m gonna need it.” You pause, knocking your arm against his. “You too, by the way. You better call Jack’s therapist.”
“I am,” he promises. Jack’s already texted him and asked if he did. But Jack doesn’t know that Robby ended up at your place last night, either. He’s gotta figure out how to tell him that, if he wants to. It’ll probably end in a lecture.
“Good,” you say.
Your drinks are ready one after another, and Robby almost expects you to leave as soon as you get yours, but you don’t.
“Wanna sit for a few minutes?” you ask, nodding toward one of the tables by the window. “I’ve got like an hour to kill.”
“Yeah,” he says, because there’s no way in hell he’s going to say no to you, not right now.
You sit and immediately look out the window. It occurs to him then that you probably chose this table so you’d have something else to look at, something other than him. He tries not to stare at you, but he can’t help it. He’s missed looking at you, the shape of your nose, your cheeks, the furrow of your brows that now seems to be permanent, likely because of him.
When you turn your head and catch him staring, he doesn’t look away. Just smiles. Softly. Regretfully.
“What,” you deadpan, looking down at your coffee instead. You look back up and he’s still watching you. “Robby,” you warn.
“I know,” he says, then looks away for a second, only to look right back at you because now you’re staring at him. “I know,” he repeats.
You shake your head slowly. “Can I ask…”
He waits, holds his breath. But you don’t elaborate.
“You can ask anything,” he says, waiting for you to look at him. “I mean it.”
“You don’t, though,” you say, just a touch bitter, though there’s another sad smile playing on your lips when you turn to look at him. “You know you don’t.”
He wants so badly to argue. To say that he does mean it and that you, out of anyone in the world, can ask him whatever you want and that he’ll answer. But he hasn’t exactly proved that to you, has he?
You sigh, tapping your thumb on your cup. “Why did you show up last night?” you ask. “I know I told you that you could, so I’m not upset that you did, I’m just…trying to wrap my head around it I guess. When you never showed up a month or two after I just assumed that was that. That I’d probably never see or hear from you again unless, God forbid, I ended up in the ER.”
“I hope you never end up in the ER,” he says quickly. The last thing he wants is for you to be a patient. That’s on his list of nightmares, seeing you hurt badly enough that your name is up on the board. “But I…I don’t know. Even before you answered the door I was thinking that I shouldn’t be there. That I had no right being there, even though you told me I could.” He pauses. “Which was too nice of you. I didn’t deserve that.”
You shrug, not agreeing or disagreeing with him. “I know how dark your mind can get especially when you bottle things up, so I guess I just thought, ‘Well I’d rather he come to me than end up in the ground.’ Even if I was mad and hurt.”
And that. That stuns him to speechlessness.
“Did it at least help?” you ask quietly, not looking at him.
“Yeah,” he says, meaning it. “Thank you.”
“You probably shouldn’t do it again,” you say, still staring at your hands, the way they’re wrapped around your coffee like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded right now. “I know that I said--”
“I know,” he says. “I understand.” Because you’re right. He probably shouldn’t do it again. Even though you extended the offer, he probably shouldn’t have taken you up on it in the first place.
When you finally do look up at him, your eyes are so watery that it makes his face fall. He wants nothing more than to reach out and hold you, even if it’s just holding your hand, but he knows he can’t. Knows he doesn’t have that privilege anymore. Especially not when you’ve just told him that he can’t do this again.
“God,” you laugh, rubbing at the bags under your eyes, willing the tears to go away. “This is-- This is fucking ridiculous.”
He laughs with you, not knowing what else to do. “I know.”
“Sitting across from you, what, four months after, and you haven’t even done anything, you’re still--” You pause, closing your eyes, taking a deep breath. “Sorry. I don’t want to-- I need to stop before I say something I’ll regret.”
“It’s okay,” he says, and wants to add I’d deserve it, if you want to say something that you know will sting. You can hurt me.
But this isn’t an eye for an eye type of situation, or at least, it shouldn’t be. And it won’t be because he knows you. You aren’t like him. You won’t hurt him unnecessarily, you won’t say the words that you know will cut him deep because you know they’ll hurt him.
“I should probably go,” you say. “Sorry.”
“Please stop apologizing,” he says, watching you closely even though you can’t meet his eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Yeah,” you let out another wet laugh. “You really sound like my therapist. She’ll hate that.”
He hangs his head, sighing. “Yeah, maybe don’t tell her that.”
“Oh I will,” you say, standing up. “Her and I have an agreement that I’m not allowed to lie to her, even little white lies, so.”
He hears the double meaning. Knows what you’re really saying to him. Because you know him better than anyone else, maybe even better than Jack, and Jesus, that terrifies him just as much as it endears him.
When you walk past him, you squeeze his shoulder. “Let me know when your therapist clears you for our talk,” you say, half teasing. “See you around.”
It’s not exactly a goodbye, but it feels like one. Because he knows you still don’t believe him. He knows that you won’t believe it until you see it, until you actually see the work he puts in. And he understands. Why would you believe him blindly anymore? Why would you have any faith or trust in him anymore?
He rests his hand over yours for just a second, squeezing your fingers before letting go, not wanting to hold you there any longer than you want to be.
“See you,” he whispers. “Have a good day.”
You smile softly, smoothing your palm over the sleeve of his t-shirt. “You too.”
He watches you leave through the window, watches the way you wipe under your eyes before shoving your headphones back into your ears. He looks away, looks down at his coffee.
He pulls out his phone. Goes to his messages with Jack, ignores the message about how he’s doing today and clicks on the phone number instead.
His heart stutters a little in defeat when it goes to voicemail, but instead of hanging up right away, he sighs, introduces himself, mentions Jack, and says, “Are you accepting new clients?”
+++
ten months ago
“I have to go back to my apartment at some point, Robby,” you laughed at his pouting while he watched you gather your things.
“Or you could just stay here,” he protested, looking every bit like a kicked puppy -- all because you said you needed to go back to your place to do some laundry, mind you.
“If I stay here one more night, I might as well move in,” you joked as you tied your shoes.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t move a single muscle.
You looked up at him. Wondering if the seriousness you felt was really coming from him. And it was. He just stood there, watching you. And holding a spare key.
“I’ve been meaning to give it to you,” he says. “I had it made a couple months ago.”
You gasped, tried not to smile. “Michael Robinavitch, you are such a lover boy.”
He stepped closer to you, held out the key, prompting you to take it. “I’m serious. It’s yours.”
You took it from him, still skeptical. “Are you sure?”
His arms circled your waist, he dropped a kiss to your forehead. “Yes. Absolutely. I already want you here all the time, might as well give you a key so you can come and go whenever you want. So you don’t have to worry about me being home from work.”
You wrapped your fingers around the piece of metal, staring up at him, those brown eyes that just might be the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen, but also the most fond. You didn’t think anyone had ever looked at you with as much affection in their gaze as Robby did.
“I like the sound of that,” you had said. “As long as you’re fine with coming home from work and hearing me singing too loud and making a mess in your kitchen.”
He kissed you deeply then, leaning his forehead against yours when he finished, out of breath. “You have no fucking idea how amazing that sounds.”
You giggled then, kissing him again, unable to contain the giddy feeling you felt surging inside of you. “In that case, I’m bringing my laundry back here and taking full advantage of your in-unit.”
“Use it whenever you want,” he said seriously. “Make yourself at home.”
You loved the sound of that. Home. There, with him. It felt right in a way that nothing had felt before.
Maybe you should’ve known then that it wouldn’t last. You just wanted it to be true so badly that you couldn’t see how things could go wrong, until it all started to spiral.
Maybe if you had thought more thoroughly about it, you would’ve realized that it was too soon. That practically moving in after only four months of dating was too soon. That Robby having a key made barely a month or so into the relationship was sweet, yes, but impulsive also. That you should’ve taken the key, but not fully taken him up on the offer to move in. That you should’ve spent more nights in your own bed than you did. That there were still so many things the two of you needed to learn about each other before spending practically every moment together.
But you weren’t thinking logically. You were still wearing the rose-colored glasses, and even when the lenses cracked, you tried explaining it away. Until you couldn’t anymore.
+++
Your therapist chuckles. Stares at you. Waits for you to say something else. Her smile falls at a comically fast rate when you don’t elaborate.
“He-- Wait,” she pauses, reaching for her notepad. “Back up.”
“Robby showed up at my door last night,” you repeat. “And slept in my bed.”
“Right,” she nods. She isn’t even writing, just holding her paper and pen for comfort the same way you sometimes clutch one of her couch pillows. “Right. Okay. You just slept?”
“Surprisingly, my self-control is still somewhat intact.”
“Well that’s good to hear at least,” she sighs, obviously relieved. “How are you feeling about all of this?”
“Honestly?” you laugh. “Fucking confused.”
She nods. “Understandable.”
“I mean, he shows up at my door, four months after I left him, and I let him inside because fuck, I told him that he could do that, that he could come to me, but actually seeing him again, actually talking to him--” You pause. “He hasn’t even gotten any help since the breakup. He’s only just now going to, or he says he is. But I don’t know how much I believe him. He seems serious about it, but. I don’t know.”
She nods. “How can you trust him after everything?”
“Exactly,” you say, rubbing your forehead. “And then he-- He says he’s sorry and he says he wants to talk about it, but I told him he needs therapy first. He needs help before I’m even going to consider talking about our relationship.”
“Do you want to talk about the relationship?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“Do you need the closure?”
“I don’t think there will ever be such a thing as closure with us,” you admit. “I think he’ll always linger.” You pause. “Because I’ll always let him.”
She smiles at you, understanding and a bit sad like always. “Do you want him back?”
You nod without even needing to think about it. “I want what we had back. But I don’t know if I can have that. Or if it’s a good idea to trust him again. It just…seems so unfair. I’ve been in here every week ever since the breakup and he’s just been…living the same way he used to. The same self-destructive tendencies. All while I’ve been here, trying to unpack all this shit, and then he shows up at my door and I just fucking let him inside like some lovesick moron--”
She gives you a stern look.
“Okay, maybe not a moron,” you correct yourself. “But lovesick, yes. Because I still love him, and it’s so fucked up. He did not want me around by the end of it, and I was still dancing around him like I could fix him, and getting upset every time he shot me down, as if he didn’t do it enough times for me to get the hint.”
You lean forward, putting your face in your hands. Your therapist stays silent, just letting your words flow.
“I want him to get help, and if he does actually do it, I’ll be surprised but so happy for him, but I don’t…” You shake your head, sitting up again. “I don’t know if it’ll be enough. For me to let him back in.”
“And that’s entirely up to you to decide,” she says, setting the notepad aside again. “And not something you need to decide right now because it’s as you said: he told you he’d get help, but you don’t know for sure if he has yet. And if he does, it will be at least a month or longer before he’s settled enough for the two of you to talk.”
“I told him to text me when his therapist clears him for us to talk,” you chuckle. “So who knows when that will be.”
Your therapist only shrugs. “There’s no way to know. And that’s only if he keeps up with the appointments, if he actually gets the help he’s been needing.” She pauses. “But it’s not your responsibility and not something you need to worry about.”
“I know,” you sigh, leaning back against the couch cushions, tipping your head back. “I know.”
“Do you think he’s genuinely sorry?” she asks, changing subjects slightly.
You lift your head, shrugging. “Maybe. He seems sorry, but…it’s hard to tell if he really means it this time. There were so many times before when he’d swear he was sorry for hurting me, but then two days later he’d say the exact same shit that hurt me a few days before.”
She nods. “I remember.” She crosses her legs, threading her fingers together, and you think, fuck me, here we go.
“I think it’s important to remember the hurt he caused,” she starts, and sometimes you have no idea where she’s going with what she says, at least not right away. “Because if you forget it entirely, you’re likely to set yourself up for the same heartbreak, and given everything you’ve told me about him, it’s likely that he’ll let you do it. It’s likely you two could go down the exact same path as before. You’ve put up some good boundaries: telling him to get settled in therapy first before the two of you have the big closure talk, telling him he can’t come to you again like he did last night. But it can be hard to keep those up with someone you love so much, despite the hurt they’ve caused, especially if it feels like they never really meant to hurt you.”
“He told me he didn’t mean to,” you murmur. “But then said that didn’t change the fact that it still hurt me.”
She smiles. “I hate to agree with him, but he’s right.”
You laugh a little, wiping some stray tears. “Yeah, I knew you’d hate hearing that he sounded like you.”
“I’m surprised he did,” she admits. “But I’m biased. I’m not exactly going to be the biggest fan of the guy that had you in my office twice a week for a month.”
“Fair enough,” you shrug. “I wish I wasn’t so attached to him.”
“We can’t help it sometimes,” she says. “We can be in a relationship with someone for three years and be so disconnected when it ends that it takes no time to move on. Or we can be with someone for less than a year and feel so deeply for them that it’s hard to let go. It’s a spectrum.”
“Do you think I should talk to him?” you ask. “Like as he gets help and then we can talk about the breakup?”
She just shakes her head at you. “I can’t tell you what to do, you know that.”
You groan loudly, knowing that was going to be her answer. “You’re supposed to tell me what to do!”
“What do you want to do?” she counters. “For you, ideally, how does this play out over the next few months?”
You just give her a wry, sad smile. “You’re not going to like my answer.”
She grabs the notepad again. “Tell me anyway.”
+++
The next time Robby sees Jack, it’s at shift handover, but that doesn’t stop Jack from asking how Robby’s first therapy session went.
“Good,” Robby says automatically. “Bad.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah,” Abbot chuckles, patting Robby’s shoulder. “It’ll feel like that for a while.”
And then, because Robby can’t help himself, and because he figures he’s kept it a secret from Jack for long enough, he blurts, “I went to her place the other night.”
He doesn’t need to say your name for Jack to know who he’s talking about.
“And you’re still alive?” Jack hisses. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know, man, I don’t know,” Robby says, laughing at himself. “I fucked up so bad, Jack. I fucked her up.”
“Well, you don’t need a therapist to figure that out,” Jack says, not unkindly, just stating it how it is. Like he’s always done with Robby. “How’d it go?”
“She told me not to do it again,” Robby says, taking note of the little smirk Jack lets slip. He always did like you, said that you were good for Robby, that you were sweet but full of fire too, and that Robby should be careful if he didn’t want to get burned. Robby should’ve listened. “And that we can’t talk again until I got help.”
Jack raises his eyebrows, whistling briefly. “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“Can’t say that I blame her.”
“No, me either.” Robby shakes his head. “She’s right for it.”
“Do you think she’ll let you talk to her again?” Jack asks.
“I don’t know,” Robby confesses. “But I’m still staying on with the therapist. It’s uh, it’s long overdue.”
Jack smiles then, clapping Robby on the shoulder. “Amen, brother. I’m proud of you.”
Robby nods, slapping Jack’s chest with the same affection. “Thanks. Now get the fuck outta here.”
“See you tonight,” Jack says. “Try to have a good day, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Robby nods. Any day after Pitt Fest is bound to be a good day, but he knows what Jack really means.
Try not to think too hard. Try not to think about you too much. Try to stay focused. Try not to get ahead of himself.
Almost all of those are impossible. He hasn’t stopped thinking about you since the first day that he saw you. Your absence didn’t mean he stopped thinking about you. If anything, it meant he thought about you more. He just didn’t realize what that meant until it was too late.
+++
The next time Robby texts you, it’s a month after he showed up at your door, and coincidentally while you’re out to lunch with your sister, who has hated Robby so viscerally ever since the breakup that it’s almost impressive.
“I wish I could hold grudges like you do,” you chuckle, half serious, but not really.
Your sister just shrugs. “Yeah, well. I’m the one that saw you after the breakup.”
You just nod. It’s a touchy subject-- Robby is a touchy subject between you and your sister. When you went to her place that night you hadn’t told her that you were breaking up with him. She knew the two of you were in a rocky patch, but not that it was so bad that you were ending things.
She took you in and let you sit in silence in front of the TV with her, her fiancé at the time relegated to the kitchen to make you something to eat. Even though you weren’t hungry.
You didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to cry over it. You didn’t want to eat or sleep or do anything. You just wanted to sit and stare and you know now how ridiculous it must’ve looked and sounded, but it was all you could do. You didn’t feel like doing anything else. You might’ve been the one to break things off, but that didn’t mean you were spared in any way. You still left feeling just as bruised and bloody, maybe even worse, because you also just felt so fucking guilty.
You pulled yourself together for her wedding because there was no way in hell that you were going to ruin her day. She still kept a watchful eye on you, though, especially because so many friends and family members were expecting you to be there with Robby, the doctor you always gushed about and who your sister swore you were going to marry.
She told you once, after the two of you had shared a bottle of wine, that she hated him not only for how he treated you but because he made her feel stupid. It made you laugh so hard you almost puked. Or maybe that was the wine.
“What does he want, anyway?” your sister asks, gesturing toward your phone that you’ve turned facedown on the table.
“Oh, he’s uh-- He’s in therapy now.”
“And he’s telling you this because…?”
You grimace. “Well, a month ago--”
“I swear to fucking god.”
“Let me finish!” you groan, kicking her leg under the table. “A month ago he showed up at my door and we talked and he’s-- He’s finally getting help.”
She raises an eyebrow at you.
“And I told him we could maybe talk about the breakup but only after he got settled in with a therapist,” you add. “So he’s just…” You turn your phone back over, glancing at the message again. “Telling me that he’d like to get coffee one day soon. If I’m up for it.”
His actual message says If you’ve changed your mind, just let me know and we can drop it. Just wanted you to know I’ve been seeing a therapist once a week since we last talked. I’d like to get coffee some day soon if the offer is still open. Hope you’re doing okay.
Your sister hums, but doesn’t say anything for the longest time. “Are you going to see him again?”
“Probably,” you admit. “Not sure when because we’ll need to figure out a day that we’re both free, and you know how his schedule is.”
She nods slowly. You can tell it’s taking mountains of effort for her to restrain herself. “It’s up to you, just. Let me know when and where in case you need me to like, slash his tires or anything.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re not helping.”
“Poison his coffee?”
You kick her leg again. “I’m serious!”
She sighs, resting her chin in her palm. “I’m just worried, okay? You were fucked up--”
“Thanks.”
“You weren’t eating,” she says, but she’s not being cruel about it, it’s the opposite. You can hear the hurt clinging to each word. “I just don’t want you to let him back in and end up worse than you were, you know? I know you loved him, but,” she frowns.
You let her words hang between the two of you. You don’t correct her, but she knows. The love isn’t in the past at all, it’s still very present in your heart. It has been since the day you met him. And maybe it always will be.
Thinking about making out with Clark on the couch. His hands settling big and heavy over your waist, breaths tangling together as you stick your tongue into his mouth and make him whimper. He's rutting into you unconsciously (a fact he'll later blush at so bad you're worried his whole face will permanently stay red) and you like it. How he groans long and low. The pitch of his voice when he breathes your name.
He comes in his pants with a surprised cry. Like he didn't even realize how fucking hard he was. Or even the distinct wet spot on his suit pants from how he leaked with every shift of your hips. Too involved in the way your mouth felt against his, distracted by your hands which had worked open his button down.
The promise of I'll make it up to you is tossed into another frenzied kiss as your lips go raw because of it.
the creature who is exploring your body- groping, licking, biting, etc - wondering why yours is so different from his. at first it’s nice and sometimes even tickles, but when you slowly respond to his touch its not long til he’s overstimulating you.
whispers of darkness
a/n: love love your mind babes because this had me nodding in solidarity at the screen. between jumping from a borrowed laptop and my phone this took a bit to write. but thankfully i managed to sit down and churn out the rest in a mad rush. and because it's me there's a bit of angst but like not really if i'm being honest. this was so fucking fun to write and i did change it up a tiny but i really love how it turned out. divider by the amazing @saradika-graphics.
summary: time ceased to exist when you found him in the forest, when he read to you by a fire, and the moment you kissed him with an earnest smile. OR letting the creature explore how he wants.
word count: 2.2k+
pairing: the creature x f!reader
warnings: explicit so minors dni 18+ only!! tiny itty bit of angst, romance, body worship of sorts, gothic love, overstimulation, edging, lots and lots of kissing, the use of my english lit degree, waxing poetically about needing to fuck the creature.
The baritone of his voice grew dark against the glow of a raging fire he started to keep you warm. Chunks of wood ripped clean off trees he toppled, brush gathered at the forest’s edge and packed in around the base, and a cauldron—now empty of stew—settled on a hook in the center.
The pages were crinkled beneath his fingertips. Flipped delicately and set back into place as the curve of his spine bent forward to see the words better as night drowned the world in darkness again.
“I have loved her all my youth, But now old, as you see, Love likes not the falling fruit, From the withered tree.”
Your head pressed into his arm, fur draped over your legs as his voice washed over you. Calming waters strung together with blotches of ink, mistakes from the press no doubt yet still legible despite it all. He recited poetry like a whisper, reverence dripping off the stanzas and melting into your skin like chocolate on your tongue. Sweet, pleasant the longer he kept going.
“Know that love is a careless child, And forgets promise past, He is blind, he is deaf when he list, And in faith never fast.”
“Your voice is practically warmer than the fire,” you mused, pressing your nose into the thin fabric of his shirt—the cloth now smelling of rosemary and river water.
His hair was pinned back with twine you found in your pocket, giving you the chance to see his face in its entirety. The pale shades of his skin and muted gray tones of dead flesh sewn together with nimble fingers. You know the stories of his creator, listened intently as he recounted the years he spent on this plane of existence—the anguish in his throat that spilled out back tears and suffocating grief.
Solemnly uttered a year ago when you came across him in the woods—lost to the world and yet returning from the icy tundra from where he once existed. To say you clung to one another was an understatement. He could see the strike of lightning that brought life to his bones in your eyes, the dark clouds of forever slowly dissipating the longer he remained in your vicinity.
You smiled at him as if you’d know him all your life. An old friend returning from the past. A new soul already etched into yours.
There was no other option but to take his hand in yours and let him follow where you went. Traipsing after you with earnest in his heart and a belonging in his bones. You saw love beneath scars and healed stitches. An eternity was trapped in a steady beating organ he knew belonged to you. He never said it aloud, terrified of your response even after the time you spent together.
But you knew in the way he pulled you close by the fire, his chin resting soft atop your head, thumb running smooth along the length of your forearm. Tracing your only scar that sat ugly and raised on the edge of your wrist. A disgusting promise of permanence from a man who once claimed to love you—a life you could forget in the deep rumble of his voice.
“Tell me the end,” you breathed, tipping your head back to catch his gaze. “Before we sleep.”
Lips pulled into a grin, fingers tugging the page over with a breath. “But true Love is a durable fire, In the mind ever burning; Never sick, never old, never dead, From itself…never…turning.”
“Mm,” you sighed. “I understand that.”
“Tell me.” The bend in his neck was unconscious, a familiar instinct he did to hear you better, to feel the sound of your voice vibrate against his skin.
“True love being a durable fire.”
The crack of wood splintering beneath the heat and sparks scattering out into the air echoed in place of your voices. Shared breath taking over the space where your lips were so close to his. You kissed him once. Months ago in the warmer air as he followed you through the forest on a stroll to find herbs and flowers. It was quick—fleeting. Stolen and chaste beneath a tree that wept the petals of small pink flowers, a soft press with a smile before you were dashing away on a different path.
It wasn’t until hours later that you wanted to ask what he thought. Pick his mind for more than just the comfort of friendship and hope it might evolve into more. But embarrassment won the battle warring in your mind, emotions traded for silence until life had no choice but to go on.
“Never sick,” he muttered, nose brushing yours as heat spilled into your cheeks. “Never old.”
“Reminds me of you.”
His eyes shut, lashes a dark shadow along the tops of his cheeks—both different lengths and some paler than others. “I…remind you…of love.”
“I like to believe-” Your fingers clasped around his wrist as you pulled his large palm to your face, allowing it to splay across your cheek. “That you were made for me to love.”
Breath stuttered in his chest and you smiled at the soft choking sound that came from his throat—warmth settling in the base of your stomach. This was inevitable. The wanting, the need for more than just friendship trapped within these four walls. He didn’t just exist to be a stranger turned companion, he was yours. Never in the hand of his creator, nor in his command, but meant for you to spend your days with. To hear the promise of his love in every breath and flutter of his heart.
His mouth sealed over yours, clumsy and unsure, barely remaining a second before he started to pull away. But your hand stopped him. Your fingers pressed soft against his cheek and dragged him back with a gasp, tasting the weight of poetry on his tongue when you licked into him with a bitten back moan. The fire raged in your bones, spreading out to the tips of your toes as he banded an arm around your waist and yanked you up into his lap.
“What do I…” The book hit the ground with a thud, your fingers quickly undoing the laces at the front of your bodice.
This was more than what you intended, but his curiosity kept you still and waiting. His dark gaze slid along your form uncovered by the thin fabric of your clothes, the top pooling around your waist and exposing your hard nipples to the cold air. Tension simmered between you, echoing with a loud breath he took when your hand guided his to the base of your throat.
You could feel the hesitation bleed into the air, fear of harming you, of doing something wrong, now pressing down on his shoulders. “How?” he pleaded with wet eyes.
“Touch,” you breathed, leaning into his mouth with a grin. “Wherever you wish.”
Nimble and trembling fingers traced the lines of your collarbone, the expanse of smooth skin so unlike his stitched together chest and abdomen. Marks littered his skin like a map he would never be able to retrace. Your body remained the way he imagined as you slept soundly beside him—unmarred by the cruelty of a creator, grown and formed and certainly not made.
You shuddered beneath his hand, teeth sinking into your bottom lip at the first brush of his thumb along the curve of your breast. He wanted to study you. Watch the rise and fall of each breath, witness how your limbs pulled and bones shifted beneath hot skin that warmed his palm. And you would let him.
There would be no question, no resistance to his touch. You were pliant beneath him, malleable and soft as he cupped your breast and felt the weight in his hand—your nipple pressing into his rough skin.
“Oh-” He flinched at the sharp gasp, but your hand clamping tight around his wrist kept him in place. “D-Don’t stop.”
“You echoed with pain.”
Lips molded to his with a breath he swallowed, a smile twisting soft against your mouth. “That wasn’t pain my love.”
The click of spit on your tongue trading the taste with him echoed in his ears, burning against pulsing skin as he dragged his mouth to your throat. He wanted to hear it again. That soft pull of breath and sharp pitch of your voice in the depths of your chest. Fingers pinched your nipple tentatively, pulling slow as your thighs clamped tight around his thighs, your head falling back and chest pushed forward.
“Bliss,” you got out between heavy breaths. “It’s bliss.”
Pleasure, paradise, satisfaction.
The meaning was familiar to him now. As if his body recognized it long before he did, parts of his soul flickering to life at the sight of you writhing against the strokes of his hand. Need shot down your spine when his mouth suckled at your other breath, his hand gripping tight at your back when you went limp in his arms. A cry ripped free when he cupped at your breast, kneading it gently as spit glistened along your skin.
It was soft, a silent prayer etched into your form when his hand slid down to your bare waist. Fingers spreading along your ribcage and mapping the layout of a body he’d see behind shut eyes. You giggled at the stroke of his thumb against your stomach and until then he never realized the skin could be ticklish.
He wrenched free from your breast, heaving in a breath just to see you smile, to hear your laugh again. “Some parts are different than others.”
“My side is tender,” you replied, curling your fingers into his now mussed hair. “It usually doesn’t get touched.”
“Should I move past it?”
“No.” Another stolen kiss had him chasing you with a grin. “Keep going. Please.”
You couldn’t exactly be sure how much time passed in the span of you being shifted from his lap to the pile of furs on the floor, but he had relented from his exploratory touches. Clothes were pulled off your form until you lay bare beneath him. With your legs hooked around his waist and his bare chest pressed to yours as heat crowded around you.
Something formed between the two of you. Expanding with every exhale until you could no longer ignore its existence. That unspeakable love you now felt press into the base of your chest. Thundering along your heart.
He watched the flutter in your chest as he dipped his hand between your thighs, the wet pool of slick jarring him for a brief moment until he was brave enough to see it web around his fingers.
Trembling beneath him, you felt his mouth seal over your breast again, his touch pressing against your folds as you sobbed brokenly. Your eyes were blurry with tears, body reaching past the limit you could take. But a part of you didn’t want to tell him no.
It broke you to think of him pulling away, severed you down the center to imagine the loss of his touch. So you grit your teeth and let him bring you to a brink that continued to grow and fade in a pattern that broke you. The edge rushed up to meet you again as you shut your eyes and blindly grasped for it with a shuddering breath. A crest you knew would never crash, a flood of heat pulling tight at your stomach.
He began to pull away, to slide his hand over your thigh, but something kept him there. Dark eyes latched onto your twisted up face, your mouth falling open the moment his fingers pressed against you roughly. The shake in your thigh should have let him know, but he’d never seen someone like this before.
Oblivious to the signs of what you could feel in your bones. It snapped with your cracked shout, his face pressed in close as another gush of slick poured out of your fluttering hole.
Tears spilled onto your temples, your eyes fluttering open to see his mouth parted in a gasp and feel his breath on your cheek. But the burn of pain had you yanking at his arm to make him stop—your mouth finding his with a soft pleased sigh.
“That was bliss,” he stated, touching your hip as you came down with shallow gasps of air.
You nodded, feeling his tongue press soft against yours. “That was more than bliss.”
He smiled. “The fires of love then.”
“Well…it did say it would never die.”
Brushing two fingers along your cheek, he watched in rapture when you chased their touch, your nose nuzzling into his palm. “Will the embers of it die out one day?”
“No,” you vowed. “Not as long as I’m with you.”
“The companion I sought but could not find?”
“It was I who found you.” The words wound tight around his heart. “Or were you looking for me all this time?”
His nose pressed against your cheek. “I searched for what seems like centuries.”
“Then time has finally ceased.” Wet fingers cupped your neck to tilt you closer. “You’ve found me my love. Your companion.”
A smile was traded between kisses, his other hand reaching for the furs to drape over your bodies. “A durable fire.”
Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Female!Reader/Slight Original Female Character (No names or y/n used but called Angel as a nickname)
Summary: As you stare down the barrel of residency, stress, and anxiety, you decide that one last carefree night is what you needed. And a stranger in a bar is exactly what the doctor ordered.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, age gap relationship (older man/younger woman), hook up culture, Soft!Dom Robby, overstimulation
Crossposted to AO3
“You’re too pent up angel, we need to get you laid and fast- because I’m not going into our intern year with you practically foaming at the mouth.” Elbow digging into his ribs, you scoff. You’re fine. So it’s been 2 years since you’ve had sex? You can use your fingers, it’s worked since you were 15- it’ll work another few years. But lately it hasn’t been enough and the daunting stress of your impending residency years have you wanting to chew concrete.
“Frankie I’m fine-” you grumble, nursing your beer because if you drink any faster you’ll just get another. And another. And another and that’s not good because tomorrow is your first day and-
“What about him?” He cut you off- nodding not so secretly to the man on your left a few stools away. Um- no. He looked like Langdon- freshman year, frat boy status with his cap backwards that’s no doubt hiding a receding hairline. And the frat boy look would’ve worked if he didn’t look well past the appropriate age.
“Okay- picky, picky, um- him?” Nodding to the younger bartender, slicked back hair and probably weighed 100 pounds soaking wet. No. That was a child. You’re never letting Langdon set you up again- what’s he blind? You consider scheduling an eye exam for him when-
“Oh sure- definitely him.” Frank points his beer towards the other side of the bar with a smirk and sarcasm laced laugh. But- well? He did look handsome, tapping away at his phone with a beer in his hand. Dark hair- heavy, full looking beard, soft sad eyes you can see from here but you couldn’t tell the color yet- brown maybe. Broad shoulders, hoodie pushed up right under his elbows to show his strong forearms. Oh. Oh he might work actually. And Langdon can feel you perk up a bit- okay clearly you liked them older then. Well- if that’s what you wanted- fuck it he guesses. if you like it- he loves it.
“Him? I was joking- I mean, maybe the old man can lay it down who knows?” You roll your eyes but- you were honestly intrigued. He was handsome enough that you didn’t think he would be alone or- well single. And you’re studying his face and the way the beer or his phone look so small in his hands and his eyes meet you- quickly snapping up from his phone and locking onto yours. Fuck. Quickly you look away, moving your head even to make it all the more obvious. But he didn’t look away. He clocked you the moment you sauntered in the bar with the guy next to you. The way your dress swished around your thighs. The way you threw your head back laughing at something your boyfriend, must be your boyfriend because there’s no way you were single. He watched you take a sip of your beer, looking down at the bar still and slowly drag your eyes up to meet his again. Fuck he was still looking at you- dark eyes not leaving yours and it was slightly unsettling but so fucking thrilling. Okay- maybe this could work out in your favor.
“Oh- okay he likes what he sees then?” Frank mumbles around the rim of the bottle, nudging you with his knee a bit. I mean- you have to be confident. Right? Hell yeah he likes what he sees. He should right? You’re hot, smart, a fucking doctor in your prime. He should want you. No reason that he shouldn’t want you. Other than him being taken. Or gay. Or just uninterested in you as a whole but you’ll keep the confidence for now. “Go-“ Frank nudged you again. If he’s good for anything it’s going to be getting his best friend laid tonight. It’ll help his stress more than yours. You don’t go. Not yet. Fucking butterflies in your gut aren’t drowning with the alcohol. Dammit you don’t remember how to flirt. But you and him are playing eye tag across the bar now. Eyes meeting in a game of chicken- who will break contact first. It’s you. Always you. And maybe you’re not interested in him, he thinks. Maybe you’re being polite. But you’re just working up some more nerve because- ok fuck it. Fine. You’ll bite.
“Don’t wait up Frankie” patting his shoulder you hop off the stool in the most graceful way you can manage.
“Have fun,” he finishes the rest of your beer while throwing you some unsolicited remarks, “remember we have to be at the hospital at 8, call me if you need me, use protecti-“ but your annoyed look ceased his rambling. The man across the bar watched you, watched you fucking float over to him in your short dress like a damn sign from god telling him to enjoy himself for once. Nervously chewing at your lip and pulling at your fingers, looking anywhere but at him while you walk over. You could still turn back to Frank, or pass the gorgeous man sitting alone at the bar to act like you were going to the restroom but- no. No, you are getting laid tonight. One last hurrah of your ”carefree“ twenties because the remaining few years will be dedicated to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital. You needed to relax. You fucking deserved this. And this is all before you talk to him- he hasn’t even told you his name yet and you’re nervous. At least let him agree to sex first.
“This seat taken?” God that sounded awful, so fucking cliche and awkward and you should just apologize and turn around but-
“Waiting for you actually” he smiles, grabbing the stool and pulling it out a bit for you. Okay. So far so good then? You settle into the seat and start to awkwardly scoot yourself closer to the counter but- his hand grabs one of the stool legs and pulls you closer to the counter, closer to him- your knees brushing against each other just barely to where you can register the rough fabric of his jeans on your bare knee. Oh. Oh he was strong and the way his arm flexed and- okay. Focus.
“Do you always drink with that look on your face?” You tilt your head, meaning it more playfully than it came out but- he did have this, sad look about him. Exhausted look behind his eyes and- you could relate really. These last almost two years have been hell.
“And what look would that be sweetheart?” Okay, he’s taken the bait then. Good. Flirt. Flirt fucking hard.
“Like you’re just daring someone to interrupt you.” You tuck a strand of your hair behind your ears, maintaining eye contact but break it- just for a second to trail your eyes down to his lips that were framed with a thick dark beard, dusted in spots with grey.
“Maybe I am?” He sees your eyes, sees the way they watch him. How they darken when you speak and- maybe he can play along. It’s harmless. That’s what bars are for right?
“Might be off putting to some,” you shrug, reaching over to take a small handful of the shitty bar mixed nuts, just needing to occupy your hands, “but I do like a challenge.”
“Is that right? Someone as innocent looking as you?” Goading you, seeing if you’re all talk or- or if you’d actually want to come home with him. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t know how to pick girls up at the bar.
“You’d be surprised what some strangers are like after a few drinks. Let me buy you another and we can reevaluate?” Waving the bartender over you ask for another round of beers- not waiting for his answer because you play to win, and dammit this prize looked handsome. Older, definitely taller than you, broad shoulders and you squeeze your thighs together tight because you can just imagine his beard-
“I’ll take that challenge then” winking, he takes a long sip of his replenished beer after clinking it with yours. Maybe this was a success? Is it working?
“Good- I’m a girl that likes to win.” He tries to not stare, not look at the innocent way your lips wrap themselves around the rim of the bottle- swallowing the bitter taste and licking your fucking lips after you do. Fuck- was that on purpose?
“Then I guess we’re no longer strangers,” he turns, extending his hand out to yours, “Michael.” Oh. His hands were big, warm, calloused- heavy.
“Angel.” Your smile was sweet, fuck. You looked up at him beneath batting eyelashes and your hands were so soft, smaller in his. He has to force himself to take his hand from yours because he’d fucking hold it all night if you’d let him.
“Your boyfriend going to be okay with you chatting me up?” He nods over to Langdon who was awkwardly drumming his hands on the bar top- a poor attempt at making himself look busy while he stares you both down from the corner of his eye, just in case you need him to rescue you.
“Who? Him? Oh- definitely not my boyfriend. Roommate.” You didn’t have time to regale Michael with the saga of Frank and Angel, it was almost a decade long and many didn’t understand the bond you two shared. So- roommate was what Langdon has been demoted to tonight. He relaxes a bit, thanking god because he’s been in weird situations where couple ask if he’d join them and he’s too fucking old and tired for this poly shit- barely has time for monogamous relationships. You both fall into an easy conversation. He finds out you’re new in town, just moved a week ago for a new job. And you don’t exactly talk about residency right away. Some men find it intimidating if you mention being a doctor right away so- you just pretend you’re someone else tonight. Someone confident and who is used to picking up strangers in a bar. He’s charming. Charming and funny and he loves the way you’re laughing at his little sarcastic jokes and you’re witty and so fucking pretty. He thinks he can do this. He can be the guy that takes home the girl from the bar- at least once right? Jack is always telling him to have fun, to not be so uptight, to fucking go to therapy but until he does go- this will definitely suffice because you’re so close now, leg almost fucking thrown over his under the counter and he can smell the intoxicating aroma of your perfume and like a fucking siren-
“Wanna get out of here?” Low- so low he almost didn’t fucking hear it but- the way you’re looking up at him through your lashes and wet your lips with a dart of your tongue and- fuck yes he wants to get out of here. He smiles, nods and pushes back from the counter to step off the stool and holds out his hand for you to hold as you hop off your own stool. And you don’t pull your hand away- he doesn’t pull his hand away as he waves bye to the older bartender. He’s been coming here for years- bar that’s close to home that he can walk to, bartender who gives him free drinks because of the work he does. And you both just- walk. Walk down the street hand in hand like you’re not practically bouncing and itching to kiss him. The breeze is nice and the conversation is still so easy- he looks at you when you talk, asks questions and adds constructive comments while ducking his head to miss a few branches that you can easily walk under.
His house was nice, quiet neighborhood with a classic single family style look- a porch where he reads the paper, sipping coffee on his day off. And you feel nervous again. Butterflies swarming around in your belly and you have no more alcohol to drown them in because his hand is on your lower back, ushering you inside. It was quiet- simple. You can admire his style while you take off your shoes- from the old record player in the corner of the living room, the shelves of books along the walls where you can make out a title or two that you’ve been dying to read. You thumb through his books, running your fingers along the spines and he has his hands in his hoodie, watching you with desire creeping up in his gut. What were you doing here with him? You were so pretty and smart and funny and- he stops thinking because now you’re rounding his couch and settling into the plush fabric while holding your hand out to him. Okay. Okay he can do this. You can do this. He unzips his hoodie, laying it on the arm of the couch.
“Yes?” He asks smugly, coming to sit next to you on his couch. Taking your hand in his- he kisses your palm, beard tickling gently- then kisses up to your wrist. He can smell the dab of perfume that you sprayed as he kisses gently. Why was this so hot? Letting him kiss up your arm and you don’t realize you’re leaning closer with each kiss until you’re face to face now-
“Can I kiss you?” It comes out barely above a whisper- as if you’re still unsure if he wants this with you like he didn’t just kiss and lick up your arm a second ago. And he laughs- soft and lightheartedly because yes, yes you can fucking kiss him. He’d beg for your soft lips on his and he doesn’t have to wait much longer now as you’re surging forward- knocking into him and throwing yourself in his lap. Okay- maybe you were a little too eager and you’re about to apologize but his hands are in your hair now and- oh this is good. He kisses so eagerly and bites your lip with a tug when he pulls back to look at you and you’re both breathing hard now after just a fucking minute of kissing. Everything feels hot and too much and his hands are on your thighs now- dragging up to your hips from under your dress and he’s actually toying with the band of your underwear now, snapping it absentmindedly. You just- it’s hot and you’re needy and you have to take initiative so you’re pulling your dress up and over your head and he groans. One hand pulls the cup of your bra down and he trails light kisses down your neck, coming up to the swell of your breast and bites- sucking a soothing mark into the stinging feeling and your hands tug at his hair now.
“Let me taste you angel,” he begs, feeling how you grind into his lap- desperately, for some sort of relief. He mumbles against your chest rubbing his beard a little and grinning at the way you gasp at the sensation while he’s easily unclasping your bra with one hand and tossing it on the floor like it’s offended him. He doesn’t give you a chance to answer- grabs your ass to grind harder into him while sucking galaxies along your breasts. “Just- fuck let me use my mouth on you, please?” He’s fucking begging to eat you out? Is he actually? He is. He hasn’t fucked in so long and he knows you’ll taste amazing and if that’s all you want is to cum on his face and in his beard he’ll be happy but-
“I don’t- I’ve never really,” you try to find the words- try to think but the way you can feel him under the rough seam of his jeans has you mindless at the moment. “It’s not my favorite.” You weren’t lying- the few times you’ve had someone between your thighs you just, laid there. Waiting until they were done because it was weird and your clit actually was a few inches to the left and-
“No?” Michael forces himself to pull away from your chest, holding your hips still from grinding and you whine a little- “do you not- like it? If you absolutely don’t want to I understand but-“
“No- no, it’s not that I just-“ you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks now. You’re practically naked in his lap and you’re having this conversation and- “it just feels weird.” You shrug. It did feel weird. Most guy just mindlessly lick and miss your clit and you can easily just use your own fingers and-
“Can I try? Please baby?” God he was begging. Maybe- maybe it’ll be good? Wordlessly, you nod- sit back on the couch to let him kneel in front of you and fuck- it was a sight. On his knees, kissing up your ankle while he slides your underwear down. Okay. Okay, fuck- this was happening. Definitely happening now as he easily pulls you by your knees and slides them over his shoulders. You were mouthwatering. Absolutely appetizing. Wet and glistening in the moonlight for him- whispering for him to taste and he actually moans when he looks.
“Lemme take care of you.” He sighs, readying his tongue between your folds.
“Yeah- sure oka- shit!” You roll your eyes back with a scream, arching your back to where it’s not even touching the couch anymore and the only thing that’s keeping you from ascending to the fucking heavens is the way he has you caged to him. Both legs thrown over his shoulders, forearms around the tops of your thighs and keeping you still. So fucking still- but open for him because his shoulders are massive and wide and you’ll feel the stretch tomorrow for sure. But you can’t seem to care right now. You’ve been on edge for at least an hour now since you’ve met him and are unbearably wet. It would be embarrassing really. He’s licked a single stripe up your cunt and- fuck. His tongue is hot, wet, flat and slowly dragging up your cunt and his beard gives a fucking heavenly scratch against your thighs and- fuck. He’s staring at you. And starting from right below your entrance, trailing so devastatingly slow up to your clit- his eyes never closing or breaking contact. Once he reaches your clit- he swirls his tongue around it for good measure before closing his lips around it and sucks. Fuck. And he was fucking moaning- finally closing his eyes and enjoying the way you tasted and how one of your hands has taken hold in his hair now, pulling just a little. God he was fucking good and you know you’re about to cum soon and it’s going to be so fucking good. He wasn’t lying- it does feel good. You haven’t had sex in so long, hadn’t really even had much time to take care of yourself between prepping for tomorrow and moving and- fuck you were already feeling that swell of ecstasy.
“Good?” He mumbles, smirking against your wet lips and you want to slap his stupid fucking gorgeous face because you can hear the fucking sarcasm in his voice as he’s clearly trying to prove a point now. And you can only nod but- “say it- look at me and tell me how good you feel angel.” Fuck. He’s stopped- you can just feel the ends of his beard against you and you try to grind into it but he’s so much stronger than you are and his eyes are dark and beseeching you to tell him how good his tongue is. How good is fucking mouth feels against your throbbing pussy and-
“Fuck- fuck yes it’s so fucking good Michael please just- don’t stop please baby I need-“ you don’t get to finish your babbles and whimpers because his lips have wrapped themselves around your clit again and you’re melting into his damn couch now. Sinking into the fabric and the only movement you can make is pulling his hair and using the heels of your feet to pull him closer to you. He teases a finger inside, just one and tries to not moan at how tight it feels. Just testing the waters- then another. One more of his thick heavy fingers getting easily sucked into you and it was tight. You’ve had your own for so long but his already have you seeing stars behind your eyes and- he’s pulling them out. No. No no wait. And he laughs because he hears you groan- looking up and he’s replacing his hand back to keep you still and he drags his tongue back down again, swiping at your entrance and shoving it deep inside while one of his thumbs start slow circles around your clit. He was fucking good, knew exactly what he was doing. His other hand finds purchase on your chest- roughly tugging at your nipples and pinching. You’re going to cum, and you’re going to cum in his mouth, and it’s going to be amazing. His tongue- while still inside you is shoved up along your top wall and licks back and forth slowly while working the same pace with his thumb on your clit. Fuck. Your nerves are on fire. Your body contracts and arches into him more as you cry out from your orgasm. Fuck it was good. Slow and steady and creeping up along your body. You’re whining his name and he’s letting you roll your hips into his mouth to ride out the heat and waves.
He was watching you. The entire time. Eyes focused on how you’d bite your lip, throw your head back, use your other hand to grab your breast and you were fucking gorgeous. Fucking ethereal and unreal- cumming on his tongue and whimpering his name so sweetly. And when you finally open your eyes you’re giggling, the adrenaline pumping through your body and you’re pulling him up by his collar to kiss him and taste yourself on his tongue. God he needed you. He needed to bury himself inside you now because he was impossibly hard at the moment and wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand not knowing what you felt like.
“Good angel?” Like he didn’t already know the answer- but you’re still smiling and can barely nod before he stands- tugging you to sit up. “C’mon baby, up-“ easily, he grabs you from the couch and you cling to him- bare legs wrapping around his waist and you can feel how hard he is through his jeans. “I need you so fucking bad sweetheart.” Grunting into the kiss you’ve dragged him into by a tug of his hair- he’s maneuvering through his living room and down the hall to his bedroom but you’re grinding into him now, desperately needing some friction even though he tongue fucked an orgasm out of you minutes ago. “Fuck-“ he stops, tripping almost over the feeling of your bare pussy over him- he’s pushing you against his doorway for a moment and the corner of the wood digging into your back but he takes just a second to compose himself and- “just wait, fuck- just wait until I’m inside you.” You’re not sure if that was a threat- or he’s telling himself to hold out from blowing his load all over his jeans before he’s hand a chance to fuck you into his mattress like he planned. maybe both. Definitely both.
You get placed on his bed- gently and you look up at him with anticipation in your eyes as your hands reach up to capture the hem of his shirt and drag it upwards while you rise to your knees to be eye level. He had never been shy really, he was painfully aware that he doesn’t have the same body he did when he was 20 but- the way your eyes hungrily took him in? He did feel a small pang of insecurity. You were at least 15 years younger than he was, could’ve went home with any one from that fucking bar but you’re here now- in his bed, pulling his belt from the loops of his jeans and dragging the zipper down almost torturously slow. And your eyes didn’t leave his. You smiled. You kissed him. You pulled his jeans down and fucking gasped. Oh. It was- well it was fucking bigger than you expected that’s for damn sure. Your mouth watered, and you feel young and inexperienced all over again because you’re tentatively touching him, just a slow drag of your index finger along the length and he shudders. He was hard- but it was so heavy and thick, his cock wasn’t even able to be held up, the sheer gravity of it kept him hanging deliciously low and you leaned down to take a swipe at it with your tongue, desperate for a taste- but he stopped you.
“No- don’t- I need you now-“ he rasped, forcing himself to tell you no, stroking your cheek and shoving you as gently as he could to lay back on his bed. “I can’t wait any longer sweetheart.” He wants nothing more than to fuck your mouth- have your pretty little eyes watering and looking up at him with your lips wrapped around his cock and drooling for more. But he’s even more desperate to be inside you. He’s tasted you- felt you clench around his tongue and if stuffing his cock in you is half as good as eating your pussy, then Michael needs to fuck you now. He’s crawling up the bed with you, kicking off his jeans and kissing your lips in a firm kiss, tongue licking into your mouth and swirling around yours as he grabs your thighs to come around his waist, feeling the blunt tip of him at your wet entrance. He settles above you- one of his hands holding your thighs open while the other comes to rest atop his headboard- swiping his cock along your folds to tease and collect at the juices that have dripped and finally- he pushes inside you.
“Oh- f-fuck-“ You don’t think you’ve ever gasped when someone stuck it in before. You’re sure of it. Because you would remember this feeling. You would have remembered it because of the way Michael’s feels. Splitting you open, pushing slowly through your tight walls. You’re wet. You’re so fucking wet and where you weren’t naturally wet with your own juices- his own mouth took care of that for you. The only resistance was his size- the tightness of your pussy contracting and working the sheer girth of him through. Fuck. Fuck it’s good. It hurts in the way that feels so fucking right. You feel rearranged, feel him not even fully sheathed within you and- god he still has more? It’s been so fucking long since you’ve had anything besides your own fingers inside you and his were already stretch to begin with earlier. It hurt so fucking good and you whine when he pushed deeper inside you- tensing your thighs around his waist and dragging your nails down his back.
“Almost angel, fuck- fuck almost I-“ God he was already losing what little sense of control he had. He hasn’t had sex in ages and you were so tight and wet and sounded so pretty underneath him and he’s trying to ride out every clench you give around him- but fuck it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard when you’re whining his name and he’s not even fully buried inside you yet. “You’re doing so good for me baby, so good. Almost. Little more ok?” He moans, dropping his head down to kiss your lips because you’re biting them, biting at your lower lip to keep composed because you already feel the waves of another orgasm crawling up your spine and dancing along every fucking nerve that wasn’t burnt from the last one.
It’s hot. Fucking searing. Your orgasm slams into you all at once. The first one was a crescendo of ecstasy that his tongue slowly pulled from your body and let you ride out with it. This? White hot pleasure- ripping into your soul. You feel it in your bones, rattling and shaking with each fucking wave. You make no noise, can’t even fucking breathe because you’re sure whatever neurons you have left have been fried by the way he felt. He wasn’t even fully seated in you, a little over halfway- shoved tightly inside your walls and your body just, gave in. Gave into the indulgent way his cock was inching its way inside you, rubbing up against that spot that your fingers can never quite reach- stroking along with nowhere else to go besides deeper. Of course you came that easily- there was nothing but delicious fucking friction from the way Michael was wedging himself between your legs and how the bit of hair at the top of his cock rubbed so mouthwateringly well against your clit. All you could do was let him keep pushing inside you, his hand coming down to grab one of your legs from around his waist so he can slide it over his shoulder and- fuck.
“Fuck- I feel you cumming angel,” you somehow got wetter, aiding so he can slide in just a bit more with the angle and he presses his forehead against yours now. Sharing panting breaths and hot whiny moans together- finally his hips were flush against yours. “You okay baby? Talk to me,” taking your hand in his, lacing your fingers together and squeezing gently and kissing the back of your hand before letting it rest above your head. He starts a slow pace, inching back out of you slowly and groaning into your mouth. He doesn’t want to cum yet, he wants this, no- needs this to last longer. And it’s hard when you’re squeezing around him and whimpering his name- your perfume is dancing around in his mind and he feels himself pulling tighter and higher. Fuck he’s about to cum. He’s using his headboard to steady himself- the knock of the wood thudding against the wall in a tantric rhythm, would almost have you embarrassed if he wasn’t fucking you so good.
“K-keep going baby- don’t stop. Please don’t fucking stop Michael-” you beg him. The rub and heavy drag of him felt so good. Indulgent and sinful because there’s no way sex could be this intense and not be frowned upon by the heavens. He’s kissing and licking at your ankle now, the anklet that you had was scratching at his shoulder and a charm was reflecting the moonlight and he swears he sees fucking stars. One of your hands cards through his hair, then his beard, and you drag your nails down his chest, dancing along the hair that’s trailed from his belly button to his cock and you just let it rest there, stroking your thumb gently. Resting right above his cock only to dig your nails into his lower abdomen and rub your thumb along the marks and- he’s fucking cumming.
“Fuck! Fuck me- so fucking-“ he groans, hot and deep into your calve and bites down hard enough to leave a mark but- he doesn’t stop. No- Michael keeps fucking you, he goes soft for a beat, maybe two but immediately you feel him hardening up again and nudging up into you deeper and- he’s fucking his cum into you now. It’s wet and warm and he doesn’t know what happened to his refractory period but he thanks all the gods he can in this moment so he doesn’t have to leave your tight heat. But he does- he does stop to reluctantly pull out of you and ignores your whining with a chuckle and light slap to your thigh as he rolls you over to your front. Instinctively, you start to arch your back but-
“No- lay flat baby, legs together.” You feel his voice in your ear, tongue licking the shell of it and biting at your lobe while the metal of his chain is between your shoulder blades now. He pushes some of your hair off your shoulder so he can kiss your neck, down your spine a bit with his beard scratching along the way before licking back up from the base of your spine and you shudder, sighing because it’s so good. The anticipation of what he’s going to do next. One of his heavy hands is holding your hip steady now- while the other holds his cock to slide teasingly against your folds. Oh.
“Oh f-fuck me-“ you gasp- biting the meat of your palm from just the stretch alone. The angle has you grabbing at the sheets in front of you- needing something to cling to because between his fucking thick cock and the hand on your hip that’s all you feel from him. You want to open your legs a little more, you try but his legs have you stuck and you try to surge forward to escape the pleasure and-
“No- you can fucking take it,” he growls, a slap to your ass to drive the point home. Fuck. He’s so fucking hard again, fucked you through both your orgasms and immediately still ready to keep pounding into you. “Be a good fucking girl and take it sweetheart.” It’s not slow this time. It’s fucking brutal and you can hear the slap of his hips against your ass. This man- Michael- this fucking stranger has given you two orgasms already and another is quickly flickering in the bottom of your gut- his mind shattering pace is hard to take and you think you can ride it out until he reaches under you and grabs you by your throat to haul you up so your back is pushed into his chest. He doesn’t squeeze- no but his hand is still heavy and he can feel your pulse under his fingers like a good trained doctor. He’d be able to tell you your BP if you asked and if he had the wherewithal to stop his sufferingly brutal pace to do so. He has you on your knees, holding you up with one hand on your neck and the other hand that has captured your own is now trailing down past your stomach- lowering to your soaking cunt to force you to rub your own fucking clit with him.
Fuck it’s so good. The hand of yours that’s not caught between his heavy one and your soaked clit is reaching up to tug at his hair while you turn your head a bit so you can try to see him. You try to breathe evenly because it’s so hot and the air feels heavy now and you swear there are stars beginning to form in your mind as your eyes roll back into your head now. He drags his nose along your temple- the hand resting against your neck trailing a few inches up to hold your jaw and kiss you. Biting and pulling at your lower lip when you open your mouth and moan his name. So sweet. You sound so fucking pretty and wrecked by him. He hasn’t fucked this hard since med school- you’re intoxicating. Your body fucking sings for him- every touch he gives is met with a sigh, a moan, a while of his name. Your hips are rolling back to meet his now and he groans into the kiss- feeling you clench around him again as you tug roughly on his hair.
“Fuck- just like that angel,” Michael has you pulled tight against his chest- his necklace digging into your back, one arm around your chest, hand gripping your jaw so you can look at him and see exactly what he looks like as he’s wrecking you. The other arm is strong against your stomach, his hand making your fingers rubbing vicious tight circles around your clit. “Doing so- fuck- so good for me baby. Are you gonna cum again for me? Just one more?” And you can only nod, it’s not like you have a choice, really. Between the way his fingers and yours are working in tandem to play with your clit and the way his thick cock is spearing into you from behind- you’re lucky that you can breathe at this point.
“No, no-“ he stops his movements now, feeling your whine into his mouth and attempt to push your ass back into his hips. “I wanna hear you say it baby- tell me you wanna cum again.” Fuck, you’re trying to get the friction back- get the delicious drag of his heavy cock back but he’s shoved so deep inside your wet cunt that he’s not moving anywhere. And neither are you from the way he has you pinned to his front. Fuck.
“P-please Michael,” you whimper into his lips, trying to wiggle your hips just a little so that you can feel him rub against that spot inside your- or maybe get his fingertips to brush your clit but he has your hand forced between his and your body, still and twitching for movement but he’s so much stronger than you are. “Fuck- I need to cum. I need to cum again baby. Please. F-fuck please. Please. Please. Please-“ you’re babbling and he groans.
“God- asking so fucking pretty baby. You need it?” He’s going to be an asshole- make you beg for a third orgasm like some fucking greedy bitch and you nod. You nod and whine and because you know he likes to hear you say it now. You’re saying yes. Whining really but it’s all the same to him.
“Yes baby,” nodding like a woman drunk and starved and high all at the same time. “Please I’ll be so fucking good Michael just-” you choke out at the end, he’s easing out then shoving himself back inside you now. Fast. Fast and hard and you can fucking hear colors at this point. You feel him in your veins. You’ve been injected with pleasure and it’s so good. He’s spewing pure fucking filth in your ear now and the wet slapping sound of his hips and fingers against your clit drive the point home. Growling out how good you feel. How fucking wet you are. He’s trying so hard not to cum yet- he needs this to last because he doesn’t know when he’ll get another opportunity to fuck you someone like this again. It shatters through you. Like glass spidering around every weak point of your nerves. That drop. Like the drop of a roller coaster. It’s wet. It makes you soar and float off the planet for a second and you think you can see yourself from above. You cum with a loud scream of his name and he stops fucking your pussy for a moment, stops your rubbing of your clit and moans along with you now- feeling you clench and tighten around him.
“There it is, angel, you sound so pretty for me baby.” He lets you go. Lets you slump forward but he hasn’t pulled out of you yet and you can feel him throbbing inside you still. You’re tired. So fucking tired and he’s still hard. He leans over you now, kissing the back of your neck and when he pulls out- you gasp because he’s been inside you for so long but he’s turning you back over now. Grabbing the back of your knees and slotting himself between your thighs again and you whimper because you’re so sore. But he’s kissing you so softly now, running his hands over your body and whispering praises and- pushing the head of his cock back inside you fuck- fuck- fuck- fuck.
You just- lay there now. Accepting the pleasure of his fucking. Becoming a wave of orgasm and orgasm after fucking brutal, hot, wet orgasm. He’s buried his face into your neck- kissing and biting gently but still slowly keeping a steadfast pace. He adjusts you for himself. Pushing your thighs open or closed to suit his needs. Gripping your leg to place over his shoulders or around his waist to drive deeper into you if he wants. And you just- take it. You moan and sigh his name because that’s all you remember how to do. You’re sure you black out at some point because it’s so overwhelmingly good. He asks if you’re good- if you want him to stop and you beg him- no. No. Don’t fucking stop. Please don’t fucking stop because you’ve absolutely never been fucked like this before and you’re sure it’s some gift from the gods. And how can you deny such a gift? Between his hot tongue in your mouth, beard against your skin, cock inside your pussy- you don’t even remember your name. You just- you’re more him than you at this point.
“Fuck- are you cumming again?” He stills, feeling the familiar tightness of your pussy spasm and flutter around his cock as he nips at your jaw. “Oh- f-fuck yeah you are- you’re cumming again for me baby,” slowly, achingly slow he starts his pace again, angles his hips up and- fuck. Fuck you can’t think anymore. He’s caged you in, completely has you under his control in the best way possible. You can’t even move your hips in tandem with his- you’re stuck in this position and you have to just fucking take it. Your body is being accustomed to the slow debilitating orgasms that are coming, just one after another after another after a-fucking-nother. There’s no point in counting. No point in attempting to keep score because you’re losing. Winning? No- definitely losing because it’s devastating now. You’re accepting your fate. You feel raw. You feel heavy. You feel your mind blank because all you know at this point is pleasure that’s bordering on pain- and his name.
“M-Michael I- fuck I- I can’t-” Your thighs were sore, so fucking sore from being held open by his cock but not wide enough from the way his knees are on either side of your thighs. You were gonna feel him tomorrow. Fuck you were gonna feel him all week. Your legs hadn’t stopped shaking from your first orgasm and that was at least an hour ago.
“Can’t what baby?” God, his voice was so deep, raspy and graveled in your left ear, tugging the lobe between his teeth and groaning so deep you felt it in your gut and swim along your spine. “You can- fuck, you’re doing so good for me sweetheart.” He still doesn’t stop. His cock is inching through your tight walls with no real trajectory other than to wreck you- so fucking tortuously slow. You shake your head and turn- looking at the art he has along his wall, anything to distract you from the pleasure for a moment because your think you’re going to die by orgasm and-
“No, no you stay right here with me angel-“ his calloused hand grabs your jaw and forced you to look back into his eyes. “Look at me baby- I need you to look at me so I can see those pretty eyes while I wreck you okay?” You nod along with him- obediently accepting your directions and fate. The drag- the long and heavy drag of his thick cock through your wet cunt has you spiraling, circling the drain between pleasure and pain. It feels so fucking good- his thick warm thighs bracing your own as he rocks into you devastatingly slow. The way he’s consuming you, all you feel is Michael. He’s the breath in your lungs, the taste in your mouth. It’s the scent of his cologne in your nose, the burn of his beard along your neck and jaw, the feel of his elbows digging into your shoulders with every deep, slow, hard thrust while the chain he had one is no longer cold- it drags, back and forth in the valley of your breasts.
“Just- fuck, just one more for me? Okay baby?” his voice cracks a bit- he’s almost coming to a close. He ducks his head down and swirls his tongue around your nipple then licks a hot stripe up your neck, coming to stop at your jaw and gently nipping at the skin there again while his hand gently brushes some strands of your hair from your face. Fuck- you feel it. You feel another fucking orgasm clawing its way through your body. Fuck. You have hot, frustrated tears running down the side of your face. The pain is so good. And the only thing that stops your from transcending into the fucking astral realm is how he grabs your hand, gently from its position that was locked on his back and no doubt leaving angry red marks along his skin- grabs your hand and threads his fingers between yours and squeezes gently- and kisses your hand once more. Yeah. Yeah you’re fucking cumming again. It’s ripping its way throughout your body now, hot- hot violent waves erupting from within you. Michael moans against you, feeling you clench around him and he’s letting himself go now, content that you’re spent and whimpering bonelessly under him. “That’s it- good fucking girl.”
The tightening and shakes of your orgasm inspire one in him, he’s ready to fuck his cum into you again but he just needs to be a tiny bit deeper. Michael pants, tries to slow down so he can move you how he needs, sitting back slightly and grabs your leg to wrap around his waist and you whimper. Feeling just an inch more of his thick cock inside- you whine. He’s fucking you hard in contrast to the way he’s kissing you- pressing his sweaty forehead softly against yours and “so sweet baby- so fucking good for me angel, I’m gonna cum ok?” Nodding and slamming just a bit too hard- bordering on painful but fuck, it’s perfect. And that fucking headboard again- slamming against his wall in a heavy pace. Hard and rhythmic and starting to pick up speed just from the sheer force of how he was driving into you. The waves of your orgasm are riding out as he’s cumming finally. Hard. Hard- and a deep raspy groan is emitting from him while he continues fucking you through it, shoving the remnants of his resolve deeper with each sloppy broken few pumps of his hips.
You lay there- sated and weak and let him kiss along your face with praises whispered between. He hasn’t pulled out of you yet- he needs a moment to enjoy you like this. To remember what this feels like next time he’s spiraling in his own mind. You have just enough energy to kiss his palm when he cradles your face- swiping at a stray tear and asking if you’re okay. Yes. Yes you’re okay. You’ve been fucked into his mattress, split open and completely sated. You’ve never felt better. You just wanted sex before starting residency because who knows when you’ll have time and- yeah. Michael definitely gave you more than you asked for. More than you ever bargained for.
“Give me a second,” you whine into a kiss, “I don’t remember my name.” He’s chuckling- letting your hands lazily trail over his broad shoulders, card through his beard with a twirl or two of the hair around your finger, and you push his slightly sweaty hair back from where it had stuck against his forehead. He hasn’t stopped smiling. It was so- cute? Grown man with the softest brown eyes you had ever seen, smiling after sex and it made you smile too because yeah- it was fucking good. Finally- he pulls out of you with a bite of his lip and a soft sigh. Trying to commit the feeling to memory because he’s not sure if he’ll get to experience this again. It’s been a while since he’s had sex and he’s sure it’s never been like this. He would’ve remembered vividly it being this good.
“Hey, wake up sweetheart,” you don’t even remember closing your eyes- don’t remember how long he was gone but he helps you sit up and has a glass to your lips and- “here, drink.” It’s cold, icy and immediately soothes your throat. And while you take slow sips he holds a washcloth in front of you and- “can I?” And- you just nod. You’ve never had anyone offer to clean you before. Few have even tossed you a rag but- he’s gentle. He apologizes when you gasp at the contact because you’re sore and overstimulated but the washcloth was fucking warm. He gently cleans you and kisses your temple. Who was this man? You just- you watch in awe as he cleans the mess he made of you and takes the glass from your hand to set on his night stand.
“Um, I- I should go.“ you stutter out. You should- right? You’ve clearly overstayed your welcome from what’s acceptable after mind altering sex. But he just nods.
“You don’t have to.” He doesn’t trust himself to not beg you to stay. He just- he wants more time with you. He just met you hours ago and he’s not ready to give you up yet. “You can stay- if you want. Only if you want. Offer stands.” He smiles, trying to not seem nervous because he genuinely never has done this before. He’s never taken a girl home from the bar. He’s only had sex with women he’s been in relationships with. But you just- he was fucking drawn to you since he landed eyes on you. When you tipped your head back laughing at whatever your roommate had said- he was struck. The way your eyes would dart over to him and then quickly back when he’d make eye contact. It was cute- how you bit your lip and tried to ignore him until you pat your roommate on the back and practically floated over to him. He knew he was a goner then.
“Okay,” you bit your lip and nodded- “yeah- I’ll stay.” You smiled. Leaning in to kiss him and he’s offering you something to sleep in- one of his shirts or some boxers but you shake your head and smile wickedly at him as you slither back up his bed and in between his sheet, grabbing his hand to pull him with you. No. No clothes necessary tonight.
It was his lips you woke up to, dragging along your neck with his beard in tow. You were sore and tired but it was hard to argue with the way your body opened up so easily for him. His hand splayed across your chest, not rough- just warm and resting along your skin while his lips mindlessly kissed your neck and jaw.
“Good morning,” he rasps, feeling you stir against him. He woke up maybe 15 minutes ago, your legs tangled up with his longer ones. He took a moment for himself, a moment to enjoy the feeling of someone in his bed again- no matter how fleeting it would be. You would be gone soon. And he can’t- he can’t delude himself into believing he’s ready for a relationship right now. It been a while since Janey. He’s been focused with work and things have settled down, albeit slightly, pandemic wise. And you were so- young? Clearly a woman and old enough to drink but- you two did get to talking to be fair. He wasn’t drawn to you in a way that felt deeper than physically. And maybe that was his own clouded judgment but he wanted to get to know you. He wanted to see you again. But he wouldn’t say anything- not unless you did. He wasn’t ready to get rejected or shatter a perfectly harmless fantasy. But he couldn’t help tasting your skin one more time- seeing the erupting marks along your chest and smiling to himself a bit.
“Good morning-“ you mumble, sighing into the way his lips felt along your raw skin. How was he so gentle? How could he rearrange your insides last night and place feather like kisses along your jaw now? Turning- you face him, throwing your arms around his neck and tilting yourself up to capture his lips.
“I have to go-” you’re not really trying to leave the comfort of his warm bed- sighing into his mouth as he’s pulling you into his chest. “I’m gonna be late for work- it’s my first day.” mumbling against his lips, moaning at the feeling of his hands dragging down to your ass so he can grind you into him. Fuck. No. You know you’ll never be able to leave if you stay now- feeling his heavy cock start to stir against your thigh.
“Don’t go baby,” He was going to be late too, he had a fresh crop of interns to see to, so he absolutely had to be there today but- “stay here with me.” Fuck- why was it so hard to let you go? It was one night. Stranger at a bar, something he’d never allow himself to do and he was struck. He’s grabbing your ass to grind into him harder- smiling at the way you gasp into his mouth when the tip of him catches your clit. You can hear a phone vibrating on his nightstand- probably yours, most likely Langdon calling you and wondering where the fuck you were. He did call, 3 times and texted. He had your location and you were still alive at least. He was going to have to pick you up and haul ass to the hospital.
[Frankie]: 20 minutes away
[Frankie]: Be ready
[Frankie]: Or I’m leaving your ass.
[Frankie]: Got your stuff tho
You groan, exasperated because you have to untangle yourself from Michael to walk to the living room for your clothes but you feel his strong, heavy arms circling around your waist as he’s coming up behind you to kiss your neck. God why was it hard to leave him? He was so funny, charming and- no. No, you just needed sex to get through your first day- one night stand. Someone you’ll definitely never see again because you’re starting residency and can’t afford to be distracted now. But- he was so fucking handsome.
“I really,” you pause to kiss him, “really,” another kiss, “mm, really need to go.” A moan, kissing his swollen lips again but running a hand through his beard to hold him into the “last” kiss. You make it to the living room and sit on the couch to tug your underwear on, well- trying to, anyway, because he’s grabbing at it and pulling you back into his lips and your back hits the couch. He just- he needs to get it out of his system. One last kiss. Maybe a mark that he nibbles into the top of your breast. That’s it. And as you’re pulling on the rest of your clothes he’s going back to his room to find his boxers and walk you out the door but-
“Just one more kiss-” you whine, pulling him hard and crashing your lips into his. You spend another 15 minutes trying to leave. Every time more clothes come on, one of you pulls the other back for ‘just one more kiss’.
You’re on his couch, pressing him into the arm rest now that your shoes are finally on- locking your lips against his.
He’s pushing you against his kitchen counter now as you’re reaching for your purse, hands coming on either side of you so he can cage you in and claim your lips once more.
You grabbed handfuls of his Steelers shirt at his chest, forcing him against his front door now while you try to savor the possibility of a last kiss.
He would walk you to the car- but he’s so fucking hard again that there would be no hiding it from his neighbors or your roommate in broad daylight. So he claims the official last kiss, cradling your face in his large hands and- this one was gentle. Not hungry. Not desperate. Gentle like- like it would be happening again. But you’re not delusional. It’s won’t happen again. You didn’t get his number, he didn’t ask for yours. You’re definitely never going to that bar again because this was a one time thing you allowed yourself to have. You need to be focused. Focused now because you’re gonna be so fucking late and it’s your first day and you got hardly any sleep and Frank is fucking honking-
“Hurry the fuck up- I have your shoes, clothes, and stethoscope along with a nice cold Red Bull.” Fuck he was the best. Sometimes it’s hard to believe you have a Frank Langdon in your life who can read your mind. “So did the old man lay it down good or?” You take the thought back immediately, jumping in the back seat to change into fresh clothes as you tell him to drive and not break any traffic laws to get to the hospital now. You’re running through the hospital- Langdon a few paces ahead because of his stupidly long legs and you’re chugging the rest of your Red Bull while running the ER nurses station to sign in and let them know you’re both here for your internship.
“Barely made it.” A voice interrupts as you both are shuffling through the doors to who you assume is the Dr. Abbott the nurse mentioned- arms crossed and pointing to the locker room for you both to await further instructions. A few other interns are already inside and what you assume are some residents prepping for their shift.
“ER?” One asks, throwing her hair in a bun while you shove what you can in an empty locker next to the one Frank picked out.
“Yeah,” you nodded- offering your hand to her with your name and introducing your other half to her as well. “You?”
“Surgery, Garcia.” You wanted to ask more but Dr. Abbott is calling everyone outside the locker room for a briefing. God, why were you nervous? You’ve never been nervous- well about work or academics anyway. But your stomach won’t stop fluttering and you’re trying to pay attention to Dr. Abbott but something is gnawing at your gut. Langdon can feel your anxiety, can feel your antsy movements and see the way you’re chewing at your bottom lip And pulling at your fingers so he grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze- making you look at him to see his wink. A silent “it’ll be ok angel.” Like he always says.
“Okay kids, the rest of this little introduction into your internship will be handled by Dr. Robby.” You don’t hear anything more- blood is rushing through your ears, mouth has gone dry, palms fucking sweating. Fuck. No? Fuck. There he was- Michael, in all his fucking 6’2, bearded, sad soft brown eyes, wide linebacker shoulders glory. As if on cue, your pussy clenched involuntarily- thighs started to ache from being held open by him for so long last night, scattered bruises across your chest started to sting. Every kiss and touch he laid on your body flared up like they knew their owner was near- like your body was calling out to his. As if your body picked up on the fact that he was near like some fucking homing signal for orgasms. And Michael, well- Dr. Robby actually, he’s as cool as a cucumber on the outside. Laying down some information and guidelines while trying to not stare at you. He doesn’t remember anyone named Angel on his list of interns. Did you lie? Of course you did- you just wanted sex and to be fair no one really calls him Michael so he can’t blame you.
And next to you? Well Langdon is practically vibrating with excitement. He hasn’t been this happy since his med school acceptance. He’s trying to contain his joy while his eyes bounce back between you and your new boss. You’re speed running through all five stages of grief and he’s never been happier because that is definitely the old man you went home with last night. He’s excited for your debriefing and inevitable crash out session at home later because you have a 12 hour shift ahead of you both and you cannot spiral. Not now. Not yet anyway.
i loveeeeee old man x young, meet in the bar thinking they will never see each other again, but they end up being in each others lives from that day on!!!!
skinty fia; michael robinavitch x emergency medicine attending!reader
when robby gets his motorcycle despite your own predispositions against such purchase, he brings up your own vices as a deflection.
warnings: established long-term relationship, suicidal tendencies (on robby’s part), therapy, general (and valid) anxieties around operating motorcycles, rough sex & unsafe sex (GLOVE IT BEFORE YOU LOVE IT), cigarette smoking (mention) and nicotine withdrawals, ageism (one mention in regards to robby), reader is on benzodiazepines (lorazepam, more commonly known as ativan), and zolpidem/ambien (WE LOVE AN INSOMNIAC QUEEN!). age gap: robby is 54, reader is 33.
word count:
notes: i was listening to roman holiday; i am a fontaines d.c. lover, the title is based off an irish saying for “the damnation of the deer” in its literal translation but colloquial it’s “for fucks sake”. glad to see that que la chingada is universal. also educational lesson: there are benzodiazepines used for sleep, like halcion, but it’s generally not recommended for people to take two forms of benzodiazepine agents because of risk assessment— i am on xanax, therefore i wouldn’t be given halcion for sleep, i’d be given a different form of treatment :).
masterlist
“It’s not that I despise the idea of a motorcycle” you sighed as you handed Dana an IPad at the nurse’s station. She never budded in on relationship talk, simply regarding you with a smile and letting you both dish it out— within means, if it didn’t cause a disturbance, may you hash it out as it pleases. “More so I don’t feel comfortable with you being the one in the seat” you looked back at him, bracing yourself against the desk in an attempt to crack your back.
Robby let out a smug scoff that was supposed to come out as a laugh, the look on your face told him everything he needed to know. Yet that still wasn’t enough for him to change his mind. “Why?” he challenged, as if you needed a grad school-level thesis in front of him with works cited and a twice peer reviewed study by the end of the shift.
You relented, you’d yap his ear off if it meant no motorcycle, no risky driving, and that this wasn’t just a cry for help that therapy wasn’t cutting out for him. Therapy you and Jack had to hold him accountable for after PitFest. “Let’s see we work in an E.R., most of our fatal traumas come from motorcycles, historically they’re referred to as donor cycles. You drive fast in a damn sedan, that alone gives me anxiety, now you want to introduce a motorcycle into the mix?”.
“I’m a good driver, I passed the written exam and the vision— without my glasses”.
“Jack’s mom passed the geriatric exam and yet she still got in that accident two weeks ago” your eyes narrowed at him. Mrs. Abbot was a nice woman, you hated using her as an example as you knew for a fact she was at home, sore, watching her soaps.
“Geriatric? Really?” there was a slight offense taken by your language, despite how much you loved him and all his glory, Robby had a vice, self-deprecating doubt that thought you were weaning out of this 21 year age difference.
You saw it in his eyes, aging is not an easy pill to swallow especially since you’ve been with him since you were 26 and he was 47, huge difference. “You know I don’t mean it that way… I’m just using an example” you told him, just before physically excusing yourself to check up on your patients, “We’ll talk about this tonight, at home”.
When the time came and both of you handed your sign outs to Abbot and Shen, you slightly dreaded the walk to the car and the drive home. But the car remained silent, the sounds of the turn signal occupying the space as the A/C blew through the vents. Robby and you never fought, they’d be disagreements especially leading up to Robby eventually seeking out therapy when he outright refused to go at first until he was coaxed.
The concept of a motorcycle, much less Robby being the one operating it, was giving you more anxiety than you could bargain, there was a pit in your stomach just from the prospect. You’d rather be dead than get the call that he landed himself in the E.R. and if his license had a red heart on it.
It was a reasonable request, anything could happen and working in the E.R. solidified the ideal that anything will happen. Murphy’s law was killing you from the inside out, though it wasn’t inherently negative or in this instance, grave, the possibility was still dancing around your brain. In a sheer sadistic and worrisome way, that was all you could think of and feel. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe Robby could ride or was safe— at least completely, you were worried it was a cry for help, that this was a signal of an end.
As you sat there in the passenger seat there was a fear that he’d get it regardless of your opinion, of your genuine worry. But it mostly ate at you as you realized you couldn’t fully transmute your thoughts into words. You can’t tell him the main reason you’re against the motorcycle is because you’re worried he’s going to be risky on purpose and get himself killed on purpose. It would counter all the meaningful work he’s done in therapy, the hours he’s put in, the genuine change and betterment he’s made for himself and your relationship.
On average, you are likely to attempt to quit smoking a near 20 times before actually quitting. With Robby it took him the max 30 trials and a bout of a week; he cut out the smoking habit by having increasingly stressful days filled with nicorette gum. When you brought up that you wanted to quit without having to use ZYNs out of fear of gum and throat cancer, he gave you a pack of gum and a pack of Menthols, not that he thought you’d fail, but knew that if you did, it’d be without judgment. It was your first time and you were gritting your teeth so hard you could hear the screech of enamel.
It was odd, holding the seriousness of your relationship as a testament to if he was willing to change his mind over something you were so staunchly opposed to. Would this be it? No, at least you hoped. Would it put a dampen on your relationship of a near decade? Maybe. The maybe was too heavy of a bargain especially for being 7 years in. If it was anyone else, any other ‘delightful’ relationship you’ve had before, you’d be willing to just end things but Robby was different in the sense that you were willing to fight tooth and nail to get your point across without judgement or fear of breaking up.
You both had dinner, showered, now as the fireplace was lit and you both cozied on the living room couch while watching TV, you knew you owed him a talk, a reason, and more importantly the truth. Despite being entangled in his body as much as he was to yours, you still let out a sigh as a signal for speech to follow.
“Do you really want the motorcycle for you or is there another reason?”.
His brows knitted together, confused as to what you were getting at. He was eternally faithful to you, what else would he get the bike for? “What else would it be for?” he asked, his arm still draped around your shoulders as neither of you moved your eyes from the TV.
You shrugged, still afraid of potentially casting doubt. “I’m just worried you’re… I don’t know, I feel like this is a cry for help— like you need me to notice something you can’t say”.
“Because I’m old?”.
Letting out a chuckle before reaching out for the remote, pausing the TV and looking directly at him. “No. Because Jack and I had to coax you off the ledge not too long ago” you replied out of all seriousness. Your hand found purchase on the forearm that was just draped around your shoulders, moving back and forth to signal that you were there. “I just want to make sure I don’t have to do that again… not that you’re a burden but that I don’t know if I’ll be able to catch it before it gets you”.
He let out a deep breath, still looking at you before taking off his glasses. “It’s not a cry for help… I just want to try something new, plus it was always a dream of mine and I want to see it through” he assured you, eyes looking into yours, “I’d tell you if that was the case but it’s not”.
You grinned, please from the response yet licking your lips out of a certain craving. “You want a cig?” he noticed, your nod in response leading his hands to take space at your waist beneath the t-shirt you were wearing— that was actually his shirt from Louisiana— “you remember that week where all we did was have sex?”.
“Sounds like every week” you chuckled, moving closer to him to the point where your breaths were synched next to each other.
“Not this one” his voice was gruffy, raspy, filled with bass despite the whisper. His lips were finding themselves placing kisses starting from your forehead to the nape of your neck. “T’Only reason I’m bringing it up is because it kicked the cigarette habit for me”.
“Hm, how selfish” your voice was dim, your legs nudged together in protest to the growing ache just in time for his hand to slide in between them, his thumb sending shockwaves to your body as it rubbed tiny circles despite the clothing barrier. The quiet moans leaving your mouth inflated his ego, as he suckled on the crevice between your neck and ear.
“Do I need to fuck it out of you?”.
“Jesus Christ” you damned, your stomach and back caving as your nerves were completely being stimulated. He smiled on your skin before reaching to your— his— shirt and undressing you, as you took the liberty to strip your pajama pants and underwear off. Whining impatiently as he took off his own pajamas just before straddling his lap once he finished. Engulfing him into a rough and unabashed kiss, your hands finding their way to his neck to pull him deeper.
“You get really needy when I dirty talk” he laughed, kissing you back, teasing you as he refused to line up his cock to your entrance and rather make you work for it. Your groan in his mouth told him everything, he could deny you of anything, even if he was insistent, even if he was dead set on it.
Lining himself up just before you took matters into your own hands and went down, the slight sting from the girth made your breath catch as he stretched you. Your body caving in slightly as you took him inch by inch, the hands that occupied his neck pulled on his hair, your pussy clenching around him as you let out a downright sinful noise.
Do you know what it feels like when you’ve met the person who matches every single sexual idealistic aspect of you? Despite the aging, despite the usage of depressants, despite it all, the man still knew what made you squeal, made your toes curl in, and certainly made you see stars from the sheer pleasure.
All you could do was moan “I love you” as a mantra, so beautiful in innocent as harshly thrusted into you, just how you wanted it, just how it his hand found its way to your abdomen, applying pressure with his hand, enough to make your feel as if you were going to pee.
Robby made you needy, endlessly and tirelessly needy. Yet he never degraded you for it, never called you a bitch or a slut for it mostly out of the uncomfortability on his part that could never say either even out of kink. He gave you what you wanted, supporting your back as he pounded into you. One of your hands playing with your clit as the other held onto his neck for leverage. Your breasts were bouncing before he engulfed one into his mouth. Your throat was hoarse out of dehydration and the desperation for a cigarette, yet the sex was a distraction, a pleasant one.
“Cum in me” you mewled, your head lulling into his neck out of pleasure, “Please” by then you were begging without a reason to, he couldn’t deny you, he wouldn’t.
Retribution came when he did, satisfied through it all, his hands didn’t leave your back, drawing circles with his hands as you came down from your high. Waiting for his cock to stop twitching in you before leaving you, his cum beginning to trickle out slowly as your breathing went from labored to stagnant.
Moments passed as you rested on his lap, sweat becoming cold and dry, his breathing shallow from age, heart beating fast.
“Still thinking about the motorcycle?” you sighed out, your hand twirling his salt-n-pepper chest hair, breasts flush against his body.
“I was thinking of a Harley,” he answered, gleefully and well fucked.
“For fuck’s sake” you chuckled, “I have one condition”.
His eyebrows lifted as a means to a nonverbal ‘yes’.
“You fuck me on it”.
He let out a grizzly laugh, “Depends on my back”.
It was clear, you were unabashedly in love with an old man who proved himself to be above and beyond his age especially in the game of sex.
syd…pls write another hot blurb based on these pretty please i’m imagining robby doing this and then pulling you into an empty call room and just having his way with you ahhhhh
link ohhhh brother y’all are killing me 🫠 also inspired by this ask (gifset)
we will just say this is still downbad!reader because my brain is still with them
this turned into something that i-- am not sure is what you guys wanted exactly but skdfhgkd sometimes you can't control the brain worms sometimes the brain worms control you
cw: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, robby is a big meanie (reader deserves it a little bit, the rest of it is for the bit dkfhgdkgj)
it had been a few months now since the first time you’d spent the night at robby’s. you had spent a good chunk of your nights together since then and while you knew you felt more than just sexual attraction, you were keeping your feelings close to your chest. you had no idea what robby was thinking.
"he's obsessed with you," trinity hissed in your ear one day after robby had tossed you a protein bar, all but demanding you eat.
you rolled your eyes, "he just doesn't want me to pass out on the floor. liability for the hospital and all that.”
trinity nodded but seemed entirely unconvinced, "you think he's paying attention to when and what the rest of us are eating?"
a fair point, you supposed. you couldn't recall robby ever suggesting the rest of them eat something.
once again, trinity was correct in her evaluation of the situation. robby was obsessed with you, though he was having a difficult time admitting it to himself, never mind to you.
what he was fighting with was the idea of keeping you a secret, already a lost cause before you had even started. when he had brought up this concern with jack just a few days after taking you home that first night, jack had snorted.
"what?" robby asked.
jack shook his head, "i'm sorry to say you lost that battle long before you ever touched her, brother. anyone with eyes could see the way you watched her."
and then, once he moved past that, realizing he wasn't willing to give you up for some arbitrary unspoken rules about attendings not getting romantically involved with their residents, there was the issue of just how much your attitude had changed since the first time you slept together.
at first, it threw him off so much he wasn't sure what to make of it. you weren't shy around him anymore, you were no longer afraid to speak your mind, and you had started back talking him. for the most part, only ever in service of patient care, but the 180 was fucking with him.
it fucked with him mostly because of how hot he’d found it. you easily flustered by him, doing everything he’d asked without question had also been very sexy to him. but the fact that he seemingly had fucked some confidence into you, encouraged you to stand up for yourself and your patients. well it made him positively whipped.
but when you went toe to toe with garcia, then didn’t listen when he told you to back off, he wasn’t sure you’d realized just how much you’d fucked up.
"go find something else to do," robby ground through his teeth as a nurse tied his trauma gown behind his neck.
you had scoffed, "but i'm--"
"i said get out." he practically shouted, causing even garcia to wince.
you had blinked a few times and then stumbled out of the room. and he almost felt badly about it.
you were doing an impressive job of avoiding him most of the rest of that shift, and he supposed he should have let it lie until you had a chance to talk after shift, when you'd both cooled off. but he was still your attending, it was a conversation you should have in the workplace. surely he could handle that without letting the conversation devolve into something... else.
he knocked on the glass of the room you were in, watched as everyone turned their head to him, including you. he pointed at you with his finger and then crooked it towards himself, come here.
your jaw ticked, but you followed him out of the room nonetheless.
as soon as a door was closed, you launched into defending yourself, how garcia was out of line and he should’ve defended you.
“do you know how to diagnose preeclampsia?” he cut in loudly.
you frowned, taken aback, “of course i do.”
“then explain to me how you missed it.”
you were silent for a moment, “no—i—i—“
“you what?” he bit back, more harshly than was probably necessary, but he was pissed. if he hadn’t stepped in when he had, that mother and her baby would have died at your insistence that they go ahead with vaginal delivery.
"she didn't have any preexisting conditions, there was no reason to think--"
"that's right, you didn't fucking think."
your eyes grew glassy, the anger slowly draining from you, "is she--is she okay?" you asked quietly.
"yes. and so is the baby. because we got her into surgery in time, no thanks to you."
you rubbed at your eyes and robby felt his own anger softening, just slightly, "you're still a resident and i'm still your attending--"
"i know--"
"--don't interrupt me." your lower lip wobbled a bit at that, but you quickly stiffened your jaw, blinked away the tears, "when i tell you to do something, you fucking do it. you think you know better than me about patient care?"
you looked down at your feet, "no," you said quietly.
robby knew by now that you had gotten the message, that you were more than remorseful about the patient. he knew later, when you inevitably came over to his place for the night, you'd ask him to walk you through it. and he would, of course, gently and sweetly explain to you what you missed. what you could do better next time (besides fucking listen to him).
but right now he was frustrated and you were frustrated and he wanted, needed, to relieve the tension.
"look at me," he said quietly, "i didn't hear you. i said, do you think you know better than me?"
you looked up at him then and this time there was a glint in your eye. you had picked up on his shift in tone and you swallowed hard as you looked him over, unable to disguise your desire, "no sir." you said, clearly enunciating each word.
"good," he said, tongue darting out to wet his lips, "then turn around and show me how well you can listen."
he watched your pupils dilate and then you slowly turned, leaned yourself against the wall. in a moment, you heard the jangle of robby's belt buckle, and then he was pulling down your scrub pants.
roughly, he stuck his fingers between your legs and when you gasped at the intrusion, he leaned in close to your ear, "you have to be quiet. can't have anyone hearing you, can you do that?"
he slid his fingers down your wet folds before separating them and thrusting his fingers up into you. he covered your mouth with his free hand, felt himself go hard against your leg, "i asked you a question."
when he pulled his hand away, you panted, "i can be quiet." you whispered.
he smirked, "good girl," he kissed just below your ear, "such a good listener, hm?"
he pulled his fingers from you and immediately replaced them with his cock. knowing you would cry out, he covered your mouth again and licked up the column of your throat. he felt you whimper against his hand, knew you were desperate for his tongue in your mouth, but you wouldn't be getting that until you got home.
and with just a minute or two of this, there you were again, his sweet, fucked out angel. babbling incoherently against his hand as he thrust in and out of you. tears were collecting at the corners of your eyes and you were bucking your hips back into his so that each thrust hit harder and deeper.
as he rocketed towards his climax, he was struck dumb by the smell of you, the feel of you around him, overwhelming every sense. so overwhelming in fact, that when his climax hit, he couldn't stop those three words from tumbling, breathless, into your ear. the three words he had been holding tight to his chest for weeks now. afraid it would come out when he was drunk or half asleep.
but he hadn't anticipated saying it now. after he had just yelled at you and fucked you in the on call room. it hadn't even crossed his mind that he should be on guard. he felt your body stiffen in front of him when he said it and he regretfully pulled out of you. pulled up his pants and looked down at his feet as he heard you shuffling in front of him, pulling up your own pants.
"um... did you... you didn't mean that, did you?"
he sighed, squeezed his eyes shut tight as he ran a hand over the back of his head. he could lie, he supposed, but he found he didn't want to do that. he'd been trying to find a way to tell you for weeks now that this was more than just sleeping together to him. but you were so young and still in your residency. he knew what he was like at that time in his life, and he hadn't wanted a long term relationship. and so he hadn't been honest with himself or with you about what he wanted now. but he realized that wasn't fair to you. you should get to decide.
"i did, mean it." he nodded and looked up at you, "you don't have to say it back and... and we can talk about it later. but i do. i love you."
you gave him a slow, tender smile that made his chest ache, "i love you, too."
he felt relief and hope and wonder bloom in his chest and a laugh tore out of him as he shook his head, "really?"
you nodded, fisted your hands in his shirt and raised yourself on your tiptoes to kiss him on the mouth, "really."
he sighed and kissed you back for just a moment before pulling away, "we should get back. before someone comes looking for us."
"okay... we're, um... we're okay?" you cleared your throat, "you know, about earlier?"
he nodded, tilted his head just slightly as he looked at you, "i wasn't kidding though, about you needing to listen to me."
"i know, i'm sorry--"
"and we'll go over the case later. at home. so it doesn't happen again."
you blinked slowly and then smiled again, "at home?"
he kissed your forehead and tucked you under his chin, "yeah, at home."
hyperspermia anon here - the amount of pride (?) i feel spreading the message of Robby’s massive loads is a little insane?
and you really just give life to the vision. i could read a novels worth of this.
(do you think about how if you and Robby had sex outside the house like maybe in a bar bathroom Robby would have to put a towel down in his truck for the ride home so you don’t leak all over the leather? bc i have a bit of a thing for the thought of him being just a little condescending about it. “pretty girl you begged me to fuck you in the bar before we left and I just had the truck detailed”)
i am so sorry
never EVER apologize for anything hyperspermia!anon <3
internally, he's so fucking smug about it. absolutely loving that he can see his cum dripping down your legs as he walks with you in the parking lot. the look on your face when he pulls the towel out of the glove compartment makes it that much better, robby pecking you lips then turning to set the cloth down this whole thing is normal.
you take the land he offers with rolling eyes, feeling the slick between your legs as you climb into his truck. he only gets a few minutes from the bar when you decide you've had enough.
it doesn't take him long to notice, the fingers you dig between your legs catching robby's attention faster than the speed of light. as you scoop out some of the cum and slide your fingers against your tongue, his grip around the steering wheel tightens. you moan at the taste of him, but your attempt to go back for seconds if interrupted by robby grabbing your arm.
"don't be greedy..." he rasps out, finally glancing over at you now that he's stopped at a red light.
you blink back at him, using your other hand to reach into you slit and gather the wet. the man's ire melts into pleasant surprise when you float the fingers to his lips instead, and he groans when you stuff them into his mouth before sucking them clean.
the light turns green and robby zooms the vehicle ahead, needing to get home so he can plop you on the counter and finish cleaning you out the right way–with his mouth glued to your pussy, licking until you're swiping his face away. good and spent.
thinking ab hyperspermia robby and him jerking off or smth and you walk in the middle of him coming and he tries to stop in time…but he just keeps coming and keeps coming… anywho
anon, i need you to understand how any times i've read this, then put my phone down to take a walk... get some air... touch some grass.
robby was supposed to be waiting on you. at least, that's what he’d promised you he’d do as you drove to his place, listening to him whine about how full his balls felt after not being able to fuck you for a handful of days. your shift schedule–stupidly busy and just as unforgiving as his–had gotten in the way of you helping empty him the way he likes. and it’s killing the man.
that’s why you give him some grace… not much but some when you find him jerking himself into a towel at the edge of his bed. you watch him, stuck in your place as he groans with shaky thighs, stare flying to yours as where he reddens with another tight grunt.
“sorry–fuck. sorry, couldn’t wait,” robby damn near whimpers, shoulders tight as he spills a round of lengthy ropes into the fabric he’s holding. face scrunching, he clenches his stomach and tries to stop his head from leaking but it’s no use. “ah.. ah, ‘m trying but it–jesus–it doesn’t wanna quit. better get over here before i’m all out.”
you almost laugh at him because yeah, right.
stepping over, you yank the towel away with one hand and interrupt his desperate rub with the other. cupping your tongue just under his tip and tugging him with wet strokes, your own center starts to throb at the wail robby collapses back onto his bed with. his seed packs your tongue, and you swallow it all before sucking him into your mouth and groaning at how he keeps pouring cum… balls still swollen and telling you you’re both in for a long night.
“might not need dinner at this rate,” you mumble, mouth full and still gulping.
even in his shaky and dazed state, robby wheezes out a tired belly laugh at your words.
hi I’ve been thinking about Robby with hyperspermia for days and now I need you to as well.
that man just. keeps coming you know?
"jesus, robby–"
"fuck, m' sorry. i know, kid, i just–ah..."
robby can't finish his sentence and you don't even notice, biting your lip at the gush of cum still streaming from his tip as you continue jerk him. the man groans and squirms in your grasp, too distracted to be embarrassed.
he'd warned you of the occurrence–how big his loads can be sometimes but to see it in action? to be graced with the vision that is michael robinavitch groping your hips as you sit atop his lap and milk him with stroke after stroke is something that will burn into the deepest crevices of your most fond memories.
"okay, okay, okay," the man hurries out, throat tight and breath long lost, hand reaching to swat at yours. he grunts at the little squeeze you gift him with, eyes peeking at the large puddle of cum along his stomach and chest. "fuck."
"fuck is right. that was the hottest thing i've ever seen in my life," you mumble, tongue dipping to lap at the mess. robby tries to pull you back, shaking his head while his eyes promise that you don't have to do that, sweetheart. you grip his sides, dragging the flat of your tongue up his entire body to meet your lips to his.
robby groans helplessly into the kiss, giving in with a spinning head. when you pull away, he just throws his head back onto his pillow with closed eyes and lets you clean him. clearing his throat, robby sniffs and rubs at his beard.
you better enjoy your snack, cause the next time he comes will be so deep inside your hole that he'll be the one to have to slurp you clean.
imagine sucking off hyperspermia!robby who is so incredibly turned on from the fact that, even though he'd warned you about the oceans of cum that fountain from his tip, you're eager to keep your mouth attached when he finally reaches his peak.
you're fighting his squirms with palms pressed into his parted thighs, and he nearly faints at the way you glide your tongue around him between every other swallow. robby just barely watches as you chug his seed without any second thoughts, his cock a pulsing, slicked, sensitive mess that can't find any way to stop.
the sight of your hollowed cheeks and and swollen lips, haul raspy curses from the very depths of his chest. the sounds try to form words but fall into slurred, breathless nothings.
when you hum around him, he nearly dies. still coming and trying to gasp for air as quietly as his body will let him. head bobbing, you let a few dribbles of cum slide from your lips until he's coated down to the base of his member, and the man jerks at the feeling of your hand cupping his sack.
you stay like that until he can't take it anymore. he's just barely able to slide himself from your mouth, lungs trying not to seize when you're still somehow hungry enough to lap lightly at him while he softens.
somewhere in all the thick fog and haze, robby finds enough sense to call out for you. his head readjusts against the pillows, sighing at the heat that crawls up his skin as you climb next to him, pecking at his chest.
"you still with me?"
a drunk smile pulls at one corner of robby's mouth. his throat bobs with a thick gulp. "not even close... told you you didn't have to do that... swallow it all."
you shrug with the hint of a smile, tucking yourself closer against his side as you rub a hand across his belly. "could tell you needed it. you were practically limping when you walked in the door. thought you were gonna start crying."
even though he doesn't have the energy to, robby manages a huffed laugh as he uses an arm to tug your face to his. he doesn't kiss you right away, choosing to stare instead. grip locking you close, robby's gaze settles onto your lips. the tip of his nose ghost over your cheek just before he presses as long snog against your mouth.
between lazy strokes of his tongue, the simple question comes out quiet. easy. "stay tonight? can take you back to yours in the morning. i'll even splurge on one'a those death drinks you like on the way..."
robby warms at the feeling of you grinning against him. "sandwich, too?"
more than friends, less than lovers || samira mohan
summary: samira is having first date jitters, and she calls you over to help.
pairing: samira mohan x reader , mentions of mohabbot
words: 3.5k of pure bi disaster
warnings / themes: magic wand, blink and you’ll miss it ass play, face sitting, pussy eating, fingering, praising Samira is like worshipping at an altar, disaster ish bi / switchy samira, reader is a a bit of a pleasure switch who’s BEEN down bad for samira, it’s samira’s first time sleeping with another girl but she’s BEEN down bad too, a very specific AC : Odyssey reference, I wrote this in an hour and I’m supposed to go to work at 7:30am lol
So this was written mostly from Samira’s POV…was also sleep deprived when I wrote this pls be gentle.
Don’t steal, translate, repost nor feed my fics through AI.
Technically a part two to this fic, but can be read as a standalone.
Not for the first time that day, Samira is having a small-scale panic attack about the potential date she was going on after being forced out of the dating scene while being in medical school.
In the logical side of her brain, she knew that she didn’t have anything to worry about. He was someone she knew relatively well, was respectable, and never made her feel weird. The worst that could happen was that the date wouldn’t live up to any of the ideas built up in their heads, and she’d go home to leftover wine and a fresh set of batteries waiting in the drawer of the nightstand next to her bed.
And your voice notes, but that was another dilemma for another time.
Samira doesn’t feel very logical right now. So the only logical thing she knows to do is call the only person that could help her work through the current problem.
Twenty minutes hadn’t even passed since she hung up before she’s spooked by the enthusiastic ringing of her door. Samira practically makes a beeline for it, throwing it open when she hears you calling her name from the other side.
“I swear to god, you’re a lifesaver right now.” Samira could practically cry in relief, locking the door behind you. She can’t help but roll her eyes when you respectfully toe off your shoes at the door and leave your coat on the ikea coat rack that has seen better days.
“What’s there to be nervous about, ‘mira? It’s just a date!” You smile brightly, welcoming yourself into the apartment that you’ve been to so often, you might as well live in most of the time.
“S’not just a date. It’s a movie and dinner kind of date.” She whines, “First one since starting residency! With a guy from work. You know I don’t fraternize at work. If this goes bad, then I’m shit out of luck for the rest of my personal and professional life.”
You can’t help but laugh when Samira throws her arms up in the air, frantically explaining to you what she wanted to wear. She had changed her mind at least five times.
“You’re being ridiculous, ‘mira.” And you’re right – Samira knows had the criticism come from anyone else, she would’ve disagreed instantly. But this isn’t work, and in moments like these, you could make her see how strict she was being with herself for no particular reason at all.
It’s why she knows you’ve been friends for years now. Any time she ever doubted herself about anything, you were the air under her sails.
Samira’s distracted looking for other options to wear on her date, ignoring that you’re rifling through her kitchen as if you belonged. Part of it is the pseudo first date jitters, and the other part is mostly her looking at you too long.
She thinks you can’t tell, but you do.
Trying to take inspiration from your own outfit, Samira always wondered how you could pull off those leather pants that complimented your ass and gave you legs for days. Not for the first time, the warmth tingles and blooms all over her at the thought of you in ways that made her think - what if you were more than friends?
“Y’know what you need, honey?” Samira’s attention is on you again, watching you close her fridge with your hip. The contents rattle, and Samira looks at you almost guiltily, embarrassment blooming all over her cheeks when she sees your knowing smile.
“U-uh, yeah, sure, what?” She asks, frantically trying to fix the mess she made as you walk over to her.
You only smile, handing her a shotglass of the tequila she completely forgot was squirreled away in the fridge that had seen better days too.
“A warm up,” Samira knocks back the shot, swallowing the piquant liquid, “an orgasm to loosen up the nerves before you go.”
She practically chokes on the liquor once her brain catches up to her ears.
Truly, she doesn’t know why she’s so embarrassed in this particular moment. The two of you have talked about far more gnarly things, sober and otherwise. Very rare were the times where the two of you didn’t follow or understand each other.
“You really are worked up over this date, huh?” You coo, softly pinching her cheek and smiling when you see the desperate expression in her soft, brown eyes.
“I just…” She sighs, throwing her hands up in defeat, “I know him…but not like that. I want this to go well.”
You chuckle as she throws herself on the worn couch, resting her head on your lap. For a moment, Samira lets herself drift away mentally, enjoying the feel of your fingers in her hair.
“Give it a shot.” You say, “You get in, get out if it doesn’t go well. From what you’ve told me, he’s far too concerned over other things than ruin your life if a date doesn’t work out.”
“...besides, a pre-date orgasm truly does wonders.”
Samira shoots up from the couch, flustered.
“I could help you, if you want.” You’re only half joking, and it makes Samira warm all over in ways she’s too embarrassed to say outloud to you.
Samira often wondered if you were just messing around, making up things when it came to…whatever it was between you. Since the years when your friendship began, the collection of compliments used to be just that. And then there was that one moment you had shared that confirmed what Samira felt was more than friendly.
She thinks she’s the worst kind of bisexual - a disaster one.
Samira watches you go through her closet, humming as you consider the options. She flops on the bed, wiping her palms on her sweats.
“I know you’re like, a sexual dynamo and all,” She laughs a little when you grimace at one of the options in her closet, something that should’ve been donated to the bins ages ago, “But I just can’t get there like you can.”
“Sexual dynamos are made, baby. Not born.” That draws a genuine laugh out of her, “But honestly darling, it works. It’ll help put a glow on ya, and with all the tension you got? It’s never a bad idea just to work one out.”
“Don’t you get tired though? You said you get off almost every day.”
You stop, considering a metallic black dress that you’ve seen her wear once before. You wave the hanger slightly, and for once, she doesn’t disagree.
“If it goes well, then great, you get another partner assisted orgasm.” You throw your hand in the air triumphantly when you find the one pair of heels she has after bending over to dig through the pile of shoes, “Besides, you have the toy I gifted you last year.”
Samira whines in shame, suddenly unable to look at the option you’ve presented to her.
“It’s uh..out of juice.”
You snort, spotting the lie immediately. You’re certain you remember her practically shoving the wand into the drawer after you had gifted it to her.
The weight of the bed shifts next to Samira, and she practically is buzzing at the feel of you next to her.
“Out with it,” You wheedle gently, bumping her with your arm gently, “There’s something you’re not telling me, and I hate that I make you feel that way.”
The authority in your voice makes Samira squeeze her legs, the beat between them coming alive again. She doesn’t answer for a long moment, until she can smell the scent of you from how close you are.
“I just..” She fidgets with her hands, picking at an imaginary fluff from her top, “I’m just scared of the wand, okay?”
“Oh, that’s it?” You giggle, making her groan.
“You’re the worst!”
“I’m not laughing at you, I promise, sweets.” You hug her tight, until she gives in and reciprocates. Samira feels the tension melt away from her shoulders, though her self control is equally as fast to disappear when both of you lie back in her bed, hugging each other. She smiles when you kiss the side of her head softly.
“I could never laugh at you for something like that, ‘mira.” You coo, lying on your side to face her.
Samira’s eyes float across your face, appreciating the warmth that radiates from your body. Your eyes are locked with her own, and you notice the way her brows wrinkle up the way they do whenever she’s the slightest bit offended or concerned. The way her lips pucker stoke the temptation in you to kiss the worry away.
“Tell me what scares you about it,” You whisper, tucking a loose curl behind her ears.
“It’s just so…it makes me feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I know why it’s popular, I really do. But even on the lowest setting it feels like it’s gonna rub my clit off.” She laughs nervously, “Between that and this date..I feel like I’m out of options.”
“Yeah, I get it.” You reply softly, moving yourself in a way to give Samira an out, but she brings herself closer to you.
There’s a pause that makes Samira wonder, was this really her life? Playing out like some borderline porno about two besties and a longstanding crush? Lying in bed with her well off career wise friend, while someone else who’s technically the same was getting ready for their date.
Except it’s not. This was real life, a moment between you and her. One where you two were actually, finally, possibly, maybe going to act on whatever was bubbling between you.
“There’s a lot we have to talk about, don’t we?”
A whisper of a confession.
“We can talk about that another time, Samira.”
Throwing caution to the wind, you bridge the distance between you, softly connecting your lips with hers. Whatever apprehension either of you felt had been put on the back burner.
As if she could ever forget at all, your lips felt like a memory on Samira’s own. A little moan escapes her when your lips meld together, grabbing each other softly, trying to make sure the moment was real.
“Let me help you break it in..” You sigh, feeling high at the sensation of Samira’s warm breath on your face. Her hands bunch up the fabric of your top around your waist, feeling your skin.
“Please.” She whines, shivering from how cold the room is and the feeling of your hands on her breasts, toying with her nipples.
In the midst of the semi confessional and clothes thrown all over, you have to pull away for a moment to fully reveal yourselves.
“Let me look for the damn thing,” Samira mumbles into your lips, reluctantly pulling away from you to dig through the drawer of her bedside table, practically hanging off the bed to reach it and practically shove the batteries in the damn thing. When she finally turns around, her mouth falls open when she sees you waiting for her.
“You’re gonna kill me,”’
“What a way to go though, hm?”
Samira laughs, surging forward to kiss you again, feeling more courageous. How easy it is for her, to get lost in the feel of you. Beyond the voice notes she’d listen to often, just to hear your voices purr without actually having to confess herself to you.
“You’re amazing.” She laughs, but you pull away a moment, looking at her as you cup her cheek. Her warm, lithe body atop yours, her curls loose like a halo. “I want you to remember that tonight, especially when you go out there - He’ll be lucky to even be seen with such a gorgeous fucking woman like you.”
Oh right, she still had that date.
“I’ll remember.” Samira whispers, kissing you softly, taking your lip between her teeth gently, “Can we keep going, please? I promise to remember what you said.”
“Good girl,” You coo, “now let’s make this about you. Just lay back and relax, hm?”
Samira does as she says and lies on her back, letting you straddle her hips. She giggles when you dance the tips of your fingers through the patch of dewy curls between her legs. The smell and the sight of her make your mouth water, and knowing just how long it’s been since you’ve dreamed of having her makes you mad with want.
She’s surprised when you don’t go for the magic wand. Instead, you kneel between her legs, fingers dancing down the length of them before dancing back underneath, lifting them up and into her hands so she can hold herself open to you.
Being vulnerable like this with you doesn’t make her nervous anymore, but the way you teasingly open her up with your thumbs and softly blow, drawing a shaky sigh from Samira’s lips.
“The trick to it,” You start, sliding in a finger as her arousal flows like Kephisos’ Spring, matching the slow undulation of her hips with your hand, “is to work yourself up slowly. Think about something that makes you feel good, something you like, with someone. You can even talk to yourself. Can you do any of that for me, darling?”
Samira’s breath catches in her throat, trying to chase the feeling of your fingers in her.
“Go on, play with yourself for me, honey. You can do it.” You coax softly, smiling when you see Samira does as she’s told. She whines when your hand moves, and she finally cups herself in her hands, toying with her nipples.
A slight shift, and her legs are over your shoulders. They tremble next to your face as you trail soft, open kisses up one leg, across but not so close to where she wants, and down the other leg.
Samira’s buzzing all over, feeling the weight of your eyes as you massage the softness of her hips with your left hand.
She could get lost in you.
“There you go, sweet girl.” You purr, nibbling on the junction of her thigh as your other fingers work her open. “You’re doing so good, getting so wet for me. You like doing that for me, don’t you?”
“Y-yeah, I do.” Samira sighs, keening when your fingers curl against that softness inside of her just so. Her fingers fly to your hair, pulling it and making you hiss when you repeat the motion again. She feels her self careening off the edge of self control, her hips moving against you.
“I-I’m gonna..pleas–I have, I have to-” She’s sure her nonsensical babbles make no sense, but you didn’t need her to specify.
Samira’s shocked to borderline righteous indignation when she feels the emptiness right as she decides she’s ready to fall off the edge.
“It’ll be worth it in the end, baby. Trust me.” You crawl up to her, capturing her lips with your again as you lightly slap her thigh, “now be good and turn over for me.”
The anticipation washes over Samira again, knowing what she’s been putting off for so long was finally going to happen. It shot a special kind of thrill through her veins and down to her core. She rolls her eyes when you nod expectantly, doing as you say. She rests her weight on her forearms, looking back at you as she wiggles her ass a little, earning a small slap that makes her giggle.
“You’re a needy thing, aren’t you?”
“Can you blame me? You’re corrupting me.”
“Keep being mouthy and see where that gets you.” But you don’t really mean it, smiling at her as you click on the magic wand.
To help Samira feel less shocked, you gently travel the wand over her skin, letting her feel the vibrations. You can’t help the smile as Samira naturally opens herself to you, lifting her bottom half expectantly. She feels your hand on her back, guiding you into position. A shuddered breath leaves her when she feels the head just so close, biting her lip when your fingers spread her slick obscenely.
“You ready, sweet’art?” She nods, “Just tell me ‘stop’, and I’ll stop.”
“Please, just go.” She whines, wiggling herself again.
Even with the lowest setting, having the wand placed right where it counts shoots a special kind of thrill into Samira’s veins. Her stomach swoops every which way, breath leaving her lungs in a rush. The bed squeaks as you both find a comfortable position, her back on display as you kneel behind her.
“Ohh..” She mewls, her skin breaking out in goosebumps as you lower the wand right on her lips, not yet parting them, “Theretheretheretherethere, pleaseeeeee.”
“Want a little more?” You ask, and she nods before resting her hands on her arms, hugging the pillow in front of her, drooling into it a little. The sight of her leaves you breathless, lost in the way her trust in you makes you feel. Despite the position, you’re the one that’s wrecked for her.
Samira babbles, gasping when she feels that pleasurable pinch before another wave of arousal leaks from her, “Pleasepleaseplease, I want-it. I want m-more.”
She opens her legs a little wider, making space for your other hand and the wand. The vibrations are turned up a little more, your free hand opening her up like one would with a flower needing help to bloom.
You can’t help it – how wrecked and wicked you’re being for her. You can’t help the way you think that you already want more, already want to take more of whatever she’s willing to give you. You can’t help the way you’re panting and gasping her name, begging her for more as the vibrations relieve the most delicious ache she had been feeling ever since you had stepped foot into her apartment.
“That’s it, theeere you go.” You groan when you see Samira’s want seep out of her and drip down her things. It makes your throat dry, and only she could quench it.
Samira’s heart lips with a thrill when the wand is shifted slightly so it’s directly on her clit. The way she gasps is like a song. Your own arousal pools between your legs, slowly making its way down onto the sheets.
The vibrations on her clit start to relieve the ache she’d been feeling, and she chides herself for a moment, wondering why she was so scared in the first place. She really should’ve been using your gift more often.
Feeling her core tighten, Samira moves her hips with a single goal in mind - to come. The way you both breathe ragged, like a debauched prayer for the moment to never end. The only thing she can hear besides the buzzing and the wreckage of your own pleasure, are the encouragements you give here – that’s right, take what you need ; there you go, darling, you’re almost there.
Samira can’t help but sob when she feels the pressure low on her core, the tightness in her belly ready to unravel and spark her nerves like a livewire. She shudders when she feels your fingers spread her arousal between her cheeks, and the feeling of you toying there has her release blooming all over her skin, gushing all over the wand as pleasurable sobs heave from her.
Gently, you turn the vibrations down until the wand is fully off, tossing it to the foot of the bed. Abandoning all pretense of decorum, Samira flops down, feeling breathless and sated all over.
For a moment, her eyes close, only listening to the sound of you rustling about. She moans gently when she feels you cleaning her up, until she feels your body as a protection over her own. A smile floats onto her lips as your hand dances across her back.
“How do you feel?” The question is a fragile whisper, and for the first time since Samira’s known you, she hears uncertainty in your voice. You laugh when she can only manage a thumbs up, until she can manage to turn around and recline on her side to look at you. You make note of the moles scattered across her skin like stars, tapping each one of them with the pads of your fingers as if making a wish.
You glance at the clock on her wall, and then back at her as you play with her curls.
“Still got an hour before you go.” You mumble softly, kissing her nose softly, “What do you think about the outfit I picked?”
“Innaminute.” She mumbles, scooting closer to you. Though the liquid courage is long gone, it’s been replaced by the one you’ve managed to coax out of here, “Can we try that thing, you sitting on my face?”
You raise a brow, surprised at her enthusiasm, mirth apparent on your face.
“Well, well, look at you, Samira Mohan.” You do as she says, following her cues naturally as she lies on her back. Your knees are on either side of her head, her hands softly dancing on the dips of your hips as you arrange yourself properly.
“What, I can’t return the favor?” She asks bashfully, pulling sighs from the both of you as she licks you clean.
simon with a fucked-up face, except every scar is self-inflicted because post-roba, he couldn’t stand to look at look at himself in the mirror without hearing got a real pretty face, english. would be a shame if this got damaged.
i need more of your recent blurb with reader failing at her nonchalantness with her attraction to robby. need robby to lowkey humiliate her
welllll if you insist (: ((maybe reader will get him back next time))
part one | part three
cw: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, public sexual acts
"oh my god." javadi was looking at you incredulously, and perhaps you thought, with a note of disgust.
trinity rolled her eyes, "crash, please stop being such a prude, you're killing the vibe."
"i'm not a prude, but does no one else think this is a horrible idea? he's not just old enough to be your father, he's our attending. if he decides he doesn't like you anymore, he could fire you from your residency!"
this, for just a moment, gave you pause and you turned back to javadi, "do you really think he'd do that?"
javadi stared at you open mouthed for a moment before sighing, "i--not really, i guess, no. he's kinda mean sometimes, but not overtly cruel. and i do think he cares about all of our careers--"
"so why are you being such a worry wart then?" trinity asked.
javadi threw up her hands in exasperation, "i don't know! someone has to be the voice of reason here. whitaker? some help?"
"yeah, huckleberry, you have any thoughts?"
whitaker sighed heavily as if he was annoyed to be brought into the middle of this, "well, yeah, i mean... if it doesn't go well... at the very least it'll be very... uncomfortable for you for the next two-ish years. is that what you want?"
"don't answer that," trinity said, "it's not going to go badly. he wants to fuck you. i've seen the way he looks at you." her eyes wandered down your body, to the too short skirt you were planning on wearing to the bar tonight.
to the same bar the entire dayshift was going to tonight. including robby.
"he'd have to be fucking insane to not want you in that skirt." trinity said.
and trinity was correct. robby was going out of his fucking mind the second he saw you walk into the bar in that skirt. and he spent the next hour or so trying to figure out how he was going to get you out of it.
but maybe he didn't need to go that far. because trinity, bless her, bullied you all the way over to the booth he was sitting in with jack and samira and then promptly muttered something about getting drinks before running off.
you seemed distressed that trinity had shoved you into the booth next to him and then abandoned you, but tried to quickly cover it by asking samira about the fellowship she was applying to.
but he wasn't really listening, because when you had sat down, your skirt had ridden up even further and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the softness of your thighs.
it was almost involuntary when he rested his hand on top of your knee, just to see what you would do. he had really grown to adore the way you reacted to him, how mortified you got when you couldn't quite disguise your desire for him. it made himself a little sick just how much he relished in your embarrassment.
and sure enough, when you felt his hand on your leg, you nearly jumped, spine going rod straight and breath going shallow. but he rubbed his thumb in a circle, gently massaging your inner knee and you quieted, much like a spooked animal. continued talking to samira as if nothing had happened.
robby knew jack had caught on to what was going on and within a minute or two, he'd excused himself and samira. trinity was not coming back with drinks, clearly. so it was just the two of you, now.
"who're you wearing the skirt for?" he asked, his voice low and husky in your ear.
"i--no one. i just--like the skirt."
"hm," his fingers inched just slightly higher, danced across your inner thigh, and your leg jumped up, hitting the table.
he laughed, ran a hand over where you'd bumped your leg, and felt a thrill go through him when a couple of people looked over. you looked horrified, shrinking into yourself, and he felt just a twinge of guilt.
"you sure you're not wearing this for me?" he said softly, "you weren't trying to get my attention?"
your eyelids fluttered and your breath trembled the higher up his hand traveled and when he applied just a little bit of pressure, you spread your legs for him. but when you didn't answer his question, he pulled his hand away.
you blinked a few times in confusion and then turned your head to look at him. then you looked back towards the front of the bar, seemed to fully process how many people were here, and then you looked back at him, " do you even want me? or are you just trying to teach me a lesson or something?"
again, at the fear in your eyes, he felt a bit badly how much he was enjoying this. but he wanted you to be enjoying it as well. he shook his head, "it's not a trick." he put his hand on your knee again, "but tell me who you're wearing the skirt for... or i'll start making a mess of you in front of all these people."
your eyes widened a fraction and he watched your throat bob as you swallowed. he pushed his hand between your legs again, forcing them to spread and you kept your eyes on him as he did, "you," you said as his fingers ghosted over the cotton of your panties, "i wore it for you."
"that's better," he said, gave you a reassuring smile, "and what were you thinking about doing with that skirt on, hm? you wanted my hands up it like they are now?"
he deftly pushed your panties to the side and ran a finger slowly over the wetness that had pooled there, you both stifled a groan and robby was nearly salivating at the thought of tasting you. but he pushed it down, instead, sliding a finger inside you and watching the way you fought a moan, "come on, sweet girl, you know the rules. you answer my questions or things will get a lot more embarrassing for you."
"i was--thinking about riding you in it." you managed, and the image of you doing just that had him spiraling. it was wrecking him. he wanted you to ride him in that skirt and he wanted you to grind against his face with it still on and he thought there wasn't much he would say no to to make sure it happened.
after a moment he felt you try to buck your hips up into him, desperate for more friction. but he pulled his hand away, satisfied with the gasp you made at his absence, the way you fought a pout.
"well, since you've been so good, maybe i'll let you," he said, digging his keys from his pocket, "i'm gonna leave, go get my car, and swing around the back. you wait five minutes before you leave and then meet me behind the bar. i'll drive us back to my place. okay?"
seemingly still in a daze, you nodded.
"good," he shuffled you out of the booth so he could get out, pulled you both to standing, "i'll see you in five minutes."
and then he was gone and you were sprinting to find trinity to tell her what had happened and maybe kiss her on the mouth for revealing in the first place that robby was into you.
dr. robby x f!resident!reader
masterlist
content: 18+ mdni, reader is described as blushing throughout, sexually explicit content, age gap, swearing, jealousy
words: 4.3K
synopsis: no one in the ER knows you've been seeing robby except dana, but when an EMT keeps relentlessly flirting with you, it has robby losing his mind.
a/n: hellooo again. i think this one pretty much speaks for itself 🤪
Robby didn’t consider himself to be a jealous man. The older he got, the more secure he felt in the relationships he chose. And with you, he felt very sure about everything. At times, it bordered on cocky how sure he was about you.
So it was both shocking and incredibly irritating to him the way it got under his skin when you laughed a little too loudly at something the EMT said to you. The same EMT who had been flirting with you for three straight shifts.
No one in the ER knew you were dating except for Dana. The two of you had decided it would just be easier that way, especially as you were still his resident. When Dana saw the way he was eying the two of you… well, it was the greatest thing that had happened to her all shift.
“You gonna kick him out or are you just gonna keep staring at him like you’re deciding where to hide the body?” Dana leaned into his shoulder.
Robby looked at her with disdain and then took the lab results she was holding out to him. He furrowed his brow as he tried to focus on what was in front of him and not the lilt of your voice.
“Repeat head CT in three hours. We can discharge if it’s clear.” Robby handed the iPad back to Dana and put his glasses back in his pocket, returning his attention to you.
You smiled and then placed a hand on the man’s forearm before walking away. Robby couldn’t stand the way his blood pressure rose. Immediately, he followed after you.
“Have a second?” He asked, but didn’t wait for your response as he steered you by the arm into an empty patient room.
You laughed as he closed the door, “What the hell is this?”
A great question. Robby had no idea what he was doing, he had simply let his annoyance drive him, and the regret immediately washed over him. He scratched the back of his head, “I just um, wanted to see about the, uh, trauma one, if surgery came down to get him yet?”
You stared at him opened mouth for a moment, “Robby, you were there when we stabilized him and when Garcia said the OR would be ready in ten minutes.”
He was already nodding while you were speaking, the tips of his ears growing red with embarrassment, or frustration. Likely both, “Right, and so did Garcia come back down to get him?”
“I don’t know,” You said slowly, “Why don’t you ask Dana?”
You started to walk around him, but he blocked the exit, “Sorry, I just, we’re okay, right?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, “We don’t do this at work. That was your rule.”
He sighed, “I know, I know—“
Dana opened the door, “Sorry to interrupt, incoming pedestrian struck in a crosswalk, five minutes out.”
They both followed Dana back out into central, Robby’s mind still on that EMT. Your laugh and your soft touch on his arm.
When the trauma came in, he watched, gloved up as you and Langdon bickered back and forth about how to best handle the internal bleeding to stabilize enough for surgery. “Langdon’s running this one,” He reminded you mildly, “His decision.”
Langdon smirked at you snidely and you rolled your eyes. When they had mostly stabilized the patient, Langdon took the opportunity to jab at you, “So, Y/N, when are you going to put that EMT out of his misery?”
Robby’s eyes shot up to Langdon and his heart rate picked up again. So he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.
You frowned, “Who? Peter?”
“Ah, Peter,” Langdon said in a mocking tone, but you looked at him blankly, “Oh, come on, the guy’s been drooling over you for like a week now. Don’t act like you haven’t noticed.”
Robby watched as you blushed. You actually blushed.
“It’s not like that, he’s just friendly.”
Langdon laughed, “Right. Sure. I mean I have never seen an EMT so thrilled to be hugging the wall for close to hours, but yeah he’s probably just friendly.” You shook your head and sighed. “Or maybe he’s a serial killer, he does watch you with more intensity than just romantic interest.”
With the patient stabilized and surgery coming in, you and Langdon started degloving, Robby following quietly behind.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, because it just so happens that I’m… seeing someone.”
Robby blinked, unsure he had heard you correctly. Your face was beet red as you looked anywhere besides Langdon and Robby.
Langdon scoffed, “Since when?”
You huffed with agitation, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Frank. But there is nothing going on with me and Peter, okay?” Now you looked from Robby to Langdon. You had picked up on Robby’s silence, perhaps connected the dots between his conversation with you earlier and Langdon’s interrogation.
“Oh, I am not involved in this conversation,” Robby said quickly, backing away with his hands up and quickly turning away.
He should be relieved that you denied it and that you even made it a point to affirm that you were in a relationship, he was sure that addition was intended for him and not Frank.
And yet… You had blushed when Frank implied that he was flirting with you. Again, he felt ridiculous that it bothered him, but he didn’t want you blushing thinking about anyone but him.
It was so difficult to fluster you that in the beginning, he had seen it as a challenge. What could he say, where could he touch, that would bring that pink to your cheeks.
They didn’t talk about their relationship at work, it was a rule he had established early on in order to keep their resident/attending role separate. He did his best to think about you as just a resident when you were here and just his girlfriend once you stepped outside.
But boy, he was struggling with it today. Every time he saw you he wanted to pull you into a private room and remind you of all the ways you were his.
And apparently, it wasn’t just Langdon who had noticed the flirty EMT. He saw several nurses exchanging looks the next time Peter came in with another patient and made his way over to you.
“So, what’s your vice?” Peter was leaning over your workstation while you were trying to chart.
“Excuse me?” You peered at him over the top of your computer.
“You know, coffee, tea, alcohol, cigarettes… Mine’s definitely coffee, I have like, four cups a day. What’s yours?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” You shrugged, “I guess coffee.”
“Painful to watch, isn’t it?” Mohan had sidled up next to Robby.
“What?”
Mohan nodded to you and Peter, “Y/N and the sexy EMT.” Robby looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Oh, I don’t call him that, that’s what the nurses call him,” She said quickly, “Yeah, I’m just gonna go.”
Robby shook his head and sighed. He was still talking to you. Thankfully, you weren’t laughing anymore, but he was awful close to you and there was that pink tinge to your cheeks. The same pink tinge that rose to your cheeks when he whispered something dirty in your ear, or squeezed your ass in public, or cooed what a good girl you are—
He couldn’t watch this anymore. Pushing off the hub, he marched over to you.
“Sorry to interrupt,” He said, and turned to Peter, “Do you have a patient here?”
“Uh, yeah,” He jerked a thumb towards the ambulance bay, “We’re waiting for him to be admitted.”
Robby nodded, “Well I would appreciate it if you got back to monitoring your patient instead of flirting with my resident.” He said coldly.
Peter narrowed his eyes at Robby, and then looked back at you. You were definitely blushing now, pretending to be incredibly interested in charting. Finally, Peter scoffed, “Yeah, sure.” He looked back at you, “I’ll bring you a coffee next time.”
You watched him as he left and then looked up at Robby, shaking your head.
“What?” He asked, it came out sharper than he intended.
You shrugged, “Something bothering you, Dr. Robinavitch? You seem tense.”
He smirked and ran a hand over his face before leaning in closer to you, “Do you enjoy it? His attention?” He asked lowly.
“He just wanted to know if I like coffee.” You said, but seeing Robby like this was making your stomach flip and your face heat.
“Really?” He was too close, much too close, you glanced around to see if anyone had noticed— “Look at me.”
You met his gaze which was hotter than the sun. He looked like he wanted to devour you, “We don’t do this at work,” You repeated firmly, desperately.
His gaze traveled lazily to your mouth and then back up, “You didn’t seem to have an issue when it was Peter.”
You scoffed and looked away. He was going to ruin you, here, at work. You could feel your arousal pooling between your thighs already.
Robby had never been jealous. It wasn’t uncommon if he had stepped away from you for a minute for a man to try and buy you a drink. And he would casually insert himself between you, not even look at the other man, just whisk you away. But he was always so casual and indifferent about it. You had never gotten the impression that he was threatened by it.
But now, he was acting positively possessive. And while it was absolutely inappropriate timing, you found it, unfortunately, unbearably attractive.
You stood from your work station, iPad in hand, and leaned in close to his ear, “If you don’t back off, it’s going to become very clear to everyone in the ED who it is that I’ve been seeing.”
As you move to walk by him, his hand grasps your arm and pulls you back in front of him. Your eyes travel from his hand on your arm in disbelief up to his eyes that are still looking at you with unabashed desire.
“Flirt like that in front of me again, and I will do more than just make everyone wonder if we’re sleeping together.” His hand was still gripping your arm and your breathing faltered at the feel of his breath on the shell of your ear, “Understood?”
You swallowed, hard, and then smirked, “Promise?”
He gave a short chuckle and released your arm, “Don’t play games.”
You leaned in close, close enough to kiss him if you wanted. For his part, he didn’t move away, his eyes snagging on your mouth again, “Don’t threaten me.” You whispered, and then you headed to your patient.
Peter was back. His patient was finally getting admitted and of course, you were the one guiding him to the room. Robby followed a few steps back.
“So… Coffee?” Peter said. Man, was this the best game this guy had? The best the “sexy EMT” could do was ask you about coffee? Maybe Robby had nothing to worry about. “How do you take it?”
You shook your head, smirking, “Cream and sugar.”
“And do you ever… go out for coffee after a shift?”
Robby sighed audibly and your eyes shot to his before quickly looking back to Peter, “No,” You said as you all walked into the room where the patient would be staying, “With all the coffee I drink during shift, I’d never sleep if I had more after.”
Peter nodded, “What about for a drink, then?”
You chuckled nervously, the patient between all of you looking interestedly from you to Peter. Robby watched, irritated when that tell tale flush started creeping its way up your neck again.
“Dr. Y/N.” Robby interjected, “The patient, if you would be so kind? Peter, thank you for your help, we’ve got it from here.”
Peter looked from Robby to you expectantly. As if he thought you’d interject here.
When you didn’t, the fucker had the nerve to ask again, this time abandoning the pretense of it being a casual conversation, “You get off at seven, right? I could meet you later.”
You looked up at Robby first who was watching you with calculated calm. Arms crossed, rocking gently from foot to foot. You doubted anyone else would sense the level of agitation, but it was easy for you to see just how pent up and frustrated he was.
Peter and the patient both followed your gaze to Robby, and then Peter looked back at you, question in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” You said finally, tearing your gaze away from Robby, “But I already have a date after work… with my boyfriend.”
It took everything you had not to reflexively look up at Robby at the end of your sentence, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Peter was already looking from you to Robby, rapid calculations occurring as he put together the pieces of the past day.
Finally, he gave a short breathy laugh, “No fucking way.” The flush worked its way into your cheeks, your ears, your forehead. “He’s old enough to be your dad.” Peter hissed.
That was enough for Robby. Peter wouldn’t leave, and so he’d have to excuse himself before he called security. It wasn’t like this was the first time it had been pointed out to him how young you were. He had thought about it extensively, hating himself, from the moment he realized his affection for you went far beyond that of just a mentor.
“You’ll call if you need me?” He asked, waiting for you to meet his eyes.
You nodded and watched him go, “You should go, Peter.” You started your exam on the patient until eventually, Peter gave up and left.
“I would have picked the doctor with the sad eyes, too.” The patient said in the silence and you laughed so hard you snorted.
The rest of the shift, you worried that Robby was actually upset with you. He barely spoke to you the rest of the shift and avoided being in physical proximity to you if he could help it.
When the day finally ended, you quickly packed up your things and caught him at the hub as he was getting ready to leave. He noted your presence with his eyes, but said nothing as you followed him outside.
You trailed after him like a puppy, hoping he would say something, but he didn’t. When you got to his apartment, he finally turned to you as he closed the door behind you with a hand over your shoulder.
“You never answered my question earlier.” He said softly.
“What question?” You asked, breathless from his closeness.
“If you liked his attention?”
A self satisfied smirk worked its way across your face, “No,” You said finally, shaking your head slowly and biting your lip, “I liked that his attention led to more attention from you.”
“Even though he’s… Far more age appropriate for you?”
You brought your hands up to his face, tilting your head just a bit, “I’ve told you before, your age is inconsequential to me. If anything, I find it more attractive.” He rolled his eyes at this, “I’m serious. Guys my age are arrogant and have the emotional capacity of a brick. You are… leaps and bounds ahead of them in terms of empathy.”
He huffed a laugh, “I’m not sure how not being an asshole correlates with my age.”
“Experience and wisdom and all that, yada yada, but I’m not interested in this conversation right now. You’ve been looking at me all day like…”
He raised his eyebrows, “Like what?”
You cover your face with your hands, suddenly embarrassed. Another thing you loved about Robby was that he had absolutely no trouble verbalizing what he wanted in bed or how badly he wanted you. And he loved when you did the same, but you were still hesitant. Still a little worried he would find it too much, would find it gross, or shameful. Feelings you were still working through from past relationships.
Carefully, he pushed your hands out of your face, his cocky grin greeting you immediately, “Don’t do that,” He said, his voice low, “I’ve wanted to see you blush all pretty for me all day long.”
“So you’re not mad?”
“Mad?” He laughed, “The only thing I’m mad about is that you still have your clothes on. You’ve been driving me fucking insane all day.”
“Me? Driving you insane?”
“Yeah, smiling at him, touching him, blushing for him.”
“I was not—“
“You were.” He said softly, but firmly, “And I gotta tell ya, it made me want to pull you into the bathroom and have my way with you. Really make you blush like I know you do when I’ve made such a mess of you you can hardly speak.”
Your heart rate was picking up, and with it, you were sure, your breathing, “Well, what the fuck are you waiting for then?”
He grinned and then he was kissing you, hard and hungrily, like there was an ache inside of him he couldn’t satisfy until he tasted you. His hands were in your hair, on your waist, under your scrub top, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Open mouthed, he stole the breath from your lungs, breathed you in greedily as a hand palmed your breast.
You couldn’t help the moan that tumbled from your throat as he gently pinched your nipple between his fingers. In response, he pushed his leg between both of yours and you gasped at the friction it created there. Wanting more of it, you ground down on his leg and were rewarded with a guttural sound from Robby.
He grabbed your jaw and pushed you slightly to give himself access to the curve of your neck where he began sucking at the sensitive skin there.
“Peter was probably wondering what you taste like all day.” He grazed his teeth against your skin, “Or how you would feel grinding down on his leg like this. So pretty when you move your hips like that.”
“Stop talking about him,” You ground out.
Robby laughed and pulled away, the loss of friction from his leg made you whine involuntarily. Mercifully, he didn’t comment on this, just took your hand and pulled gently towards the bedroom.
“For what it’s worth, I’ve been thinking about the way you taste all day.” He pushed you down onto the bed and pulled at the drawstring of your scrub pants, “The way you grind against my mouth when you’re really needy.” He’s pulled your pants and panties off in one go and crawls over you. Settling between your thighs, he pulled a leg over his shoulder.
You’re quiet, nearly holding your breath in anticipation and he looked up at you. A check in, despite everything, despite how you had made it clear you wanted him and only him all day, he hesitated. Is this okay? His eyes asked.
It was sweet of him, but you were so frustrated. You wouldn’t admit it, but when he was acting so territorial earlier today, whenever you had allowed your mind to wander, it had been to this: Robby, head between your legs, beard glistening with your slick. If he had taken more than a cursory glance at your panties when he slipped them off moments ago, the evidence of it was all over them.
Your hips bucked involuntarily, “Please?” You managed, your voice a whine, a plea.
He smiled sweetly at you and looked back down. His finger glided across your folds and you both exhaled in unison, “This all for me, baby?”
You nodded and he lazily teased your dripping entrance with a finger, “Only for you.” You said, breathless.
You didn’t have to look to know that had him grinning. Then his mouth was on you, tongue slowly licking long stripes across you that have you quietly whimpering.
You reach a hand out to stroke the back of his head and he groans into you, the vibrations making your back arch. He pulls away slightly to look at you, his fingers circling your clit as he does so, “You’re close already, aren’t you, baby?”
Your only response is to lift your hips up into his hand, a silent plea for more.
It drove him crazy when you were like this. The fact that he had barely even touched you and you were already at the precipice. One practiced movement from him, a flick of his finger or his tongue, and you were so worked up you’d tumble over the edge.
Your face was flushed and sweaty, both from the shift and now, and you looked so fucking gorgeous.
He had been looking for too long. You were whining and arching your back at his lack of attention. He suppressed a laugh, “Okay, alright, I’ll take care of you, sweetheart. Just relax.”
Slowly, he pushed a finger inside you, sighing at the way you felt around him. He would never get over how soft and warm your walls felt around him, how perfect. He lowered his mouth back onto you, sucking your clit gently into his mouth and then circling it with his tongue as his finger curled up into you.
It took only a few more seconds before you cried out and he felt your walls contracting around his finger. His cock twitched at the sensation, full and dripping in his pants.
Even in the aftershocks of your orgasm, you were already reaching for him, pulling him by the shoulder back up to your mouth where you kissed him hungrily. The taste of you still on his tongue drove you wild and you started clawing at his clothes, trying to tear them off while chasing his mouth with your own.
Robby laughed at your eagerness, “You want to feel how crazy you drove me today? You want me to fill you up until you can’t see straight, hm?”
You helped lift his shirt over his head, hands pressed against his chest before you curled a finger beneath the chain of his necklace and lightly tugged him towards you, “Please stop talking.”
He laughed against your mouth and hooked your hip over his own, his erection sliding against your slick folds.
“Fucking Christ.” He groaned as he slid over you, repeatedly teasing your entrance with his tip before pulling out.
“Robby,” You groaned in frustration, until finally he gave in, sinking into you fully, “Oh, fuck.” You sighed into his mouth and he licked into yours as he slowly moved in and out of you.
“Jesus, you feel so good.” He lifted the leg that was previously wrapped around his hip and brought it to his shoulder, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to your ankle, “Okay?”
You nodded and he leaned down, pressing your leg with him. He was so so deep now and you moaned at the sensation. He began rocking his hips, slowly at first, then faster, harder, until you were delirious with the feel of him.
“Such a good girl,” He cooed, as he continued thrusting into you, “You look so pretty like this.” Reaching between you, his fingers found your swollen clit with little effort and he circled in time with his thrusts, smiling at you when you moaned and he felt your walls begin to tighten around him.
“That’s it, baby, cum for me again like a good girl. Wanna feel you cum around me.”
You loved when he talked like this, gentle and encouraging. It was all it took to push you over the edge the second time. And while you rode it out, crying out his name as you did, you felt him release inside you as well.
The both of you were breathless as you came down, his forehead rested against yours. You caught his mouth in a sweaty kiss and he hummed into your mouth appreciatively. When you both had caught your breath, he pulled out and wordlessly stood to go to the bathroom. This was routine now, so you waited patiently, knowing he’d return. You heard the sink water running for a while, then it stopped.
Robby came back into the room, warm, wet wash cloth in hand as he smiled down at you. He quietly cleaned you up and then once he’d gotten rid of the wash cloth, laid down next to you, pulling you into him with one arm.
“We should take a shower.” He said softly, kissing the freckles on your shoulder.
You hummed, “Just a couple more minutes like this, please?”
He sighed, “Can’t say no to you.”
You huffed a laugh, “You say no to me all the time at work.”
“Yes, it’s my job to say no to you there. It’s my job to say yes to you here.”
“Ah,” You said, “Very convenient.”
He laughed and then let silence fall between you for a few moments. Then— “So, do you think Peter got the hint or do you think he’ll come with a coffee the next time?”
You laughed, “I cannot believe you are still thinking about that man.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
You sighed, “I think he got the hint, baby.”
“Good,” He said, “Because I have a strict no violence in the workplace policy.”
You shook your head, “You are a jealous, possessive man. I had no idea.”
“I can be positively territorial if it’ll lead to more sex like this.” He said and playfully bit your shoulder, causing you to squeal, “Come on, shower time.”
Warnings: f!reader, established relationship, resident/attending, somnophilia, consensual non-con, technically drugs? (it’s just diphenhydramine), vaginal fingering, p in v, creampie, fake tears, reader is a fantastic actress <3
wc: 2.3k
a/n: so, this was only supposed to be somno, but it got away from me so like. yeah. here. also, Benadryl really does fuck me up like this lol
-> KINKTOBER M.LIST
The thing is that you’re mad at him.
Robby is well aware of it. You’ve been cranky all morning, running on little sleep, nauseous from not eating, actually gagged earlier when he tried to hand you a granola bar.
“You can’t fucking work like this.” He tries to look sympathetic, but apparently it just comes off as annoyed, maybe even dismissive.
Robby had prepared himself for tears because that’s what happens when you’re over-tired. You cry. He’s seen it happen several times, is quite often the direct cause.
You don’t cry, though. Not a single sign of wetness in your bloodshot eyes.
There is, however, a challenge. Clear indignation.
“Then, why don’t you send me home?”
Fingers locked on top of his head, Robby exhales and shakes his head. A response is on the tip of his tongue, but it’s too sharp—serrated, meant to hurt.
So, “you know what? Fine.”
“Wait—” you sit up straight, suddenly looking more alert than you have all shift, “no, I—I didn’t—I was just being a brat. I’m not going home.”
Robby levels a harsh gaze at you, words clipped, “yeah, you are, ‘cause you’re right. You are being a brat, and I’m fucking tired of it, so just,” he waves a hand toward the locker room. “Just get your shit, go home, and sleep.”
“Robby—”
“Don’t make me fucking say it again.”
There are the tears. He knew he could pull a few out of you.
Bottom lip wobbling, you slowly stand up from your chair, badge out of the computer you were on and nod silently when he tells you, “I’ll finish your charts, so don’t worry about them.”
Your head hangs low, shoulders sagging, and Robby feels just bad enough to stop you, fingers circling your wrist, and he ducks to get into your field of vision.
“Seriously,” with a tiny bit of warmth this time, just enough to offset the annoyance he still feels. “Get some rest.”
You sniffle, “yeah, okay,” and he watches you make your way to the lockers.
The remainder of the shift will definitely be harder without you, but Robby knows you well enough to see the early signs of sickness. Without the bare minimum of sleep and sustenance, you’re fucking murdering your immune system, and if Robby doesn’t do something about it now, you’re gonna miss more than just a few hours of work, so letting you go early is, unfortunately, the best thing he can do for both of you.
As predicted, the last six hours are more hectic, but it’s far from the worst Robby has experienced. He’s relieved to give Jack handoff, glad to decompress on his walk home, and downright thrilled to find you knocked the fuck out in bed—mouth open, messy hair, dead to the world.
He takes stock of everything: the cereal box that’s still sitting on the counter and the rinsed bowl in the sink. The vent from the bathroom that’s still humming, a sign of what Robby is sure was a quick shower. The mostly empty glass of water on the bedside table and the bottle of diphenhydramine next to it.
You don’t take it often, probably shouldn’t take it at all, but every once in a while when you have trouble sleeping, you pop a couple capsules with the knowledge that in about thirty minutes, you’ll be passed out and drooling.
It’s kinda cute, actually. All Robby has to do is feed you some first-generation antihistamines and… he doesn’t want to say that he can do whatever he wants—that’s fucking creepy—except that’s exactly the truth, and it’s exactly what’s going to happen.
Because he’s not a fucking heathen, Robby rinses off first, pulls on a pair of sweatpants then walks his happy ass back to bed where he plops down on his stomach right between your legs.
You’ve done what he’s asked you to, put some food in your tummy and laid down to rest, and now Robby is going to help you get rid of any remaining tension, whether you’re awake for it or not.
In nothing but one of Robby’s old t-shirts, you make it so easy for him to trail his fingers up your thighs, tracing crooked lines and swirls the higher he gets until he’s petting your pussy, the ghost of a touch more than anything but enough to make you spread your legs a little more.
It’s subconscious, he thinks. While he can’t see your front, he can still see your face, relaxed, serene, as you stay asleep.
Robby’s cock pulses. He wonders how far he can get before you actually wake up, and it’s this curiosity that leads him to pop his middle finger into his mouth, lathering it with spit, before slowly guiding it back to your cunt.
He runs it up and down your slit a few times, patting your folds and groaning quietly at the wetness that’s already there. Good dreams? he wonders, biting his lip as he starts to push his finger inside of you. Past that first ring of muscle that immediately flutters around the intrusion, then deeper and deeper until he’s knuckle deep.
You let out a little whimper, barely audible but so fucking cute, and something about the way that your body responds without your brain’s permission has Robby thinking all manner of terrible thoughts. Dark thoughts.
Depraved thoughts.
This isn’t something that the two of you do all that often, but it’s something you greenlit a good while ago because, in your words, “who wouldn’t wanna wake up to an orgasm?”
As he pumps his finger in and out of you, though, Robby entertains the idea of you not wanting it.
It won’t be long before you begin to stir, realize what’s happening, and smile lazily while rolling your hips—and, Robby loves that, loves that you trust him and enjoy shit like this—but what if that wasn’t the case?
What if you woke up to find your sleazy attending between your legs, taking whatever he wanted without asking? What if you asked him to stop and he didn’t? What if you had to look him in the eye the next day at work and remember how he made you cum as you begged him not to?
Robby isn’t a bad man, at least not when it comes to sex. He would never actually do anything you didn’t fully and enthusiastically consent to, but sometimes it’s fun to pretend.
Really fun if his leaking dick is anything to go by.
Pressing his finger down against your front wall, Robby rubs over your g-spot, smirking when it begins to swell under his touch at the same time that you let out a breathy moan.
“Ro—…” Your voice is so weak, still mostly asleep, and Robby shushes you while softly massaging your ass, spreading your cheeks to watch you coat his finger in slick.
“Sh, sh, it’s okay. I’m just taking care of you, baby, go back to sleep.”
You wiggle just enough for your legs to fall further apart, giving him more room before doing exactly as he said and dozing off again.
Fuck, something about it is driving him crazy. Robby has always enjoyed having you—taking you—when you’re all groggy and pliant, enjoys you letting him move you however he wants to, but tonight it has him spiraling.
When you start leaking around his finger, Robby deems it safe to add a second, stretching you out and sliding his other hand forward to toy with your clit.
Oh, you’re wet, squirt trickling out of your sweet little cunt the more he rubs against that sweet spot. He can feel your muscles contracting, pulling him deeper then pushing him out, coating his digits with white cream, and Robby is making a fucking mess in his sweatpants.
“Mmm, feels—”
Robby doesn’t think before abandoning your clit so he can press a hand against the small of your back. Stay still.
“Don’t move,” he gruffs, breathing heavy and husky, “don’t fight me.”
That’s… maybe a little new.
Your eyes crack open, but in this position you’re probably only able to catch a glimpse of him before they flutter shut.
He figures you’ll just drift off again, but you may be just awake enough to put some of the pieces together (smart fucking girl) because you make this deliciously pathetic noise and— “Dr. Robby? What—”
“Fuck,” he hisses, feeling precum ooze from his cockhead, enough to leave a wet spot that sticks to his dick. His own voice grates against his throat, coming out like shards of glass, “just relax. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”
Your whimper sounds genuine, and when he glances up at your face, Robby sees your lip tugged between your teeth and moisture gathering at the corner of your eye.
You’ve always been able to fake tears, have actually used it against him a few times, but now your little party trick is for his benefit, egging him on as you clench around his fingers.
“But—but I don’t want…” the way your words are still a little slurred with sleep only makes things worse (better?), and you drive the final nail home when you hiccup, “please—Dr. Robby, p-please, stop.”
He groans, rips his fingers out of your messy hole and roughly flips you onto your back. Shoving his pants down enough to free his cock, Robby hikes one of your legs over his hip and growls, “say it again. Beg me to stop.”
Your mouth twitches into a smile for half a second, and then you’re staring up at him with teary eyes and a wobbly lip, somehow able to sound so scared when you plead, “don’t—please don’t, s’gonna hurt, please—”
Your jaw drops as he slips inside of you, thick cockhead sitting just past your sloppy hole, and Robby grins, “keep telling me not to, but you’re so wet for me, baby.”
Moving to lift your arms, Robby doesn’t let you, catching you by the wrists and pinning them above your head with one of his hands.
“I told you to stay still,” he snaps, leaning down to speak into your ear, “be good for me, and I’ll be good to you, okay?”
Your sniffles are making him twitch inside of you, painfully fucking hard as he pushes deeper and deeper until his tip is gently nudging your cervix, and this time your whine is real, that slight twinge of discomfort that never fails to make you moan and mewl, “so—nn—s-so deep,” except now you add, “too big. Dr. Robby, you’re too—”
“I know, honey,” he kisses away those fake tears, tongue darting out to taste, and a mixture of surprise and arousal washes over your face as you clench around him. “Just breathe for me, you can do it. I know you can.”
He moves slowly, pulling almost all the way out before canting his hips forward again, quickening his pace with every thrust.
You keep sniffling, uttering so perfectly, “stop… wait… please…” and it’s the ‘Dr. Robby’s that are driving him closer and closer to the edge, like he’s just your boss taking advantage of you, like you feel like you can't say no because of who he is.
You struggle in his hold, weak attempts to pull your wrists free, and Robby can tell that this is getting you off as much as it is him because the sheets are getting damp beneath his knees, and you’re starting to meet his thrusts with your own rolling hips, and your soft please, please, please, grow louder and genuinely desperate.
“Feel good, now?” he smirks.
You nod quickly, “y-yeah, yes sir—” oh, Jesus Christ, “Dr. Robby, please—touch me, touch me, please.”
He plays, “you want me to help you cum?” releases your wrists and reaches between the two of you to stroke over your folds then pinch.
“Fuck! Oh, g-god, fuck, yesyesyes,” as your eyes start to roll. “Need you to help me cum, please let me cum…”
Robby’s pace is brutal, sweat beading at his hairline as he fucks you hard and fast, still pinching your puffy lips closed around him and croaking, “only if you let me cum inside you.”
Mouth twisting, eyebrows raising, you are incredible as you manage to look scared all over again, and you sound so worried, “no—no, Dr. Robby, you can’t. I’m not on—” except he absolutely can because you are on birth control, but fuck, you are too good at this game.
He starts rubbing quick circles over your neglected clit, groan bubbling up from his diaphragm as he tells you truthfully, “can’t—fuck—can’t help it. You just feel too fucking good.”
“Ohh,” your orgasm crashes into you just in time for you to beg one more time, “pleeease—nooo,” before your nails dig into his shoulders and you dissolve into, “fuck, Robby, hnnn—”
“There she is, good girl, taking it all so…” he isn’t able to finish praising you, too busy with the white, hot pleasure that shoots out of him and into your pussy, deep and thick and so fucking much.
“Ohfuck, ohfuck,” he whines, unable to control his pistoning hips even as he edges into overstimulation.
Once he’s completely wrung out, Robby pulls out with a hiss and collapses to the side, laughing and huffing, “you’re too fuckin’ good to me.”
You snort, “fucking pervert,” then move to lay on his chest, “figured I owed it to you after being such a brat earlier. Consider it my apology, Dr. Robby.”
He groans again, covering his face with his hands, “I don’t know what that was, but…”
“It was super fucking hot, whatever it was.”
He peeks over at you. “Yeah?”
“God, yes. Used to fantasize about stuff like that all the time before we started dating.”
Robby coughs on nothing, then rolls you off of him so that he can hover over you. “If I’m a pervert, you’re a goddamn degenerate.”
“What are you talking about?” You hit him with those big, watery eyes again, “you’re the one taking advantage of your resident.”
Humming in satisfaction and, against all odds, a new wave of arousal, Robby takes you by the chin and lowers himself so that his lips brush against yours as he tells you, “I’m about to do a lot fucking more than just take advantage.”
You get drunk one evening after a particularly shitty shift. Fucking plastered, actually.
It had been a series of bad luck, not bad calls, and the final straw had been an emotional mother nearly slapping you across the face. Cassie caught her hand before she could, thank god, and security was rushing in seconds later, but that’s not the point. The point is that you had a bad day.
And, now you’re fucked up.
Robby watches the progression from the bar top, nursing his own beer while keeping an eye on you. It isn’t his job to police what you do outside of the hospital. He isn’t your attending, and you’re not his resident—not here—but he still feels a sense of responsibility.
Plus, if something were to happen to you, he’d be down a set of hands in the EC.
That’s what he tells himself as he watches you sway in the booth with the other residents. It’s also what he tells himself when they pack it up and head out while you stay put.
That excuse flies out the window, however, when some sleazy dude slides into the now mostly vacant booth, sly smile and a hand on your arm.
Robby makes his way over immediately, anything but subtle when he clears his throat and drawls, “aaalright, time to go,” fingers curling in the hood of your jacket as if he’s picking an animal up by the scruff.
“Robby?” you frown up at him like you’re confused. Still, you get to your feet, stumbling into him, and he catches you around the waist without a second thought.
The stranger in the booth glares but doesn’t say a word as Robby leads you out of the bar and into the breezy night.
He knows he should ask where you live, knows he should take you there, but Jesus Christ, you can’t even walk in a straight line. Can barely fucking stand. Your knees keep giving out, and you keep cycling between giggling and sniffling because, “it was sooo bad today. I have—haven’t had a shhhift that bad in, like… like…”
“I found you crying in the stairwell last week,” Robby reminds you with a chuckle.
“See? It’s been a whooole week!”
Rolling his eyes, Robby helps you up the steps to his house, props you against himself as he fishes his keys out of his backpack.
You hum, face turned into his jacket, “you know you’re like… you’re like my fav’rite person…”
His face heats, hands shaking a bit as he unlocks the door and mimics, “you know you’re, like, really drunk…”
You smack your lips and blow a disappointed raspberry. “I knooow, but still—dru-drunken words n’ all that.”
True.
Still, Robby doesn’t dare get his hopes up. Your favorite person. No fucking way. You like him the way a student likes their teacher. Nothing more.
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
He deposits you in his room, on his bed, then grabs you a t-shirt and some boxers for you to sleep in before going to the kitchen to fetch you a glass of water and some painkillers, all while trying not to lose his mind over the fact that you’re going to be wearing his clothes for the rest of the night.
After five minutes of waiting, Robby returns to his room, knocks, then steps in when you tell him, “m’good.”
The light is still on, but you’re under the covers, eyes still watery, lip wobbling as he sets the glass of water on the nightstand.
“Tomorrow’s gonna be better,” he tries to comfort you, crouching to get a better look at your face and brushing hair to the side without even thinking.
Somehow you look even sadder than you did before.
“You dunno that,” you slur quietly. “Could be’anotherr shitshow.”
“Could be,” he nods, “but I’ll be there with you.”
Your eyelashes are wet and clumped together as you blink at him, mouth twisting like you’re trying to keep more from spilling out.
“Can’t say that to me,” you mumble, “makes me love you more ‘an I a’ready do.”
Robby laughs at the same time his heart stutters, decides that amused (honest) placations are the best route: “it’s okay. I love you, too.”
Except then fresh tears start leaking out of your pretty eyes, and you’re tugging your lip between your teeth before turning your face into the pillow.
“You don’ mean it.” Robby hears it even where it’s muffled by the bedding. “I do, but you don’t, so don’ sayyyit.”
Robby’s breath catches in his throat.
“Hey.” He rests his hand on the side of your head, his thumb stroking over your temple, “hey, look at me.”
You make a pitiful noise but do as you’re told, and Robby’s chest aches because even with your bleary eyes and tear-stained face, you are, “so beautiful, you know that?”
Your lips part, and Robby traces the bottom one with his thumb.
“And, I meant it—that I love you. Have for a long time now.” He sighs, drops his hand from your face then braces both on his knees to help push himself up straight. “But, you’re not gonna remember any of this in a few hours, so—”
He nearly knocks his teeth out when you pull him off balance, barely catching himself on the edge of the mattress only to sway dangerously when you tug him forward, mouths meeting in a bruising kiss.
Robby groans, not at the subtle sting but because he’s wanted it for too long, the feeling of you against him. Wanting him.
There’s just one, glaring problem.
“Stop, stop,” he pulls away, brow creased and hating himself for his own self-control. “You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“But, I dooo,” you try. “I promise I do, promise I wan’ it.”
“Talk to me when you’re sober,” Robby huffs, actually standing up all the way then giving you an affectionate pat on the head. “If you still want it then, I’ll come running.”
a/n: this was going to be a fic regardless of kinktober and i am so fucking in love with it. clark is still very much clark. but its clark who is trapped in the brutal and ruthless cycle of wanting to be good, but having to cause harm to survive. i don't know i love the idea of corruption but it's subtly done with him. this took so fucking long to write so i really hope you guys enjoy it!
summary: the affliction was inhumane. everything he wished not to be - a monster, a creature who felt his teeth push against gums as his body begged for more. most days he could pretend, wear the mask of innocence with a smile. meeting you ruined him - turned his hunger into an obsession, created a man you somehow couldn’t live without.
word count: 12.8k+
pairing: vampire!clark kent x f!reader
warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, TW: BLOOD, bloodplay, slight corruption kink, angst, tension, idiots in love, overstimulation, masturbation, craving human blood, obsession, body worhsip, biting, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), flirting + romance, gratuitous depiction of feasting on blood, unedited - we live and die by the fucking pen.
PLAYLIST
The pinch of his gums stretching far beyond their means ripped along his cheek. Teeth scraped skin and hands hastily grasped for a tissue in his coat pocket, dabbing what spots of red dripped past his lips before he rushed through the doors. A soft hello thrown over his shoulder at reporters who still lingered in the lobby. Most of them were there to finish their coffees, others were delving into that morning’s paper, hoping for a chance to find their name amidst the chosen few.
Clark…was late. As usual.
A natural occurrence despite the list of alarms set up on his phone. Each one louder than the last, blaring through a small speaker he found on sale a year ago, in the hopes that he might one day make it on time. Find his footing with ease in a world demanding him to be punctual—the kind of professional he only caught glimpses of in his words. The reporter who thrived on last minute deadlines and overwhelming expectations.
Blood streaked along his fingers, patches of the tissue soaked through as his stomach twisted. Hunger became a desperate raging incessant part of his life. He wanted to ignore it, push it down with the glimpse of red bleeding into the whites of his eyes every time he passed a mirror, the sharp press of teeth itching for a bite of warm flesh.
He swallowed thick around food—rare steaks and barely cooked burgers—and felt his own body claw at the insides of unyielding skin and bones. Forgotten impulse threading along the fragments of morality he held together by the skin of his teeth.
He fought against the nature burned into his DNA. The scream in his veins at the sound of their hearts, the rush of need pushing along his temple as he traced the lines of muscles beneath clothes and red pulsing along every inch of their form. It tugged sharp, dragged him through a different kind of hell made of human anatomy and unwelcome power. But shame clung to his heart when reality collapsed into the sweet pull of imagination.
The feel of skin breaking beneath teeth, of a jaw clamping down tight enough to make them squeal. Hot warm blood splashing along his tongue and down his elongated throat. Desire stirred to life, saliva pouring into a dry mouth never quite parched by water. He was a man lost to the desert, his willpower inching closer to the sealed door of his mind—the beast yelling for a semblance of the freedom it once had.
Back when he was a teenager. When he took life without regret, accidental—a hunter finding its footing after years dormant—yet needlessly messy.
“It’s just who you are son.” His father once whispered to him, throat tight with unshed tears at the prospect of his son becoming all that he feared—a monster.
“We don’t harm. We don’t take innocent life.” Words that echoed off a message left to him by his parents of a different planet, an existence he wanted to pretend couldn’t remain in the life he strained to build.
He wanted to be a man. Human. Mundane.
Someone who found joy in swallowing the last dregs of their morning coffee, who typed bylines and saved people from their own reckless endeavors. The cape strangled him, the emblem burned a hole in his chest, but Clark Kent wouldn’t have it any other way. A balance to the damage—a way to clean his ledger after the blood dripped down his chin and a beat stared him back in the face. Superman existed so Clark could cling to the fading tendrils of any humanity that might remain in the body of a vampire.
“Morning Clark,” Jimmy called. “I got a tour to give to a newbie today, but lunch later?”
Clark nodded with a tight grin, waving towards Lois who seemed far too invested in her conversation with Perry White to notice his greeting. She’d get back to him later. That seemed to really be all that mattered.
Lunch would consist of dry tasteless food. A half baked necessity he forced himself through to curb what actual hunger felt like—how his own body betrayed him at the thought of sinking teeth into a sandwich instead of a person. He loathed the idea. Found disgust curling a lip at the sight of burgers and steaks, its tongue tracing need with the echo of a growl pounding low in the back of his head.
Never satisfying enough, never quite allowing him to live a bit further.
“And this way is the bullpen,” Jimmy announced with the flair of a hand sweeping through the air. “My desk is here but you’ll have one too in a few days.”
The Daily Planet remained just as impressive as when you first caught a glimpse of the golden towering figurehead at the top of the building. You’d arrived from a smaller city—with a much smaller paper—a week ago. Intent on getting a feel for the city of Metropolis long before you took up the mantle of junior photographer within the sacred inner walls. A newspaper that rivaled all others in the country and somehow they wanted you.
When the call came it felt like a dream. A once in a lifetime chance to find a spot in the world. A place that felt yours.
“You’re starting off with a rough start if I’m honest.”
“How so?” Your eyes glanced at the empty desks, stray papers and loose notes scattered atop each surface. A myriad of sticky notes all in varying shades of the rainbow.
“Political season. Or at least that’s what I call it. Means a lot of us are out running around searching for a quote or a front page picture.”
“So hefty amounts of work?”
Jimmy grimaced although you could tell half of it was born from pity. “Lots of long nights.”
“Sounds doable.”
The shuffling steps came from behind, the ding of the elevator loud in the overall quiet bullpen. Jimmy shouting a greeting peaked your curiosity. The chance to see a famed reporter up close, to finally get that long awaited opportunity to become their colleague. You half expected it to be Lois Lane. Her articles plastered on the wall beside your desk back home became why you took a shine to The Daily Planet. How they treated their staff and how it exuded in her writing.
“Clark! Come meet the newbie.”
Your scoffed, turning to see a man large enough to ram his head on any normal doorframe step past the threshold, his face stuffed into the tiny screen attached to his hand. A furrowed brow the only thing you could see past the thick mess of curls plopped onto his forehead.
Endearing. Practically sickly sweet in the way he glanced up with wide eyes and glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose—the blue practically glowing in the afternoon light.
He went stiff. Back straight and jaw clamped shut and for a moment you wondered if he’d seen something to piss him off. Part of you wanted to ask. Press for information that didn’t belong to you, parts of him you wouldn’t be allowed to see. But Clark could feel the muscles on his back bunch, his throat a searing burn as he narrowed in on the only thing that finally made sense. A sharp click echoed in the back of his head, sparking a thrill of need down his spine.
Mouthwatering. Delicious in a way that caused his stomach to twist, to bring forth pieces of himself he spent three decades shoving down. You were a temptation that would bring him to his knees. A raw divine pleasure he could taste on the back of his dry tongue—his body wailing for a taste of your blood.
The sight of you pricked sharp and blinding on the inside of his now split lip. Fangs he resented, an insatiable hunger he fought against.
Time slowed and his eyes latched onto the side of your decorated by such a thin gold chain. The soft thud, thud, thud, of your heart pulled him in, left him salivating at the thought of ripping you open—feeding a beast he would rather watch die. Jimmy’s voice turned into a mind numbing lull as you looked him up and down with interest burning in your dilating pupils. Clark felt his control slip, but grasped for it with a messy breath and blood filling in his mouth with that familiar thick taste of copper.
“Hey are you alright?” Jimmy pressed, stepping close enough for his scent to mask yours. Shitty aftershave that more often than not gave Clark a headache pulled him out of the stupor—the hunger beating a heavy drum in his once numb body.
“Yeah,” he croaked. “Um I need…uh…forgot something.”
Stumbling out he caught a glance at his eyes in the gold mirrored surface of the elevator doors. Crimson painted the whites of his eyes, blending into the blue until he couldn’t tell what color they were thirty seconds ago. He could feel it vibrate a cold needy note that rung like a damaged bell in his mind. A splitting ache to go back. The painful fucking need to sink his teeth into your neck yanked him like a dog on a chain, your hand now gripping the leash he never knew he wore.
Jimmy turned back to you, a frown marring his once sunshine disposition. “I don’t know what’s up with him.”
“A deadline?” You sucked in a lungful of air, the burn welcome and content. As if you forgot how to breathe the moment Clark Kent walked through those doors and fixed you with a hunger that ate you alive.
“Probably,” he grunted. “You want to see the labs?”
“I’d love that.”
Traipsing after him shouldn’t have felt as though you were wading through a pool of molasses. Your limbs went stiff, joints pleading for you to remain still until feeling came back into veins that pulsed hard beneath your cold skin. You didn’t know the man—couldn’t pick him out of a line up.
But even that felt wrong to set into your belief system, a piece of your body left to rot—meant to remain dormant—stirred to life at the sight of him. Sounding an alarm you knew with an instinct that left terror closing around your throat.
You let Jimmy lead you through the building. Past offices and printing machines and people scattered through the nicks and grooves of a space that ran on efficiency. Each far too immersed in their own small worlds to bid you nothing but a small welcome to the chaos.
Words you sunk your nails into, holding it close to an already sporadically beating heart. Out of tune with everything else but the one that mattered.
The man who managed to tilt your world on its axis with one look.
His veins were on fire. Blistering beneath skin he couldn’t peel back, flesh that hummed with a new addiction he could taste in the air. Your name was scrawled on his body, etched in fine detail on every curve and ligament—an echo of what was to come written in blood across his forehead. The night felt like hell. Wind pushing cold on his face as he traveled across the world to get away from the one thing his body screamed for, the taste of your life on the back of his tongue.
Nothing helped.
Not the way his teeth gnashed whenever he thought of you, the image of your face shining bright behind shut eyelids and a stuttering heart. Mere minutes. He only caught a look, but Clark felt as if you’d shot him a syringe full of your blood with a smile. Practically presenting yourself on a silver platter, neck exposed and a plea curling sweet on your lips.
The elevator dinged, people exiting the crammed interior he struggled against, and your scent slammed into him. A waft of vanilla and amber. Of a spice he didn’t know the name of yet longed to figure out lingering just beneath the surface of your warm skin. His mouth began to salivate the moment he walked into the bullpen—your figure leaned against Jimmy’s desk with a coffee in one hand and a donut in the other.
He was going to lose his fucking mind.
“Morning Clark,” Lois threw over her shoulder as she all but barrelled past him. No doubt a story ravaging her mind as she tucked a pen behind her ear.
“Uh yeah morning,” he called, stumbling over his feet at the feel of eyes burning into the side of his face. Your eyes.
In an attempt to save himself the pain of catching your gaze, he ducked his head and slipped into his desk chair with a huff. Dumping his bag and trench coat on the side as he flicked on the monitor and yanked free his laptop. Drowning in his work was the best option. Forgetting you existed entirely would be the only option. But your scent invaded his nose, reminded the beast inside that he hungered for more than stale food and tasteless survival.
Willpower became an unknown concept as he struggled to remained himself. A man with integrity. A human with dignity.
Jimmy sidled up to his desk with a grin, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand to act as a bargaining chip Clark could smell miles away. His nose wrinkled at the pungent scent of it. Teeth grinding hard enough to possibly crack his fucking teeth if he wasn’t careful. An aspect he didn’t think possible until you entered his life.
“How’s the deadline?”
Clark blinked, ears pricking at the sound of your fingers shuffling through various prints feet away from him. “The…deadline…”
“Yeah the one you practically ran out of here yesterday for.”
Right.
“That deadline,” he lied through a false smile as you shifted to settle into a chair that squeaked. “Yeah it went great. I got it done last night. Barely made it, but it’s done.”
A nod, the clink of the coffee mug hitting the table and Clark understood he was in for it. “Listen I gotta step out and get a few pictures for Perry before the end of the day. So if you could maybe help out the new junior photographer you met yesterday. The one I was giving a tour to.” Clark nodded even as his stomach twisted in anticipation, greed pinching tight on his gums. “They might have questions and I won’t be here to answer so…”
“Sure yeah.” Dread filled his gut with ice, his teeth digging sharp into his cheek until blood sprouted to the surface. “I’ll keep an eye on things for you.”
“Perfect! The coffee’s for you by the way. A thank you.”
Clark didn’t drink coffee. But he took it with a tight lipped smile, turning in his seat to catch a glimpse at your figure in his peripheral—eyes still burning a hole against his skin. The temptation to press for questions practically dripping off your tongue sealed in a mouth he longed to kiss.
He was already on edge, barely holding it together. The thought of pressing you against a nearby wall away from prying eyes to stuff his tongue down your throat didn’t help the situation of need cresting painfully in his body. The taut pull of muscles beneath his oversized suit threatened to rip his firm grip from the control he valued over everything. The belief he could resist temptation—the craving of someone’s life in his hands, someone like you.
Saving people gave him peace. Putting an end to danger, to threats against humanity, it set his soul back in place with a vow of peace. But your scent, your warm body feet away, pushed him to the brink of anything he’d known once before.
Clark downed the coffee to distract himself, flinching at the bitter flavor overshadowed by heaps of sugar. A Jimmy specialty. Something he must have learned from Lois.
It staved off the hunger. The desperation he felt claw at his insides and yank him on that short rope tied in a knot around his neck. He couldn’t die—he knew this already. Immortality a blatantly awful trick of fate; unable to find his demise even as those he loved found theirs. A permanent witness to the world’s fast paced trip into the abyss of humanities eventual end—something not even Superman could stop. But something pulled him towards you. Whispered soft words of bliss in his ear, placed him in a trance that had his fangs piercing the inside of his lip and eyes bleeding red.
He chose to squint as he typed. A way to force his irises back to normal, to appear as everyone knew him and not as he actually was. And eventually it worked. He settled into a familiar pace of fingers on keys and the clatter of his keyboard echoing a chaotic beat in his ears, drowning out the noise of the bullpen. The words came quick, a fresh pour of what he did best onto a blank white page until it was marred by the truth of reality.
Death, destruction, demonization.
Things he’d grown used to in his time living on Earth. Although more often than not he managed to alter the shape of things and set them into a brighter place than before. A hero among humanity at the end of it all.
“Hey Clark right?”
His fingers slipped and red lines appeared beneath his work as your voice filtered through every shield he put up, cracking right through walls he never knew stood rigid and tall. You stood at the edge of his desk, a picture clutched tight to your chest and eyes boring deep into the side of his face. With a tight throat that barely allowed him to swallow his saliva, he watched you shuffle closer—gaze peering over the edge of his laptop to catch a glimpse of his words.
The roar in his stomach raged with spit flying and wild eyes. And Clark tamped it down with a shaky smile, his fingers digging deep into his palm until pain became the only feeling to fixate on.
“Sorry. I didn’t meant to interrupt,” you pursed your lips and his entire body tensed, heart leaping up into his throat. “Jimmy said I could ask you for help. If that’s not okay-”
“It’s okay,” he rushed out. A smile flickered to life on your face and his stomach flipped in delight. “What do you—uh—what’s the problem?”
“I know that you usually do the pieces on Superman around here.” He nodded, helpless to find words for anything at this point. “A few days ago I was walking through the city and I caught this on my camera.”
Glossy and printed in black and white was a clear picture of him. Superman. Rescuing a man from a building on fire, soot smeared along his face and suit covered in ash. A perfect rescue capture on film clear enough to see the lines of his face, the furrow in his brows and clench of his jaw. The famed Metropolis hero and you were the one to catch him at his best, put his image to light and make him magnificent.
Clark felt hot, twitching in the chair as you spoke about putting it to one of his articles. Possibly a piece about what occurred, or something else entirely. Your lips moved—that he was sure of—but the soft lilt of your voice muffled low and out of focus as he caught your gaze.
Listening would have been the kind thing to do. And he’d hate himself for it later. But the thought of you late at night in this office editing images of Superman stirred the beast to life—an entirely new idea taking form in the back of his mind.
“What do you think?”
He jolted, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and saliva all but gone. “It’s incredible.”
Your pulse jumped, heart echoing a thundering beat in his ears; Clark latched onto it with a deep breath, etching it into his mind. “Thanks. I didn’t even think I’d get the picture.”
“Why’s that?”
“Oh. Well you know it was my first time really…seeing him. Anyone would be kind of starstruck at the sight of Superman.”
Heat radiated into his chest, lulling him into that serene state of bliss he rarely got the chance to feel. His eyes drooped, gaze fixing onto the curve of your lips, and you stopped talking at the sight of red. Clear as day bleeding into the whites of his eyes. A perfect mirror to the exact sight from your small interaction with him yesterday. You marveled at the color, watched it grow the longer he stared—the more he drank you in.
Perhaps he was born with it. Eyes that turned red or veins that were prominent at the corners. You wanted to ask, pick him apart as a good photojournalist would, but the answers became just as intimidating as the question you formed in your head. What if he thought it was rude? What if it was none of your business?
“So would it work?”
He snapped out of his stupor, blue overtaking that deep shade of crimson you’d come to admire. “Perry has me writing up a piece about that fire. A follow up of the damage. So this, yeah it fits perfectly.”
Mythology stated that the sun should have killed him. Damaged his body beyond repair, turned him into a cloud of ash that was always meant to be forgotten. But his species, his form, found sunlight to be an irritating way to give him enough energy to stray far from the hunger—an uncomfortable itch on his skin meant to keep him alive without causing irreparable damage.
But the sun paled in comparison to your smile.
A blinding breathtaking vision that clamped tight around his heart and twisted it free from his chest. He sucked in a lungful of air, gulping it down as if he’d never know the cool crisp feeling again, and Clark understood what it was to be devout.
“That’s amazing,” you exclaimed. “I’ll leave it with you.”
He nodded, unable to pry his tongue off the roof of his mouth. This never happened. Not in all his years on Earth did he have absolutely no words for any situation. You thanked him profusely with another small grin—pressing the stake further into his already stuttering chest—and left him sitting there with a wide eyed gaze as he struggled to process what exactly happened. How he managed to survive something so visceral.
The groan was audible from across the bullpen and thankfully you were nowhere near him to listen for it. His head hit the desk with a thunk. Glasses askew and hands curled into fists on his lap as he replayed your words, your voice a constant echo in his mind.
There was no escaping the raw pulse of need in his throat, the fangs that now peeked out from a parted mouth gasping for air.
Guilt, shame, utter mortification.
They ate him alive with starving mouths desperate to feed. He willed his mind to go blank, focus on anything other than your gaze latching onto his—the thrum of your jugular beneath your warm skin. His cock stirred in his slacks, pressed hard to the seam of his briefs until he could feel each stitch grind soft against his hot length.
His skin was hot, throat parched for something other than water. But he downed the coffee anyways as the flush crept up his cheeks and turned his face a ruddy color.
Minutes in your presence killed him in ways he couldn’t have imagined with his own mind. Such a small thing to have obliterated what little control he held over his body—leaving him a shell of the man he once was.
Clark managed to avoid you for five days. Unsuccessfully in many ways, but with perfect ease in others. He evaded conversations, took every assignment Perry threw his way, and kept his head down at work until he relearned control. And it worked.
More often than not you were down in the labs instead of upstairs with the rest of the lot. Jimmy claimed you wanted to immerse yourself in the layout of the paper. Clark thanked whatever metaphysical being was looking out for him. You had yet to determine whether or not Clark Kent secretly hated you or if he was just different with new people he didn’t know. Neither one seemed to be the right answer, but you settled on the latter with a bitter frown and film you were supposed to develop.
You stayed away from the bullpen on days he was in the office. Straying from his desk and taking the long way around the space to grab a cup of coffee before settling at the desk Jimmy helped you set up.
Maybe he didn’t actually hate you. Maybe he was just indifferent to your presence. A passing ship he never intended to board, someone he didn’t find the need to befriend.
Which was fine.
You didn’t need to have him in your life. There was nothing special about Clark Kent, merely a normal man trying to do his job to the best of his ability. But each time you muttered it under your breath, tried to force yourself to believe those three little words, your heart betrayed you without hesitation. It twisted in fury, stomach curling in rejection you could taste at the back of your tongue. A bitter sear along your throat like acid you couldn’t get rid of.
Jimmy sat at the edge of your desk, shuffling through photos you took days prior of Superman flying to save the day yet again. But your gaze was glued on the back of Clark’s head. The curls that sat in a messy sort of heap and peek of skin that disappeared into his white button down shirt. The very same one rolled up at the sleeves as he typed, his tie askew from how many times he pulled at it with stress—gaze a hard fix on his bright computer screen.
“You’d think with Superman saving the day we’d be the first to report it,” he mused.
“Maybe The Daily Planet is losing its touch.”
“Or we’ve just got collective writer’s block.”
You laughed, settling back into the already shitty desk chair you begged Jimmy to let you switch. A right of passage, is what he claimed. He had to sit in the chair for two months before he gave up and stood. Lois had the chair for one week before silently switching it with a glare and settling in for her job. Clark apparently broke the chair and felt so bad he fixed it the next day. Squeak and all.
“That could be possible,” you tossed back. “Writers can start to share a brain after too long in close proximity.”
Jimmy scoffed, leaning down with a whisper. “Good this we take the pictures right?”
“Guess that makes us the heroes,” you replied in a hushed giggle, feeling lighter than you had in days.
“I won’t tell Superman you said that.”
A soft punch to his arm sent Jimmy careening off your desk in a dramatized fall that gathered enough attention to make you duck your head. “I need to get back to work Olsen.”
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Pain flared bright behind his tightly shut eyes, his head hung low and hand slapping loud onto the tile wall of his shower. Your laugh rang loud in his head. A soft chime pulling him in with the awestruck need reserved only for those in love—or those under a spell. And Clark gathered it in his hands. He pressed it close to his chest as his veins screamed you name in the heavy thrum of his own mind. His heart pattering far too quick for him to understand why.
“Gosh,” he gasped, head tilting back into the spray of hot water as his hand twisting rough along his throbbing and red cock.
The head was tinted a deep blush (nearly purple by the time he found the courage to reach down there), precum spilling over his fist and onto his knuckles with each quick pump of his hand.
Guilt gnawed at his insides, reminded him that you were practically a stranger. That things would remain as they should. But Clark couldn’t hear the nasty little words over the rush of bliss in his mind, the trickle of heat clashing together with a wild and untamed hunger he could no longer ignore.
Your smile flashed behind his eyes. The soft little laugh you gave Jimmy Olsen of all people flaring bright like the sun. Why didn’t you laugh his way? Why did you reserve your attention for someone else?
Although Clark hadn’t given you much to go on. Far too terrified at the thought of destroying his sanity—horrified at what his hunger could make him resort to. He wouldn’t hurt you, but even that lingered like a false promise behind teeth he’d already lied through.
Anyone would be starstruck at the sight of Superman.
But you. The very person he found himself gravitating towards, the one who invaded his senses each morning he walked into work. You were starstruck at the sight of him in the cape, the view he gave when he saved people. Someone good, a man with a heart of gold. Maybe you had a crush on Superman, the hero he sought to be in order to keep the beast within behind bars, trapped in captivity.
Perhaps that’s who you’d choose to love in the end.
Love.
The word burned down his spine as his hips jerked forward into his fist. You didn’t know him. You barely spoke once or twice to him. But his delirium of bliss began to form a half baked picture in his mind, of thighs spread and head tipped back into his pillows. Of his name on your tongue and a hand curled tight enough to hurt in his hair. A fever dream of need pushing him to the edge of a hunger he trapped away, pinned down and swallowed through vows he would be different.
Promises that he etched into his heart like wound he was proud to wear.
Your smile reappeared in his needy mind, the nervous way you spoke as he struggled not to sink his teeth into any part of your skin he could reach. The sharp prick of desire ripped at his flesh, his cock dripping a mess onto his hand as he twisted his wrist with a low pitched moan.
His skin vibrated, nerves pulsing and heart racing. But he pushed through the pain blinding him in favor of the delicious lick of heat curling tight around his spine—dragging him towards an end that would leave him gasping for air.
“Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he sucked in a harsh breath, head hanging low as water beat down his back. “I want to—oh—”
Incisors sunk into his forearm breaking skin until blood spurted onto his tongue, his fingers curling on cold tile with a helpless moan. He dug his teeth in hard enough to split pain down to the tips of his toes.
Cruelty and guilt melded hot in his chest and he came with a muffled shout, blood spilling down his chin and staining the floor in red. It spurted over his hand disappearing into the water before he could pry his eyes open—his fist jerking in hasty movements until he had no choice but to let go.
He sighed, defeat pressing heavy in his chest. Shame curdling in his stomach as he watched his skin stitch itself back together. The copper tang of his own blood a bitter flavor he’d grown used to after weeks of running from your sweet perfumed actions.
Soft smiles never meant for him. Laughter he witnessed at a distance. But it would keep you safe, keep you alive.
Exhaustion pulled at his bones, begged him to rest on the couch for an hour or two, but the moon hung bright in the sky and humanity depended on his existence. They wouldn’t survive without him keeping the city safe.
Metropolis glowed in the night sky, city lights and street lamps illuminated his view until he barely needed his own vision to peer through the darkness. The cape fluttered behind him. A streak of bright red against pitch black sky—a symbol people catch on their way home, grinning up to the sky with a sense of ease he brought them. He hovered between two skyscrapers, catching sight of a cleaning crew fixing up for the night; they waved when he smiled, a thank you encased in their nod.
A gratefulness he felt linger in his chest.
For the first time in days the best was trapped. Molded back into the man he’d become—the person he longed for you to know. Even if that weren’t possible.
“Please tell me you have a raunchy scandalous work place romance to report about.”
Your friend’s voice blared through the phone speaker as you walked through the late night crowd on their way to one bar or another. A Friday tradition you decided to skip in favor of catching up on the sleep you missed the days prior. Clark’s gaze forced its way into your mind. The striking blue, the red he thought nobody noticed peeking into the whites of his eyes—his soft tone of voice he used when speaking only to you.
“There’s no romance,” you admitted, painfully aware of your helpless office crush. “The only guy worthy of said romance won’t even look at me long enough.”
“Oh honey don’t be so naive.”
“Excuse me?” you exclaimed.
She laughed, your cheeks suddenly twelve degrees hotter than before. Even in the frigid air of Metropolis in Fall. Someone froze in your path, their head whipping to the side as you stumbled behind them. The strap of your laptop bag slipped off your shoulder, hitting the ground with a thud and you cursed loud and long. Reaching down in the middle of a fucking crosswalk to fix the situation before the light changed.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” you bit out, slinging it over your sore shoulder. “Some asshole stopped in the middle of the damn stree.”
“Don’t get hurt-”
The horn blared with an urgency one only heard in movies. Fictional scenarios of headlights barrelling towards you couldn’t possible be real, people usually slammed on the breaks. And you couldn’t help but think how cartoonish this felt, how ridiculous you were for standing in the middle of the crosswalk—even as the light stayed red. You had the right of way, you were in the right.
They didn’t seem to give a shit.
Life flashed bright before your wide eyes. Images of your mom on your birthday crying because of a dead father you’d never know. Moments spent with your best friend, your first picture permanently set into the front page of a newspaper. Achievements, your first kiss, your college graduation.
They were on a grainy reel meant for old pictures at your home town’s theater. Certainly not for your own mind.
You waited for the car to hit you, willing your feet to unroot from the asphalt. Your body tensed expecting blinding pain, but you were swept to the side in a rush of air—wind smacking against your face, bags a listless mess on your screaming arm. Death should have greeted you with a cold hand; you waited for it, hoped for it in some sick twisted way.
“Are you okay?” His voice echoed like soft melted chocolate on your favorite cookies back home. Sliding down your spine, curling warm into a fluttering stomach. “Are you hurt?”
He sounded panicked, unsure if he should even be this close to you; his arms were tight around your waist, hand cupping your face back. What did he look like? Why couldn’t you see anything? Only for you to wrench your eyes open, a rushed gasp leaving your mouth as reality clicked back into place.
“Oh my god,” you wheezed, falling back. “I was…and the car-”
“You’re safe now.”
“I almost died,” you rasped, tears sliding down your cheeks in a rough blur of heat. “I saw my w-whole life.”
The soft thud of boots shuffled close enough to touch your sneakers. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” you laughed, practically hysterical as fear and adrenaline fought for a space in your body. “You saved me. Who-”
Red and blue cleared in your blurred vision as you rapidly blinked the tears away. A cape that hung behind him sat attached to broad near massive shoulders, his curls pushed back and neatly set in place all except for one. That dangled against his forehead creased in worry, brows furrowed as he watched you resist the need to unravel in your anguish.
Whatever breath you struggled for was stuck in your throat, your wide eyed gaze falling to the yellow emblem on his chest. The familiar sight you could spot at any time of day in the city, in every picture Jimmy handed Perry, in every byline and article written by Clark.
Superman.
His smile was sheepish and your heart jolted back to life at the sight. Such raw candor in his face it nearly startled you; people said he was friendly, stoic at times, but you just never expected him to be so blatantly open with his emotions. As if there was no curtain to pull back, each one playing across his eyes.
Honesty bled through all he was—forcing itself out into the open. Even to his own detriment.
“You remind me of someone,” you blurted out, throat still tight from the cold wash of adrenaline.
How could he explain this? Tell you that the reason your eyes clung to his skin, the pull of your limbs pleading a helpless tune to your reeling mind, was because you did know him.
Not entirely. Not in the way a best friend knew their person, or even in the way lovers understood the silence that grew. But something existed in the space between you—tangible and suffocating and Clark’s knees nearly hit the ground when you stumbled forward, curiosity burning in your eyes.
Disappointment unfurled in his chest when your hand stopped midair on the way to his face. “I’m afraid we don’t know each other,” he rasped, pain flickering bright in his stomach.
“Strange,” you mumbled. “I feel like…I’ve met you before.”
In another life. When I’m not a monster.
Helpless thoughts that did nothing but spread agony up his spine. Your scent invaded his senses, shattered the hope he clung to with bloodied fingers and glassy eyes. When he heard your heart, listened to the sound of it stop, he panicked. His body screamed, mind a chasm he could no longer cross, and for once he understood what it meant to be reduced down to nothing.
In that small window of time Clark envisioned himself a human man, forced to watch as someone he cared for—the person who lived beneath his ribcage—faced death.
Teeth dug sharp and prominent against his bottom lip, piercing the flesh as you stared at him. Attempting to peel back the layers of Metropolis’s superhero; the man you had yet to entirely meet. He was used to the taste of his own blood by now, but feeling it fill his mouth so close to you set his teeth on edge.
There would be no one to save you if he lost his last sliver of control, if his mind gave way to the raging demon inside.
It beat at his chest, clawed into soft tissue and ripped it clean away. And he let it. He sunk his teeth down hard enough to flinch at the pain, his eyes burning crimson in the darkness—the glow of your form shining bright to the gaze of predator. The pulse of your veins had him curling his fingers into fists, body going tense when it skipped at the sight of him. Proof that you liked what you saw.
A hint of truth beneath the person he longed to feel touch his skin.
“Do you need a hospital?” he forced out through clenched teeth.
You stepped back, the daze in your eyes fading the longer he watched you. “No I think I’m okay.”
“Don’t thank me,” he softened. “I’m just happy you’re safe.”
The smile was small compared to others he’d seen. A shy grin that spread along your lips and Clark could feel his sanity waver. Such a small thing in comparison to everything around him. But it clamped down around his throat and dragged him close enough to see the shape of your mouth, taste the residue of coffee from earlier on your tongue. His body begged, but his willpower tamped it down with the frigid chill of reality.
You were in danger with him.
You just didn’t know it.
Red and blue vanished into the air with a wave of goodnight, quiet words set into the gray slab of pavement beneath your feet. A meeting of souls who recognized one another long before you knew his name. You watched the sky for him minutes after he disappeared, head tilted back and heart racing an unsteady beat in your chest. Only reserved for one other man; now handed away to someone else.
Eventually this would be a fleeting memory, but the glimpse of him cemented itself into your mind. Dark hair, soft lips, and red eyes that bled into blue. You felt you’d seen it before.
Somewhere in time.
He shouldn’t have come into work today.
He should have stayed home.
Two nights ago Superman saved your life and altered your path forever. Not in a way that would appear noticeable to anyone else. Really they only knew because you told them in hushed whispers over coffee, traded between passing breaks given and questions dropped in your lap. Few cared enough to pry, several had their own versions of the same story, and most were too immersed in the daily issue to throw in their two cents before Perry White was on their ass.
Jimmy asked if you were okay twelve times in one day. Clark only remembered because it sent irritation lighting like a fire to fresh kindling—his eyes screwed up and teeth set together. He liked Jimmy. Considered him a friend. But when you showed him small hints of affection, he felt his entire world begin to collapse. The sunlight he so desperately longed for now fading behind a layer of clouds.
Clark asked too. He wasn’t that much of a monster.
And you lit up at the sound of his voice, the soft spoken question dripping into you like a life saving I.V. bag. He thrived on it, breathed the sight in with hunger tainting his tongue and blood staining the back of his mouth.
For a brief fleeting moment Clark wondered if this would actually work. The hazardous relationship of a creature like him finding a friendship in someone he craved. A person so powerful they undid him with the flash of a smile and a response of saccharine words.
He could have believed it for far longer than he hoped. Until today.
The skirt became his one fascination the moment you waltzed through the door, rooting around the bottom of your bag with your tongue pressed between your teeth. Nothing fancy. Nothing to lose his mind over. Short and simple and black with some type of sheen on the front of it that made it shine in the daylight. Your button down was clumsily shut by early morning traffic and an alarm that wouldn’t work. The top two gaped open, revealing an expanse of skin Clark could practically taste in the air.
That simple gold chain pressed against your neck, catching the sun as you walked past his desk. Vanilla and amber.
Clark never had a favorite scent before you. Couldn’t care enough to name them. But yours etched itself behind shut eyelids, burned a hole in his mind large enough for you to enter with that soft little grin.
Without meaning to you dropped a set of keys with a curse, bending down quick to scoop them up right by his desk. And his control snapped. Slicing right down the middle until the two halves fluttered into broken little pieces around him.
His fingers clamped down on the edge of his desk, hunger growling low in the base of his stomach. Before he could pull himself back, squash the beat down with a gallon of hot coffee and shitty pastries, he was following you to your desk. His shoes thudding heavy and loud behind your distracted form. Guilt would have stopped him, ceased his unpredictable movements with the clamping down of a fist, but it drowned beneath the starvation of a beast deprived.
He wanted to crawl back to his desk, vanish into thin air and pretend that he didn’t prowl after you in the middle of the office. But time once again had to prove that it held the upper hand.
You turned with a startled little oh he felt linger in his mouth. Malleable and digestible behind clamped teeth and a stiff tongue. If he was a better man he’d walk away. If he was a better man he wouldn’t peer down at you, red seeping into the whites of his eyes that you caught without hesitation. If he was better….if he was better…
Clark longed to be a better man.
“Is everything okay Clark?” Your voice breached the haze of need clouding his mind, worry seeping into each letter.
That was enough to drag him out of his stupor, depositing him back into a reality he fought the urge to run from. “Are you busy tonight?” The words were tangled, rushed out as if he couldn’t get them off his tongue fast enough.
He expected you to laugh him off. Turn away and ignore him with an excuse that he’d never push past. The choice wasn’t up to him—even if he silently begged for one answer in particular to leave your lips painted a new shade of rose today. Disappointment rushed to the surface, echoing in the back of hazy mind as he watched your mouth part in shock.
“No I’m not busy,” you rushed out, hope teetering on the brink. He’d ignored you since the beginning, but the sharp tinge of want pressed against your rapidly beating heart.
The smile on his face drowned out the doubts filtering through a mess of worries. Squashing them within moments as you watched him fiddle with his hands, clasping them together and then allowing them to hand at his sides. He was nervous. Shy about the question you both knew would come. That fact delighted you in ways that left a wash of surprise filling your body and had a sweetness on your tongue that hadn’t existed before he walked into your life.
“Do you want-” He huffed, pushing a hand through his unruly curls. “Gosh this is harder than I thought.”
“Yes.”
Blue eyes, so clear and so bright, latched onto your gaze with a note of disbelief. “Yes?”
“If you’re asking me to go out with you then yes.”
“I was,” he said softly, wondering if this were apart of his imagination. A coping mechanism to appease the hunger that crawled beneath his skin.
“My answer is still yes,” you smiled. “Meet me at the bar downtown at seven?”
He nodded, unable to force words out even as you walked away with glee still pouring out of your eyes. Happiness that he brought. He knew was capable of making another person happy—that occurred in random moments throughout the day, his cape and their hero a fixture of joy for the city to grasp onto. Making you happy however felt as if he’d reached the final arc of his accomplishments.
Teeth dug into his lip, but Clark couldn’t feel the pain as he walked back to his desk. A blush stark and deep across his face and a smile he couldn’t let go of. Even if he tried.
7:30 p.m.
The clock on the wall ticked furiously behind your head, each second doing its duty to dampen your mood the longer you sat there. The red dress along your body was tight—almost unforgiving—and the black heels pinched your toes long enough to turn them numb. You arrived on time. Perhaps a bit too early. With a breathless smile on your face, excitement littering itself throughout your body.
Clark Kent asked you out on a date.
Clark Kent the man you found yourself staring at in your haze of daydreams, your mind roaming to the size of his back, the length of his fingers, how they might hold you and touch you, finally dropped a question you only imagined in your wildest fantasies. Half of the time you didn’t even dare to cross that boundary in your mind. Far too invested in the idea of him hating you to chance the belief of something else.
“Another drink?” The waiter appeared at your side, a refill at the ready and your confidence dropped yet another notch.
The ticks rang loudly in your head, taunting you the longer you sat there, promising you a night filled with heartache that was sure to come any moment now. You nodded with a solemn grin, pretending to be there on your own. Even if they already knew the story simply by looking at your crest fallen face.
“Has anyone come in by the name Kent?”
“No I don’t think so.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
You wanted to break the clock in half. “Thanks,” you sighed. “But I’ll take the check.”
“On the house.”
Somehow those words felt like even more of an embarrassment than getting stood up—the waitstaff no doubt taking pity on your current situation. You dropped a twenty on the table out of spite and dragged your coat up and over your shoulders. The pain gave way to anger long before you stepped out into the night air. And you let it stew in your body, growing hot in between bones and scorching your chest as you took the familiar pathway home.
The click of your heels was drowned by the echo of taxi cabs and people’s horns as the late night traffic started to die off. Eventually the city would sleep. But you were thankful for the noise, allowing it to spill into your mind, breaking you free of the scathing rejection from a man you were right to assume loathed you.
Why else would he stand you up?
Why else would he leave you to sit alone with nothing but a bottle of wine to keep you company.
Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes, your throat tight and heart twisting, but crying would do you no good. Certainly not on a night you were meant to enjoy. Wiping furiously at your face, you stopped to yank out your phone, fingers shakily scripting a text to the man you wanted to throttle before mindlessly pressing block.
But your thumb remained stuck hovering over the bright screen as you weighed your options. A horn blared beside you—some idiot blocking the way—but beneath it you heard the unmistakable echo of your name. Faint at first, but when the car moved past it came again. Loud and unrelenting. You turned, wanting it to be your imagination turning you mad, creating scenarios out of thin air for you to get lost in.
No such imagination could procure the image of Clark Kent running madly down the street—suit askew and shirt half buttoned and glasses tipped to the very edge of his nose. He looked as if he’d run a marathon to get there. A mess of a man who no matter the situation would always be late.
“I’m sorry!” he called, skidding to a stop feet away to catch his breath. “I swore I did whatever I could to get here at seven.”
You wanted to be mad. Fuck you longed for it. And the feeling still lingered, burning at the edges of a fanned out flame just itching to catch spark once again.
“I sat there alone for thirty minutes,” you replied, voice paper thin—practically translucent. Clark reared back at the sound. “Even the waiters took pity on me. Poor stranger who got stood up on their date.”
“No.” He started forward, stilling when you shuffled back. “No I swear I would never.”
“But you did.”
“Please.” Perhaps you were a masochist for letting him take your hand and curl it into his. Maybe you thrived on this irreparable situation that did nothing but put a strain on your heart. “Believe me sweetheart. I’d never stand you up.”
Honesty poured off his lips with a sweetness you almost wanted to let yourself taste. It glimmered in his eyes, echoed with all he struggled to keep at bay. For better or for worse…you let it wash over you. Cornering you into a wall you never intended to go through—perfectly content to remain in his hold for as long as he wished to keep you.
The suit he wore actually fit this time around. White button down tailored to his wide form, the jacket he wore a simple denim you’d never think to see Clark Kent of all people sport. Dark jeans and boots to match drew your attention to how thick his thighs really were. He stood with a crouch, as if he was used to bending down just to hear others talk, yet you were still forced to look up at him just to catch the small grin on his lips. The plea of forgiveness shining bright in his eyes.
“Can I make you dinner?” he blurted out, thumb running smooth along your wrist. It sent chills down your spine even through the coat you wore.
“You can cook?”
He shrugged. “Somewhat. I can make a good mac and cheese.”
You laughed, bright and without meaning to, yet Clark looked at you as if he’d give anything to hear that sound again. “You’re offering to make me mac and cheese?”
“It’s my Ma’s recipe.”
“I bet she makes it better.”
“That’s a given,” he scoffed. “Will you let me try?”
The yes slipped off your tongue before you could comprehend what you were saying. His hand clasping tight over yours with a smile so wide it nearly cracked his face in two.
His apartment was larger than you originally imagined it. A large couch was pushed to a wall of windows, the television small and propped on a stand at the opposite wall. But it was the pictures that drew your attention the most. Photos snapped at a farm somewhere with him standing between an older couple you quickly figured out to be his parents. Suddenly the denim jacket made a lot more sense.
A glimpse of his room let you see a massive bed in the center of an already minimal space. The dresser stood in the far corner, scattered with a few more frames and a wooden box at the top. Something red spilling out of it and draping over the very edge.
Your foot was halfway through the door before Clark emerged from the kitchen. His sleeves rolled up and shirt untucked, he looked like a fucking dream you once had in the middle of the night. The smile he threw your way reeled you in with a sigh, your stomach a fluttering mess as you stumbled over to him in heels that were ready to give out.
“I’ve got the cheese and noodles and it shouldn’t take me very long. If you—uh—”
“What?”
His gaze dropped down your form, blue giving way to that crimson you longed to ask about—stopping short at the too tall heels you thought were a good idea in the first place. Something in him dragged itself into the light. Shadows clashed brutally to the surface as he watched you with a glimpse of the man you caught on that first day in the office. A piece of himself he held back with fraying rope and hands gone raw from the burn.
“If you want to make yourself comfortable,” he mumbled, eyes fixed to how the dress hugged your form tight enough to show imperfections you tried your best to hide. His tongue peeked out, wetting his bottom lip as you kept yourself still, allowing him the chance to look.
There it was again. The pull of gravity towards him that practically forced you an inch closer. Always in his vicinity, forever attached to a man you barely knew.
You wanted to know how he did it. What magnetic powers he had to keep you so entranced, so utterly devoted.
“Okay,” you mumbled, slipping off your heels and leaving them to sit near his couch. The cold floor of his apartment soothed your aching feet, your pulse skipping beneath hot skin and suddenly he was smiling again.
Busying himself with the meal, Clark left you to wander the apartment. Entirely aware of how your gaze dragged over every spot littered with dust and space decorated with what he cherished the most. But it was the deep stains of red on the edge of his rug that had you freezing in place. The color an almost dark rust after having been there so long. Yet it remained unmistakable.
Blood.
Enough of it to peek out from beneath his couch, no doubt having leaked onto one whole side before he decided to cover it up. And you should have felt terror. A thrill of fear wreaking havoc on your already nervous body. Any sane person would run—flee his home at the very sight of it.
You remained still, taking in what you knew might be the start of your very end.
“Do you have a bathroom?” you hesitantly threw over your shoulder, digging for the fear that no longer existed in your body. As if he removed it long before you crossed the threshold of his home.
“Door on the right in the bedroom,” he replied, far too immersed in the scribbled out recipe to notice your state of unease.
A lamp was on in the bedroom. Dim, barely giving off anything other than a faint yellow glow, but you used it to guide you towards the bathroom door that already stood open. Your shadow played on the mirror before you reached for the light switch. But your eyes latched onto the sight from before; red fabric spilling over the dresser as if he’d shoved it there in a hurry. Desperate to hide it away before you even came into his home to begin with.
You wanted to ignore it. Pretend this was simply a date and nothing more. But the blood stain on his carpet dragged your feet over hard wood flooring—stopping inches away from the open box on his nightstand.
“What,” you muttered, tugging at the soft yet structured fabric until it gave way in your hands. Draping over your skin as you pulled it open, your heart hammering at the base of your throat and palms clammy with sweat.
A flash of yellow broke free from the sea of bright red and your hands trembled at the sight. The symbol you knew better than your own name. The image seen in newspapers and headline. On phone screens and in the sky of Metropolis itself. That large familiar S only worn by one individual—one singular person.
Clark Kent.
Superman.
“I can explain.”
His voice stole the breath from your lungs as you whirled around, clutching the cape to your chest with fear shining bright in your wide eyed gaze. “Y-You’re-”
He shut his eyes, fingers curling at his sides, and took a deep breath. “I wanted to tell you at the right time.”
“So this whole time…” He nodded, feet glued to the floor. Clark forced himself to watch the emotions play across your face, the truth finally cracking through weeks of unanswered questions. Of why he fought so hard to be away from you. “You saved my life.”
That cold chill of reality landed a blow against his spine and he straightened when you crossed the room to him, leaving the cape at the edge of his bed. “Wait-”
“You knew who I was.”
“Sweetheart I wouldn’t get too close.” He stumbled back hitting the door frame, your scent burning a path to his lungs—destroying the strength he spent hours attempting to repair.
Tentatively you reached for his face, watching him shrink back with a subtle growl that reverberated through your chest. “I can feel you in my bones,” you murmured, fingers curving over his cheek as the blue of his eyes disappeared. Red all you could see.
“I..I don’t know why,” he whispered, hand curling over your wrist.
A lie. And the both of you knew it.
“Yes you do.”
He swallowed, eyes shifting to the length of your neck completely bare for him to see. “I crave you.”
The words sounded brittle on his tongue, terrible in their nature and horrific in his mind. But the realization dawned in your eyes like sunlight breaking through a cloud afternoon. Your lips curled up, thumb catching on his bottom lip to pull at it with a quick little smirk he felt carve out a hole in his chest. The fact that he was a monster, someone who openly admitted to needing you every second of every day didn’t deter you in the slightest.
Intrigue littered your gaze and delivered the final blow to his fraying willpower. “Your eyes. They go red sometimes. Why is that?”
He sucked in a breath, your face so close to his he could smell the perfume off your skin. “Side effect of who I am.”
“Kryptonian. I read that somewhere.”
Swallowing around his flood of saliva, he felt you pull at his chin and that rope around his neck yanked him to your every will. His mouth dropped open as you peered at the sharp fangs already presented and desperate to sink into your skin. Your thumb slid along one and Clark felt his entire body erupt into shivers, his eyes rolling back and cock twitching hard.
“They’re so…” Ugly. Monstrous. Things he wished he could yank out with pliers. “Beautiful.”
Confusion gave way to something dangerous that licked up his spine the longer you stood there admiring his fangs. His eyes no longer looked bloodshot—the gaze of a man overworked and past his limit. Now he stood before you as he was always meant to. A vampire who could taste the baser notes of amber on your skin, the divine flavor of your blood pulsing just beneath a few layers of flesh.
Fear clung to his heart. That familiar wash of guilt he’d grown used to curling into. He trusted it to pull him back, keep his instincts at bay before he did something he was certain he’d regret.
A beat passed. Sixty seconds of you admiring him in what light cascaded from his living room lamp, piecing him together. He held his breath, terrified of the hunger that strangled him the longer he let you touch him like this—your fear quickly fading for a wonder. A look never given to him before today, a gaze one handed to those who deserved it.
Maybe this time…he did.
“Does it hurt?” you asked softly, sliding a hand along his cheek and feeling the heat radiate off his skin. “The hunger?”
“Yes,” he croaked.
“Do you want to kill me?”
He shook his head, dropping his face to press close to yours. “I’d never hurt you like that. I couldn’t.”
Tenderness bled through every touch of your skin against his, the beast clawing within for a taste of your blood. “But do you want to?”
Yes.
He’d never wanted anything more. Lived these past few weeks as if he were a puppet on a string being pushed and pulled by the hunger that drew him near you. A pulsating need he felt thunder in his veins, his heart rapidly beating the echo of your name. He wanted to rip you open, pry his teeth into your chest and taste how warm your heart really was. But even the thought brought him enough agony to rear back and hold tight to the reigns he refused to let go of.
“That side of me…it wants to,” he said hesitantly, terrified that admission alone would have you running for the door.
“But what about you? Clark.”
“No.” His eyes found yours and you caught the faint hint of blue beneath the sea of red, the man prying his way out of the pit. “Never.”
“Okay,” you grinned, as if he spilled the one secret you wanted to know most. Given you a pass to enter into the chaos that dragged behind him like baggage he never remembered accepting.
Clark dug for something to say, a way to deter you from whatever this was becoming. Lips slid over his with a soft pretty sigh, tearing to pieces the final thread of sanity he knew would vanish eventually.
You cupped his chin, reaching up to pull him closer, and Clark felt that long forgotten flame relight. He snarled into it, mouth sealing over yours with a fury that had you staggering back, his arm sweeping behind you and fingers digging sharp into the top of your ass.
Surprise etched in the soft moan that slipped past your lips, your hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders as he yanked you close enough to feel the rapid beat of your heart. The way your breasts pushed up tight into his chest and body curved perfect into the length of him.
You sunk into it. Let his tongue slip into your mouth, licking hot over yours until spit began to smear along your now ruined lipstick. His teeth sharp and overbearing in the open mouthed kiss he returned with fervor. Heat spilled into your stomach, dredging up every nasty little thought you had about him in the past few weeks. Pulsing quick and ruthless along every part of your body—drawing him in until he had no choice but to snap.
“Since I saw you,” he groaned wet and low against your jaw, walking you backwards until the back of your legs hit the edge of his bed. “I couldn’t get you out of my system.”
“Me too,” you got out, curling fingers into his button down to pull him over you as you collapsed. The plush feel of his mattress nice and soft beneath your arched back. “Wanted you to—oh fuck—bend me over your desk.”
Clark moaned loud enough to reverberate into your chest, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, body shuddering at the sound of your words. His hips shoved up into you, grinding against the growing wet spot on your panties, drawing out a cry he could barely hear over his own pulse.
“D-Don’t say that. Golly I can’t-”
Desperation forced your movements, hands pushing him up until he obediently dropped to his bed and watched with crimson eyes as you swung a leg over and settled on his lap.
His face was flushed, red creeping down beneath his shirt, but you found it sweet. So perfectly in control of himself at all times. Terrified of what might happen, ashamed of who he was.
You kissed him with a smile, fingers digging into his curls and pulling his head back to slide your tongue in deep. Until he was moaning beneath your touch, his hands sliding up your back and hips canting up into your lap. He didn’t want to hurt you all those times in the office—all those days you spent begging him silently to just turn around. To see you.
“I want you inside me,” you murmured, lips sliding a messy trail of spit down his throat, your hands working the buttons of his shirt.
“Oh God,” he panted. “The dinner-”
Gripping his chin, you pulled him back—his eyes growing black at the sight of your dress spilling over your shoulders. “We’ll eat it later. Please baby. I can’t stop thinking about it.” He nodded, mouth parted as you dragged a thumb along his spit slicked lip.
“Don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” you pressed, feeling his hands ruck up the skirt of your dress, his fangs pressing sharp into his bottom teeth until blood sprouted to the surface. You licked it clean with a giggle, enthralled by the way he jolted into you—his cock leaking like a damn faucet into his jeans.
Pulling free the button on his jeans your mouth fell open at the sight of him. Long and thick and blushing a deep red with precum glistening down the length. It jumped at the first touch of your fingers along his tip—nail scratching soft at the vein that ran beneath. And Clark withered beneath you, gasping for air as you wrapped a palm around his cock and pumped him once, twice, barely halfway through the third before he was wrenching you off him.
A growl pulling free from the base of his chest—eyes dark and teeth bared. “Can I?”
You nodded frantically, yanking the gusset of your panties to the side—slick dripping down to the inside of your thighs. “Please.”
Two thick fingers pressed into you with a soft groan, scissoring you open with a stretch that had your head falling onto his shoulder. You grinded down into his palm when he thumbed at your clit, pleasure ripping along your spine until your thighs began to shake. But you weren’t prepared for the head of his cock tapping against the bundle of nerves, your nails digging sharp into his bare chest—mouth lolling open as spit soaked into his shirt.
“So pretty,” he cooed, pushing into you with a harsh bitten out grunt, the thick head breaking past your slick hole and sliding into you with a harsh pinch.
“Oh fuck Clark-” you gasped. “‘S big.”
“I know.” A hand soothed over your spine, hips pushing up slow and steady into your already greedy cunt. “You can take it sweetheart. You were made to take it.”
You were. Of course you were.
With a ragged breath you sunk down onto him, feeling his spine go rigid and head tip back as he filled you in one smooth thrust. Until you felt him in your lungs. The burn crashed into you, threatening to drown all that you were, destroying the person you could have been before tonight. He stretched you open, pressed into you in ways that you didn’t think possible.
“M-Move,” you begged, tears spilling out the corners of your eyes. “Need you to-”
He pulled out, hands latching onto your hips, before slamming back into you with a harsh shout. Your eyes rolled back, body going limp as he fucked into the spot that had you seeing white behind your eyelids. The walls of your cunt gripped him tight. Sucking him in before he even pulled back an inch. As if you couldn’t exist without him buried to the hilt—your hips fucking down to keep him inside.
“Hang on sweetheart,” he gasped. “I’m gonna—oh god—”
A wrecked moan went muffled into his neck when you dropped back into his lap, a gush of slick pouring out of you in a wet squelch that echoed off the walls. You rode him with all the strength you had left. Desperate to feel him ram against your walls—his cock twitching inside you.
Clark fared no better.
Entirely blind by glazed eyes and a burning need to satiate his hunger overtaking his mind. You were perfect. Soft and wet and tight. And if he were a better man he’d lay you beneath him to suck your clit into his mouth; he’d worship you until the sun crested over the horizon. But he could barely keep his head straight, his fingers digging sharp into your hips as you fucked yourself on his cock—his hips meeting you thrust for thrust.
“Want you to cum,” you mumbled, lips sliding against his own. “I want it inside.”
He sucked in a ragged breath, wrenching his head back as his teeth bared into the night—a low piercing snarl erupting from his chest loud enough to draw your attention. It was obvious what his body desired. What he needed to survive. But Clark refused to give in, even as pleasure licked up his spine, feeding the hunger with a newfound rage.
“Clark,” you breathed.
“No-”
Tipping your head to the side, you gripped his neck until he had no choice but to fix his gaze on the one space he longed to taste. His tongue slid hot along your skin. Tasting the salt and hints of vanilla from perfume that still clung to the surface. The scent of your blood filled his nose, causing his hips to slam up into your cunt—a sob breaking free from your heaving chest.
“I can’t,” he whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks. “It’s not-”
“I want you too.” He shook his head, begging his body to let him pull free from the grasp you had on his hair. But the need outweighed whatever sense he once had. “Drink.”
The surface of your skin broke with such ease when his teeth sunk into you, blood spurting onto his tongue in a gush. And he moaned at the taste. His eyes rolled back, hips forcing up in a harsh thrust you cried out through, but he barely heard you at all through the haze of your essence spilling down his throat. Amber and vanilla collided beyond the copper, overstimulating him into a rush of pleasure and pain
He came with a muffled shout, filling you with ropes of hot cum that dripped out around the both of you. Your heart raced, skin hot and sticky, but Clark relished in every bit of it. His teeth digging deep enough to breach veins you probably didn’t know existed, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of blood until it spilled past his lips, smearing along your shoulder and arm.
Hot thick liquid that felt almost right in how he devoured it. Rutting into you with fluttering lashes as he ripped at your flesh just a bit further. A bit harder to feel you go limp in his arms—the energy fleeing from you the longer he sucked you dry.
Moaning softly, you weakly sunk down on his cock, fingers working your clit in small shaky circles that had your walls fluttering around him. That cold chill of death crept along your spine again. Greeting you with a smile you returned without hesitation.
How fitting that Superman saved your life. Only to steal it from you with enough bliss to numb the pain.
He ripped himself free, blood smearing a dark red mess along his chin, dripping down to his chest. The sight sent you over the edge with a stifled cry, white hot pleasure curling tight around your spine, working its way up your body until it rushed through your already dizzy head.
Clark lapped at your neck, moaning at what sprouted to the surface, his thumb rubbing the blood into your clammy skin. “Mine,” he breathed with a smile, catching your lips in a kiss.
The copper tang was pungent on your tongue and you flinched at the taste, but he cupped your chin to keep you there. Licking into your mouth with a pleased hum, his cock already growing thick in your sore cunt. Something familiar pulled at your chest, winding tight around the organ until you gasped into him, desperate for that cold rush of air. It sealed over you, settled a piece in your chest that hadn’t been there before—yet always felt missing.
“My love,” he murmured, nose brushing yours.
You smiled, weakly slipping a hand into his hair. “Your love,” you vowed.
