Summary- Postponing his original sabbatical plans, Robby finds a quaint town at one of the most northern points of the country. He's quickly taken aback by a waitress at the first diner he walks into.
Contains- 18+ SMUT MDNI. p in v sex, oral (f receiving), hangover nausea, alcohol use, porn with lots and lots of plot :) lmk if i missed anything!
A/N- the town in this is heavily inspired by my love for northern michigan aka the best part of the best state. divider from @thecutestgrotto !
A soft sun welcomes the calm morning. It streaks through the windshield of Robby's recently swapped Ford Ranger. Unlike his bike, it's built for the curvy, tree lined roads of the small northern town he's traipsing through.
His lids start to droop, stomach growling from the endless hours of driving. He perks up at a neon sign cutting through the pale blue skies. Soon thereafter, wafts of bacon, coffee, and oil drift through his cracked windows, and his stomach does the steering for him.
He's the only car in this parking lot, and he's surprised to see a little white building with pink trimming. Bright pink letters splash across the white wooden door.
Petal and Bloom- it reads in loopy letters, and stepping through the door is like walking through a time machine. It's pure 50s, a vibrant turquoise coating the walls, peach booths lining the width of the pink and white checkered floor.
He can't help but let a chuckle escape his lips, the giddiness knocked completely out of him at the sight of the waitress that greets him.
You're pretty. Gorgeous, even. The shiny gloss of your lips, the curve of your hips, the blush painting your cheeks- they make his heart skip in a way he thought wasn't possible anymore.
You sidle up to him, the sweetest diner dress adorning your figure. It's pink, with a pretty name looped into the stitching. It hangs off your frame with ease, pulled tight at the waist by your white apron. You bounce on your tennis shoes, a sweet smile on your sweet face.
"Hi! Dining in?" You chirp, and it's so perky he debates getting a coffee.
"Yeah, just me," Robby huffs, nodding his head and averting his gaze.
Looking at you nearly paralyzes him, but looking and talking to you? He feels like he's 14 again, talking to Patricia Connors at her locker the week before homecoming.
He slides into the booth you cheerily lead him to, cheeks heating at the new position. He looks up at you now, the early morning sun coating you in a golden glow. Your eyes sparkle in the light, and he swallows a thick lump in his throat.
"What can I get started for you, sir?" You ask, and guilt pools in his stomach at the name.
"Please, call me Robby," he waves you off, and you nod lightly. Your instant obedience gets his heart racing, and he smooths a hand down the back of his neck. It does nothing to self soothe.
Chill out, you gross old man, he kicks himself, clearing his throat before answering you.
"Can I just start with a coffee?" He rasps, eyes trained on the menu in front of him, only darting them up when you walk away.
The sway in your hips nearly knocks him unconscious, dark dots literally starting to pepper his vision. The clink of a cheap plastic glass snaps him out of his senselessness.
He sees water, accompanied by a mug of coffee and a piece of toast he's surprised was made so fast.
"You looked like you were about to pass out," you say, apprehensively.
He makes the mistake of looking up at you, your small smile rendering him breathless.
"Thanks," he breathes, and it's a pathetic croak in the back of his throat.
You chuckle, flipping your notepad open. You poise a pink pen to the paper, a pensive brow pointing right at him.
"What else can I get you?" You ask, and he rattles off his order- unable to resist the bacon he smelled a mile back.
"Alright, that'll be a while," you quip, snapping it shut in the wake of his confusion. "As you can see, we're packed to the brim. There's no way the kitchen will be able to get this out in under an hour. That okay?"
The empty sound of the diner fills the space between you. You're joking. He knows, somewhere deep in his semi-consciousness that you are, but his exhausted haze clouds his logical reasoning.
"What?" Is all he can manage, and he wants to kick himself.
"Nothing, sir," you chuckle, and miraculously, he doesn't feel embarrassed or ashamed, but endeared, almost. "I'll be back shortly."
He watches you walk away again, and curses under his breath. He runs a flat palm down his face, trying to scrub out the weariness in his eyes. His heart pounds a symphony against his chest, ringing even in his ears.
He has no idea what happened back there, can't remember a single time he dropped the ball while flirting. It came so easily to him in Pittsburgh, when he was at his worst.
Another thing clicks, something his therapist has taught him to identify. When we recover from trauma, our brain puts together puzzle pieces that have been scattered around for too long. Or something like that.
He makes a match now, realizing that his desperation for validation projected on his female counterparts, romantic or not. It's jarring for a moment, but he's gotten better at acknowledging it, deciding what he'll do better in the future, and moving on.
It's methodical, the steps to this procedure. It feels right for his brain, to check things off in a sort of list. It feels less daunting, actually doable for him.
Once again, his thoughts are interrupted by plastic dishware clinking on the table. He perks a little, the steam of his eggs and scent of his bacon enough to restart his nervous system.
He nods his head at you, muttering a small thank you, heart sinking a little at the thought of your interaction being over.
Like you can read his thoughts, you slide into the booth across from him, propping your chin in your hand.
"Is this okay?" You ask, smiling. "You seem like you could use a little bit of company."
You have no idea, he thinks.
"That'd be great, thanks," is what he says. He glances around, looking for any other employee in the building. "This won't get you in trouble, will it?" He asks, voice quieter than it was before.
A chuckle stifles past your lips, and the sound swirls around his head like little blue birdies in a cartoon. He feels like a caricature around you, a dopey, wide eyed Popeye, smitten by Olive Oil.
"No," you respond, and relief washes over him. "My best friend owns this place, she's not even clocked in. Still hungover from last night."
There's a teasing lilt to your voice, and he smiles, thinking about what it must be like to know you. To have known you, well enough to work together and live in the same small town together.
He does laugh at this information, eyes finding his plate. He grabs a piece of bacon, nibbling on it lightly without breaking eye contact.
"So, what brings you to our little corner of the world?" You ask him, with the familiarity of a life lived in the same place.
He shrugs, looking at the window to survey the scene. It's remote, located off the highway on the right and a small side street to the left. The left hand road leads to a slightly bigger downtown, if his strained vision proves correct.
"I'm a doctor," he starts, and it feels foreign falling from his lips. "I was…" he starts, and all the possible things he could say dance around in his brain. "…burnt out," is what he lands on.
That's one way to put it.
Your mouth twists downward, brows furrowing. It's not pity, though, and it's not sympathy, either. Both of those would have immediately triggered something deep and angry within him.
No, what he sees is more like empathy. The glint in your eye, the purse of your lips, the nod of your head tells him that you relate. It's what he's choosing to believe, anyway, as he doesn't have any factual information to back this up. He feels it pretty strongly, though, and he's learning that's not always a bad thing.
"I get what that's like," you sigh, and his ears perk up like a dog.
His heart pounds at the immediate validation, swirling a euphoric rush through his veins.
"Yeah?" He asks, voice lilting and a bit pitchy.
You nod again, pretty gold earrings dangling with the motion.
"I just got fired," you admit, and now it's his turn to frown. "That's why I'm working at my best friend's diner at 28."
There's a civil war brewing inside him, the guilt of hearing your age at battle with the giddiness your vulnerability makes him. It all results in a sore tummy, and he shovels scrambled eggs in his mouth to try and tamper it down.
"Please," he says, once he's swallowed, taken a sip of water and grounded himself. "You have your entire life ahead of you."
There's a brief pause in your rapport, then, the weight of his words hanging heavier than intended. You don't seem to mind, unless, again, his calculations are incorrect. He's been proven to read you pretty well so far, though, so he's hopeful.
The sparkle in your eye helps. The sun is now fully up, hanging high in the sky as mid-morning dawns on the both of you. It shines through the window, landing perfectly on you.
It takes his breath away, and he allows himself a moment to sink into it, to enjoy it. Instead of feeling guilty, racking his brain for all the reasons he wouldn't deserve to even enjoy a nice conversation, he indulges. That's what the sabbatical is for, right?
"And you don't?" You ask.
His face crinkles in a smile, dipping his head down to try and hide the wrinkles around his eyes. Shock paralyzes him when he feels your soft fingers tucking under his jaw and lifting him back up to you.
You're smiling when he meets your gaze, but then you give him a showy pout. It sends a cacophony of butterflies loose in his belly, and he feels like a school boy. He sips on his coffee, the caffeine doing nothing to quell the giddiness erupting within him.
"What's that face for?" He asks, and his soft tone surprises him.
"You're not smiling anymore," you jut your bottom lip out, and it's taking everything to not lean over the table, take them between his own lips, and suck.
"Why do I need to smile?" He asks, and feels ridiculous almost instantly.
You deserve to smile, Michael, you deserve to enjoy things, Dr. Parker would say, and he repeats it in his head like a mantra.
"You have these sweet lines around your eyes when you smile," your hand once again brands his skin, now your open palm cupping his cheek.
He's stunned at your abrasiveness, pathetically intrigued by what you have to offer. His cheek heats under your touch, and he spots the tiny smile creeping on your lips.
"They're nice," you remark, removing your hand from his face.
It's cold instantly without your touch, a shiver unzipping his spine at the loss of contact.
The moment floats between you two, vibrant and sparkly like a crystal ball. He knows exactly what his fortune is. He's looking at it.
"So," you say, effectively popping the magical bubble, "a doctor, huh?"
He nods, apprehensive to the topic. He can't remember the last time he talked about his job with someone who knew nothing about it. He can't remember the last time he's been this removed from Pittsburgh. It's…scary. Nice, but scary.
He powers through anyway, allowing himself the fortune he's so gracelessly stumbled upon.
"Yeah," he gruffs, smoothing his hand over the back of his neck.
He can't yet bring himself to say more, bottom lip sliding between his teeth.
"Can I guess what you do?" You ask, and he quickly nods.
This, somehow, eases him. It allows him the vulnerability of sharing the information, without the pressure of finding the right words, racking his anxious mind for something to mask how horrible it's been the past few years.
You stroke your chin with your forefinger and thumb, brows puzzled in the sweetest way. He fights the urge to kiss away the crease between your brows.
"Emergency medicine," you say, and his blood runs cold.
You perk up at his reaction, knowing immediately you got it right.
"Yay!" You squeal, clapping your hands together. "What a crazy coincidence! I don't know why I even guessed that, you just seem like you've seen some shit."
He chuckles at that, a genuine, cathartic chuckle.
"Ooh, you have no idea," he says, and your smile makes his heart race.
"Where is it? Are you guys typically busy?" You ask, and he almost envies your naivete.
"Uh, 's in Pittsburgh," he says, eyes trained on his lap.
His ears are on fire, heart roaring in his chest but he pushes through, even though his voice is croaky and he feels like he might throw up.
"We're a trauma center, so…" he trails off, gaining the courage to look back up at you. "Yeah, I've seen some shit."
You give him a kind smile, a sweet giggle peeling from your lips, and he positively melts. He can't remember the last time someone looked at him like this, like he was something, anything else than Dr. Robby.
"Well, I'm looking forward to hearing some stories," you propose, tone uneasy.
"Yeah, I'm sure I can make that work," he says, sipping his coffee, nibbling his toast.
"How long are you in town?" You ask, and his heart sinks at the thought of ever leaving this cozy bubble.
"I'm here for three months," he says, and is almost prideful by the way you perk up at this news. "Plenty of time to swap stories."
"I can't wait," you reply, and his stomach cartwheels. "Where are you staying?" You ask, and he raises a brow.
"Why? Y'gonna come murder me?" He asks, resting his back against the cushiony booth.
"Yup, you caught me!" You giggle, playing along. It electrifies him.
He laughs, and can't help but notice how easy this feels. It's exhilarating, addicting, and utterly terrifying.
"No," you roll your eyes once your laughter dies down. "I've lived here my entire life and I probably already know exactly where you're at."
"Well, with your track record of guessing things about me," he starts, pulling out his phone to open up his Airbnb app. "You probably will."
He turns his phone around, and goes still once he sees your face fall. You grab his phone, pinching the screen to zoom in and out, eyes glossing over. His gut twists, and he feels absolutely awful.
Before he can spiral, he decides to take action instead.
"I'm so sorry, did I say something?" He asks, shaky fingers plucking his phone back.
You shake your head, wiping a stray tear from the corner of your eye.
"Gosh no, no not at all," you insist, and it does nothing to sway his guilt. "That's actually uhm-" you swallow, and his heart sinks even deeper. "That's my grandparents' cottage."
"Oh," he blinks, unsure how to take this news.
"They always rent it out over the summer. They're in the Hamptons," you roll your eyes, and he can tell there's more to this story. "My whole family is, actually."
For the first time this entire conversation, you seem…small. You're avoiding his gaze, fiddling with your apron, pouting your lips.
"And you're here?" He asks, and you just shrug.
"I just moved back from New York, actually," you confess, and he leans forward, giving you his full attention. "I got fired from the marketing firm my grandfather owns."
His mouth twists downward, once again heeding your earlier understanding.
"One of the jackass accountants tried feeling me up," you say, and the confession rocks him. Not only does your brazen confidence scare the shit out of him, he's also overcome with a severe need to beat this preppy New York accountant's ass.
"I reacted maybe a bit…harsher than I should have," you continue. "I turned around and just slapped him. I honestly wasn't thinking, it was an instinctive reaction. So, I got fired for disorderly conduct."
"I'm sorry…" Robby trails off, genuinely confused. "They fired you for disorderly conduct? Not the guy putting his hands where he wasn't fucking supposed to in the first place?"
You nod, to his everlasting fury.
"On top of that, my boyfriend dumped me," you mutter. "Said he couldn't be with a 'snitch', like we're in third grade."
Anger flares white hot within him, furrowing his brows and burning his stomach until there's nothing left but ash.
"I had to come home," you say. "My family is not happy with me. I also have some stories."
"Well, I'm really looking forward to hearing them," he says, only able to offer kindness in wake of this news.
"Likewise," you murmur.
The sun shines between you once again, illuminating Robby's now empty plate. Your eyes find it, and he sees you immediately jump back into waitress mode.
"Let me take care of this!" You chirp, swiping his plate away and whisking it to the kitchen.
He feels cold at the loss of you, eyes trained on your frame the entire time. He watches you ring up the order, bringing his check back to the table.
He opens his mouth to speak, but is forcefully interrupted by the door swinging open.
"Oh. My. God. GIRL!" Another young woman bursts through the door, looking a bit worse for wear.
Her hair is mussy, makeup smeared and clothes wrinkled.
"Is my uniform here?" She asks, skittering through the diner.
"Yeah, in the back!" You shout, and she responds with a comical, "THANK GOD!"
"Aaaand that's Cherry, my best friend," you quip, collecting his payment and dispersing the change. "I'll see you tomorrow, Robby?" You ask, and he nods eagerly.
"Go and get some sleep, you'll need it," you tap your notepad on the table to see him out.
He reluctantly finds the door, slinging his bag over his shoulder before looking back at you one last time.
"And a tip?" You add, and he raises his brow. "The guest bed is comfier than the master bed. Trust me."
"Thanks," he chuckles, pushing the door open, back into the real world.
The next few weeks are almost always a mirror of that first morning. Robby coming in at the break of dawn, you two sitting over a coffee together.
He came in that second day, looking much more rested than the day before, raving about the mattress in the guest room.
You'd laughed, giving him a playful 'told you so!' before assuming the exact same booth he'd had the day before.
Cherry's been more than cool, allowing you to sit and talk with him when you're really supposed to be on the clock.
You repay her in gossip, gushing to her about all the ways the hot, mysterious, older doctor has been flirting with you.
At least, you think he's flirting with you. He dances all around it, a teasing twinkle in his eye, a small smirk on his lips. Cherry's convinced he wants you. You're not so sure.
He always makes a point to confirm with you, and Cherry, that your early morning chats are okay. You can tell he feels guilty every time he asks, and in a sick way, it makes your heart swell. It still doesn't stop him from talking with you until the next customer comes in.
He comes in so early, this typically only happens after you've banked a good hour and change of conversation, each one more titillating than the last.
This morning, you'd finished your conversation with an invite. It was bold, unexpected, tumbling from your lips before you could have stopped it.
"Hey!" You chirp, just as he's about to push the door open. "Cherry and I are hosting a little something after closing hours."
"A little something?" He raises his brow, and your stomach somersaults.
Tonight, you and Cherry were debuting Bloom and Petal: After Hours. It's been a passion project of Cherry's, turning the daytime breakfast bar into a lively night scene.
You reference the framed certificate now resting behind the bar, some fancy scribbling displaying your newly acquired liquor license.
Robby's face shifts in understanding, a small smile hiding behind nervous eyes.
"A bar with a bunch of 25 year olds?" He quirks a brow, and your heart sinks.
You've never really addressed the age gap between you two, though it feels glaringly obvious, and even foolish now. Your face burns, and the words that leave your mouth leave you humiliated.
"For me?" You ask, cringing as they fall out of your mouth like rotten teeth.
He doesn't seem to share this sentiment, though, as his brown eyes glimmer in the light, his telltale sign you've gotten to his soft spot. Your heart rate picks up, and you look at him expectantly.
"Maybe," he murmurs, and you'll take it. It's something. "See you," he says, and he's out the door.
"See you," you breathe, into the empty diner.
Bloom and Petal: After Hours is thumping, and you've been on your feet for hours. Sweat drips from your brow as you weave through the crowd of sticky bodies of people you've known since grade school.
You're thankful to have ditched the thick, cartoony outfit for a pink Bloom and Petal t-shirt, paired with denim shorts. You finally escape behind the bar for a brief moment, attending to a few drinks and avoiding the crowd.
Your eyes keep darting towards the door, expecting a familiar face to walk through. Disappointment spreads deep in your stomach like a disease with each ring of the front bell.
"He's still not here?" Cherry yells over the crowd, and you shake a sad head no.
She rolls her eyes, forever on your side.
"Boo! What a dick! I thought he liked you!" She squeals, and her use of past tense, though unintentional, makes your tummy turn.
"I thought he did, too," you mutter, furiously cranking the beer tap.
Foam aggressively overflows the pint, and you crash it down on to the bar a little too harshly. Cherry rears her head back at this, eyes wide, and now it's your turn to roll your eyes.
"I'm so dumb!" You force a smile, your tone terminally delightful. "The stupidest girl in school!"
Cherry chortles at this, and you give her a sardonic smile. Then, you hear it again.
Ding!
Your head whips towards the door, like a pathetic dog waiting for its long gone owner. Cherry sees this too, wincing at the action.
Shame burns deep in your belly, and you turn, pressing your palms flat on the wall, leaning your forehead against them. A long groan strangles your throat, Cherry rubbing a soothing hand down your back.
"Take a minute, babe, it's been a crazy night," she says before darting to the other side of the bar.
You feel ridiculous, of course he wouldn't show up. He's about twice the age of everyone here, he's clearly here running away from something, and most of all, he's not your fucking boyfriend.
That last fact makes you sick, and you dart into the kitchen to get a fresh breath. You barrel your way through the bustling back to get through the door, bursting open like a treasure chest.
The relief of the fresh air folds you in half, hands resting on your knees as you will yourself not to vomit. Nausea spins your head, quelling with each breath of fresh, summer air.
"Woah!" You hear a familiar voice, and your eyes dart up to find the man you've been looking for all night.
He's like an angel in the fading sunset, approaching you gently from the other side of the parking lot.
"Robby!" You breathe, half chuckle half gasp. "Hi!"
He reaches out a tentative hand as if to steady you, approaching slowly, bending slightly at the knee to look you in the eye.
"You okay, sweet girl?" He asks, and the debut of this pet name does nothing to help your desire to hurl.
You nod, anyway, inhaling deep through your nose and out through your mouth.
"Good job," he mutters, and your knees nearly give out on you.
"Yeah," you swallow thickly. "Yeah, I'm good. I think I just need some water."
"Do you have any out here, sweet girl?" He asks.
You stumble, your heart skipping a beat. Again, with that damn nickname.
"N-no, I don't," you mumble, and you can't tell if the haziness is from Robby, or the overstimulation.
"Stay here, I'll be right back," he darts across the parking lot once more, back to his truck.
Your focus stills on his frame, the way it leaned and stretched into the front seat of his car. Your cheeks burn, shame creeping in your belly.
He's not your boyfriend, you remind yourself. Snap out of it.
He comes back, a steel water bottle rattling with ice. You perk up at the sound, a Pavlovian response driven by dehydration.
He holds out the bottle, and you snatch it from his grasp, savoring each slide of the cool liquid down your parched throat.
You let the straw go with a pop!, a groan of relief escaping your lips. Robby shifts on his feet at the noise, and you choose to think nothing of it.
"Is it okay if I walk you in?" He asks, pointing towards the door. "I just wanna make sure you get back okay."
You nod, wordlessly, letting him guide you toward the door, his arm hovering over your waist. You come back to life step by step, the energy of the bar swallowing you back in the second you cross the threshold.
Your lips wrap around the straw again, vision clearing up with each swallow. Robby taps your hip lightly in approval, and you almost stop to squeeze your legs together.
You burst out of the kitchen, immediately thrust back into the hot, sweaty bubble of the night. He rounds the corner of the bar with ease, propping himself on an empty stool.
It really sinks in, then, him being here. Seeing him, his wide, tired eyes, his soft smile, surrounded by purple and blue and pink flashing lights and bustling twenty somethings.
He's here for you. Your heart sings.
"Thank you for coming," you mutter sweetly. "What can I get you, handsome?"
You count this as revenge for his earlier nickname. You're successful, given his deep blush he tries so sweetly to hide.
"Whatever beer you have on tap, babe," he says, and you shudder.
You give him a curt nod, turning on the ball of your foot to fulfill his order. You tap your foot as you anxiously wait for the glass to fill, butterflies swarming your stomach at the thought of turning around to see Robby again.
You're met with a much worse sight, though. One that completely pops the Robby bubble you've inflated for yourself.
Clean cut brown hair, perfectly tailored suit, $200 tie. The same, sorry excuse of a man that left you alone, deserted in New York, after getting fired from your job.
"Brayden, what are you doing here?" You choke.
Beer threatens to spill over the lid of the glass you're shakily holding. Robby anticipates the situation, reaching two hands out to take his drink himself.
You're suddenly thankful, yet self conscious for his help all at the same time. Your eyes dart back to Robby, then back to Brayden. Back and forth, back and forth.
It's not long before Brayden clocks what's going on, the man sitting next to him. He scoffs, readjusting his tie with an arrogance that makes you want to punch him.
"I'm here to talk some sense into you," he responds, and hearing his voice again after all this time is like nails on a chalkboard. "Clearly you need it."
His eyes dart to his left as he says it, and you burn with rage.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" You size him up. Like always, he takes the bait.
"Your family is fucking furious with you, y'know?" He remarks, and you dip your head in shame. "This little stunt you're pulling?" He circles a finger in the air in reference to the space around him. "It's ridiculous. You know it's ridiculous! I mean- look at you! Are you wearing denim?"
You can't believe the words that are coming out of his mouth, wondering how you could've been so blind to this man's true self.
"I wore denim in New York, you fucking ass," it's the only thing you can think of to say, and you feel like a fucking idiot.
"Not at work," he says, and you roll your eyes. "Any job where you can get away with wearing denim is a job you should never be working at. Can you imagine what your family would say if they saw you right now?"
You cross your hands over your chest, a familiar burn stinging the back of your nose as you will yourself not to cry in front of him.
"I'm sorry," a gruff voice interrupts, and your heart stops.
Robby's holding up a hand in Brayden's direction, who rears his head back in surprise.
"Who the hell do you think you are, talking to someone like that?" he asks, tone poisonous.
It takes you by surprise, eyes anxiously darting back to Brayden
"I'm sorry, who are you?" Brayden scoffs, and your heart pounds in your ears, anxiety thrumming through your veins.
"Does it fucking matter?" Robby responds, and your eyes find the floor.
"Don't think I didn't see you two walking in from the back," he drops, and your body goes white hot with fear. "What do you think your family is going to think when I tell them you're letting a man twice your age fight your battles for you?"
You make the mistake of looking up at him, no longer able to hide the tears pricking your eye. He has an all knowing smirk on his face, and you catch Robby shifting in his peripheral.
"That's not how they raised their strong, nuisance of a girl, hm?" He asks, and Robby slams a hand down on the bar.
"Are you fucking serious?"He asks, wild eyes darting toward you.
You panic, giving him crazy, sad eyes.
"I'm sorry," he gruffs, holding a hand up. "I just can't stand to see him talk to you like this," his voice is quiet, as private as it can be with your ex breathing down his neck.
Your stomach rolls, heart pounding when you see Cherry approach from behind. Anxiety is a pinball within you, hitting each point of your nervous system and sparing no expense.
"Oh. Fuck. NO!" You hear her screech, latching her manicured fingers underneath his shirt collar, yanking him up off the stool.
He squeals, and the sound earns a genuine laugh from you.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?" She barks at him, using her large waitress tray as a shield, guiding him out the door with each step she takes.
"Thought I'd come see what you managed to scrounge together," he smirks, walking backward toward the door. "Not bad, classy as ever."
"God, that guy fucking sucks," Robby whispers as Cherry bullies him out the door.
"Tell me about it," you gruff, grabbing a damp towel and wiping down the nearest surface you can find. Anything to distract yourself from the heat of his gaze.
A moment of silence beats between you, his eyes trained on you as you do everything in your power to avoid him. The vulnerability of the moment settles over you like a wet blanket, rubbing you raw and making you ache.
"Robby, I think you should go," you whisper, regret lacing every word.
The look in his eye is that of a kicked puppy, and you once again will yourself not to cry.
"What?" He asks, utter confusion in his tone.
"Thank you for coming," you start, a smile on your lips, bright and fake as ever, "but I think he was right. If my family gets wind of what we've been doing-"
"What have we been doing, exactly?" He cuts you off, and you freeze, not expecting this question.
Because, in all honesty, you really don't know what you've been doing.
You like Robby, that much is for certain. You like spending time with him, talking with him, listening to him, but maybe Brayden was right. He's nearly 30 years your senior, you could never have a relationship with him without stirring the pot with your entire family.
Is it worth it? For someone that will be gone in three months?
"I don't really know, Robby," you throw your hands up. "We're…two adults who talk to each other? We're friends?" You let that last question linger, toeing the line on suggesting more than that. You ultimately don't take the bait, and just raise your brow at him instead, begging him to tell you different.
He doesn't, of course, just slides a $10 over the counter, hops off the stool, and leaves.
Your heart sinks, cheeks on fire, and you bury your face in your forearms, laying flat against the bar.
"Ugh!" You groan, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
What the hell has this man done to you?
You're worse for wear the next morning, a headache splitting your head in two. You bring a hand to your forehead, groaning at the light seeping in through the window.
Folding a pillow over your head, you thrash to the other side, memories of last night coming to you in flashes.
Robby not showing, Robby finding you in the parking lot, Brayden, Robby leaving, the shots Cherry clunk down on the bar after closing…
You're starting to regret that fifth lemon drop as it rumbles your stomach, acid creeping up your throat. You clamp a hand over your mouth, willing the nausea to ebb.
It eventually does, and you feel strong enough to sit up, swing your legs over the side of the bed, and make a sad attempt to stand. Your legs are wobbly to start, but eventually you find your footing, padding into the bathroom.
You freshen up, a mere face wash reviving as you move to the kitchen, desperately clamoring for some coffee and a piece of toast. A buzz on the counter lights up your screen, and you take in a message from Cherry.
Cherry: girl…did robby respond to you yet
Your heart drops, numb fingers swiping rapidly to get to your messages. Robby had given you his number a few days prior, something he tried to keep low key as he scribbled it on his receipt. You remember feeling flushed, like a love sick high school girl who just got asked to the prom.
Now, you just feel sick, actually sick. Opening the messages, an onslaught of drunken nonsense greets you, to your everlasting horror.
RObb
Robb y
H hey
Is your real name robert??? what's up with that
These were just to name a few, and the more you scroll, the worse you feel. Your view is instantly shot back to the very last text you sent- it's just the Spotify link to Go Go Juice by Sabrina Carpenter- and you drop the phone like it's hot as the three, cursed little bubbles pop up.
You scream, literally scream, as the phone clatters onto the counter, making impact with the marble at the same time your toast pops out of the toaster.
You sit in silence with yourself for a minute, then, feeling absolutely ridiculous about the predicament you've gotten yourself in.
Four months ago you were drinking champagne on the fanciest rooftop bars in Brooklyn. You were also more unhappy than you'd ever been.
Meeting Robby has made you feel like yourself for the first time in a very, very long time. And if that's the case, then it can't be that bad, can it?
Your phone buzzes, drawing your attention back to the devilish brick taking up real estate on your counter top.
Robby: My real name is Michael. Last name Robinavitch. Everyone at work calls me Robby. It's easier.
You stare at the words on your screen, tapping your foot anxiously as they settle in. The simplicity of his message is almost laughable, but there's weight to his select words.
He gave you his first and last name, something that feels ridiculously intimate for absolutely no logical reason at all.
As you ponder on how to respond, you come up empty time and time again. Your mind wanders back to that first day, the conversation about his Airbnb.
Before you can consider the possible ethical and moral violations of your actions, you slip your shoes on, grab your keys, and are out the door with your coffee in hand.
You roll up to the familiar, grand cabin with your heart beating a million miles an hour. The adrenaline has finally worn off as you sit in your car, in a deep stare down with the house that you spent most of your childhood in.
You feel so fucking stupid. Why would you even think this was okay? Tears burn your eyes as you scramble for the gear shift, pulling before realizing you hadn't even turned the car back on yet.
Before you can shakily push the button, the door swings open, and you're caught red handed. You freeze, your hands finding a home on the steering wheel, almost in defense in front of you.
He lifts his hand, making a 'come hither' motion with his fingers, and it's embarrassing how immediately you obey.
You swing the door open, stomping across the gravel dirt road to reach the porch. You're breathing hard as you approach him, in his low hanging sweatpants and thin white t-shirt.
And his glasses, oh God, his fucking glasses. It's perfect. He's perfect, you're afraid.
"Your first name is Michael?" You breathe, and he can't help but rear his head back a little.
"Yeah," he huffs, and that, unfortunately, does it for you.
You press your hands on his scruffy cheeks, pressing your lips firmly into his.
He's shocked, at first, going rigid in your arms as you plant one on him.
It doesn't take him long to melt into it, though, gathering his bearings and wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you closer to him, your tits pressing against his chest, the thin fabric of both your pajamas leaving little to the imagination.
He stumbles backward into the house, closing the door behind you and pressing you up against it. You shiver at his initiative, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing him against you deeper.
He runs his tongue over your lips, and you pout, desperately wanting his own on you again. He awards your impatience with one, two, three sweet kisses. You beam.
Your lips brush together as you smile up at him, eyes sparkling in the early morning light. You see his brows crease, a self-pitying smirk on his lips.
"God, I am so fucked," he rasps, smashing his lips into yours once again.
Your teeth clink at his intensity, and your tongues swirl each others as he palms your sides, going lower until he reaches your ass.
"Is this okay?" He husks, pressing sweet kisses and kitten licks to your ear.
You nod feverishly against him, and he pinches the plush skin of your ass. You squeal, and he gives you a light smack.
"Words, doll," he demands, and you're once again at his beck and call.
"Yes, God, yes, please," you mewl, eyes shining desperately.
"Good girl," he grunts, pressing his forehead against yours.
He hikes up your thin pajama shirt, pressing delicate kisses down your neck. You can't help but throw your head back into the wall, nails scraping the back of his neck.
His palms find your tits, squeezing and rolling your nipples, pinching every now and again. Warmth blooms deep in your lower belly, squeezing your thighs together at his expansive grip.
"Feel good?" He murmurs against your neck, and you nod desperately. "Arms up," he instructs, and you throw them up like a rag doll.
He slides your shirt over your head, marveling at the sight before pulling you to him, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to the guest room.
You cup his cheeks as you move, peppering kisses all along his face. He chuckles, and your heart swells with the sound.
"Stop!" He laughs, "I can't see," he flops you down on the bed, his gaze on you so entirely vulnerable.
"Sucks," you shrug, making yourself comfortable on the memory foam mattress.
He quirks a brow, resting one knee on the bed.
"Oh, so you wanna be bratty about this, huh?" He poses, sliding his knee between your legs.
"It's the only thing I really know how to be," you reply, snippily.
Your breath catches in your throat as he hovers above you, ghosting his lips over your neck.
"Such a fucking tease, Michael," you breathe, wrapping your arms around his neck.
He allows himself to be pulled in by you, and you revel in every second of the close contact. His hands fly to your waistband, tugging on the elastic band. He presses a kiss at the exposed skin there, and you draw in a shaky breath.
"Can I taste you?" He murmurs against your skin, eyes closed as he takes you in.
"Yes, please," you reply, and he presses a kiss to your hip bone.
"Oh my God," he groans, peeling your bottoms off to reveal your glistening center. "You're so beautiful, fuck."
Your heart swells at his praise, nails digging into his scalp as he dives in. He laps at your collecting wetness, running his tongue up to your clit.
You jump when he flicks the tip of his tongue, swirling around your clit in a way that has you preening. You arch your back off the bed, grinding your pussy into his face to absorb any of the friction he was so generously giving you.
The scrape of his beard adds a special sting to the overstimulation, the sensitive skin of your thighs rubbing raw within minutes. It's a delicious sting, one that you can't seem to care much about at the moment.
He plays in your wetness, teasingly dipping his tongue into your hole, just a little. You gasp at his cruelty, tugging his hair ever so slightly. He groans against you, bringing a thumb up to rub your clit.
He coos at your soft whimpers, the pit in your stomach burning hot as he looks up at you, eyes big and brown and desperate.
He delves his tongue into you fully, his thumb never slowing its assault. Your release is quite rapid, waves of fire dancing over your skin as you roll your hips into his face.
He lets you use him to ride it out, rubbing his face and beard against your sensitive skin to help you through it. You dissolve into the pressure, ears ringing as you come down from your high.
Robby wastes no time crawling up your body, pressing his lips against yours immediately. You moan against his mouth at the taste, and he dips his tongue into your mouth.
Your hand finds his length, big and hard and still confined in those damn gray sweatpants.
"Why are you still fully clothed?" You ask, and he can't help but laugh.
He rolls his eyes, sitting back on his heels to lift his shirt off. He goes to lean back over you then, but you put a hand up, stopping him from going any further.
You take a moment to relish in the sight before you, the dark hair peppering his torso, the soft curve of his tummy. He's gorgeous, and you tell him so.
He flushes red at the compliment, moving your hand gently as he dips down to kiss you again.
"Can't remember the last time I've been called that," he murmurs against your cheek, pressing a light kiss there as he kicks off his pants.
He wasn't wearing underwear, and you thank whatever deity is above for the way his cock springs free, bouncing against his tummy.
The tip is red, angry, pre cum pooling at the center. You can't help but lean forward, darting your tongue out and collecting the salty liquid.
He grips your jaw and stops you from going further, earning him a cute little pout.
"I know, sweet girl. Next time," he kisses the pout off your face, and those last two words echo in your mind.
Next time, next time, next time.
"If you get your mouth on me right now, I'm going to cum," he explains, lining himself up at your entrance. "And believe it or not, I'm not in my twenties. Can't just bounce back like I used to."
Your cheeks heat at his words, teeth biting down on your lower lip as he teases your entrance with his tip.
"But don't worry," he mutters, thrusting into you, hips flush with your ass in one fell swoop. "I'm gonna fuck you real good, baby."
The air is knocked from your lungs, a gasp strangling out of your throat as he hikes your legs higher around his waist. He pulls out, only to slam back in harder, a whine falling from your pouty lips.
He leans down to kiss you as he starts to move, a repetitive rhythm that has you squealing into his neck.
You dig your fingers into his back, throwing your head back onto the pillow. He mouths at your neck, desperate grunts falling from his ow lips.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs against your neck. You shudder. "You have any idea how good this pussy feels?" He asks, sitting up on his knees to pick up his speed.
You wail, his balls slapping your ass with each thrust. He holds both of your legs up by your ankles. now, resting them on one shoulder as he continues to drive into you.
"God, Michael!" You whine, throwing your forearms over your eyes.
He shudders at this, kissing your ankle and asking you to call him that again.
"Feels so good, Michael," you whimper, a sweet smile on your face now that you know the damage you cause him. "Gonna make me cum."
He groans at this, and it's guttural. Your pussy squeezes down on him extra hard, the spring in your stomach beginning to coil. He kisses your ankle again, your shin, running his tongue along every spare inch of skin he can find.
You're dizzy underneath him, the world hazy as you bring your hands up to his belly, pressing and groping all of him you can.
"Fuck," a strangled groan wrestles its way out of his throat. "Your hands feel so fucking good, baby," he insists, thrusts nearly erratic. "You like feelin' me? Like how soft I am for you? Even when I'm fucking you like a slut?"
His words spark inside you, exploding like tiny fireworks. You feel your wetness pooling on the bed below, only growing messier at his words. He coos as he feels you gush around him.
"So perfect for me," he whispers, and you nod, taking a fistful of his tummy in each hand. "Love it when you fucking feel me up."
"I love your body, Michael," you tell him, eyes hazy and glossed over. "You're so gorgeous," you repeat your words from earlier, and he shudders above you.
"Pretty girl," he moans, his thrusts growing sloppy. "Want you to cum for me, make me the luckiest guy in the world, yeah?"
That does it, your Earth no longer spinning on its axis as your second orgasm hits you. It's like a freight train, rough and brutal and perfect. His own is soon to follow, his hips pressing flush against your ass as he empties himself inside you.
"Michael," you whine, teary eyes finding his darkened ones.
They soften at your plea for him, maneuvering your legs into a more comfortable position before pulling out. You whine at the loss of him, and he lightly taps your inner thigh.
"I know, sweet girl," he says, getting up from the bed. "You stay there 'n look pretty, hm?" He runs a large hand over your hair as he settles you into the bed. "I'm gonna get you a towel, m'kay?"
You nod wordlessly as you watch him go, selfishly committing his ass to memory.
You watch him nearly melt when he comes back, his reaction to you just…laying in his bed an immediate ego boost. Your heart swells as he gets his hands on you again, gently patting your core dry.
He then squirts some lotion in his hands, rubbing them gently into your raw inner thighs. You hiss at the sting, and he presses a sweet kiss to your lips, shushing you gently.
Once he's done a thorough clean up, he crawls in next to you, taking you in his arms and pulling you flush against him. You whimper, your lower half still sensitive as it pulses around nothing, the feeling of just being close to him so exciting.
He reaches down to pinch your ass, a light chuckle and a "be good," leaving his lips. He kisses you when you nod, muttering something about the best girl in the world.
Your lids grow heavy, and he jostles you slightly before you can fully give in.
"Hey," he starts, licking his swollen lips. "We're gonna talk about those messages when you wake up again, hm?"
Embarrassment floods you again, and you bury yourself into him. He shushes you sweetly, rubbing his hand along your back and pressing a kiss to your head.
"It's okay, it's okay," he validates, and you snuggle into him. "You're okay. I'm not mad, or weirded out or anything. I like you, and I want to talk about this, just not when you're this sleepy," he murmurs against your skin, and you nod desperately.
He clutches a hand on the back of your head, holding you flush to him as you drift to sleep.
You have no idea what will come when you wake, or what things will look like in three months when Robby goes back to Pittsburgh. But you're already back at your parents' place in your hometown, what do you have to lose?
summary : You’ve had a crush on your professor for a long time and kept trying to make your feelings obvious, only to fail every time. But during your college New Year’s reception dinner, a simple conversation and one unexpected action finally reveal your true intentions.
note : I really hope you guys enjoy this! I got inspired after watching a few TikToks about a possible pairing between Jack Abbot as a teacher and one of his student, hihi. Keep in mind that this is my first fic, and English is not my first language, so please be kind. I’d love to hear your feedback! I’m not sure if I’ll write again after this one-shot, but who knows?
warnings : 18+ mdni, alcohol (just a little), age gap, pet names, smut (m & f), porn without plot (just a little), kinda public sex?, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, cum eating, praise kink.
words count : ~6,8k
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.
You had made your intentions clear — or at least, you thought you had.
Sure, it was immoral and completely insane. You knew that. But you also knew how badly you wanted this… and how much he seemed to want it too.
At first, you were subtle. Slowly brushing your fingers against his for a second longer than necessary whenever you handed back an assignment he had given you. Your arms colliding almost suspiciously often whenever you happened to be in the same room.
Professor Abbot would always let out a small chuckle, almost as if he knew exactly what you were doing, yet refused to indulge in the game any further.
You knew he couldn’t. He was your law professor at university, after all. Who understood the law better than him? He couldn’t cross that line. And yet, you caught yourself hoping more often than you cared to admit.
The way his eyes always seemed to find yours during lectures, even though there were nearly three hundred people in the amphitheater. The way he would ask you to stay behind after class to discuss a paper you had turned in, wanting to understand every detail of your reasoning, every step of your approach to a case.
Lately, your thoughts about the two of you had become harder to ignore — especially after he gave you his phone number.
He had brushed it off quickly, claiming it was strictly to discuss a case you had struggled to fully understand in class, the logic and reasoning behind the Court’s decision. He said he wanted to be more available that evening because the two of you couldn’t realistically communicate through email.
He already knew you would never answer an email anyway. He had tried before, just like he did with other students — reminders about future lectures, grades, additional information — but you never replied. Honestly, he probably thought you didn’t even know how your inbox worked.
So instead, he gave you his number.
“This is strictly about the case. Am I clear?” he had said seriously, though there was something almost teasing beneath his tone.
“Yes, sir,” you answered, your eyes filled with nothing but trouble.
He didn’t even respond. He didn’t need to. He knew damn well he shouldn’t have done that, especially because he was fully aware of the way you felt about him.
It didn’t take a genius to notice the way you looked at him — eyes practically begging him to ruin you. And he would have been lying to himself if he claimed his own gaze wasn’t trying to tell you the exact same thing.
But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t.
Professor Abbot wasn’t married — not anymore. He didn’t have children, thank God. But he still had enough self-respect left to understand that giving in to you could destroy his career if anyone ever found out.
And beyond that, he thought about you. About what the other students would say. About your future colleagues.
“Oh, there’s the lawyer who fucked her way to the top.”
He knew how ruthless this world could be, how deeply rooted in competition and judgment it was. He couldn’t bear the thought of being the reason you carried that risk.
A week ago though, at the end of the university’s New Year reception dinner, he almost cracked.
Seeing how tipsy you were, he knew he shouldn’t have come over to you. But you’d spent most of the night alone, and that still confused him. He’d realized pretty early on that you didn’t really have close friends. You had people to talk to, people to hang around with between classes, but nobody you could actually have a real conversation with.
Maybe that was why you craved his attention so much.
You loved the way he complimented you, the way he praised your work.
You weren’t stupid — you knew he was nice to everyone. Still, the way he looked at you during dinner felt different. His eyes always lingered a little too long whenever you brought your glass to your lips. More than once that night, you caught him losing track of conversations just to look around the room for you. And whenever your eyes met, he never looked away first.
So yeah, you drank a little more than you probably should have.
And that’s how you ended up hiding behind the ballroom staircase, staring at the last text you’d sent him — a simple thank you, sir — sitting there left on read.
You let out a slow sigh before taking another sip of your drink when you heard footsteps coming your way.
You heard his voice before you saw him. Then you felt his hand on your shoulder, gentle and warm, almost protective, before you finally turned to look at him.
“You alright?” he asked softly, his hand still resting against your bare skin.
Your body jumped a little at the contact. You hadn’t expected it. And immediately, you had to stop yourself from reading too much into it. He was just worried about one of his students. That’s all.
“Yeah… thank you,” you said quietly, finally looking up at him.
God, that shirt was unfair.
The black fabric stretched across his chest like it was fighting for its life, definitely tighter than it needed to be. This man really likes showing off his muscles, you thought bitterly.
His voice dragged you out of your thoughts again.
“Come back to the party,” he said with a small smile. His hand finally slipped away from your shoulder. “Isn’t that what people your age like to do? Take breaks from studying once in a while?”
“I don’t really feel like going back,” you admitted, still holding his gaze. “Besides… it’s not like I have anyone to be there with anyway.”
He took a slow breath before answering.
“Look… I know college can be rough sometimes, especially when your social life doesn’t really turn out how you wanted it to.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, half offended, half amused.
“Are you calling me a loser, professor?” you asked with a smirk, laughing a little at the panic on his face.
He immediately lifted his hands.
“No — no, that’s not what I meant.”
His eyes dropped to the floor for a second before slowly dragging back up to your face… and lower. Following every curve of your body under that burgundy dress like he couldn’t help himself.
His breath caught for just a second.
He hated himself.
Because you were obviously upset, and instead of focusing on comforting you, his brain kept getting distracted by the way your dress hugged your body.
“What I’m trying to say,” he continued carefully, “is that maybe tonight you should just let yourself relax a little. Have fun. Be around people your age going through the same things as you. Forget about all the pressure for one night.”
You honestly couldn’t care less about any of that.
You didn’t care about the party.
You didn’t care about the other students.
A bitter laugh escaped you as you looked down at the floor, shaking your head slowly.
He frowned slightly, not really understanding your reaction. But one thing he did know was that he hated feeling like his concern was being mocked. Especially by you.
Almost automatically, he slipped back into his professor voice, more serious this time.
“Listen, I don’t know what’s bothering you, but I really don’t like—”
“You know damn well what’s bothering me,” you cut in quietly, the teasing completely gone from your voice now.
“Excuse me?”
The sudden shift in your tone caught him off guard. Honestly, he was convinced the alcohol was the only reason you were being this bold, because normally you never would’ve talked to him like that.
But he knew.
Of course he knew.
Because whatever was driving you crazy had been driving him crazy too. And he hated it. Hated it even more now that you were standing there forcing the both of you to acknowledge it out loud.
“You heard me,” you said again, stepping closer.
Your finger pressed against his chest like an accusation.
“How many times do I have eye fuck you before you give me even a tiny bit of that attention back?”
The second the words left your mouth, both your hands flew over it. Your eyes widened instantly.
Oh my God.
You had just said that.
To him.
Your professor.
He turned red instantly, the color spreading across his ears and down his neck, and you couldn’t even tell if it was anger or embarrassment anymore.
He opened his mouth like he was about to say something — and judging by the tension in his jaw, it definitely wasn’t going to be gentle — but before the words could leave him, both of you were interrupted by distant screams echoing through the ballroom.
“3… 2… 1… Happy New Year!”
You both looked at each other.
The sounds of people laughing, screaming, cheering, kissing filled the air around you. Somewhere in the distance, glasses clinked together while music blasted louder than before. Yet somehow, standing there with him, everything else felt muffled.
And suddenly, it was your turn to turn red.
A few seconds ago you’d felt fearless, almost reckless. Now you swore you could melt straight into the floor from embarrassment.
Your mind was mortified, but your body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.
Without even realizing it, you stepped closer to him until your lips brushed softly against his cheek.
The contact was barely there.
Still, he froze instantly.
Completely froze.
Like out of everything he thought could happen tonight, that was the one thing he hadn’t prepared himself for.
When you pulled back, your breathing had turned uneven.
His too.
His eyes shut for a second, and his hands lifted toward your arms instinctively, almost touching you before he stopped himself at the last possible moment.
He didn’t even look at you when he spoke.
“Go. Now.”
His voice came out rougher than before. Lower. Strained.
You took a few steps back, your hands wrapping around your elbows like you suddenly needed protection from your own actions, before quickly hurrying back up the stairs.
The second you disappeared, one of his hands dropped heavily against the wall beside him while his head fell forward. A few beads of sweat threatened to roll down from his temple.
He tugged at the collar of his shirt, trying to breathe properly again, before his eyes drifted downward toward the bulge now straining against his pants.
“Fuck…”
That was all he managed to whisper under his breath, completely embarrassed by how strongly his body had reacted to something as simple as your lips brushing his skin.
And now, almost a week and a half later, he still couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He sat at his desk absentmindedly scrolling on his phone while one of his classes silently worked through a test in front of him, but his mind kept dragging him right back to that night.
He hated himself for not being able to let it go. Hated the fact that every night since then, his imagination betrayed him the second he closed his eyes, twisting those memories into something dirtier.
He’d find himself lying awake, hand wrapped tightly around himself, imagining those same lips somewhere else entirely. Imagining your mouth on his tip instead of his cheek. Imagining the desperate little sounds you’d make if he pushed to deep in your throat.
It drove him insane.
Because no matter how badly he wanted you, he knew he shouldn’t.
He hadn’t seen you since that night. You’d only missed one of his classes during that time, but he knew you well enough to understand exactly why.
iIt started eating him alive so eventually, without thinking too hard about it — mostly because the silence between you had started bothering him more than anything else — he texted you.
He needed to see you.
Needed to talk to you before he completely lost control of his own thoughts.
You were sitting in the library when your phone buzzed against the table, the sound pulling you out of your studying.
The second you looked at the screen, your stomach dropped.
Professor Abbott — 4:35 PM
Come see me in my office after my classes. 9 PM.
That genuinely knocked the air out of your lungs.
Your eyes reread the message over and over again just to make sure you weren’t imagining things.
But no.
It was real.
Instant panic flooded your chest.
What was he going to say? That you’d crossed a line? That you’d made a terrible mistake?
Oh my God… was he going to report you?
No.
No, he wouldn’t do that.
Even in a situation like this, he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would immediately destroy someone’s future. He’d want to talk first. Explain things.
Still, your chest felt painfully tight.
But honestly… you needed to see him too.
This entire week had been torture.
You’d spent every night replaying that moment in your head, wondering what he thought about it, wondering if maybe — just maybe — he wanted you as badly as you wanted him.
Back in your dorm later that evening, after dropping your books onto your desk, your eyes drifted toward the drawer holding your underwear.
You hesitated.
You told yourself he probably just wanted to talk. That was all.
But there was still that dangerous little thought in the back of your mind whispering what if it’s not?
By the time 9 PM came around, you found yourself walking through the nearly empty university hallways toward his office.
Most students had already left campus, and this side of the building was dead quiet except for the sound of your footsteps echoing softly against the floor.
Standing in front of his office now, your fingers brushed nervously against the handle while your brain spiraled through every possible scenario.
Would he yell at you?
Reject you completely?
Tell you none of this could ever happen?
Taking a deep breath, you finally pushed the door open.
He was sitting behind his desk, glasses low on his nose while reading through a stack of papers, completely focused.
The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled slightly up his forearms, exposing freckled skin and prominent veins beneath them. The fabric stretched tightly across his broad chest every time he moved, and for a second you almost forgot why you were supposed to be nervous in the first place.
Still half-hidden behind the doorway, you cleared your throat softly.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
He didn’t even raise his eyes toward you.
“Come in. Lock the door.”
Lock the door?
Your stomach instantly flipped.
Oh, he was definitely angry.
Still, you quickly did exactly what he asked, not wanting to push his patience any further than it probably already was.
Once the lock clicked into place, your back rested against the door while your eyes stayed fixed on him, waiting for something. Anything.
Seeing him sitting there in those glasses, his white shirt hugging his chest so perfectly, almost made your mouth water. For a second, you forgot why you were even there.
Really… why were you there?
“I— why am I here?” you asked quietly.
He exhaled slowly before finally setting the papers down and lifting his gaze toward you.
“This,” he said, vaguely gesturing between the two of you, “needs to stop.”
Your eyes widened for half a second, but you quickly pulled yourself together, taking his words almost like a challenge.
If he wanted to have this conversation, then he was going to have to actually say it out loud.
“What does?” you asked innocently.
His jaw tightened immediately.
“Don’t play games with me.”
“But sir…” you said softly, placing your hands behind your back, “what game?”
He suddenly stood up, palms pressing against the desk before he slowly walked around it.
Now he was standing right in front of you, arms crossed tightly over his chest, the fabric of his shirt stretching around the outline of his biceps. Still enough distance between you to stay in control. Barely.
“I don’t like what you’re doing,” he said firmly. “You know exactly where all of this could lead. You’re putting both of us in danger — especially yourself.”
But the look in his eyes wasn’t anger.
It was concern.
“You need to understand something,” he continued more quietly. “This has to stop. I’m not the right person for you. I’m too old for you…”
The words sounded painful coming out of his mouth, like they physically burned him on the way out.
You laughed bitterly under your breath, anger flickering behind your eyes.
“Don’t look at me like you pity me. I hate that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Your eyes had started glossing over now, tears threatening to form.
“And you looked at me the exact same way at that party.”
Your gaze dropped toward the floor.
“You can’t shame me for liking you…”
The words hit him harder than he expected. Straight to the chest.
His heart started beating faster while his breathing turned uneven, one of his hands slowly curling into a fist at his side like he was physically trying to restrain himself.
Then slowly, carefully, he stepped closer, cutting through the space separating the two of you.
“Shame you?” he repeated softly. “I could never do that.”
You looked back up at him.
“What I feel…” He paused, struggling with the words. “What I feel is anger. At myself. For letting this happen. For wanting things I shouldn’t want.”
He wasn’t good at expressing his feelings, he knew that. Still, in that moment, he hoped you would understand what he was really trying to say. How easily you had broken through every wall he’d built around himself.
But the only thing your brain really held onto was anger.
“I understand,” you whispered quietly.
Then you broke eye contact and turned toward the door, your hand reaching for the lock.
“Don’t.”
The word came out way too fast.
His hand landed against the door above your head before you could unlock it, his body suddenly leaning toward you, close enough for you to feel his warmth.
His other hand moved slowly to the back of his neck while he searched for the right words.
You looked up at him now standing in front of you, the door trapped behind him.
“I don’t understand…”
A small smile crossed his face. Tired. Frustrated. Weak.
“I thought you did.”
His hands moved gently to your arms, thumbs brushing softly against your skin while he held your gaze.
Then one of his hands slid slowly to the side of your neck, his fingers huge and warm against your soft skin.
“Do you have any idea…” he murmured, his breathing growing heavier at the sight of you reacting to his touch, “what you’re doing to me?”
You slowly shook your head no, almost innocently.
He leaned closer.
Close enough that you could feel his breath against your lips now, your mouths barely inches apart.
He stayed there for what felt like forever, staring at you like he was fighting himself.
And naturally, your lips moved first, trying to close the distance.
But he didn’t let you.
He stayed just out of reach, watching you chase his mouth with this desperate, touch-starved look in your eyes that nearly destroyed the last bit of control he had left.
And then suddenly — he pulled away.
“I— I’m sorry, I can’t—We can’t-”
No.
You weren’t about to let him run away from this again.
Your hands grabbed his collar and pulled him down to your lips, crashing into him hard enough to make him freeze for half a second.
Then he broke completely.
A rough breath escaped him as he kissed you back like he’d been starving for it. His hands immediately found your hips, pulling you flush against him while your fingers tangled desperately into his hair.
A soft moan slipped from your lips when he finally gave in enough to slide his tongue against yours.
And just like that, every composed, reasonable part of him disappeared.
He couldn’t stop anymore.
Couldn’t get enough of you.
Every ounce of want he’d been suppressing for months poured directly into the kiss. It was messy, sloppy, desperate, breathless. The sound of your mouths colliding sent his blood rushing straight to his cock, making him breath harder than he had before.
When your knee slowly pressed between his legs, the broken sound that escaped his throat melted directly into your mouth.
Weirdly enough, you wanted to be in control, to hear him beg and whimper in your ear. You wondered what kind of other sounds he could make.
Both of your tongues were fighting in your mouth, trying to gain control over the other, but as he was pressed against the door, you knew it was the perfect opportunity to finally assert your dominance. Slowly, you let the hand that was tangled in his hair trail down along his chest, reaching its final destination on top of the bulge growing in his pants.
He let out a soft moan into your mouth, almost like a whisper. Immediately, your lips stopped ravaging his for just a second, allowing yourself to take in the expression he was now giving you.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his eyes falling shut as you kept sliding your hand up and down his cock.
“Does that feel good?” you managed to let out, trying to contain your own moans so you wouldn’t give away how much his reaction affected you.
“Y-yeah.”
It was sweet, seeing him like that—losing control completely under your touch. And you wanted more.
You pulled away from his lips and took your hand off him. At the sudden loss of contact, he looked genuinely confused, but before he could say anything, you slid down his body, letting your knees hit the ground.
His breath hitched as he tried to process the clear intention you were giving him.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to—”
“I wanna make you feel good… please?” you said, looking up at him through your lashes.
As your hands slowly unbuckled his belt, your voice softened, your eyes still fixed on the zipper.
“would you do something for me ?”
“A-anything,” he replied immediately, sounding almost pathetic.
Your hands covered the shape of his cock over the thin fabric of his boxers. “I need you…at your desk.”
A smirk appeared on his face, as if he were slowly regaining the confidence he had lost moments ago while being at your mercy. “Yes, ma’am” he said, almost teasing your authority.
Your gaze didn’t follow him as he walked toward the furniture, but a smirk formed on your lips as you already imagined the sounds he would make once you had him in your mouth.
You turned your back to face him, and suddenly you were on all fours, locking eyes with your professor as you crawled forward like a predator ready to strike. The sight alone felt like it could make him cum right there on the spot. He didn’t remember you being this bold—and it was turning him on more with every passing second.
You didn’t see yourself as bold either, but in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to please him.
You reached your place between his legs and wasted no time continuing what you had started. Your fingers hooked into the elastic of his boxers and slowly pulled them down, revealing his heavy cock. Your mouth was already watering, and your hands couldn’t wait any longer to feel him.
You took him in your dominant hand, stroking his length slowly, just to test how sensitive he was to your touch. Then, without wasting another second, your lips leaned forward, wrapping around the tip, your tongue swirling gently over it.
His jaw dropped at the sensation, his eyes never leaving your mouth. Instinctively, his hands found their way into your hair, pushing it away from your face before gathering it into a loose ponytail. He wasn’t guiding you—just anchoring himself.
The sound that slipped from his throat was low and rough, enough to send a shiver straight through you. For a moment, it seemed to steal the air from his lungs. He still managed to catch his breath just enough to murmur something for you.
“Yeah, baby… just like that.”
His voice came out deep and unsteady, the kind of tone that curled in your stomach and spread warmth through your body. It made your thighs press together almost instinctively, rubbing slowly, the friction only making you more aware of the damp heat between them.
He let his head fall back, listening to the wet, messy sounds coming from your mouth. It was filthy, almost obscene—he hated how pornographic the whole situation felt, and even more how much he loved it. Your hand kept pumping him, like you were trying to draw everything out of him, while saliva dripped from your lips, coating his length and making it glisten under the dim light of his desk lamp.
You pulled away with a soft pop, only for your tongue to slide down his length, licking him from base to tip. A loud groan escaped him, followed by a string of curses—too low for you to fully catch.
But when you took him back into your mouth, moving faster this time, a soft moan vibrated around him, sending a shiver straight through his body. He nearly lost control right then, and he knew he had to stop you if he wanted to last.
He tightened his grip in your hair just enough to make you look up at him, concern flickering in your eyes.
“You don’t like it?” you asked, your lower lip jutting out in a slight pout as your thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, wiping away the drool.
He let out something close to a laugh and cupped your cheeks, pulling your face closer as he leaned down toward you.
“Baby, you have no idea how good you’re making me feel… but I wanna make you feel good too now.”
One of his hands tapped the wood beside him, guiding you to switch positions and sit on the desk. At first, you had wanted to be in control—but you couldn’t deny how much obeying him, letting him handle you, was turning you on.
“Good girl,” he murmured as soon as you were seated.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing near your ear while his thumb traced slow circles against your cheek. He kissed your earlobe before whispering softly, “I want you to keep your eyes on me.”
Your heart nearly skipped a beat, and all you could do was nod quickly, your wide eyes betraying your desire.
As you obeyed, propping yourself up slightly, you watched him stood tall in front of you. The look in his eyes made your breath catch—like he could tear you apart. Now, you felt like the prey, and he looked like something starved.
“Take off your shirt.”
Still holding his gaze, you unbuttoned your top, revealing your breasts wrapped in a simple black lace bra.
His expression turned serious again—the same one he wore when giving a lecture—and this time, it was his turn to kneel.
“Lift up your skirt,” he said as his head was now between your thighs and his index finger was tracing invisible circles over your knee.
You did, pulling the hem up to your stomach, revealing another piece of lace that drew a soft breath from him. The dampness didn’t show through the dark fabric, but he could see it—glistening along your thighs, soaking the delicate material that barely covered you.
He brought his two middle fingers to your center, pressing them gently over the fabric. A gasp slipped from your lips, one you quickly tried to swallow down. He didn’t even look at you, too focused on the dampness now coating his fingers—but you were still watching him, your gaze locked on the movement of his hand.
“You’re soaked for me, baby,” he said, something almost like pity in his voice, before pushing the fabric aside. His fingertips brushed against your wet folds, gathering every bit of you, spreading it slowly along your lips and up to your clit.
The contact made your eyes shut tightly, your teeth sinking into your lower lip, too afraid to let out a sound.
“You don’t want me to hear you?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes.
He was teasing you—you were sure of it.
He rose to his feet, leaning closer, his chest nearly brushing yours, his lips hovering just over your own while his fingers kept moving slowly against your core.
“Fine.” Was all he had to say.
Before you knew it, his other hand came up, his thumb pressing into your mouth. You took it instinctively, sucking around it desperately, the motion reminiscent of what you had done to him.
Without warning, the two fingers teasing you slipped inside, the sudden stretch knocking the air from your lungs. He held them there for a moment, letting you adjust, before pulling them back and pushing them in again, keeping his thumb in your mouth while the rest of his hand cupped your cheek gently, stroking your skin.
He was praising you softly in your ear, whispering sweet words like, “That’s it,” “You’re doing so well,” “Keep taking my fingers,” and “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
The sound of his voice, low and breathless so close to your skin, made your head spin. You felt lightheaded, like you could pass out from the overwhelming mix of pleasure, praise, and the way he kept looking at you like you were everything he wanted.
The contrast—the softness of one hand and the rough rhythm of the other—made your whole body tense. A cry threatened to escape you, but instead, your teeth sank lightly into the base of his thumb.
He hissed at the sting, only to exhale in something closer to pleasure.
Looking at you with that same amused smile, he murmured, his lips barely inches from yours, “Do you really not want me to hear you… or are you just scared someone else might?” he murmured.
Not giving you any time to answer, he pulled his thumb from your mouth and crashed his lips against yours, swallowing any sound you might have made, while his fingers kept moving inside you. The wet sounds between your bodies were obscene, mixing with the mess of your kiss.
You didn’t care anymore—you couldn’t. You were both moaning into each other’s mouths, him almost as loud as you.
As he picked up the pace, he pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.
“Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart… or I’ll stop.”
Your eyes answered for you. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin. The feeling of him moving inside you, the slick sounds, the intensity of it all had your head spinning. You were close—so close—and he could feel it too, your body tightening around his fingers.
Your chest rose and fell rapidly as your breathing grew uneven.
“You like having my fingers buried deep inside you, huh? You wanna come that bad?”
You nodded frantically, feeling his fingers curl, hitting deeper with every movement.
“Pl—please… Jack,” you breathed.
“First name basis, huh?” he teased, though the words dissolved into a groan.
“Pl—please, sir…”
That did it. A low moan escaped him, his control slipping at the name as his fingers curled deeper pressing harder with each thrust against your sweetspot.
His lips brushed against your clavicle, his tongue warm against your skin, while your body tightened desperately around him. And then you broke—your release crashing over you, your voice reduced to broken, helpless sounds.
His hand was soaked, your pleasure spilling over his fingers as he slowly pulled them out of you.
Still holding your gaze, he brought his hand between you, offering one finger to you and keeping one for himself.
Flushed and breathless, you hesitated for only a second. The way he was looking at you—hungry, intense—made your decision for you. You wrapped your lips around his finger, tasting yourself.
He mirrored you, eyes never leaving yours, a low sound vibrating in his throat as he tasted you too.
He pulled his fingers from both of your mouths before slowly dragging his tongue over your lips, trying to get a final taste of you. You had fantasized about having him in this situation many times, but you never thought he would be so feral, so needy—and you loved it.
He placed his hands on your hips, anchoring you in place. You wanted to be good, you needed him to praise you, to tell you how good you were, how good you felt. You would do anything.
“Tell me what to do,” you said, with so much lust in your eyes.
It took him a moment to answer. He was still trying to catch his breath. He didn’t want to be too hard on you, but you were practically begging for it. He loved the way you looked at him, like a puppy waiting for an order, a treat that only he could give you.
“Turn around. Face the desk.”
And you obliged. You rose from the desk, finally on your feet. For an instant, you felt brave—you knew how much your body affected him.
“Want me to take this off?” you asked with a smile, pointing at your bra. “So you can touch me properly?”
He only nodded, and somehow that restraint affected you even more. He looked like he was trying desperately to keep control of himself.
So, with your arms behind your back, you slowly unhooked your bra, letting the straps slide down your shoulders before guiding it away from your chest and letting it fall to the ground.
After a second or two, his hands were on you. Careful at first, almost like he couldn’t believe this was real—you were real. But as soon as he heard the sound that escaped your lips when he took one of your nipples between his fingers, something in him shifted.
He melted almost instantly when his tongue brushed over one of your breasts, his eyes rolling slightly as he hummed against your skin, overwhelmed by the scent of your body.
Your hand tangled in his grey curls, massaging his scalp the same way he was massaging your breast.
He let go of your tit with a wet pop before quickly moving to the other one, clearly bothered he hadn’t given it the same attention.
He kept palming your chest until he felt like he had enough—or like you had enough. You both needed each other now; your bodies were screaming for it.
You pulled him back up to you, pressing your mouth against his immediately, sliding your tongue in as you both moaned into each other’s mouths, his hands all over your body.
He broke away. “Turn around now.”
And you did. You had had enough teasing—you needed him inside you now.
Your stomach pressed against the warm wood, still heated from where you had been sitting moments earlier, and you rested your left cheek against it as he had asked. From there, you could still see him if you looked back.
“Be a good girl for me and spread your legs,” he said, almost out of breath, like he was already inside you.
You obeyed, revealing more of your cunt still trapped in your underwear. He slid them down your ankles, letting them stretch between your feet. He didn’t remove your skirt though—he liked the way it sat just on top of your ass.
One of his hands brushed over the skin of your back, making you shiver, while the other wrapped around his length, pumping slowly a few times before aligning himself with your entrance.
The contact of his tip against your core made you both exhale a low moan, and he took the opportunity to slide it along your wet folds, gathering the remnants of your release from earlier.
Slowly, he leaned forward, finally letting himself feel you around him. He had barely pushed the tip in before another moan slipped from your lips, breathy and desperate, your whole body reacting instantly to him.
Ignoring your needy little pleas for him to move faster, he pushed in slowly instead, savoring every inch, completely mesmerized by the way your body welcomed him so perfectly.
Your hands searched blindly for something to hold onto, fingers slipping against the wood beneath you, while his had already found exactly what they needed. One hand settled firmly against the soft curve between your hip and your ass while the other gripped the fabric of your skirt tightly in his fist.
You reached back instinctively, placing your hand over his. He guided your fingers into the fabric before covering your hand again with his larger one, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
You were so tight around him that he had to slow down, forcing himself to steady his breathing before finally sinking deeper inside you.
“You’re perfect… so tight for me,” he groaned softly, pulling back just enough before rolling his hips into you again, deeper this time.
The hand on your hip held you firmly enough that you already knew bruises would bloom there by morning. Every slow thrust dragged another sound from your throat, making you forget completely about staying quiet.
Now your moans came freely, mixing with his low groans behind you.
“Yeah? You like that?” he whispered, punctuating every word with another deep thrust that punched tiny gasps out of you.
Your eyes had turned glossy, tears gathering at the corners from how overwhelming it all felt. Your lips stayed parted, soft moans spilling from them every time he moved.
The sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, skin against skin, almost drowning out the breathless noises leaving both of you. You felt yourself tightening around him again, your body reacting helplessly to every movement.
Suddenly, the hand at your hip slid upward, gripping your shoulder before pulling your body flush against his chest. Your back arched instantly against him, your head nearly falling onto his shoulder as the new angle made him feel impossibly deeper.
A broken sound escaped you.
“You close, baby?” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and strained now.
“F-fuck… yes, please,” you breathed out desperately, barely able to think anymore.
“Want you to c-cum inside pl-please”
The groan he let out against your skin was low and wrecked, his control slipping more and more with every passing second. His grip tightened as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, teeth sanking in your skin.
“Oh, fuck…”
His rhythm lost its steadiness, becoming rougher, needier, every movement filled with desperation now. Meanwhile, your own voice had dissolved completely into broken moans, a few “yes yes FUCK ”, and repeated whispers of his name.
The pressure building inside you finally snapped, pleasure crashing through your body hard enough to make your legs tremble beneath you. He kept holding you through it and a few moments later, he followed after you with a few messy thrusts, collapsing slightly against your back, breathless and trembling as he held you close, both of you still shaking from the intensity of it.
He pulled out of you slowly, completely mesmerized by the sight of his release mixing with yours and slipping down your thighs. His fingers quickly gathered what threatened to drip onto the floor before he brought them up to your lips, sliding them gently into your mouth.
You sucked softly on his fingers, eyes fluttering shut as you savored the lingering taste.
His breath caught in his throat at the sight of you, and he had to force himself not to groan out loud.
When you finally let his fingers slip from your lips, your eyes locked with his.
“You sure we can’t do this anymore?” you asked quietly, genuinely needing to hear his answer. Because if he said no—if he told you this had been a mistake, something that could never happen again—you were sure you would break apart right there in front of him.
A soft scoff escaped him, closer to a laugh than anything else, as he stepped toward you and pressed a kiss against your cheek.
“Baby,” he murmured, his lips still brushing your skin, “now that I’ve had a taste of you, I’m never gonna be able to stop.”
That finally pulled a smile from you. You grabbed the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer before kissing him again, letting him taste the last traces of you still lingering on your tongue.
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
andulkaphoto
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
blakekathryn
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