I mostly just write for The Pitt, I will take requests for 911 and 911 lone star, star wars, Chicago fire and med(not PD) and any marvel characters but my main is The Pitt.
50 ways to leave your lover. (6k followers celebration fic!)
(michael 'robby' robinavitch x ex-wife!reader)
The four times Robby tries to win you back after your divorce, and the one time he finally manages to lock it all down.
warnings: 18+, mdni! explicit sexual content, ex-husband!robby, robby's done some work pre-sabbatical in this universe, doesn't follow pitt s2 timelines, age gap (34/52), robby sleeps with his medical student (what's new?) oral (f receiving), protected sex, ditching dates for your ex-husband w/c: 5k
main masterlist // robby masterlist
Number one. Eighteen months post-divorce. The Abbot-Mohan wedding.
Stupid Jack Abbot.
Were it not his wedding day today, you'd seriously consider wringing his neck. The only thing stopping you is the prospect of widowing Samira after three hours of marriage.
Your first encounter had been right at the front door, where Robby and Jack were positioned to greet the guests.
This, you were prepared for.
Jack's his best friend. There was no way he wasn't going to be at this wedding. So, you plaster a smile across your face, and put on the show of a lifetime.
Jack's easy. You've always liked him. He was Best Man at your own wedding to Robby.
It becomes more of a struggle when your eyes land on the man you thought you'd be with for the rest of your life. "Michael," You nod curtly, decidedly not going in for the hug you had with Jack.
He holds a hand to his chest in faux-offence. "You wound me, sweetheart. I thought we put the animosity to bed with the divorce settlement."
There hadn't been much to settle. No children, and Robby let you keep the house. The only thing he let you give him was your engagement ring.
The sight of it made you sick. A reminder of all the ways you failed each other.
At the time, it felt like an attack - like he was trying to one-up you, prove that he could be the bigger person. Eighteen months on, you're endlessly glad you didn't have to try and find another place to live while your world was crumbling around you.
"You look good," he continues, and when your gaze meets his, you know he's being sincere.
"I should get inside," is your reply. "I promised Dana I'd grab seats for her and Benji."
And with that, your first interaction with Robby in twelve months comes to a close.
*****
Glancing quickly at the seating chart, your heart sinks when you see your name scrawled next to Michael Robinavitch. Normally Best Man is up beside the couple, but the Mohan-Abbots had opted for a sweetheart table.
Meaning you're doomed to four hours of your ex-husband's company. And what's worse: you're enjoying it.
Robby's always looked good in a tux, but the charm offensive is at its highest today - pressing a kiss to your cheek in greeting, dealing out the compliments in spades, and refilling your glass each time it starts to get low.
"Remember ours?" He asks, voice quiet as he leans over to you during the first dance.
"Of course I do. We danced to Roy Orbison and then my heel snapped halfway through, so I had to go barefoot for the rest of the night."
"That was a good day," He muses, expression unreadable as he watches Jack and Samira. He looks almost... wistful?
"Yeah, it was. Pity they weren't all like that."
Against all the odds, COVID had been one of the better times for you and Robby. Freshly married, where the work had been absolute hell, you'd found solace in each other.
Things were good, until they weren't. Until Robby couldn't outrun his demons anymore, and then stopped trying entirely.
"Yeah, uhm, about that..." He says softly. "I wanted to apologise."
This you weren't expecting. Arching an eyebrow, you turn towards him. "For what?"
"For everything," Robby murmurs, his gaze finally dropping from Jack and Samira to his own hands. He swallows hard, his jaw tight as he traces the line of his thumb. "For checking out. Giving up on us."
Your hand tightens around your wine glass, as you search his expression - looking for the catch, the deflection. You find none. "It's in the past now, anyway." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "We just... weren't meant to be. And that's fine."
"Mhm," is his only response. As if unconvinced.
You're not even sure you've convinced yourself, much less him, and against your better judgement, he talks you into a dance.
Were it not a wedding, you're positive you'd be able to resist him. But when it feels like everybody around you is perfectly happy and coupled up, you find it incredibly easy to slip back into Robby's embrace.
You still have some sense.
Keeping his hand firmly on your waist, rather than slipping downwards to where it used to settle, you try and think of anything but the man in front of you.
The potential melanoma that you saw in clinic last week.
Not the wrinkle lines that crease at Robby's eyes.
Your shopping list for next week.
Not how warm he feels against you.
The fact that you're running out of Black Honey.
Not anything to do with Michael Robinavitch.
You tap out after a ballad, unable to take the proximity to him anymore, and excuse yourself to go mingle with Dana and Perlah.
The rest of the night is spent willing yourself not to look back over at him.
*****
"You know, it'll be us next," Robby says, voice low as he watches you say goodbye to Samira.
"By us, do you mean your ex-wife?" Jack asks, eyebrow arched. "Because I hate to break it to you, brother, but you've already done that. And it went up in fuckin' flames."
"It would be different this time," Robby shakes his head.
"Yeah? How?"
"You'll see." Robby pats Jack on the back, and gets to his feet, moving to intercept you as you make for the door. The stairs down from the venue are pretty steep, and he clocked your Louboutins during dinner.
He bought you that pair on your honeymoon. He wonders if you remember.
"Need a hand?"
He can see that you're about to decline, before taking a sample step, and letting out a sigh. "Yes, please."
Robby tries not to let the contact get to his head too quickly as he slips an arm through yours. He hadn't even realised until tonight just how much he's missed you.
Truly.
The days after he moved out of your shared house had been some of the worst of his entire life. After about six months of no-contact, he'd finally decided that he needed to get his life together, and move on with things.
Get back on the horse, as Jack put it.
Except now it's eighteen months on from the divorce, he's been on exactly zero dates, and all he can think about is winning you back.
"This is purely because I can't walk in these shoes," You warn. "Nothing more."
Robby's jolted from his daydream and back to reality. Right. You don't want him back at all.
He's gotta find a way to change that.
Number two. Nineteen months post-divorce. A persistence.
After Jack and Samira's wedding, you're not expecting to see Robby again until they start having kids and you're invited to the baby shower.
That doesn't appear to be the case when you watch his motorcycle pull into the parking lot of your clinic exactly one week later.
A notch appears between your brows immediately, but you're still in the middle of a consultation - you have a feeling that your patient wouldn't be too thrilled with you leaping up to investigate.
Instead, you assure her that her mole has not, in fact, grown three centimetres since you saw her last week. It takes multiple pictures and two rulers before she'll even consider that it may be stress-related.
By the time you're finished, the last person you want to deal with is your ex-husband.
At least it's a paeds clinic after lunch. The children tend to be much easier to handle, and usually have straight-forward presentations. Eczema, contact dermatitis, or psoriasis for the teens.
All things you can do in your sleep.
But first, lunch. And getting Michael Robinavitch to leave.
He's leaning over the desk at reception, one of his more charming smiles plastered across his face as he talks to Pippa at reception. “I was just wondering if you knew when she'd be finish– oh, there she is. No need. Thanks for all your help.”
You've known Pippa for two years, and you've never once seen her crack a smile out in the lobby. She's practically grinning at Robby.
Uh oh.
This is bad.
Still scowling at him, you reach for the collar of his shirt and tug sharply, forcing him to fall into step behind you as you head for your office.
You don't need to air all your dirty laundry in the middle of your practice.
As soon as the door clicks shut, you're spinning on your heel. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Robby just shrugs. “You said you work Fridays usually. Thought you might like some company for lunch.”
“You know - ex-husbands don't usually just hang out with their ex-wives.”
“When have we ever been ordinary though?” He's exhaustingly chipper today - a far cry from his demeanour during the latter years of your marriage.
You take him in, trying to work out if this is all some big practical joke. After trying to tell yourself that the Abbot-Mohan wedding was a fluke, you grudgingly have to admit to yourself that Robby does look good.
He's got exactly the right amount of scruff going for him right now, he's lost the alcohol bloat, and he seems like there's less of the world's weight on his shoulders.
“I don't think this is a good idea.”
“Lunch is always a good idea,” He replies easily. “Three meals a day, and all that.”
There's no way out of this. Once Robby sets his mind to something, he's going to get it. Sighing heavily, you reach for your bag and jacket. “Only if you're paying.”
“Always, sweetheart.”
You fight the urge to remind him that your salary exceeds his by about 40k a year these days, with all the private work.
Even when you were married, you were still the official breadwinner of the family. Skin pays more than emergencies.
“And don't call me sweetheart.”
You're expecting some kind of quip, or snarky remark, but he just nods, and offers you his hand. “Got it.”
“We're not holding hands.”
Another nod, and he follows you out of the clinic and onto the street. You pretend to miss the looks exchanged between your staff.
A few of them know Robby already, and you're betting the ones that don't are wondering why you've been keeping him a secret.
“Noted. Hand-holding's more of a date two activity then?”
The expression on your face is nothing short of murderous. “This is not a date. It's lunch.”
“With somebody you've slept with many, many times before.”
Whatever illusions you'd managed to conjure of Robby after the wedding are completely shattered.
Because Michael Robinavitch is many things, but cool and suave are not amongst them. He's annoying and persistent, and a bad husband.
“I'm going back inside and ordering from Uber Eats-”
“No, no, no - wait!” A hand curls round your wrist, and you think that there might be a hint of desperation in his tone. “M'sorry, shit - just, don't go.”
“Why not?” Yanking your arm out of his grasp, you cross them both over your chest, and do your best to stare him down.
He swallows heavily, voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. “I miss you.”
"Robby," You sigh, but he cuts you off.
"We were in each other's lives for almost a decade - don't you think it's a little unnatural for that to have all disappeared? Surely we can be friends."
You have to bite back a scream. "If I remember correctly, it was you who didn't want to be friends."
"I didn't want us to break up in the first place!"
It slips out without thought, and you're suddenly regretting taking a lunch break at all. "I'm not doing this here," You start, but he beats you to the draw.
"Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He scratches the back of his neck, and glances around the sidewalk before his chin drops to his chest. "I've been doing the work. Going to therapy, no more alcohol, you name it. M'even taking some time off work to really get into it all."
The Robby you were married to would never have considered taking the blame for his actions.
"Can't undo the last decade, Michael," you reply softly.
"I know," he insists. "I know. Believe me. It's a well-discussed topic in therapy. I just... I'm trying to be better. And I want to try and make things right with you. One hundred percent platonically."
"You literally just called this a date," you deadpan.
He scoffs. "I didn't say I was perfect."
Number three. Twenty months post-divorce. Another man.
Apparently, you and Robby text now.
You're as surprised as anybody else, but in the time you've been separated, Robby's persistence appears to have intensified greatly.
Each Thursday, he meets you at the clinic for lunch, having bribed newly-qualified attending Frank to cover for him.
He offers to pick you up after nights out, which you accept more often than not (you hate getting Ubers when you're drunk).
Currently?
He's fixing your busted boiler.
You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't dropped it into a text because you knew that he would drop everything to come and fix it for you. Even with a sabbatical looming in just a week, his reply had been instantaneous.
Now, you're perched on the washing machine while you watch a sweaty Robby tinker around in the washroom.
He's already been warned that you have a date tonight, and therefore has to be finished by seven - complete honesty is the main policy of this tentatively developing friendship.
All you'd received in response had been a thumbs up.
That means he's furious.
Really, it had been a little mean on your part. But he doesn't have a claim to you anymore, and you need him to know that if he's going to still be in your life.
When you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you're not expecting your phone to be in Robby's hand when you return. "Roger from Hinge said he's going to be late tonight."
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Your phone vibrated. Thought it might have been an emergency."
You snatch it out of his grasp and scowl. "Why would an emergency text and not call?"
You both go to step at once, awkwardly colliding chest-to-chest. "Can I see a picture of him?"
"What? No!"
"Why not? Thought we were being honest."
It amazes you that Robby manages to somehow be the most serious man you've ever met, and also emulate a toddler with his petulance. You reach for your phone, and don't even notice Robby dipping his head.
His lips are on yours, and suddenly you're twenty-six again and making out with your attending for the first time after the worst shift of your life.
You'd already decided that Emergency Medicine was not for you, but that Michael Robinavitch absolutely was.
In your head, it was going to be a fling. Something sexy and secret for your final year of med school.
The wedding had been a surprise - you never thought that Robby was the type.
The 3 carat emerald cut bezel had told you otherwise. You'd never been able to build up the courage to ask him exactly how much money he spent on it.
The divorce had been an even bigger surprise.
Not to you, by the end. The last eighteen months of your seven-year-marriage had been decidedly less-than-stellar, to the point where couples counselling couldn't even make a dent.
After COVID and Pittfest, you didn't even recognise your husband anymore. You didn't recognise yourself.
While your mind might be surprised by the contact, your body certainly isn't, and you gasp into his mouth.
His hands are everywhere, hauling you closer to him, and you can feel your carefully-applied lipstick smudging across his cheek.
It's only after two minutes of kissing that you finally pull back, and surface to catch your breath. "Robby, I have to go - I have plans."
He's not quite so easily deterred, though. "Yeah, with a guy who looks just like me." You didn't even make it to showing Robby his photo, and yet he's right. Tall, dark, and broody - you've very clearly got a type. He leans in to kiss you again, feeling a perverse sense of pleasure when you melt into his touch. "You could have the real thing, baby. I'm right here."
That's the problem. Ever since you reconnected with him at Jack and Samira's wedding, it's like Robby has been everywhere.
He's practically inescapable.
He moves to suck a mark onto your collarbone, and you make the feeblest of attempts to push him off. "This is a bad idea."
"It's only a bad idea if we make it one," Robby hums, crowding you up against the kitchen counter, as you feel your willpower start to seep away. You have plans with Roger in thirty minutes.
But when Robby sinks to his knees in front of you, hiking one leg over his shoulder, you forget he even exists. “Say the word, and I will,” He mumbles.
There are many words that would end this right now.
Stop. No. Don't.
And yet, your lips can't seem to conjure any of them. You try and form each of the letters, but the only one that forms is an R.
Then an O.
Two B's.
And a Y.
He doesn't need to move your underwear to get you where you need to go. Kissing and nipping, licking and sucking - your grip on the doorframe tightens with every passing second.
Suddenly, you're struck with a vision of a morning with Robby, a week before you filed for divorce. A vision of what your future could be like if you let him in again.
The television hums in the background, something neither of you is watching. Dinner's been sitting in the oven on low for almost half an hour. The chicken is drying out.
You hear him sigh before he even rounds the corner into the kitchen.
"Hey." His voice is flat. Tired.
You look up from the sink. "Hey."
He drops his keys into the bowl by the door. Misses. Doesn't bother picking them up.
"Long day?"
"Mhm."
You wait for something more. Anything. But it doesn't come.
"You want me to plate up dinner?"
"If you want."
It's always 'if you want' these days. It's a Herculean effort to bite your tongue. "My brother called - asked if we wanted to come round next weekend."
"M'working." It's barely more than a grunt.
"You've worked the last six Saturdays - surely someone else could cover. Jack would cover. You could tell them no for once."
"I can't."
"You mean you won't."
"Stop!"
Your voice is the firmest it's been all night. Chest heaving, it's all you can manage to scramble away from Robby. He kneels where he is, hands hesitating where you were just a second ago.
"W-What's wrong? Did I do something?"
Your lip is trembling. “I don't think I can do this again. You hurt me so much, Michael. I-I mean, you're fucking leaving in a week-”
Robby's face falls.
“M'going on sabbatical, not leaving. I'm really trying to work the rest of my shit out. Let me do that, and then let me win you back. Please. I haven't done any of this solely to get you back. But I can't imagine being with anyone else.”
He folds his hands together.
"I spent a long time thinking providing was enough. That if I worked harder, put in more hours, kept the lights on, paid the mortgage..." He shrugs. "That was love."
"You stopped talking to me."
"I know."
"You stopped letting me in."
"I know."
Finally, you summon the courage to ask the million dollar question. "Would it be different this time? If we did it again?"
"Yes." He sounds so sure of his answer that you're almost envious.
But you're still not quite ready. "I hope you're not expecting me to sit at home for three months and wait for you."
"Never," he replies immediately, and you genuinely believe him. "I just want to be in the running again. And earn it. Properly."
Number four. Two years post-divorce. A date.
Robby. 22:01.
Just got back to town
What are you up to?
You hate your heart for doing a little flip as soon as it sees Robby's name flash on your phone.
Two years ago, the same sight made you sick to your stomach.
He had told you that he'd be in touch when he was finished with his sabbatical, but you assumed that meant you'd get a call a week after he was home. Not the same night.
Maybe Michael Robinavitch has had some character growth. Maybe he could be a good husband this time round-
No. You can't let yourself think like that.
You and Robby got divorced for a reason. Many reasons. More reasons than you got married in the first place.
He was married to his work, first and foremost. Never once did he stray, and he barely even glanced at the nurses and interns who would look at him with stars in their eyes, and yet you were still the other woman within your own marriage.
Then there were the self-destructive tendencies. The times when he'd hit the alcohol a little too hard after a long shift, and be almost unresponsive for hours as he slept it off.
Mostly, you think it was the refusal to try and help himself.
To try therapy. Properly. Not just a few meetings before calling it quits, but really making some efforts towards self-improvement. He couldn't do it for himself, and he wouldn't do it for you.
You couldn't handle the stress long-term. Of not knowing when he'd be home that night, or whether you were getting sweet, romantic Michael, or sour-faced Robby.
It had been the hardest decision of your life, serving him with divorce papers.
But it clearly all worked out for the better. You're both healthier apart, though happier is probably debatable. You like the peace that being single affords you.
So why are you considering letting him back in, after all the therapy and work to get over him?
"Is everything okay?" Mark's voice cuts through your spiral, and your gaze snaps up to him.
"Hm?"
"You get bad news or something? You've been staring at your phone for like two minutes."
Shit.
Your fingers start moving before you can consider your response. If Robby's matured so much, he'll be perfectly alright with this.
You. 22:04.
I'm on a date, actually
"Sorry, it was just work. Asking for a consult." Your smile is tight, and you're hoping he doesn't see through the very obvious lie.
If he does, he doesn't comment on it, and you return to your conversation about shares, or stocks, or something equally boring.
Robby had handled all the investment stuff while you were married, and now you pay someone to do it for you.
Finally, he heads up to the bar to get more drinks, and you slip your phone out again.
Robby. 22:05.
When will you be done?
I'll come and pick you up.
Miss my girl.
A text like that from anybody other than Robby would have earned an instant block. Unfortunately, despite his three months away, you're still not immune to the Robinavitch charm.
You never have been.
Besides - you'd already decided you weren't going to sleep with Mark tonight. He's a nice enough guy, but the deal had been sealed when you'd been discussing music, and he hadn't known who Patti Smith was. This man is not your soulmate. But going home alone would mean a date with your vibrator, and one orgasm at most.
Robby would double that, at least.
You. 22:21.
...Not your girl
But you can pick me up around 11.
You shoot him the address of the bar, and consider how you're definitely going to hell for this.
The rest of the date passes in half-time, so painfully slowly that you figure you must have a few new wrinkles than you did at the start. Finally, it's time to make your escape. To ease the impending blow, you throw down your half of the cheque in notes, along with a sizeable tip. "You know, I'm really sorry, but there actually was a work emergency. Thought it would be okay, but they need me in."
"A... dermatology emergency?"
"They're more common than you'd think - my colleague is coming to pick me up," You lie through your teeth. "But I had a really nice night."
Another lie.
You try to dart out so that Mark won't see you leave with Robby, but no luck. The motorcycle is pulled up to the curb with Robby leaning against it, a second helmet in his hands.
“I thought you were going to bring the car!” You hiss, throwing Mark an apologetic glance over your shoulder.
"Bike was what I was riding, and I missed my girl. Mark have a problem with that?"
"If he knew you were my ex, probably."
Maybe you and Robby do deserve each other. God, you're awful. Robby clips the helmet under your chin, and you pretend to not notice your date's gaze staring at you both while he waits for his car to be brought round.
"You ready?"
You nod, though you feel anything but. You've never liked the bike, much to Robby's chagrin. One of his favourite things is having you wrap your arms around his waist while he drives.
*****
Fuck, he knows you too well. It's almost unfair, that even after over a year of separation that he still knows you better than anybody in the world.
There are no pleasantries. No discussions. Just a beeline for the house, before clothes are discarded in a haphazard manner as you try and make it to the bedroom in one piece.
You don't quite make it there before Robby gives you orgasm number one. Torso on the top landing, he gets carried away on the staircase, leaving you totally seeing stars.
Thankfully, he's more than familiar with the house layout, and carries you the rest of the way.
“W-Wait - condom," You interrupt. Last thing you need is a baby to complicate matters. He reaches for the bedside table, complete muscle memory, but you shake your head. “Down one.”
He huffs a little, obviously put out at the change in what he still considers to be his home.
Of course, the fact that you have these at all makes his blood boil a little.
Not that you can't have seen other people.
You've been separated for almost two years, and were growing apart long before that, but god is he so glad to have you like this again. In the home that you both shared - on the bed that he paid for.
Like nothing ever went wrong.
Determined to put the memory of all other men to shame, Robby takes you around his cock, before giving you his fingers and tongue again. By the time you come down, you're more spent than he's ever seen you before.
You're barely awake as you curl into his side. "How was the trip?"
"Really great," he answers honestly. "Did me a lot of good, but I'm glad to be back. Missed you too much."
"Shouldn't be telling you this," you hum slightly, eyes fluttering closed. "But I missed you too."
Number five. Three years post-divorce. Forever.
“You have some white coming in,” You hum, fingers carding through Robby's hair where his head rests in your lap. The windows are cracked open just enough to let a breeze in, and you can hear the faint sounds of a lawn mower down the street.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
You separate a few strands between your fingers, tilting his head toward the light. "Right here. My favourite old man."
Robby scoffs. "That feels excessive."
"Well, you did marry a woman eighteen years younger than you. Feels like something you brought on yourself."
You think back to the man who used to come home after twelve-hour shifts, kiss you on the forehead, tell you he was just tired, then carry the weight of the world around in silence until it crushed everything else.
This version of Robby still has bad days.
Still wakes up anxious sometimes. Annoyed. Still gets overwhelmed by work. Still occasionally retreats to the garage or the backyard for half an hour when his head gets too loud.
The difference is that he always comes back.
And he lets you help.
Sure, it had been a little embarrassing announcing that you were back with your ex-husband - especially after all the shit that had gone down between you both.
But Robby had been right.
There's no one else you could ever imagine being with.
Despite all this, you're still shocked when the next words fall from his lips. "Marry me."
"What?" Your fingers freeze mid-motion, and you try to gage from his upside-down expression whether he's joking or not. You don't think he is.
"Marry me. Again."
"Holy shit," You breathe, head spinning. "What? Are you joking?"
He sits up, turning to take your hands in his. "Deadly serious, sweetheart. I uh, didn't really know what the etiquette was for this kind of thing - I know you liked your first ring, but that felt sort of like bad karma. So I was thinking, if you say yes, we could go shopping for a new one together."
A few years ago, you would have been making the biggest mistake of your life. Now, you don't feel a shred of hesitation. "Yes."
His face breaks into a smile. "Yeah?"
You nod, lip between your teeth as you fight back tears. "Fuck it. Let's get married again."
thinking about being a soft dom to sub!robby and his soft whines when his back’s against the bed, riding him and not allowing him to move.
“you’ve already done so much today, baby. let me do it”
😵💫😵💫😵💫😵💫😵💫😵💫😵💫
UH HUHHH. YOU GET IT. pushing at his chest calmly but no less forcefully after robby tries to take control of the situation as he always does, guiding him to flop down until he hits against the back of the bed with a thud. the way robby grunts in surprise and his eyes widen at your display of dominance never fails to make you hot all over, murmuring soft and sweet to him "you just take what i give you, okay mikey?" impossible not to grin at him when a broken and hoarse whimper rips out of him in response to your sweet tone and the hard contrast it has with the hard pace you've set on top of him "you’ve already done so much today, baby. let me do it” you say, before leaning in to kiss him, swallowing all the pretty helpless sounds he's making. riding him until he's utterly brainless beneath you, just a broken, desperate man that keeps mumbling his words in a low and raspy tone "g-god- honey, you're gonna kill me. so so good to me- fuck fuck- fuck!"
OUR LITTLE SECRET. SMUT. mdni! workplace sex. mean!robby. fem!reader. throat-fucking with fingers. allusions to choking. praise. big dick robby. use of pet names 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹
thinking about seeing robby in secret and teasing the hell out of him on shift. robby groaning his usual disgruntled “fuck me” after dealing with a particularly frustrating patient to which you cheekily mutter, “i mean…” with other doctors in earshot. robby’d just look at you with a face akin to disbelief, though this wasn’t the first time you’d hinted at your secret arrangement just to fuck with him, so that wasn’t quite right. the look was more predatory than anything.
so that little comment would end with you bent over the breakroom counter while he bullied his large cock into your pussy, groaning at how well you clenched around him. he seldom fucked you on shift for fear of getting caught, but he was not past putting you back in your place when you were clearly in need of it.
“robby, mmph, s- slow down! too big,” you whined helplessly, his heavy balls slapping your ass with every thrust. robby covered your mouth with his hand, sticking two fingers down your throat. “ah-ah, baby. you were asking for this, weren’t you? you wanted my big cock. now take what i fucking give you.”
you could only whimper and submit to him as he pounded you into the counter, efforts nothing short of relentless until he was cumming into your pussy, pulling you in by the waist to make sure you took every drop. robby wasn’t usually a quickie kind of guy, but certain circumstances allowed for it.
he leaned over your shoulder and spoke right into your ear, placing his hand on your neck not to squeeze but to warn. “you gonna behave the rest of my shift, baby?” he rasped, to which you nodded. “yeah? gonna be my good girl again?”
“m- mhm. so good, robby, promise,” you said meekly, too fucked-out to speak any louder. robby pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek, a stark contrast to his earlier ministrations.
“there’s a girl. now, clean yourself up, honey. we’ve got a job to do.”
the way he’d look at you before absolutely destroying your pussy ‹𝟹
── .✦ ANDREW 'POPE' CODY and his nympho girlfriend
★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT WARNINGS 18+ MDNI fem reader, reader has breasts, hypersexual / sexually insatiable reader, established relationship, oral sex (male receiving (except not receiving? don't know how to describe it)), edging / orgasm denial themes, mild degradation language (pope being condescending) spit/bodily fluid imagery, rough handling, very light humiliation / praise-kink mix)
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
Pope is still locking the front door when you brush past, bare feet padding across the hardwoods, skin glowing as though you've been hoarding sunlight all day just to pour it on him.
He swears he doesn't deserve it.
The shirt you stole from his drawer, an old skate tee with the collar chewed to hell, slides over your body and lands in a loose heap on the floor. Your tits bounce lightly as they're freed.
Fuck. He could stare at them for hours, probably has, memorizing every curve and shadow with the grim focus he brings to anything he loves too much.
“Easy, baby,” Pope warns, even though his heart is tearing through him, dragging every dirty possibility in its wake. “I bought groceries. At least let me put the milk —”
“Later.” You tug the plastic bag from his hand, thunk it onto the entry table, and hook a finger through his belt loop. “Kitchen’s close enough.”
The fridge whirs, oblivious, while you drag him backward until thighs hit cool marble.
Pope can smell cilantro, gasoline from his truck, the sweet-and-salty rush in your sweat. You taste it, too, licking the hollow beneath his ear like a kid sneaking frosting.
“One track mind,” he mutters, masking a thick swallow when his jeans tent under your touch.
You pull back just far enough to look at him.
“That's not true. I think about a lot of things. They all just end —” Your hand settles over the hardening shape in his pants. “— here.”
He laughs a little, but it dies when you kneel.
You slip two fingers beneath the waistband, teasing skin before tugging down. Fabric puddles at his feet, leaving him bare and aching. You move to trace the underside with your tongue, a lazy path from root to head, then look up through your lashes.
“You leave me alone for hours.” Your hand tightens at the base of his cock, possessive. “What else am I supposed to wait for but you coming home and letting me have this?”
Pope guides himself to tap against your tongue. You happily oblige with an open mouth.
“Yeah? You wait all nice and good for me, princess, or did those needy little fingers wander?” He feigns a thoughtful hum. “Sheets looked a little rumpled when I walked in.”
He watches your mouth struggle to form words, tension fluttering in your cheeks where he fills them.
“Tried,” you admit, voice thick with obstruction. “Made it ‘til lunch before I… got impatient.” Your palm glides up his length in apology. “Does that still count as waiting?”
He winds your hair around his knuckles and tugs until you’re staring straight up at him, guiding your mouth off him with a soft pop.
Pope clicks his tongue, pity painted on like cheap gold leaf.
“Aw, sweetheart. Must've felt like torture, didn’t it?” His thumb smears the shine across your swollen lip, then lifts so you can see the string of spit stretch. “Don't worry, I'll help you learn some real patience... after you watch me finish what you couldn't wait for.”
MARIA NOTE happy tuesday besties! wishing u love in your heart and freakiness in your spirit! stay cunty! stay hot!
Pope is still locking the front door when you brush past, bare feet padding across the hardwoods, skin glowing as though you've been hoarding sunlight all day just to pour it on him.
SHAKESPEARE WHO? MARIA I READ THIS PART LIKE 3 TIMES IT'S SO POETIC!!! THIS WAS AMAZINGGG 🫶
SYNOPSIS: When it comes to Charlie, you're always happy to be of use, so long as he's the one giving you attention.
⟢ PROMPT 10 OF KINKTOBER: pet play, cock worship, face/throat fucking
CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Age gap implied [Charlie is 50, reader is 25+]. Established relationship (sort of toxic if you squint). Sir/Authority kink. Dom/sub elements. Pet Play w/leash usage. Cock Worship. Throat fucking. Degradation w/little praise. Dirty talk. Everything is consensual! I haven't watched Chicago PD so I apologize if Charlie is ooc.
A/N: First little fic of 2026 and it's for my kinktober from last year lmao. Yes I'm still working through it, yes I plan on finishing it regardless of how long it takes me! This was lowkey hard to write & put together for some reason & I'm unsure of it, but it got done so that's all that matters. This also might not be everybody's cup of tea, and I get that so please read the tags and go from there. Anyways, I hope that those who do like that evil fawkin white man Charlie enjoy this one. Proofread by moi. Reblogs, comments, and likes are always greatly appreciated. <3
NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3
Charlie always knew he wasn’t like other men.
His urges were intense. His desires were more fervent than that of most people. When it comes to sex and intimacy, it’s all about control for him, about having the upper hand and blowing off steam. Just like his constant pursuit of wanting more, of wanting everything he believes is owed to him, he’s all intense words and fake promises, carrying his facade like a mask that’s molded to the rest of his face.
You knew the kind of man Charlie was, at least from what he wanted to tell you. He didn’t open up much; never showed you anything more than what you could handle, but he didn’t need to, not when you were so willing to accept whatever he gave you without question.
You were only supposed to be a fling to him, something pretty to look at whenever he had the time to give you some attention. He expected you to leave after a while, to get bored of him and find someone a bit more normal, stable maybe. But you didn’t. He’d push you away, and you’d wait patiently until you could reel him back in, until he’d let you give him what he constantly denied himself.
Sometimes surrendering wasn’t all that bad.
The collar Charlie had gifted you digs into the skin of your neck, the small charm pendant at the front dangles over the column of your throat. The carpet on the floor chafes against your knees, but you don’t seem to mind, not when your face was nuzzled into the man’s crotch as he sat in his armchair. Bare wearing just your panties, you find yourself lost in the bump that grew under the cotton of his briefs, salivating at the wet spot growing over the dark fabric.
A tug of the leash connected to your collar brings your attention back to Charlie’s face.
“What is it? Need something?”
You pout at him and nod pathetically at his question, keeping your eyes on his despite the burning in your cheeks. He pulls at the tether again in an attempt to bring you closer to him, the collar you wore pinching you even more as you crane your neck to glance at him.
“This is the part where you tell me what you want. You know the rules. Be verbal with me or you’ll be sitting here all night.”
“Want to suck your cock, sir. Want to be good for you.” It was a meek confession, the sudden commanding tone of his voice brought a shiver to roll down your spine.
“Yeah? You want to put your mouth on my dick like the good little pet you are, huh?”
You nod again, dropping your head into his lap to hide from his piercing stare. One of your hands skimmed over his inner thigh, creeping up to the center of his briefs to palm at the growing bulge you desperately wanted to touch.
“Yeah, I know you do. Go ahead baby. Why don’t you take me out and show me exactly why I keep you around?”
Following his command, you yank down the material that kept him hidden, wrenching the dark cotton down his thick legs and tossing them somewhere to the floor. You dove in head first with zero hesitation, mouthing at the freckled skin of his navel and lower abdomen. A small jerk of the leash brings you right where you needed to be, your tongue slithering out to taste him the way you’ve been craving.
The wet muscle follows the path of his happy trail and flicks over the crown of his mushroom tip, circling around the firm skin of his cock and lapping at the leaking slit. His salty precum stains your tongue, chasing the flavor as you continued to eagerly lick him. You hum when the satisfying weight of his length settles over your tongue, bobbing your head over him slowly, wanting to savor him for as long as you could until he decides to change the pace. Charlie lets you suck him off the way you wanted, both of your hands settled on his thighs to keep yourself steady.
“Enjoying yourself?” Charlie smirks when he feels you whine, the vibrations pulsing down to his balls that were beginning to ache from being full.
A hand takes hold of the back of your head to heave you off of him with a pop, a singular line of spit connects your lips to the rest of him. You watch him with wanton eyes as he stands and hovers over you, tightening his grip of your leash to keep your head upright. He grabs his cock and teasingly pumps himself in front of you, tapping the tip of him over your waiting plump lips.
“Open up for me, baby. It’s my turn to play now.”
The tips of your ears burn along with your cheeks as you listen to him, unhinging your jaw to make room for Charlie to use you as he pleased. He palms the back of your head and slips into your warm mouth, sinking deep enough until he hears you gag. While having your head at the right angle and using the leash as leverage, he tows his hips back and thrusts back into your face, moving to repeat the action again and again.
Doing your best to keep your eyes open, you take each of Charlie’s drives just like he trained you, relaxing your jaw and curling your tongue on the underside of his shaft so you’d wet the familiar veins every time he shifted forward. The man groans every time he plunges further towards the back of your throat, holding your gaze and grinning when he sees tears gathering at your lash line.
He lunges forward until your nose is flush with his pelvis, pinning your head in this position to feel your throat constricting around his cock. He has you sputtering around him and forcefully gagging twice before pushing you away to let you catch your breath, all for him to do it again. You didn’t tell him to stop. You didn’t care if the collar you wore was choking you more than you already were. You didn’t care if the leash Charlie kept pulling on made it easier for him to strain your esophagus.
“That’s it. Good fucking girl. You love it when you let me use your mouth like this. When I stretch out your throat every time I move.”
Your head was running on empty, tears now streak down your cheeks and your nails dig into Charlie’s thighs as you kept yourself grounded. He overpowered all of your senses—all you could see, taste, and feel was Charlie. Pressing your thighs together in hopes of relieving some pressure, you silently hoped he would be nice enough to give your pussy some attention after this, but that all depends on whether or not you do a good job here.
And from the way Charlie bucked into your mouth hard enough to hear you gag on impact, you can tell he was starting to get close. With a bit of finesse, you hum around him, drool seeping out of your mouth and coating his length, dripping down to his balls as the tip of your tongue ghosted his sack. The twinge in your jaw was beginning to make your head hurt, the slickness between your legs was growing to become unbearable. Yet you remained focused on just Charlie as best as you could, dodging further punishment for not resisting the tempting impulse to touch yourself.
“We’re almost done. You can handle a little more.”
Charlie wasn’t coddling you, most times he never does. The rein he controlled grew taught the closer he got to the edge. He pounds into your face a few more times before his body catches up with him, shoving himself as far as he could go and spilling his release down your throat. You clutched onto his twitching legs and moaned as his cock pulsed in your mouth, your head rammed to his pelvis with the taste of him fleeting on the back of your tongue.
Once the height of his climax had passed, Charlie drags your head off of him, finally letting you breathe. He was considerate enough to drop the leash entirely and raise your head to get a good look at you by pinching your chin. You panted as he inspected you, his thumb wiping away the tears that stained your pretty face. The same digit brushes over your spit covered lips, you shamelessly lick at it despite still feeling the weight of him everywhere in your face.
“Always good for me when you want to be used. Now, how about we finally take care of your little problem. I know your panties are practically sticking to you by now.”
You were just grateful he was feeling generous today.
synopsis: Charlie will always take care of his girl.
warnings/notes: manipulation, isolation, reproductive coercion (he messes with her pills), pregnancy. Charlie is not a nice guy. Requested by @tanely for the 9k celebration.
wc: 1.7k
It started slow, as these things often do.
You met Charlie Reid in the most romcom way possible when you ran into him leaving a café, coffee spilling over both of you. You apologized profusely while he smiled and assured you it was his fault entirely. Then he’d steered you back into the building to replace your coffee as you forgot all about the appointment you’d been heading to. Coffee turned into lunch which turned into dinner a week later. Before you knew it all of your free time was consumed by Deputy Chief Charlie Reid.
It was three months into your relationship when things started to change so carefully, so subtly, that you never noticed he was behind it all.
First was your job.
It wasn’t a great job but you didn’t hate it. It paid the bills. Mostly. And, while your boss was a little too familiar with you, he was harmless. Most importantly, he was flexible. Your day had been busy with one customer after another and you lost track of time. Fifteen minutes past clock out time, Charlie came inside to check on you. You looked up at the sound of the bell, eyes widening in surprise when you saw your boyfriend.
“Oh, am I late? I’m sorry, Charlie.”
He gave you a small smile. “It’s fine, sweetheart. You ready?”
You nodded and called out for your boss. “It’s time for me to go.”
Joe made his way to the front, hand instantly finding your waist and patting it. “Is it already that time, honey? Thank you for everything you did today. You’re such a good girl.”
Charlie cleared his throat, a tight smile on his face though his eyes were hard. You excused yourself and hurried over. He immediately wrapped an arm around your waist and pressed a kiss to your temple. He sat in the car for a moment before starting it.
“Everything okay?” you asked.
He turned to look at you. “He always talk to you like that?”
You waved a hand through the air in dismissal. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
And that was the end of it.
A week later Joe fired you claiming he just couldn’t afford the help anymore. His voice shook the whole time and he refused to meet your gaze so you knew he was sincere when he apologized.
You cried in Charlie’s arms that night while he comforted you. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Well…” he started then trailed off.
“What?”
“My assistant quit without notice yesterday. I was getting ready to start looking for a new one, but you are more than capable,” Charlie offered.
You shook your head. “I don’t know if I’m qualified for that.”
He cupped the side of your face. “Of course you are, sweetheart. It’s real easy. And you’d be doing me a huge favor.”
So, you found yourself working for Charlie by the end of the week.
Next it was your apartment.
You and Charlie had only been dating for a few months when you mentioned casually that your lease was up for renewal soon.
“Make sure you read over the new lease before you sign it,” he’d told you. “You’d be amazed at the stuff they try to slip in.” He paused and leaned back in his chair. “In fact, I’d be happy to look it over it for you.”
You’d thanked him profusely and happily handed over the lease a couple of weeks later after your landlord dropped it off. You stood at the stove making dinner while Charlie read.
He looked at you over the top of his glasses. “Sweetheart, did you see that this doubles your rent?”
You dropped the spoon and hurried over to snatch the papers from his hand, reading over the fine print. Your heart sank. You could barely afford the rent you had now. You could swing a small increase, but not this. Tears instantly welled in your eyes. “What am I gonna do?”
“Hey, hey,” Charlie said as pulled you into his lap. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You can move in here.”
You shook your head and wiped your tears away. “I can’t do that, Charlie. We haven’t been together very long. It’s too soon.”
He rubbed your back. “I just want to take care of you, baby. If it bothers you that much, you can have your own room. It can just be until you find something else if you want.”
“You don’t have a spare room though.”
“We can put a bed in my office. It’s just temporary.” There was a hint of resignation in his voice you were certain he hadn’t meant for you to hear.
You cupped his face. “No, I’m not taking your office. I can sleep in your room. It’s just temporary, right?”
He gave you a wide smile and kissed your lips. “Good. We’ll get you straightened out in no time.”
Your temporary situation quickly became permanent as apartment after apartment turned you down.
Then it was your friends.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Charlie asked one night as you sat on the couch frowning at your phone, legs draped over his lap.
You bit your lip not sure you wanted to admit what had you so upset.
He reached out and pulled your lip down with his thumb. “Talk.”
You sighed and placed your phone in your lap. “It’s the girls. They don’t like that I’m living here and working with you. They think it’s too much too soon.”
Charlie’s brows immediately snapped together. “They’re upset that I’m helping you? I’m sorry, but those don’t sound like very good friends, sweetheart.”
“They are. Really. They just worry. And I’ve canceled plans on them a couple of times to hang out with you.”
He grasped your wrist and tugged you toward him until you straddled his thighs and settled on his lap. He looked up at you. “Sounds to me like they’re jealous, baby. Are any of them in a relationship right now?”
You shook your head.
“See, there you go. They don’t have a man taking care of them, treating them how they should be treated.” He kissed your lips soft and slow. “Don’t pay any attention to them, sweetheart. And if they keep pushing, maybe it’s time to find new friends, hmm?”
You didn’t want to agree. The four of you had been friends since high school. But Charlie had a point. And he did take such very good care of you. Always looked out for you.
“Hmm?” he prompted again, meeting your eye.
Finally, you nodded. “Yes, Charlie.” Then you tucked your head in his neck.
Then came everything else.
There was the morning your car wouldn’t start when you wanted to run errands.
“No problem, honey. I know a guy. In the meantime, you just ride with me.”
And when his guy couldn’t fix it?
“We’ll find you a good car, sweetheart, but there’s no rush. You can ride to work with me. If I have to stay late, I’ll have a squad car bring you home, okay?”
And if Charlie always insisted on running errands with you after that or doing them himself?
Well, that was just because he cared about you. It’s dangerous for a woman out there alone. He’d feel so much better if he was there to protect you.
Your parents expressed their concern about how your entire life seemed to be wrapped up in this man. How he seemed to making all your decisions. So, what if he did? What was so wrong with someone taking care of you? Loving you?
“They just aren’t ready for you to move on, baby. They want you to stay their little girl forever. But you’re my good girl now, aren’t you? If they love you, they’ll come around when they see how happy you are.”
And when you asked what happened if they didn’t?
“I’m your family now, sweetheart. The only family you need.”
When he blocked their numbers, it was for your own good. You were always so sad after they called.
Then you were two weeks late and nauseous all the time which didn’t make sense. You were always on top of your birth control taking the pill every morning. And sure, there were some days you couldn’t remember taking it, but the pill was always gone from the pack when you double checked.
And then two little lines showed up on the first test. And the second. And the third.
While you sobbed, Charlie wiped away your tears and smiled down at you. “Oh, honey. Everything will be okay. You’re going to be a wonderful mother and I’m so happy you’re making me a dad.”
You shook your head and said you weren’t sure you wanted to be a mom.
He simply petted your hair and gave you a sad smile. “Of course, baby. It’s whatever you want to do.” Two minutes later he added, “Though, you know, I’m not getting any younger. It would be nice to have a family while I’m still young enough to enjoy it.”
You looked up at him with wide, wet eyes waiting for him to tell you what to do. Charlie always knew what to do. He’d always take care of you.
“If it’s a ring you need, I already bought it. We can go to the courthouse tomorrow even. Make you Mrs. Reid as soon as possible.”
A wedding? At the courthouse? But then who did you need beside Charlie? Your friends and family had drifted away when you didn’t listen to the horrible things they said about him. When you chose him.
You nodded slightly and Charlie traced the line of your jaw with his thumb. “That’s my girl. We’ll get everything squared away and be a happy little family. I’m all you’ll ever need, baby.”
Charlie would take care of everything. Just like always.
when you said that you were going out shopping with your girlfriends, your uncle jack really thought had have some more time. you had said that you were going to be home later, a few hours jackie! enjoy your alone time!
and really, it was your fault! you were the one who, before leaving, lifted onto your tiptoes in your little pink heels and kissed his cheek. your hand rested on his bicep for balance, and your little acrylics dug slightly into the cotton of his polo. how could you not expect him to be a sick fuck when he had to wipe glittery sticky lip gloss from his reddened cheeks.
so yeah, he’s gonna blame you. it’s just, when you stood on your tiptoes, your knee just brushed by his clothed cock. and maybe it’s not the most moral of reactions, but it’s understandable! you’re just stimuli!!! his cock turning hard and aching in his cargo pants had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with accidental touch!
and it’s just so uncomfortable, so sensitive that when you leave, he gets started on the laundry he planned to do. after throwing the first half of the load into the washing machine, he digs through your pile to find the little red panties that you wore last night. and he knows that you just wore them, because your slick is still damp and cold on their gusset.
he undoes the zipper to his pants, and watches guiltily as his cock springs out when he pulls down his boxers. he wraps your little red panties around his cock. if they were lace, like his favorites of yours, it would be nearly painful as he focuses the cotton around his weeping tip. his head is thrown back against the wall and his eyes are closed.
he is coated in his precum, your slick, and bliss.
he’s so blissful in fact, that he doesn’t even hear the door open and the click click click of your heels on the dark wood floor. what he does hear, though, is your little surprised whimper, and he opens his eyes quickly. he watches your reddening face and your wide eyes flit from his cock to your panties to his face is rapid succession.
he’s suddenly thankful, that he no longer believes in any god. he doesn’t know when he stopped, when he lost his leg, maybe, when he lost his wife. he thinks it’s more so when he watched a child die for the first time. but jesus is he thankful for his lack of faith.
hes sure that he would go straight to hell if he believed, the second he meets your shocked eyes, he’s coming all over your little red cotton panties.
Request - sooo i adore the way you write angst/ comfort!! I was thinking about robby x reader where she's got a crush on him and is always trying to be nice and friendly to him so they spend time together, but he doesn't really give her much attention. then she's hurt by this dynamics and decides to pull away, that's when he gets confused and notices that he does appreciate her and maybe should try to get to know her more? and how it goes from there it's up to you <3
The emergency department was loud in the way it always was during the middle of a day shift, every monitor chirping over another, stretchers rolling across worn tile, voices rising and falling with urgency until they all blended into one endless rhythm. Somewhere down the hall a trauma alert had just been called, Dana was already barking orders before anyone else had a chance to react, Javadi was jogging after McKay with a clipboard tucked awkwardly against her chest, and Robby stood exactly where he always seemed to stand, in the center of absolute chaos, somehow making it look manageable. He looked exhausted before noon. His dark hair had surrendered to the humidity of the department hours ago, the sleeves of his navy undershirt were shoved to his forearms, and there was a fresh cup of coffee sitting abandoned on the physician workstation that had long since gone cold. You’d watched him take exactly two sips from it over the last hour.
“Robby!” Langdon called from the other side of the nurses’ station. “Eight-year-old in Three. Belly pain. Mom says he’s been throwing up all morning.”
“I’m coming.”
He was already walking before he’d finished speaking. You fell into step beside him without thinking.
“I already looked at his vitals,” you said, flipping through the chart on your tablet. “Heart rate’s one-thirty, low-grade fever, blood pressure’s holding. Pain started around his belly button yesterday and migrated to the right lower quadrant this morning.”
“You examined him?”
“Quickly.”
“And?”
“He guarded before I even touched him.”
Robby glanced sideways.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s appendicitis until someone proves me wrong.”
One corner of his mouth twitched.
“Good.”
That single word shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. It did anyway.
Inside the room sat a small blond boy curled tightly around a stuffed dinosaur while his mother rubbed circles across his back, trying unsuccessfully to comfort him. The second Robby entered, his entire demeanor shifted. The clipped attending disappeared. His voice softened naturally as he crouched until he was eye level with the child.
“Hey, buddy. I’m Dr. Robby.”
The boy sniffled.
“My stomach hurts.”
“I heard.” Robby nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry about that. Think you can let me help your doctor for a minute?” He motioned toward you with his head. “She’s one of the smartest residents around.”
Your cheeks warmed despite yourself. The little boy looked at you uncertainly before nodding.
“Perfect.” Robby smiled. “We’ll both make this as quick as we can.”
You watched him work the way you always did, with equal parts admiration and fascination. He never rushed children. Never forced them. He distracted while he examined, asked about dinosaurs while palpating an abdomen, guessed favorite cartoons while assessing rebound tenderness. By the time the exam was finished, the little boy was smiling despite the obvious pain. Robby stood and looked toward you.
“Walk me through it.”
You stepped closer to the bed. “Pain migration. Fever. Guarding. McBurney’s point tenderness. Positive Rovsing’s.”
He nodded once.
“What else?”
“No urinary symptoms. No diarrhea. Labs are already pending. I’d like an ultrasound before CT if possible.”
“Why?”
“He’s eight.”
“And?”
“I don’t want to irradiate him unless we absolutely have to.”
Another nod.
“What if the ultrasound’s equivocal?”
“Then we move to CT.”
“Good.”
He turned back toward the mother.
“We think your son probably has appendicitis, but we’re going to make sure before we call surgery.”
She visibly relaxed.
“Thank you.”
“No promises yet,” Robby said gently. “But I think we’re headed in the right direction.”
Outside the room he continued walking, expecting you beside him.
“What antibiotics?”
“Ceftriaxone and Flagyl.”
“Dosing?”
You answered immediately. He nodded again.
“You’ve been studying.”
“I try.”
“I can tell.”
Those four words settled somewhere embarrassingly deep inside your chest. It wasn’t even flirting. It wasn’t meant to be. It was simply praise coming from the one person whose opinion seemed to matter more than it probably should.
The rest of the afternoon disappeared into consults, imaging, surgery confirming uncomplicated appendicitis, reassuring frightened parents, and convincing an eight-year-old that anesthesia was, in fact, much cooler than it sounded. Somewhere in the middle of it all, you’d quietly replaced Robby’s cold coffee with a fresh one from the physician lounge. He looked at the cup.
“This wasn’t here.”
“No.”
“You?”
You shrugged.
“You looked like you needed one.”
“Hm.”
He picked it up, took a sip, and sighed so quietly you almost missed it.
“Thanks.”
It was simple. Genuine. Then someone shouted his name from Trauma Two, and he was gone before you could answer. That was always the rhythm between the two of you. Little moments. Interrupted. You spent the remainder of the shift trying very hard not to notice how often you looked for him across the department. Trying and failing.
Every time you presented a patient, you found yourself hoping he would be the attending reviewing your plan. Every time he laughed with Langdon or leaned over Dana’s workstation discussing a trauma activation, you caught yourself watching for just a second too long before forcing yourself back to your own work. It had been like this for months now, ever since somewhere between your second and third year of residency your admiration for Robby Robinavitch had quietly evolved into something infinitely more dangerous.
He was your mentor. He challenged you. He trusted you. He made you a better physician.
None of those things meant he saw you as anything other than his resident. You knew that. God, you knew that. It didn’t stop your heart from racing whenever he smiled at you.
The shift finally crawled to an end nearly thirteen hours after it had begun. Residents drifted toward the locker rooms, nurses peeled off trauma shears and compression socks, and the controlled chaos slowly dissolved into the incoming night crew. You slung your backpack over one shoulder just as you spotted Robby gathering his things at the attending workstation. He looked…tired. The kind of tired that settled into someone’s bones. Without thinking, you walked over.
“You heading home?”
He looked up.
“Eventually.”
“You survive?”
“Barely.”
You smiled. “The kid with the appendix is already in surgery.”
“I know.”
“You were right.”
“So were you.”
You shrugged. “I learned from somebody.”
He chuckled softly under his breath.
“I hope so.”
You stood there for another second, neither of you moving toward the exit despite the shift being over. Then, before your courage had the opportunity to disappear, you cleared your throat.
“I was thinking about grabbing dinner.”
He looked at you.
“The little Mediterranean place across the street.”
You tried to sound casual.
“If you’re hungry.”
For just a fraction of a second, something unreadable crossed his face. Surprise, maybe. Hesitation. He looked at you with an expression that almost seemed disappointed before he exhaled slowly.
“I…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I really appreciate the invite.”
Your stomach tightened.
“But…” His eyes met yours, warm and apologetic. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
You felt your smile freeze where it was.
“Oh.”
“You’ve got another year of residency left.”
“Right?.” You tilted your head.
“And I’m still your attending.”
You nodded once.
“Right.”
“I don’t want there to ever be a question about why you’re succeeding here.”
His voice was kind. Careful.
“I think too highly of you to put you in that position.”
The words were meant to protect you. You knew that. It somehow hurt anyway. You forced yourself to smile, hoping it looked convincing.
“Yeah. Of course. That makes sense.”
His shoulders relaxed just a little.
“But…” he added gently, “…go get something to eat. You earned it today. That appendicitis workup was excellent.”
You laughed quietly, though it sounded much weaker than you intended.
“Thanks.”
“Get home safe.”
“You too.”
He gave you one last tired smile before turning toward the parking garage. You watched him disappear through the automatic doors, standing alone beneath the fluorescent lights of the emergency department entrance for several long seconds before finally letting out the breath you’d been holding. You weren’t embarrassed that he’d said no. He hadn’t been cruel. He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t made you feel foolish. In fact, he’d been exactly who Robby always was, professional, thoughtful, considerate. Somehow that made it worse. Because if he’d been rude, you could’ve hated him for it. Instead, he’d let you down with enough kindness to leave no room for anger, only the quiet ache of realizing that maybe all the little conversations, the coffees, the smiles, the extra moments walking between patient rooms…had only ever meant something to one of you.
******
By the time your next shift with Robby rolled around three days later, you had already made the decision. It hadn’t come in some dramatic moment of heartbreak or while crying into a bottle of wine after work. It had happened quietly, sometime around one o’clock in the morning when you were lying awake staring at your apartment ceiling, replaying his words over and over until they finally stopped sounding like rejection and started sounding like exactly what they were: boundaries. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He had been kind. Respectful. Responsible. You couldn’t punish him for that. More importantly, you couldn’t keep putting both of you in a position where your feelings bled into your training. He was your attending. Your mentor. A physician you admired deeply. If he didn’t or couldn’t want more than that, then you owed it to yourself to stop hoping that every conversation might somehow become something else. It wasn’t fair to him. It wasn’t fair to you. So when you walked into PTMC that morning, coffee in one hand and your stethoscope looped around your neck, you promised yourself something that felt far harder than asking him to dinner had ever been. You were going to let him go.
It was astonishing how much of your day had unconsciously revolved around him. Normally, before report even started, you’d find him somewhere near the attending workstation, hand him a fresh cup of coffee if he hadn’t managed to get one himself, tease him about looking like he’d slept in a supply closet, and earn one of those tired little half-smiles that always made the beginning of shift feel lighter.
This morning…you simply walked past him.
“Morning, Dr. Robinavitch.”
He looked up from the chart he was reading.
“Morning.”
That was it. No joke. No lingering. You headed toward Dana to get overnight sign-out. He watched you disappear into the crowd of residents before looking back down at his computer. It shouldn’t have felt strange. It did.
The shift began the way they all did, too many patients, not enough rooms, not enough hands, and within the first hour you were juggling a chest pain workup, an elderly woman in septic shock, and a sixteen-year-old soccer player who’d dislocated his shoulder. You worked efficiently, presenting concise plans, answering questions before they were asked, moving through the department with the confidence that years of residency had built into your bones. If Robby noticed you weren’t hovering around his workstation anymore, he gave absolutely no indication of it. Which, you reminded yourself, was exactly what you wanted.
Around midmorning, Javadi caught up with you outside Room Twenty-Two looking mildly panicked.
“Hey,” she said, slightly out of breath. “Do you have a second?”
“Always.”
“I have a patient with new onset atrial fibrillation and I know the basics, but I’m struggling with whether we should cardiovert immediately or rate control first.”
You smiled.
“Walk me through the patient.”
As she talked, you listened carefully, asking questions instead of answering them outright.
“You just needed someone to organize your thinking.”
She laughed.
“I overcomplicate everything.”
“Everyone does.”
You leaned against the counter beside her.
“The trick isn’t memorizing medicine.”
“What is it?”
“Learning how to think.”
Victoria nodded slowly.
“I think Robby says that.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
“He does.”
“Like… every shift.”
“He also repeats himself every shift.”
“He does.”
“And eventually it sticks.”
She laughed again.
“So basically he’s annoying on purpose?”
“Completely.”
“Good to know.”
“Hey.”
Both of you looked up. Robby stood several feet away holding a chart against his hip.
“I need Javadi after you’re done.”
“Almost finished,” you answered.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t insert himself. He simply stood there quietly, listening as Victoria walked herself through the remainder of the case while you asked the occasional question. When she finally finished, you nodded approvingly.
“That’s your plan.”
Victoria grinned.
“Thanks.”
She hurried over to Robby. He looked at her.
“Figure it out?”
She pointed back toward you.
“Thanks to her.”
He looked at you for a long moment before nodding once.
“Good.”
The rest of the day passed without much interaction between the two of you. You consulted him when necessary, presented patients cleanly, answered his questions with your usual confidence, then moved on. There were no extra conversations in hallways. No stopping by his workstation just because you happened to be walking past. No finding reasons to linger after discussions had naturally ended. You were exactly what you had set out to become. Professional.
Near the end of the shift, after the waiting room had finally begun to thin and the department settled into something almost resembling manageable, Robby found you finishing documentation near the resident computers.
“You got a minute?”
You looked up.
“Sure.”
He leaned one elbow against the counter.
“I was watching you with Javadi earlier.”
Your stomach tightened despite yourself.
“Yeah?”
“You’re becoming a really good teacher.”
For just a second, the old version of yourself wanted to light up, to beam beneath the compliment the way you always did. Instead, you offered a small smile.
“That’s because you taught me.”
His expression softened.
“I just gave you some starting tools.”
“You gave me a lot more than that.”
He looked almost uncomfortable with the praise.
“You did the work.”
“So did you.”
Silence settled between you. He expected you to say something else. Normally you would have. You would’ve teased him. Made some joke about his relentless pimp questions. Complained about his impossible expectations. Instead…you closed your laptop.
“Well…” You slid it into your bag. “I should get going.”
He blinked.
“Already?”
“It’s been thirteen hours.”
“Right.”
You adjusted your backpack on your shoulder.
“Have a good night, Rob—” You caught yourself. “Dr. Robinavitch.”
Something flickered across his face.
“You too.”
You smiled politely.
“See you Thursday.”
Then you turned and walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t notice that he’d remained exactly where he was, watching you weave through the department toward the exit until the automatic doors closed behind you. It wasn’t until nearly a full minute later that Langdon wandered over carrying two charts and noticed Robby staring absently toward the now-empty hallway.
“You planning on clocking out sometime today?”
Robby didn’t answer immediately.
“Hm?”
Langdon nudged him.
“You alright?”
Robby blinked as though waking from somewhere else.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look convinced.”
He frowned slightly.
“I’m just…”
He stopped. Langdon waited. Robby shook his head once.
“Nothing.”
Langdon followed his line of sight toward the exit.
“…Was that Y/L/N leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“The one who practically used to shadow you even when she didn’t have to?”
Robby looked over.
“I never asked her to.”
“I know.” Langdon smirked. “But she usually had a coffee in your hand before you realized yours was empty…while also holding a scalpel and gauze in the other.”
Robby said nothing.
“And now?” Langdon shrugged. “She barely looked at you all day.”
Robby’s brow furrowed. Had she? He replayed the shift without meaning to. No coffee. No sarcastic comments. No stopping by between patients. No asking how his trauma patient had turned out. No laughing at one of his terrible dry jokes. Just concise presentations. Good medicine. Professional distance.
It shouldn’t have bothered him. He had wanted professionalism. He had insisted on it. So why, for the first time in months, had the emergency department somehow felt…quieter? Langdon studied him for another second before grinning knowingly.
“You know, Robby…”
“What?”
“I think somebody’s finally stopped chasing you.”
Robby looked back toward the empty hallway. For reasons he couldn’t begin to explain…the thought sat unexpectedly heavy in his chest.
******
Robby had never considered himself particularly observant outside of medicine. He noticed a potassium of 2.8 before the lab called. He noticed the subtle hitch in a patient’s breathing that everyone else missed. He noticed septic shock thirty minutes before it became obvious. People, however, especially himself, had always been another matter entirely. Which was why it irritated him that nearly a week after Langdon’s offhand comment, he still found himself looking toward the emergency department entrance every morning expecting to see you walking in with two coffees balanced in one hand and a sarcastic remark already waiting for him. The first morning he’d dismissed it as habit. By the third, it had become impossible to ignore. He caught himself searching for you during trauma activations, unconsciously scanning the department until he spotted you confidently leading a workup or talking through a case with another resident. Every time he found you, relief settled into his chest before confusion quickly followed. Relief? Since when did he feel relieved simply because one of his residents was in the room? He didn’t have an answer, and he found that increasingly annoying.
The next shift began before sunrise, the department still carrying the sluggishness of the overnight crew handing patients over one by one. Robby walked into the physician lounge to pour himself coffee only to discover the pot had been emptied sometime during the night.
“Of course,” he muttered.
He glanced toward the clock. There wasn’t time to make another one. He sighed and headed toward the attending workstation. Halfway there, he passed the small café tucked just inside the hospital lobby. His feet stopped before his brain had fully caught up.
Five minutes later he walked into the department carrying two coffees. Dana looked up immediately.
“…Who died?”
Robby frowned.
“What?”
“You bought two coffees.”
“So?”
“So you barely remember to feed yourself.”
“I eat.”
Dana snorted.
“No. You consume caffeine and spite.”
“I eat.”
“When?”
He ignored her. She looked at the second cup.
“…Who’s the other one for?”
“No one.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It just happened.”
Dana watched him continue walking before calling after him.
“Robinavitch.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“I swear to God, if you’re becoming emotionally available, I’m putting in for a transfer.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
He kept walking. The second coffee suddenly felt strangely heavy in his hand.
You had just finished reviewing overnight labs when someone set a warm paper cup beside your keyboard. You looked up. Robby stood there looking almost…uncomfortable.
“Morning.”
Your eyes dropped to the coffee. Then back to him.
“…Morning.”
He shoved one hand into his scrub pocket.
“I figured…” He shrugged awkwardly. “…Coffee.”
You blinked once.
“You got me coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
He looked genuinely caught off guard by the question.
“I…” Another shrug. “You used to always bring me one.”
Silence.
“…So I thought I’d return the favor…for once.”
You studied him for a long second. Long enough that he shifted his weight slightly.
“That’s…thank you.”
“You don’t have to drink it.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t. You just confused me.”
“I noticed.”
The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. You picked up the cup.
“…You remembered my order.”
“I did?”
“You got the hazelnut.”
“Huh.” He looked down at it. “I guess I did.”
Your heart betrayed you with one painful little squeeze. You took a sip.
“It’s good.”
“Goood”
Another beat of silence. Then someone called his name from Trauma Four. He nodded toward you.
“See you around.”
“See you, Dr. Robinavitch.”
He walked away. You watched him disappear around the corner before quietly looking back down at the coffee. It would’ve been so much easier if he had simply let things stay distant.
Instead he’d done something thoughtful. And now your resolve felt considerably more complicated.
The morning rolled forward with its usual relentless pace. A construction worker with heat exhaustion became a cardiac rule-out after collapsing on site. An elderly woman with vague fatigue turned out to have a silent myocardial infarction. Victoria chased you through two hallways asking questions about anticoagulation while Langdon loudly insisted that everyone under forty believed potassium solved every medical problem ever invented. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, you realized Robby had appeared beside you three separate times without you noticing.
Once to quietly review an EKG over your shoulder. Once to ask what antibiotics you wanted for a septic patient before nodding approvingly and saying, “That’s exactly where my head was.” Once simply because he’d ended up walking beside you toward radiology and neither of you had rushed ahead. It wasn’t dramatic. It was…constant. Subtle. Like gravity.
By early afternoon, you finally escaped outside with the remains of a protein bar and a bottle of water, grateful for the dry Pittsburgh air despite the lingering summer heat. The employee patio was mostly empty except for a respiratory therapist scrolling through his phone at the opposite end. You leaned against the brick wall, closed your eyes for just a second, and let yourself breathe. The door opened behind you. You didn’t bother turning.
“I’ll be back inside in a minute.”
“Maybe I want to hide too?”
Your eyes opened. Robby walked over carrying half of what looked like a turkey sandwich wrapped in wax paper. He stopped beside you. Then, without asking, held out one half.
“You skipped lunch.”
You stared at him.
“…Are you bribing me with deli meat?”
“I wasn’t aware turkey qualified as bribery.”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“Whether there’s cheese.”
“There is.”
You accepted it despite yourself.
“…Thanks.”
He leaned against the wall beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. Neither of you spoke for nearly a minute. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Just…different. Finally he looked ahead instead of at you.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
You sighed quietly.
“I’m not doing this.”
“You are avoiding me.”
“No, not that.” You shook your head.
“You barely talk to me anymore.”
“I talk to you.”
“You present patients.”
“I answer your questions.”
“You don’t…” He searched for the words. “…you don’t talk to me.”
You looked over.
“What exactly would you like me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
The two of you were quiet for a moment.
“I can’t just…” you sighed trying to find the words. “You did this.”
“I told you to avoid me?” Robby narrowed his eyes.
“You told me dinner wasn’t a good idea.”
His jaw tightened.
“I did.”
“You reminded me you’re my attending.”
“I am.”
You huffed.
“So I adjusted.”
“No, you disappeared.”
“I became your resident.”
“I never wanted you to become just my resident.”
The words left his mouth before he’d fully thought them through. Both of you froze. Your eyebrows lifted.
“…What?”
He ran a hand over the back of his neck.
“I mean…” He exhaled. “Damn it.”
You waited. He looked genuinely frustrated with himself.
“I liked talking to you.”
“We still talk”
“It’s different.”
You shrug. “It has to be.”
He looked down at the sandwich in his hands.
“I didn’t realize how much of my day involved you until it didn’t.”
You swallowed.
“Robby…”
“I keep looking for you.” Your heart stumbled. “I keep expecting you to walk over with coffee or argue with me about antibiotics or make fun of me for forgetting to eat.”
A humorless laugh escaped him.
“I actually bought you coffee.”
“You did.”
“I’ve never bought anyone coffee.” He rubbed tiredly at his forehead.n“I don’t like this.”
“What?”
“This distance.”
You stared at him for a long moment before finally shaking your head.
“That’s not fair.”
His eyes met yours.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t create it. You pulled away.”
“I had to.” He argued. “But you couldn’t have said something.”
“And said what?” Your voice finally cracked with the emotion you’d spent days forcing down. “‘Hey, Robby, every time you smile at me I forget how to breathe, and when you told me no, I realized I was making an idiot out of myself?’”
His face fell.
“I never thought—”
“I know.” You nodded. “That’s the point.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was trying to protect you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
The words landed between you with startling force. He looked genuinely wounded.
“I know you didn’t.”
You folded the wrapper around the unfinished half of your sandwich.
“I spent months convincing myself that maybe you looked for me the way I looked for you.” You could feel tears coming as your shoulders dropped. “Then you reminded me exactly who we are.”
Robby looked upset now.
“You and I are attending and resident. So I accepted that.” You stepped away from the wall. “I can’t keep living somewhere in between.”
His voice was quiet.
“What if I don’t want that anymore?”
You stared at him. The question hung impossibly still in the afternoon air. After several seconds, you spoke just as softly.
“Then you need to figure out what you do want.”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. You smiled sadly.
“I’ve spent almost three years doing all the chasing, Robby.” Your eyes held his. “I’m done doing it.”
Then you turned, pushed open the employee entrance, and disappeared back into the noise of the emergency department, leaving him standing alone on the patio with half a sandwich in one hand and the overwhelming realization that somewhere between all those shared coffees, hallway conversations, sarcastic comments, and impossible shifts…he had somehow fallen in love with the very thing he’d convinced himself he was protecting you from.
******
Robby spent the next four days accomplishing something he had always been exceptionally good at, avoiding a problem by burying himself in work until he couldn’t hear himself think anymore. He picked up an extra shift. Stayed late to help Jack with an unusually complicated septic shock case. Read three new journal articles on pediatric abdominal pain that he absolutely did not need to read. Every time his thoughts drifted back to the patio, to you telling him you’d spent years doing all the chasing, he found another chart to sign, another patient to see, another resident to teach. It didn’t work. Your words followed him through every hallway in PTMC.
Then you need to figure out what you do want.
He hated that you were right. He hated even more that it hadn’t taken him long to figure it out. The problem was never not knowing what he wanted. The problem was that he knew exactly what he wanted, and every ethical instinct he’d built over twenty years in emergency medicine had immediately told him he couldn’t have it. Except…you weren’t an intern anymore. You weren’t a first-year resident hanging on every word he said. You were one of the strongest senior residents in the department, a physician in your own right, and the more he honestly examined his own feelings, the more he realized they’d stopped being about mentorship weeks, okay maybe a year, ago. That realization terrified him.
The next shift together was brutal from the moment report ended. A bus accident on the interstate sent seven patients into the emergency department within fifteen minutes, trauma bays filled almost immediately, Dana was directing nurses with military precision, McKay disappeared into one resuscitation while Langdon took another, and every available resident was suddenly balancing two or three critical patients at once. You and Robby worked side by side for nearly six hours, slipping into the familiar rhythm you’d always shared.
Neither of you mentioned the conversation outside. Neither of you needed to. The understanding between you had quietly changed. He trusted your decisions without hesitation, you anticipated what he needed before he asked, and more than once your hands brushed while reaching for the same ultrasound probe or medication list. Each accidental touch lasted less than a second, but somehow managed to linger far longer in both of your minds.
Late that afternoon, after the last trauma patient had finally been stabilized and transferred upstairs, the emergency department collectively exhaled. Someone suggested drinks.
“I’m voting yes,” Dana announced, dropping into a chair at the physician workstation with enough force to make the wheels squeak. “If I don’t have a beer after today, I’m going to start throwing scalpels.”
“You’d miss,” Langdon replied.
“I wouldn’t.”
“You absolutely would.”
Victoria looked hopefully around the room. “Everybody’s coming, right?”
McKay shrugged. “I’ve earned mozzarella sticks.”
“You always think you’ve earned mozzarella sticks,” Dana said.
“I usually have.”
Langdon looked toward Robby. “Robby?”
Robby rubbed both hands down his tired face.
“I’ll come by for one.”
Dana pointed triumphantly.
“See? Even our resident workaholic is joining civilization.”
“I’m not a resident.”
“You emotionally are.nt even an intern.”
An hour later, after everyone had changed into civilian clothes and escaped the fluorescent lights of PTMC, the group crowded into a neighborhood bar that had become something of an unofficial tradition after particularly ugly shifts. The booths were worn, the music sat comfortably in the background instead of trying to dominate the room, and the bartender already knew that emergency department staff tipped well and occasionally needed fries before they needed drinks. You arrived a few minutes after everyone else.
“There she is!” Victoria called, sliding over to make room.
Before you could sit, Robby’s voice came quietly from beside her.
“Here.”
You looked over. He had already shifted farther into the booth. Leaving the seat beside him open. You hesitated. For half a heartbeat. Then sat down. Your shoulders almost brushed. Neither of you commented on it.
The first hour passed easier than either of you expected. Stories from the shift became increasingly dramatic with each retelling, Langdon somehow managed to convince everyone that he had once stitched a fisherman back together while actively being vomited on by a pelican, which earned him enough horrified laughter that even Robby laughed hard enough to lower his head into one hand.
“That’s absolutely not true,” you said through a grin.
“It is.”
“You’re lying.” You laughed.
“You weren’t there.”
“I don’t need to have been.”
Robby glanced between the two of you.
“…Honestly…”
You looked at him.
“I think Langdon believes it’s true.”
The entire table erupted again.
“There it is!” Dana pointed across the table. “Robinavitch made a joke.”
“I make jokes.”
“No. You accidentally say funny things.”
He sighed dramatically.
“That’s different.”
You laughed. Not the polite little smile you’d been giving him at work. Not the careful professionalism you’d hidden behind for the past week. A genuine laugh. Head tipped back slightly. Eyes bright.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Robby found himself watching you instead of listening to whatever ridiculous story Langdon had launched into next. You were animated outside the hospital. You talked with your hands. You teased everyone equally.
Victoria leaned against you at one point laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink. Dana challenged you to darts. McKay rolled her eyes every time you and Langdon teamed up to make fun of Robby’s inability to understand popular music.
It struck him all at once, almost painfully. He knew what kind of physician you were. He knew what kind of teacher you’d become. He knew how you handled pressure, grief, terrified parents, impossible diagnoses. He didn’t know…You.
Not really. And somehow that realization made him feel as though he’d missed something important that had been standing directly in front of him all along.
By the time everyone finally stood to leave, the evening air had cooled considerably. Dana hugged Victoria goodbye before climbing into an Uber with McKay and Langdon, loudly arguing about whether mozzarella sticks counted as a vegetable if they were served with marinara. You watched them disappear down the street before adjusting your light jacket.
“I parked this way.”
Robby nodded toward the opposite sidewalk.
“So did I.”
You glanced at him.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“You always park on the west side.”
He looked faintly surprised.
“…You noticed.”
“I notice a lot.”
A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The walk began comfortably enough. Streetlights cast warm pools of light across the sidewalks, the city quieter now that the dinner rush had faded, and for several blocks neither of you felt any pressure to fill the silence. It wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt remarkably natural.
“You were different tonight,” Robby finally said.
“So were you.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“I’ve never heard you laugh like that.”
“You’ve never asked me out for drinks before.”
“No.”
“You’ve never really gotten to know me outside the hospital.”
“I know.” His voice carried a weight that made you look over. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
You slowed your pace slightly.
“That sounds…” You brain was slightly fuzzy from the beer. “Dangerous.”
“It usually is.”
“What’d you come up with?”
He stopped walking. You took another step before realizing he’d stayed behind. Turning around, you found him standing beneath one of the streetlights, looking more uncertain than you’d ever seen him.
“I was wrong.”
You stared at him.
“…About what?”
“About you.”
A long silence settled between you.
“I thought…” He exhaled slowly. “I thought keeping things strictly professional was protecting you.”
“It was.”
“No.” His head shook once. “It protected me.”
Your heart began to beat harder.
“I’ve spent years making sure I never crossed lines with residents.” He sighed. “I did that once and it didn’t end well.”
“I know.”
“I’ve always been proud of that.”
“You should be?”
“I still am.” Another step toward you. “But somewhere along the way…”
He laughed quietly at himself.
“…I stopped looking at you as just my resident.”
Your breath caught.
“I just refused to admit it.”
The city around you seemed to disappear. Only his voice remained.
“When you pulled away…” He swallowed. “The department didn’t feel the same.”
“Robby…”
“I missed my friend before I ever admitted I wanted anything more.”
You looked down for a moment, fighting against the hope threatening to bloom all over again.
“I don’t know what happens next,” he admitted. “I know this is complicated. I know there are policies and reporting requirements and probably a dozen reasons I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
You looked back up.
“So why didn’t you?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“Because watching you walk away on that patio hurt more than any of those reasons scared me.”
Emotion filled your throat so quickly it almost hurt.
“You told me to figure out what I wanted.”
“I did.”
“I have.”
He closed the remaining distance between you, stopping close enough that you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the vulnerability he so rarely let anyone witness.
“I want you.” The words were almost whispered. “I don’t know what that looks like.”
Neither did you.
“I don’t either.”
“I know we can’t pretend this conversation didn’t happen.”
“We can’t.”
“I know we have to do this the right way.”
“Okay.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“You always were stubborn.”
“You’re my teacher.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. Your eyes searched his face.
“So…”
“So?”
“What happens now?”
For a moment he simply looked at you, as though committing every detail to memory.
Then, quietly enough that only you could hear it, he asked, “Can I kiss you?”
Every doubt you’d carried for weeks softened at the edges.
“You’ve been making me wait long enough.”
His smile was small, almost disbelieving.
“So that’s a yes?”
Instead of answering, you reached up and gently curled your fingers around the front of his jacket, closing the last inch between you. When his lips met yours, it wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was careful at first, almost reverent, like two people who had spent far too long convincing themselves this could never happen. His hand came to rest lightly against your jaw, giving you every opportunity to pull away, and when you didn’t, when you leaned into him instead, your free hand settling against his chest, you felt the last of the tension he’d been carrying melt beneath your fingertips. The kiss deepened naturally, slow and warm, carrying weeks of restrained glances, interrupted conversations, shared victories over impossible shifts, and every cup of coffee that had ever been set quietly beside the other without expectation. By the time you finally parted, both of you were smiling in that slightly stunned way people do when reality somehow manages to exceed hope. He rested his forehead against yours and let out a quiet, incredulous laugh.
“I have absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to go back to pretending I don’t want to do that again.”
You smiled, your cheeks aching from it.
“Good.”
He looked into your eyes.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I don’t think I’d believe you anymore.
******
Morning arrived slowly, filtered through thin curtains that softened the Pittsburgh sunlight into warm streaks across unfamiliar hardwood floors. For a few blissfully confusing seconds, you couldn’t remember where you were. The room was quiet, the blankets heavier than your own, and there was a faint scent of coffee drifting down the hallway that tugged at your memory before anything else did. Then the previous night came rushing back in flashes so vivid they almost stole your breath all over again. The walk. Standing beneath the streetlight. Robby asking if he could kiss you with a vulnerability you’d never imagined he’d possess. His forehead resting against yours afterward while he admitted he had no idea how he was supposed to pretend he didn’t want to do it again. Then his place. More kissing. More touching. His bed. You closed your eyes and smiled despite yourself before burying your face in the pillow for one wonderfully embarrassing second.
Then reality arrived. You were in Robby’s apartment. You sat up so quickly you almost laughed at yourself. His side of the bed was empty, the blankets folded back neatly as though he’d been awake for a while. Your clothes from the night before had been carefully folded across the chair in the corner, your shoes sitting beneath them, and draped over the foot of the bed was one of his soft gray T-shirts. You picked it up. It still smelled faintly like him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered to yourself with a smile.
You slipped it over your head anyway. The shirt hung halfway down your thighs, sleeves falling past your elbows, and as you caught sight of yourself in the mirror you couldn’t help but laugh quietly.
“You absolute cliché.”
Taking one steadying breath, you padded barefoot toward the kitchen. The smell of coffee grew stronger. So did eggs. You rounded the corner.
Robby stood at the stove wearing gray sweatpants and an old black T-shirt that had clearly survived far too many washes. His hair was still damp from a shower, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he absently flipped eggs in a skillet while reading something on his phone. Two mugs already waited on the island.
He looked up. For a second…He simply stared. His eyes traveled from your face to the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder to your bare legs before returning to your eyes again. His brain appeared to stop functioning entirely.
“…Morning,” he finally managed.
You leaned against the doorway.
“Morning.”
Neither of you moved. Then, almost simultaneously—
“You look—”
“I’ve been—”
Both of you stopped. You laughed first.
“You go.”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, smiling in that slightly bashful way you were beginning to realize almost no one ever got to see.
“I was going to say…” His eyes flicked toward the shirt again. “…You look really good in that.”
Heat rushed into your cheeks.
“You’ve got surprisingly good taste.”
“I’ve been told.”
“You’ve never been told.”
“No.” A beat. “…But I was hoping.”
You shook your head, smiling helplessly, before walking over and climbing onto one of the barstools. The coffee mug waiting there was already fixed exactly the way you liked it. You looked down at it.
“You remembered.”
“I remembered.”
“Hazelnut.”
“I paid attention.”
You wrapped both hands around the mug. Silence settled comfortably between you for a few moments, broken only by the quiet hiss of the skillet. Then Robby reached over, turned the burner off, and faced you fully. The smile slowly disappeared from both of your faces. Reality had arrived.
“So…” he said quietly.
“So.”
“I barely slept.”
“I figured.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I could hear you pacing.”
His eyes widened.
“…You were awake?”
“For most of it.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“So should you.”
That earned the smallest, most defeated chuckle.
“Fair.”
He leaned one hip against the counter.
“We need to talk.”
“We do.”
“I don’t want to screw this up.”
“I don’t either.”
He nodded once.
“I meant everything I said last night. I wasn’t drunk. I had one beer.”
“I know.”
That made him smile again.
“I figured you would.” Then the seriousness returned. “I’ve already started thinking through the hospital policy.”
Of course he had. You folded one leg beneath you on the stool.
“I figured that too.”
“I supervise you.”
“You do.”
“That’s a problem.”
“It’s a manageable problem.”
“It’s still a problem.” He sighed. “I don’t ever want anyone wondering if you’re getting opportunities because of me.”
You met his eyes without hesitation.
“Then don’t give me opportunities because of you.”
His brow furrowed.
“I’ve earned everything I’ve gotten here.”
“You have.”
“I’ll keep earning it.”
“I know you will.”
“You don’t have to protect my career from me.”
“I’m trying to protect it from everyone else.”
“And who’s protecting us?”
That stopped him cold. He looked at you for several long seconds.
“I’ve spent a week listening to you tell me how important my career is.” Your voice remained calm. “Not once have you told me how important I am.”
His expression softened instantly.
“Theres a reason…”
“No.” You shook your head gently. “You don’t get to hide behind HR for this conversation.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You are.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“So am I.” You set your mug down. “If all you wanted was one night, tell me now.”
His head snapped upward.
“What?”
“If this scared you the second the sun came up…”
“It didn’t.”
“…then tell me.”
“It didn’t.” Robby said firmly.
“You don’t owe me—”
He crossed the kitchen before you could finish.
“Stop.”
His voice wasn’t loud. It was firm. He stood directly in front of you now.
“I have spent six days trying to convince myself I could live without this.” He gestured gently between the two of you. “I can’t.”
You searched his face.
“I don’t want one night.” His voice dropped lower. “I want breakfast with you.”
Your heart skipped.
“I want bad movies on my couch.” Another step closer. “I want you texting me when you’ve had a terrible day.”
His hand rested lightly against your waist.
“I want to argue with you about medicine.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“You already do.”
“I know. I’d like to keep doing it.”
A quiet laugh escaped both of you. Then he grew serious again.
“I want to know who you are outside the hospital.” His thumb brushed almost absentmindedly against your side. “I want to know what makes you laugh like you did the last night.”
“I already laughed around you.”
“Not like that. I missed years of getting to know you because I kept telling myself not to look.”
Your eyes stung.
“I don’t intend to make that mistake again.”
You reached for his hand. He immediately intertwined his fingers with yours.
“I needed to hear that. You kept talking about protecting me.”
“I was.”
“I don’t need you to protect me from loving you.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“…God.”
“What?”
“You keep saying things that make me wonder how I ever thought staying away from you was the easier option.”
You smiled.
“It wasn’t.”
He laughed quietly.
“It really wasn’t.”
You looked up at him.
“So what happens now?”
He answered immediately.
“Tomorrow morning I call HR.”
You blinked.
“…Tomorrow?”
“I’m not waiting.”
“You’ve already decided?”
“I decided sometime around three this morning while pacing a groove into my living room floor.”
“What if they say I have to transfer services?”
“Then we figure it out.”
“What if people gossip?”
“They probably will.”
“What if they think—”
“I don’t care.”
His answer surprised even him.
“I care about your reputation.”
“I do too.”
“But I care a hell of a lot more about being honest.”
He lifted your joined hands.
“I’m fifty years old.”
You smiled.
“I know how old you are.”
“I’ve spent most of my adult life putting work first.”
“I noticed.”
“I don’t regret that. But I think I’ve been using work to avoid letting people get close.”
He smiled ruefully.
“And somehow…” His eyes met yours. “You got close anyway.”
You stood from the stool until there was barely any space between you.
“I did chase you for a while.”
“You did.”
“I was beginning to think you were hopeless.”
“I probably was.”
“You were.”
He laughed.
“You don’t have to be so honest.”
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
“You really don’t.”
“I do because if we’re doing this, I’m not going to spend this relationship pretending you’re always right just because you’re the attending.”
“The attending?” He raised an eyebrow. “We’re in my apartment.”
“Fine.”
You poked him lightly in the chest.
“Just because you’re older.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The confidence.”
“I’ve always had confidence.”
“You’ve had confidence at work.”
“And now?”
He smiled so warmly it almost made your knees weak.
“Now I’m getting the woman who called me out on my own bullshit.”
You leaned in just enough that your forehead brushed his.
god, you’re so surprised. you’re so shocked and so confused and so… hot? it feels like it’s a thousand degrees in the little laundry room, even though you know it’s a steady 68 degrees. your stepdad is very prickly about touching the thermostat, so it stays at that temperature.
poor jackie, he’s all red! his cheeks are all flushed, all the way down to his neck. his cock is so shiny, and too is so red. so angry that the tip is nearly purple. his hand is red too, though that is the fault of your panties wrapped around it.
and for some strange reason, you don’t feel disgusted! instead you feel like you’re burning. you’re so hot and dizzy and god your poor little pussy is practically buzzing. when you make eye contact with jack, he comes. and his fist and your panties are soaked with his cum and it’s a vulgar sight that makes your stomach clench.
you watch as he comes to again. and your poor poor uncle jack is so embarrassed. he knows that he shouldn’t have done it, but really you said you’d be gone. and the shopping trip is still on! you just forgot to grab your daddy’a credit card.
slowly you walk backwards, towards the kitchen where your daddy’s credit card lay and grab it. jack is rushing, shoving his cock back into his underwear, pulling up his dirty pants, wiping off his hand covered in cum, and chasing after you.
“it’s ok uncle jackie, i won’t tell my daddy!” you chirp. he’s so so so confused. you turn and walk towards the door, to where your friends await you in the little yellow volkswagen buggy your daddy bought you and jackie fixed up.
remembering something suddenly, you spin on your heel, and kiss your uncles cheek again. your hand rests on his clothed cock and when you pull away towards the door, it twitches in his cargos.
he palms himself and by the time that he hears your engine start, he’s coming for a second time. right in his pants.
on the other hand, reader fully thinks he knows because she’s not hiding her husband or anything
oh no… i can just imagine, Jack finding out about readers husband in the worse way possible
btw i LOVE older woman x Jack, especially how you write it. i love an age gap, clearly, but sometimes if reader is younger she acts like a toddler, its so refreshing to read your work :)
(i feel like there's been a large uptick in infantalization fics in the pitt fandom which is fine but they're never tagged as such and that's just not my thing)
ofc, because why would he get to find out in a normal way?
In your defense, Dana put Jack on the case. You were instrucing McKay and Santos through a trauma. You had no idea your husband even brought your daughter in until you were out.
"What the hell happened?" you exclaim as you pull back the curtain.
"Mama!" Saina looks at you, looking so small on the gurney, "I was practicing my toeloop and my feet stuck and I fell."
"Are you okay?" You run over to her, grabbing your the flashlight you keep in your pocket to shine into her pupils.
"I'm okay," her tiny eyes look up at you, "Dr. Jack already did this."
"No sign of concussion," Jack pipes up from the other side of her gurney, "Probably no fracture on her ankle either, but I already ordered an x-ray because I thought you'd want to be sure, and a CT because her dad said she hit her head on the ice."
"Does your head hurt, beti?" you ask.
She shakes her head, "Not anymore. My foot still hurts."
"I know, baboo, I'm sorry," you kiss her head. You look around the room, blinking as you realize your husband is nowhere to be found, "Where's daddy?"
"Stepped out," Jack says, "He said your other daughter is at soccer and he was trying to talk to another parent to see if she could go over to their house since he wasn't sure how long he'd be here for."
"Okay, I can bump her in line for her scans. But-"
"Sorry-" Santos voice cuts through, "I know this is your daughter, but the MVA is crashing."
"Shit," you groan, "Are you gonna be okay here till daddy comes back?"
"I like Dr. Jack," Saina grins, "He likes pokemon too."
"Dr Abbot," you shake your head.
"It's fine," Jack waves you off, "she can call me whatever she wants."
Your husband returns soon after, having found accomodations for your other daughter.
"How is she?"
"Neel right? She's doing fine. Mom came in and checked her over, but she got pulled into another trauma. She'll be back when she can."
Neel nods, sitting down on the chair next to his daughter, "Well, I guess I can cancel the babysitter for tomorrow night. Mama's going to want to stay in."
He's looking at his daughter as he says it, for which is Jack is grateful because then he doesn't notice the way Jack freezes at the computer.
"Why? I like Jenny. She said she'd let us paint her nails this time!"
"You know how momma gets when you're sick, peanut," Neel chuckles, "I'll have to beg the restaurant not to charge my card."
And, when Jack looks back at the two he notices something he must have missed before when he was too preoccupied with taking care of your daughter to notice anything else.
A black silicone wedding band on his finger, the kind that blue collar workers wear at work to avoid injury.
Suddenly the air becomes very thin. Is Jack a mistress?
*****
You pull him aside later, in some quieter hallway of the ED after Saina's been discharged.
"Thank you," you say, earnestly, "You did good with her. And I'm sorry but obviously I can't give you a ride home today I need-"
"Are you married?" he interrupts, crossing his arms.
You frown, "Of course I am."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
You scoff, unsure you heard him correctly, "What? You knew that. I talk about Neel a lot."
"You don't wear a ring. You talk about him a lot but you've never called him your husband. I thought you were divorced."
"No, I've been married for 12 years now, Jack. Everyone here knows that," you shake your head.
"So why are you sleeping with me, then? I am not a homewrecker," his voice wavers a bit, undercutting the anger in his stance.
"I never said you were," you groan, pinching your temples, "Listen, we can't talk about this here. I'll call you after-"
"No."
"No?"
"No more," he purses his lips, "We can't do this. Not when you're married."
on the other hand, reader fully thinks he knows because she’s not hiding her husband or anything
oh no… i can just imagine, Jack finding out about readers husband in the worse way possible
btw i LOVE older woman x Jack, especially how you write it. i love an age gap, clearly, but sometimes if reader is younger she acts like a toddler, its so refreshing to read your work :)
(i feel like there's been a large uptick in infantalization fics in the pitt fandom which is fine but they're never tagged as such and that's just not my thing)
ofc, because why would he get to find out in a normal way?
In your defense, Dana put Jack on the case. You were instrucing McKay and Santos through a trauma. You had no idea your husband even brought your daughter in until you were out.
"What the hell happened?" you exclaim as you pull back the curtain.
"Mama!" Saina looks at you, looking so small on the gurney, "I was practicing my toeloop and my feet stuck and I fell."
"Are you okay?" You run over to her, grabbing your the flashlight you keep in your pocket to shine into her pupils.
"I'm okay," her tiny eyes look up at you, "Dr. Jack already did this."
"No sign of concussion," Jack pipes up from the other side of her gurney, "Probably no fracture on her ankle either, but I already ordered an x-ray because I thought you'd want to be sure, and a CT because her dad said she hit her head on the ice."
"Does your head hurt, beti?" you ask.
She shakes her head, "Not anymore. My foot still hurts."
"I know, baboo, I'm sorry," you kiss her head. You look around the room, blinking as you realize your husband is nowhere to be found, "Where's daddy?"
"Stepped out," Jack says, "He said your other daughter is at soccer and he was trying to talk to another parent to see if she could go over to their house since he wasn't sure how long he'd be here for."
"Okay, I can bump her in line for her scans. But-"
"Sorry-" Santos voice cuts through, "I know this is your daughter, but the MVA is crashing."
"Shit," you groan, "Are you gonna be okay here till daddy comes back?"
"I like Dr. Jack," Saina grins, "He likes pokemon too."
"Dr Abbot," you shake your head.
"It's fine," Jack waves you off, "she can call me whatever she wants."
Your husband returns soon after, having found accomodations for your other daughter.
"How is she?"
"Neel right? She's doing fine. Mom came in and checked her over, but she got pulled into another trauma. She'll be back when she can."
Neel nods, sitting down on the chair next to his daughter, "Well, I guess I can cancel the babysitter for tomorrow night. Mama's going to want to stay in."
He's looking at his daughter as he says it, for which is Jack is grateful because then he doesn't notice the way Jack freezes at the computer.
"Why? I like Jenny. She said she'd let us paint her nails this time!"
"You know how momma gets when you're sick, peanut," Neel chuckles, "I'll have to beg the restaurant not to charge my card."
And, when Jack looks back at the two he notices something he must have missed before when he was too preoccupied with taking care of your daughter to notice anything else.
A black silicone wedding band on his finger, the kind that blue collar workers wear at work to avoid injury.
Suddenly the air becomes very thin. Is Jack a mistress?
*****
You pull him aside later, in some quieter hallway of the ED after Saina's been discharged.
"Thank you," you say, earnestly, "You did good with her. And I'm sorry but obviously I can't give you a ride home today I need-"
"Are you married?" he interrupts, crossing his arms.
You frown, "Of course I am."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
You scoff, unsure you heard him correctly, "What? You knew that. I talk about Neel a lot."
"You don't wear a ring. You talk about him a lot but you've never called him your husband. I thought you were divorced."
"No, I've been married for 12 years now, Jack. Everyone here knows that," you shake your head.
"So why are you sleeping with me, then? I am not a homewrecker," his voice wavers a bit, undercutting the anger in his stance.
"I never said you were," you groan, pinching your temples, "Listen, we can't talk about this here. I'll call you after-"
"No."
"No?"
"No more," he purses his lips, "We can't do this. Not when you're married."
please read this even if you're not indian. especially if you're not indian.
you've seen the jokes. india is "dirty", indians are "everywhere", why don't they fix their own country. ok. let me tell you why, and what's happening right now while nobody's watching.
first, the history you skipped: britain ruled india for two centuries and drained it. economist utsa patnaik's research estimates around $45 trillion in today's money was taken. the india that got independence in 1947 was one of the poorest countries on earth. every "why is india like this" question starts there. you don't get to profit off a robbery and then mock the crime scene.
now, what's happening RIGHT NOW:
in may the question paper for NEET leaked. that's the national medical entrance exam. over 2.2 million students took it. cancelled. years of studying, families' savings poured into coaching, gone overnight because someone sold the paper. students died by suicide after. these were kids who wanted to be doctors.
and out of that came a protest movement. a gen z group called the cockroach janta party, started by a 30 year old named abhijeet dipke, got 22 million instagram followers within DAYS. they've been doing a sit-in at jantar mantar in delhi demanding education minister dharmendra pradhan resign.
and then there's sonam wangchuk. if you've watched 3 idiots, he's the real engineer the character was based on. built solar schools in ladakh. invented ice stupas so himalayan villages have water. spent his whole life on education. he's 59 and he's been on hunger strike for 17+ days now. reporters went to see him this week and he was too weak to talk. and the troll armies are calling him "anti national" and "foreign funded". a man starving himself for other people's children. that's the thing here, anyone who asks a question is suddenly a traitor.
it's not one incident, it's everywhere you look:
• infrastructure worth thousands of crores failing within months of the ribbon cutting. tunnels collapsing in regions where heavy rain is a guarantee, not a surprise.
• youth unemployment near 10% for ages 15 to 29, 13.6% in cities. in a country of 1.42 billion where more than half the population is young.
• only about the top 3% of indians earn above 10 lakh a year. meanwhile billionaire wealth keeps ballooning and the headlines celebrate it.
• manipur burned for over two years. an ethnic conflict, tens of thousands displaced, and the prime minister barely said the word manipur while it happened.
• journalists raided. critics' houses bulldozed. activists sitting in jail for years without trial under laws like UAPA. our press freedom ranking has cratered.
• even the petrol is a fight now, ethanol blending pushed through while drivers complain about their engines and get no straight answers.
and through all of it, the PM, who came to power on religious polarisation (americans, sound familiar?), travels abroad for photo ops and has not held one single open press conference in over a decade. not one.
what i'm asking:
if you're not indian: share this. our media mostly won't cover any of it because the big outlets are owned by the same billionaires the government serves. the only reason wangchuk's fast is getting any coverage is people refusing to look away.
if you ARE indian: speak up even if you're comfortable. especially if you're comfortable. join the protests. add to this, correct me, translate it. staying quiet is a choice when nothing in this post touches your life.
india is not "dirty". india was robbed, and it's being robbed again, from the inside this time. but it's also the country where a 59 year old will starve for strangers' kids and 22 million young people will rally behind a party literally named after cockroaches, because cockroaches survive everything.
Sitting on Dana’s face OR the other way around either one
one time dana sits on your face ᐟજ⁀➴ the first you sits on hers. 18+, dirty talk, pussy eating <3
you were sweaty, tangled in bed sheets, thighs sticky and cunt aching. dana writhed against your hand, two fingers buried deep to the knuckle, curling hard against her g spot. you could watch her all day like this, her lips parted, the shallow pants and whimpers as she clung to you, clawed at your shoulders, trembling.
"m so close— god 'm so close i—" you could always tell by her look of concentration: tongue poking against her top lip, brows furrowed and eyes tight. then there was the look of disappointment as you withdrew your fingers, the confusion at the sudden emptiness. "wha-"
"want you to cum on my face" you breathed, "c'mon sit on my face, baby, up here" you shuffled yourself down a little, urging dana towards the headboard. she moved, but hesitantly. you could tell she'd never done this before. "s'okay, c'mon gonna feel so good" you pulled at her thigh and she straddled you just below the chin, chest still heaving from her near orgasm a second ago.
"you su- oh fuck" she couldn't finish before you craned your neck down to suck on her clit, lapping her wetness up with your tongue like it was your last time tasting her. dana's left hand flew to the headboard, the right dropping to fist into your scalp. she found her footing, shimmying up an inch til her thighs bracketed your head and your nose was nudging your clit. she rocked her hips slowly when your hands grabbed her ass, helping her roll circles whilst your tongue sunk into her hole. "jesus— my god, that's so fuckin g-good" she sped up, grinding her pussy down into your face, humping your lips as you garged incoherent sentences of praise. "shit babe i'm gonna—" mouth open, voice cracking, "i'm comin, i'm comin, i'm c-"
𑣲.
the first time you sat on dana's face, she didn't need to beg. you were on the sofa, her straddling your lap, making out til you were both breathless and soaked between the legs. she pulled away, lips pink and swollen, and you recognised the glint in her eye. the one that said she wanted to try something, nervous to vocalise it. at first.
"want something—" she panted, "want you, on my face" your cunt twitched at her words, hands roaming her chest over fabric, nipples hard beneath it. "wanna taste you" her tongue darted out to lick into you.
it was quick. you flipping dana so your positions were reversed, straddling her, bare cunt under your skirt, dragging along the length of her thigh. "want me to sit on your face? yeah? that what you want?" you teased, her nodding as the wet patch grew on the denim of jeans. "fuck baby could cum just thinking about it"
when you pushed yourself up, dana shuffled down to accommodate your knees coming to rest at either side of her head. you lowered yourself slowly, gripping the back of the sofa, propped up by cushions and dana's shoulders. you felt her breath before her lips, her nose nudge against you, slow and steady. "sit. now"
her tongue sunk into you, nails in your hips, head back as dana pulled you deeper, aching for your taste to coat her entirely. your moans grew louder and louder, in rhythm with the rock of your cunt, clit rubbing against her nose, devouring you. "right there— fuck, god you feel so good—" dana moaned throatily into your pussy, the vibrations urging you to speed up, belly growing hot, toes curling into the soles of your feet.
dana pushed your legs up for a second, enough to command you, to pull your eyes down between your own legs to see her blown pupils and glistening face. "come for me, let me have it"
