vey @royskents - Tumblr Blog

Feb 11

cant help myself

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x fem!grad student!reader

Summary: You were not Robby’s biggest fan and finding out the saddest man in your bar fucks was absolutely not going to change your opinion of him. Absolutely not.

Rating: Explicit (E)

Word Count: 17k

Series: GradSdtudent!Reader

Tags/Warnings: angst, depression, implication of suicidal ideation, description of injury, praise kink, mediocrely written smut, some lite humor, the tone is actually not that depressing I pinky swear, pathetic bar patron to remarkable lover trope (we all know that common trope).

Author's Note: As per the poll, I come to deliver grad student/bar tender dealing with pathetic Robby. Please comment with your thoughts and feelings, I yearn for the reactions. I’m not the most proud of the smut, but I’m trying to get better at writing it. Idk hope it’s enjoyable enough.

Pls note this has not really been proofread. And I'm incapable of writing something short. soz.

-- -- --

You winced as one of your least favorite regulars walked in. It probably wasn’t a fair group to put the poor man in, especially when ugly-ass-Hawaiian-shirt-guy called your coworker a cunt and then threw up on the floor of the bathroom, missing the toilet by a solid meter. There was also the guy who insisted that he was such a successful lover, no one could stomach to call him back in case they became addicted.

But Dr. Robinavitch—Robby as he insisted he be called—was a maudlin drunk. By the end of the night you were always a little worried to let him go home alone in case he did something he couldn’t take back. He tipped well, though, so that was something. He had been coming in more sporadically since July. One night, when he was more tipsy than drunk, he implied something had occurred and he began seeking help.

Tonight he looked more alert. Sometimes, when he came in, he wore the world on his shoulders. At least tonight you were greeted with a semi-convincing smile.

“Dr. Robby,” you greeted. You’d stopped asking how his day was months ago.

“How has your shift been?” He asked you.

“Not bad, only have another hours or so before I clock out,” you replied.

The bar was slow tonight. Despite how abysmal the tips were, you preferred it slow. It allowed you to read, or grade, or write while patrons largely entertained themselves. Aimless small talk wasn’t your forte, though you’d certainly improved over the course of this job. Thankfully, the dive bar seemed to attract the kinds of people who wanted to be left alone with their thoughts.

“Busy week?” He asked.

“No more than others. Want your usual?” You asked deflecting his question about your life outside these walls.

A few weeks ago, the last night Robby had truly been wasted (so much so, you cut him off) he’d caught you in a moment of weakness and you’d told him about your PhD work. Despite his normally depressive drunk state, he perked up and began asking you question after question. It seemed to raise his spirits, so you acquiesced assuming he’d forget by the next morning.

His brain was a steel trap, as evidenced by the fact he’d ask about your PhD, either explicitly or in a roundabout way the following half dozen times he came in. He rarely got shit-faced anymore. Most times, he tended to stay on the right side of tipsy. It certainly seemed like he was trying to have a better relationship with alcohol.

In fact, a couple visits previous, you and a coworker watched amazed as he flirted with and then subsequently took home a woman sitting next to him at the bar. It had been live texted in the bartender groups chat to a mixture of awe, surprise, and happiness. Dr. Robby was something of a local legend in his sad but overall non-troublesome behavior. He just liked to talk when drunk and you really didn’t like to talk to drunk people.

Bartending paid well, and needs must.

“Just a rum and coke,” he said settling in on his usual bar stool. It sat off to the side and gave the occupant an easy view of the bar, patio, and front door.

“Got it,” you replied ringing him up. “Tab?”

“Not tonight,” Robby said.

You hoped your surprise didn’t show on your face, but you knew you had a terrible poker face. Looks like the group chat would be getting new information on the bizarre man. Most of your coworkers liked Robby a lot, he was colloquially known as Sad Paddington Bear. Tipping well and not being a menace made him a perfect patron. You were just a little pickier than most, with your days being spent on campus with academics and undergrads—by the time you came to this job your threshold for unique characters had been reached.

Sometimes you felt bad for how unfriendly and uncurious you could be with patrons. Many of your regulars were fun to chat with. They had fascinating lives and stories. You suspected Robby would be one if he got out of his drink. But no one normal goes to get a PhD—including yourself—so you just did not have it in you for Robby’s particular brand of quirky.

“You look surprised,” Robby commented as he handed over his card.

“I don’t look like anything,” you attempted to lie.

Robby snorted, “Every thought you have is written on your face. It’s why I know you don’t like me.”

“I like you fine,” you replied sliding over the card and receipt. “You tip well, who wouldn’t like that?”

“So that’s why it always looks like you sucked on a lemon when I walked in?” He inquires signing the check.

“Maybe I just enjoy snacking on lemons,” you said moving behind the bar and beginning to mix his drink. You made a mental note to work on your ability to control your face. It really was a problem.

“I think that would be more peculiar than not liking me,” Robby told you, sliding the check back over.

He was one of three people currently sitting at the bar, so after you handed him his drink, you glanced at his receipt.

“Is tipping 100% trying to get me to like you more?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, taking a small sip. “Knew you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t like many people, Dr. Robinavitch. I fear you’re not unique. I’m very much the problem here.”

“And yet, for some reason I doubt that. You seem perfectly pleasant to me.”

You couldn’t help the disbelieving snort that his comment elicited. “Might want to get your eyes checked, if that’s what you’re seeing.”

“I see just fine. It’s reading that I need the glasses for,” he stated.

It was unnerving, being stared at by Robby. His eyes were a deep brown and they seemed to have the uncanny ability to stare through you. It made the hair on your neck stand on end. Being watched was fine by you. Lecturing in front of massive classrooms meant public speaking, being perceived, and observed phased you very little. Robby was not observing you. He seemed to be studying you, and that was more than a little uncomfortable.

“Whatever you say,” you replied a little uncomfortable.

“I’ll get you to like me,” he said, an almost charming smile graced his face. It still seemed a little sad.

“Or maybe you need to be okay with the fact you’re not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m certainly not.”

“I think you underestimate yourself.”

“I think you overestimate yourself. I can’t believe you got that smoking hot woman to go home with you.”

“Paying attention to me, then?” He asked. Clearly, it was an attempt to sound suave, but it missed the mark and sounded cheesy.

“The group chat with all the bartenders was very proud of you.”

“And what about you?”

“I wondered if you were too old to get hard on your own and if you popped a sildenafil on your way out.”

“Ouch,” Robby responded but he didn’t sound particularly hurt.

Another patron walked in and you happily took the opportunity to leave the disconsolate aura Robby seemed to emanate around him. All too fast, the patron paid and you got them their drink. Your book was back by Robby. When you glanced at him, he had plucked it from behind the bar and was reading it.

“Have a sudden craving to learn about reform politics in the American southwest?” You asked.

“It’s a well written book,” Robby commented.

“It is, one of the better books I’ve read this semester.”

“I like your notes in the margin; lots of interesting thoughts and connections.”

“Uh-huh.” You gently took the book from his hands and was about to walk away when he asked with a forced causal tone,

“Do you still have that office on the third floor of the social science building?”

You paused. “Why do you know what floor my office is on?”

“You mentioned once your window looks over the duck pond and the statue of the naked guy with the sword,” he said. “Third floor lines up with that.”

You blinked. “I mentioned that months ago.”

He shrugged. “I remember things.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure how to. Most patrons forgot your name by their second drink. Robby remembered throwaway comments at 1AM while half-drunk. It was certainly a little odd, but no one else in your life seemed to pay that much attention to what you said.

“So do you like it better there than your old one?” he asked.

You stared. “My…old one?”

“The one you hated because the fluorescent light buzzed and flickered. You said it gave you headaches.”

You let out a slow breath. “Why do you remember that?”

He took a sip as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You were annoyed. You get more animated when you’re annoyed. It was interesting.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” you said flatly.

He looked mildly alarmed. “Was that creepy?”

“Yes.”

He grimaced. “Okay. Sorry. I just…listen.”

“To everything.”

“Well, yeah.” He hesitated. “You’re…” He trailed off.

“I what?” you asked cautiously.

“You’re the only person who talks to me like I’m not about to break or some shit, like I’m not some sad old man. You don’t like me enough to coddle me.”

You almost said you do think he’s sad, but stopped yourself. Something about the way he stared down at his drink made you uncomfortable. Apparently your stare and subsequent silence elicited a change in tactics.

“So,” he said, brightening with forced cheerfulness. “Conference are coming up, right? You said you hate them. Are you going to that one in—Chicago? MPSA?”

You frowned. “How do you even know when MPSA is?”

“You were complaining about airfare once.”

“That was in February.”

“It was a compelling rant.”

You gave him a look. “Robby. I don’t even tell my friends this stuff.”

He blinked. “We could be friends?”

“Don’t make this weird.”

He deflated slightly but nodded. “Okay. Sorry.” He was quiet for a beat. Then, softer: “I just, like talking to you. Makes it easier to not get drunk.”

You froze, not sure what to do with that.

He immediately panicked at your silence. “You don’t have to! I’m not trying to pry, I swear. Just, I like knowing how your brain works.”

“You say that like it’s a normal thing to say.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

He considered that. “Oh.”

You shook your head. “Robby, I’m not that interesting.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, almost offended. “You’re the most interesting part of my day.”

He realized what he’d said the moment it left his mouth. His eyes widened just slightly, like he wanted to catch the words and shove them back in.

You stared at him.

He took a quick, embarrassed sip of his drink. “That sounded less pathetic in my head.”

“I really doubt that,” you said.

He groaned quietly into his glass. “I’m going to die alone.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“Statistically accurate,” he muttered back.

Despite yourself, you snorted. “There’s no statistically valid way you could even determine that. It would be based on superficial evidence and the endogeneity would render the model completely pointless.”

He looked up, “What is endogeneity?”

“I am not giving you a stats lecture. Aren’t you a doctor. Shouldn’t you know stats?”

“No. I do calculations for drugs and chemical reactions to drugs. I don’t deal with probabilities. At least not like you do.”

“So how do you read case studies or evaluate the veracity of research?”

“Evaluate the veracity of research?”

“Yes, Dr. Robinavitch. If you don’t understand stats then how do you know if the research paper you’re reading is bullshit?”

“Well, it got published didn’t it?”

You felt your eye twitch. “I’ve never been more concerned for the medical profession than I am at this moment. This is why you guys stole “Doctor” from us, because you wanted to appear more like experts.”

“I think we had the title first.”

“I think you should check your facts. Academics were called doctor during the Middle Ages. Medical professionals started using it when they also spent time grave robbing.”

“You’re very passionate about this,” he commented.

“Yeah well,” you took a breath. “Respect is important.”

“So should I call you doctor?”

“I’d have to defend my dissertation first.”

“What’s your dissertation about?”

“Do you want another drink?” You asked ignoring his question.

“Nope,” he replied. “What’s your dissertation about?”

Letting out a harsh breath you said, “Local interest groups and how to encourage people to get involved in local politics.”

“Sounds fascinating,” he said.

“It does not,” you laughed.

“You can’t tell me what I do or don’t find interesting,” he shot back.

“You would be the first non-political scientist to find anything I do interesting.”

“Their loss.”

You stared at him and he held steady under your gaze. Normally, he’d cringe away. According to your students, you had a severe look that would render anyone hesitant and nervous. But Robby idly sipped his drink and kept looking back at you.

“You’re so weird,” you settled with saying.

“You’re not the first to say and I doubt you’ll be the last.”

With narrowed eyes, you turned and began cleaning up your station. You really just wanted to go home.

-- -- --

You were off this week, trying to meet a couple of important deadlines. It meant most evenings were spent on campus in your cramped but homey cubicle staring at numbers you could barely differentiate anymore. In high school you would have given anything to not do math, now you coded complex statistical models and calculated matrix algebra and derivatives. High school you would be devestated.

But current you, the one who was currently sitting in a too-cold-office space with a sweatshirt and a blanket, was fascinating by the results of your field experiment. It’s why you didn’t notice a group text erupting on your phone.

Priya: Sad Paddington Bear came in and asked about our favorite grumpy PhD student.

Rachel: he looked so sad when we told him she was off this week. apparently our girl has an admirer.

Priya: HOLY SHIT!!! He’s flirting with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Again!!!! He’s failing miserably and she seems charmed by it.

Oliver: I can’t believe I’m not there for this. Tell me everything!!!!!!!!

Rachel: she’s probably in her forties if I had to guess. he asked her name and if he could buy “the most beautiful woman in the bar” a drink. it was painfully cheesy

Oliver: did it work?????

Rachel: they’re talking rn!!!!!!!!!!!

Priya: I still can’t believe he has game.

Tanner: Hello all, this group chat is meant for work conversation only.

Priya: Fuck off, Tanner.

Rachel: fuck off tanner

Oliver: you’re a kill joy, tan

Rachel: THEYRE LEAVING TOGETHER. I REPEAT. THEY ARE LEAVING TOGETHER. SPB FUCKS!!!!!

Tanner: I am amazed Sad Paddington Bear has it in him. Guess he cannot count on impressing our grumpy coworker.

You: Fuck off Tanner, you dickhead.

Tanner: Case and point

Oliver: really changed your tune about the group chat there now that we are discussing how Paddington Bear fucks.

Tanner: It is work relevant.

You grumbled at your phone and tossed it in your backpack so it wouldn’t taunt you. So what if you were once again faced with the reality that Robby had game? You didn’t like Robby. He was sad and weird and paid way too much attention to you. Though, the attention he paid didn’t feel creepy so much as intense. He remembered things about you that most of your closest friends couldn’t recall. Not that you blamed them, you just lived in a niche world.

Robby fucking was in no way relevant to the edits you were making to your research nor did it help ease the exhaustion settling on your shoulders. You hadn’t been fucked well basically since you started the PhD program four years ago. It was an itch no one had been good enough to scratch. You briefly wondered if Robby was good in bed; probably not, you decided.

-- -- --

Robby was already at the bar when you clocked in. You were covering for Priya who went home sick, so it was only a couple hours until last call. Robby stared blearily at his empty cup; he didn’t even notice you walk in. Glancing at his tab you saw he had far out ordered his new normal. He was sitting four double gin and tonics deep; a large number for someone whose tab was only opened a little over an hour ago.

“You’re here,” he said syrupily. Robby never slurred, but he did manage to sound sleepy and sickly sweet at times.

“What happened to a healthier relationship with alcohol?” You asked sliding a glass of water with a straw in front of him and taking the mostly empty G&T away.

“I was drinking that,” he grumbled.

“I’ll take if off your tab,” you replied gesturing to the water.

He leaned down and took a drink from the straw. For some reason straws always got the drunk people to drink water. You likened it to a baby with a pacifier. Robby looked particularly sad tonight. You hoped he wasn’t going to talk your ear off. You weren’t sure how to square the man who took home, by all accounts, absolute bombshells, when he was now wasted on G&Ts in front of you.

“You’re my favorite,” he said. He took another drink.

“I’m literally the meanest person here,” you responded. “You have got to fix your self esteem.”

“Esteem is fine,” he replied.

You snorted. “People with healthy self esteem’s don’t gravitate towards people that are mean to them. I thought you said you were seeing someone professionally.”

“Stopped,” he mumbled.

“Healthy.”

“I’m fine,” he replied, his grin was goofy but his eyes were sad.

“Uh-huh,” you knew you sounded unconvinced.

“Do you know what my favorite thing about you is?” Robby asked apropos of nothing.

“No, and I don’t really care,” you sighed, as you began washing cups. You wished he didn’t insist on sitting by the good water spout so you could dishes in peace.

“You don’t lie to protect anyone’s feelings.”

That wasn’t exclusively true. You were far more tactful with your students than adult men at a bar you worked at to make your car payment hurt less.

“Not anyone here, that’s true,” you said.

“I lie all the time,” he announced. “I’m good at it to.”

“What do you lie about?” You asked disbelievingly. Immediately you wished you hadn’t said anything.

“That I’m fine,” he sighed. “I’m not fine. As demonstrated by the fact I’m shit faced on a Tuesday at…” he looked at his watched for longer than a sober man would need, “nine-twenty-seven pm.”

“No offense, Robby. If that’s what you’re lying about, you’re a shit liar.”

“No one else seems to have picked up on it,” he grumbled.

“Don’t you have friends or family?”

“Parents died when I was little. Raised my Bubbe, grandmother. Was the only person to sit shiva for her when she died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you replied. “It must have been lonely to grieve like that for her.”

“You know what sitting shiva means?”

“I have met a Jewish person, before yes. I do live in Pittsburgh, you know,” you replied.

“You’re full of surprises,” Robby declared.

“I certainly am not,” you scoffed. Robby just shrugged and went silent. Eventually he said,

“All of her family had already passed and then it was just me. Sitting in the empty house watching distant family members and friends I barely knew putter around while I sat and stared. Seven days of nothing.”

“What about your friends?”

He just shrugged.

“Surely in your many years on this earth you’ve picked up a friend or two.”

“Sure, but I’m great at pushing them away. After Adamson died, after I all but killed him, there was no one willing to put up with me.”

“Adamson?”

“Mentor.” Robby said. “Incredible man. Changed the way I looked at the world. Showed me how to be a good doctor and good man. I think I’ve lost both since he passed.”

“How did he die?” You asked, quietly.

“COVID. I made the choice to take him off the ventilator because someone younger needed it. She died, too. Some fucking doctor I am,” Robby said acidicly. It was a tone of voice that surprised you.

“What a goddamn bitch of a situation,” you told him. “I’m sorry you were put in that position.”

“Maybe if I had been a better doctor…” Robby trailed off.

“What? You could have bare knuckle boxed death and won?” You asked, leaning a hip against the bar in front of him. “Way I see it, instead of death taking them easily, it had to fight you tooth and nail for it.”

“Still won.”

“Always will in the end,” you replied shrugging.

“Then maybe there isnt a point.”

“To being a doctor?” You asked.

“That, or keeping going. What’s the point if we all die?”

“Christ.”

“Sorry.”

“You apologize too much.”

“You sound like Jack.”

“Friend?”

“We used to be close,” Robby mumbled.

This was certainly more desolate that you really had the energy for.

“Dude,” you said before you could stop yourself. It was really none of your business. “You seem to be moderately intelligent, so you should know that you can stop pushing away your friends. I’m sure it’s not easy but it’s not a fact of life. Take some agency instead of letting things just happen to you.”

If anything he curled in deeper to himself and you immediately felt a wave of guilt and worry wash over you. When Robby got like this you always had half a mind to call in a welfare check on him when he got home. Maybe you shouldn’t be kicking a man while he’s down.

“See,” he said, a thick emotion in his voice. “No coddling from you.”

“Give me your phone,” you said.

He handed it over without question.

“Give me the password and someone to call for you.”

Robby gave you his four digit code. And said, “Jack, I guess. Don’t think he’s working tonight.”

You scrolled through his contacts (most of which had the Dr. prefix attached to them) and hit call. Almost immediately the phone picked up.

“You good, brother? You don’t normally call this late,” a deep male voice said.

“Uh, yeah. Not Robby. I’m a bartender at Solomon’s on tenth. Robby’s…” you weren’t sure how to say it, “not good? I managed to get him to give me your name. You able to come grab him?”

“Is he okay? Physically?” The man, Jack, asked. You could hear rustling on the other end and a metallic click before hurried footsteps.

“Yes, physically he’s fine. I’m not thrilled with the idea of him going home alone,” you replied. Turning away from Robby so he could see your mouth or hear you—though by the distant look in his eyes you doubted he was listening. “He’s talking a lot about Adamson and death. He is pretty wasted.”

“Fuck,” Jack hissed. “I know it’s not your job, but can you try and keep him there and mostly alive? I’m like twenty minutes away.”

“I can do that. I’ll try and sober him up some.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” Jack said.

You hung up and disappeared in the back where you knew the staff kept a shitty water kettle for the coffee part of Irish coffees. You quickly grabbed some fries from the kitchen and brewed a cup of coffee. When you came back, Robby was slumped against the bar.

“Rise and shine, sad boy. You need to eat and drink this,” you said placing the food and coffee in front of him. The water was almost empty so you refilled that as well.

“I’m good.”

“Eat the fries and drink the fucking coffee,” you snapped. “I’m trying to help you.”

“You don’t like me,” he shot back.

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t have to like you to want you to be okay,” you replied flicking his forehead lightly.

“Asshole,” he grumbled sitting up and taking a sip of coffee. He coughed at the bitter taste.

“Sorry we don’t have anything good.”

“Probably for the best.”

You continued working while keeping an eye on Robby. He drank the coffee and ate the fries, slowly he was looking a little better when the door opened and a sturdy man in a US Army sweatshirt limped in. He had close cropped grey and silver hair. His facial expression was frantic and worried, but relaxed when he spied Robby stooped at the bar picking at the last couple fries.

“You look like shit,” you heard the man say.

“Normally that’s her line,” Robby said loosely. He lazily pointed at you. There wasn’t a legitimate reason you could avoid the pair, so you walked over.

“You’re the one that called?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” you replied introducing yourself.

“Oh, you’re that bartender,” Jack realized.

“Which one?” You inquired.

“He likes you.”

“He shouldn’t. I’m mean.”

“He’s fucked up that way,” Jack said. “Thank you, for taking care of him.”

“Just doing my job,” you said.

Jack snorted. “It’s not. Can I pay out his tab?”

“Don’t worry about it, the system will close it out,” you replied. “Just get him home safe.”

“Will do and thank you again,” Jack said pulling Robby to his feet. The pair ambled out into the chilly winter air and you couldn’t help but feel the lack of Robby’s presence haunting the edge of your bar.

-- -- --

It had been over two months since you’ve seen Robby. Most of you didn’t think about him. Regulars disappeared all the time. Regulars who seemed one bad day away from throwing themselves in the river also disappeared but you were hopeful his water logged body wouldn’t be found based on Jack’s presence. You had a sneaking suspicion that Robby’s view of his friendship was muddied by his lack of self esteem. If Jack wasn’t a friend you weren’t sure what else he could be.

Campus was close to the major hospital in the area. It was a good thing too, since the thin sheet of ice that coated all the sidewalks had sent many an undergrad to the clinic with a twisted ankle. You were hesitantly walking down a set of concrete steps after your lecture when an undergrad rushed by you and knocked you over.

You felt your feet fly out from under you and the hard crack of icy concrete on your elbow and you slid down the stairs. There was a distance “Sorry!” as the undergrad ran off.

“Fuck,” you managed trying to sit up. Your vision swam and you felt something warm and stick on the side of your face.

“Holy shit,” a voice said. You recognized her as one of the students from your class. “Professor? Are you okay?”

“Sure,” you said, trying to sit up again.

“Okay, maybe don’t do that. Your head is bleeding a lot. Ryan! Ryan, call 911. I think she needs an ambulance.”

“I’m fine,” you grumbled.

You started to take stock of your body now that the initial shock of the fall had worn off. Your leg was curled awkwardly under your body and with a heave, you managed to get it in front of you. Your legs felt fine, though there was a rip in your favorite pair of pants and blood seeping out of a gash in your leg. Trying to move your left arm sent nauseating pain through your body, so you kept it firmly tucked against you. With your non injured hand you tried to feel for whatever wound was on your head.

“Okay, definitely don’t do that,” your student said. “You’re covered in dirty ice, you’ll give yourself an infection. Ryan went to grab someone from the department too.”

As if on cue, you heard the slamming of footsteps behind you and the familiar voice of the graduate program director going, “Oh fuck. Are you all right?”

You were lying flat on your back in the icy concrete. In what world were you all right?

“The ambulance is here,” another voice said. The cloudy afternoon was beginning to get dimmer. Fuck, your head hurt. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to close your eyes for a minute.

The next time you came to, it felt like the world was moving. There were bright lights, loud voices and an incessant squeaking that made you want to cover your ears. Slowly, the rest of your body came back into focus and you heard a familiar voice say,

“Any LOC?”

A female voice behind you answered, “She’s been in and out since we picked her up. Oriented at first but lost consciousness before we got there.”

“Fuck off, I’m fine,” you hissed, very much not fine.

“I’ll take grumpy and incorrect over unconscious,” the voice said. “Okay, roll her to the bed and we’ll transfer on three. One…two..three.”

For a moment you felt yourself lift and then land on a less comfortable bed. The surface was harder, covered with that weird hospital paper, and colder than the gurney. Your eyes were still closed, but the lights above you were so bright you could feel them—white heat buzzing against your eyelids like someone pressing flashbulbs to your face.

Then came the hands.

One on your wrist. Another pushing up your sleeve. Cold pads sticking to your chest, your sweater no longer covering your tank top. Fingers checking your jaw. Gloves brushing your ribs. Something tight wrapped around your arm. Something else snapping against your ankle.

Too much.

Too many.

Your skin crawled under every point of contact. You tried to jerk away, but your body wouldn’t cooperate.

“This is worse than falling,” you said, and even you could hear the pitch of panic creeping into your voice. “Seriously—stop—just—”

“Mel, keep her talking and calm,” a voice said somewhere near your head. You knew that voice. You just couldn’t get your brain to land on the name.

“Hi there,” a woman said gently from your right. “I’m Mel. You’re okay, you’re at the hospital.”

Hospital. Right. You knew that. But it didn’t help. The beeping. The fluorescent hum. The rustle of paper gowns and gloves. Every sound was too loud. Every light was too sharp. Every hand on you felt like sandpaper over raw nerves.

“I want people to stop touching me,” you groaned, trying to pull your arm in, but someone grabbed your wrist before you got far. The movement sent agony lancing up your arm and you gasped, vision flashing white. “Fucking—ow—stop, stop—”

“Okay, arm fracture, careful,” Mel warned the nurse.

But the hands didn’t stop. They shifted instead—someone pressing down on your shoulder, another holding your chin steady as a light was shined in your eyes. You recoiled instinctively.

You hated this.

Too many people, too close, pinning you to a table like you were something to be restrained and examined. Every nerve ending screamed. Every second of it made your heart slam against your ribs, desperate for space, for air, for control.

“Hey,” Mel said softly, noticing the way your breathing hitched. “You’re safe. I know it feels like a lot. We’re just getting your vitals and making sure you’re stable.”

“This is not stable,” you snapped. You could hear yourself starting to spiral but couldn’t stop. “This is the opposite of stable. Get your fucking hands off—”

You heard your name.

Your eyes dragged to the sound.

Robby.

Standing at the foot of the bed, chart in hand, eyes on you. He looked, your sluggish brain struggled for the right word, not bad. He wore dark scrubs, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Everyone seemed to be responding to him. You closed your eyes as the room began to spin.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Even as your chest heaved and your hands balled into fists.

“No one is going to hurt you,” he said, voice even. Almost detached. “They’re doing their jobs. Let them get what they need, and I’ll make them back off.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he didn’t get to manage you. You wanted to shove every hand away and rip off every wire and bolt out of the room. The panic sat high in your throat like you were going to choke on it.

The lights were too bright. The voices were too loud. The touches were too much.

“Fuck,” you whispered, and hated how small it sounded.

“We’ve got you,” he said. “Just breathe.”

You inhaled shakily.

Hand rested on your ankle. The room was still chaos. The light still pierced through your eyelids. Everything was too much, but if you focused on the warm hand that settled on your bare ankle it was almost bearable. Gritting your teeth, you tried to block out everything else except his touch. When you were more coherent, you would find the irony of relying on Robby amusing.

“Mel, give me next steps,” he said, hand still in place.

The doctor stood on your right, her tone soft and low—surprisingly rich, like honey poured into warm tea. “Head lac needs irrigation and staples. Bleeding’s controlled. Pupils equal, reactive, but she’s photosensitive. GCS is fourteen—dropped once en route but came back up. Left arm—obvious deformity, likely distal radius or ulna fracture, maybe both. Possible sprain or hairline fracture in the lateral malleolus on the left ankle—she’s guarding it.”

“She guarding everything,” one of the nurses muttered, adjusting the leads stuck to your chest.

“No shit,” you snapped. “Maybe stop poking me like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Mel hummed, sounding amused rather than offended. “Conversational. Good sign.”

“She’s always like this,” Robby said, almost under his breath.

You glared at him. “I am not.”

His mouth barely twitched. “CT ordered?”

“Waiting on transport,” Mel said. “Do you want C-spine? She denied neck pain, full range of motion at the scene.”

Robby glanced at you again, his eyes scanning your posture. You realized he was checking the subtle ways you moved—or didn’t. “No collar yet. If her pain spikes or she reports new symptoms, we’ll immobilize. For now, keep her semi-upright so she doesn’t pass out.”

“I can hear you, you know,” you muttered. “I’m not a mannequin.”

“Unfortunately,” Robby murmured, dry.

Before you could tell him to fuck off, Mel leaned closer, casting just a little shadow over your face—mercifully blocking the light. Her voice was gentle but matter-of-fact, her cadence a little off in a way that made you think she thought carefully about each word before she spoke. “We’re going to clean your head wound. It might hurt. We’ll be as quick and gentle as we can. Okay?”

Mel was easily becoming your favorite person in the room. She clearly outlined her actions and didn’t attempt to sugarcoat or mollify.

You exhaled slowly. “Fine. Just…please don’t surprise me.”

“I will do my best,” she said seriously, and you believed her.

An alcohol pad touched the edge of the gash at your temple and you jerked instinctively. Pain flared hot, crawling behind your eye.

“Shit—fuck—” you hissed.

“Almost done,” Mel promised, calm as ever.

Hands were still on your arms, wrists, shoulders—but the one on your ankle grounded you. You focused hard on that one, because if you let yourself feel all the others, you were going to come out swinging.

Robby’s thumb moved—just slightly. The smallest shift of pressure. The subtlest reminder to keep you in your body and not desperately trying to escape.

“Transport ready?” he asked without looking away from you.

“Any minute,” someone said from the doorway.

Mel finished cleaning. “She’s going to hate the staples.”

“She hates everything,” Robby said.

“I wouldn’t hate it if you let me sleep again,” you mumbled.

“No sleeping,” he warned automatically.

“You’re the worst doctor I’ve ever met.”

“Get in line,” he said. His tone was flat, but something deep in it—something only someone who had listened to him talk for hours in dim bar lighting—sounded faintly relieved.

You sucked in another breath, trying to brace yourself for whatever fresh hell came next.

And then you heard the gurney being unlocked again.

The CT was better than the trauma room. It was dark. The nurse gave you earplugs and a warm blanket. You were still dizzy and in a lot of pain, but even without Robby’s hand, you felt like panicky.

The nurse took off all your jewelry and removed everything from your pockets. She started an IV in your arm that you barely felt. She rarely spoke unless informing you what was coming next. Despite the loud humming of the machine, you preferred this to everything else.

Eventually the machine began, you moved back and forth through the machine. With your eyes closed and earplugs in, it was easy to let your body calm down.

By the time the test was done and you were wheeled back into the ER proper, you were given an actual room and no longer in the trauma bay. Mel let you keep the earplugs. A new nurse, or maybe a previous one you snapped at, helped you change into a hospital gown and graciously let you keep you underwear on. Small victories.

Mel came back with Robby and slowly stitched your head wound while Robby looked at your leg.

“What happened?” He asked softly. You were calmer, more coherent now.

“Someone knocked me over on some stairs. Gravity did the rest,” you said. “Sorry that I was such a bitch before.”

“You’re fine,” Robby said at the same time Mel replied with,

“You were a bit mean, but it is completely understandable given the circumstances.”

“Dr. King,” Robby sighed. He was about to say something but your giggles stopped him.

“Dr. King?” You asked.

“Call me, Mel.”

“Mel, I think you’re my favorite doctor. Please apologize to all the healthcare workers I was mean to, for me. I know they were just trying to help.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Mel said kindly. “I’m going to put in an order for pain meds and follow up with Ortho. Want me to finish her leg, Dr. Robby?”

“I got it, Mel. Check on South 15 for me,” he directed.

“Got it,” she replied leaving.

“I can dim the lights and use a head lamp if that would be easier?” He asked quietly. “It’s going to take me a bit to stitch this.”

“That would be helpful. My head is throbbing,” you replied.

Robby nodded and clicked off the lights before he washed his hands and gloved up. He slid on a dorky looking headlamp with magnifying glasses on it. You wanted to make a joke but a wave of nausea slammed into you at the sight of the open wound on your leg.

“I need you to stay still,” Robby said softly.

“Sorry, sorry. I looked too closely at my leg. I think I’m going to puke,” you gagged.

He slid over to the cabinet and pulled out a barf bag. You clutched it against your mouth breathing deeply with your eyes clenched closed. Eventually the nausea passed and you thankfully didn’t throw up in front of Robby.

“Do you need anything?”

“You’re being too nice to me, considering I called you a bad doctor,” you replied instead of answering.

“Water? Juice?” He asked ignoring you. Normally that was your move.

“Water, but I’d prefer the leg to be stitched first. If I open my eyes and see it, I might pass out again.”

“So you’re able to explain nuances of statistics and political socialization, but blood gets you?” Robby asked. You felt the pressure of the needle and pull of the thread, but nothing hurt.

“Not blood, blood is fine. The giant open wound on my thigh gets me. I shouldn’t be able to see my own muscles,” you said gagging again at the thought.

“I’ve never seen you break your composure. Even earlier when you were having a hard time,” Robby replied almost sounding amused. “It’s nice to know you’re human, too.”

“When have I ever appeared not human?”

Robby snorted. “I really don’t think you know how people perceive you.”

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back.

Robby let out a humorless chuckle. “Suppose you’re right.”

“Are you…okay?” You asked.

“Getting there,” he said.

He was silent for a minute and you thought that was the end of his statement. It was more than what you thought you’d get. Instead, Robby took a breath and continued,

“That night, Jack, he took me to a treatment facility. I was there for a week and I’ve been doing therapy and group twice a week ever since.”

“Good for you.”

“Apparently a lot go healthcare providers got fucked by COVID,” Robby said conversationally.

“If I got fucked by COVID, I can only imagine you did,” you said humorlessly.

“I owe some of it to you,” he said after a bout of silence.

“What in the world could I have done? I’m just your mean bartender.”

Robby chuckled. “True, but having a stranger you want to like you, call you pathetic and tell you to get your life together…well, I guess it was the kick I needed.”

“So does that mean you admit you have friends now?”

“Yes,” Robby sighed. You smiled.

“Good. I’m glad you’re no longer sad and morose haunting the end of my bar.”

“Instead you’re terrorizing my ER,” he commented. Your eyes were still closed but you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Your ER?”

“I’m the chief attending,” he replied.

“No shit,” you said. “Why would you care if I liked you when you’re impressive and shit.”

“Impressive and shit?”

“Answer the question.”

He sighed. “I think I’ll pass on that one. Anyways, about done with your last stitch.”

You didn’t push, but there was something odd in his voice. “Can I get those pain meds now?”

“Sure thing,” he said warmly. “Your leg is covered if you want to open your eyes.”

You did and there was a low light in the room, but the bright fluorescents were off. Robby smoothed the gauze over your thigh and you felt his warmth even through the latex gloves. He smiled at you as he departed. Shortly thereafter, a nurse came in with pain meds and sleep over took you.

The next time you saw Robby you were still a little high on pain meds which is what you’ll blame for asking,

“Do you still pick up women now that you’re not a drunk?”

“Christ,” he said. He had just entered the room to check on your wound. “Warm a guy before giving him the inquisition.”

“I’m just curious if you’re still a slut now.”

“I wasn’t a slut then,” he protested.

“See I thought it didn’t happen much because it never happened on my shift. But I compared notes. You picked up a lot of women.”

“It was a normal amount,” he defended.

“Sure,” you drawled.

“I might have been a little slutty,” he acknowledged.

“You have hidden depths. I think we misjudged you when naming you Sad Paddington Bear.”

“Sad Paddington Bear?”

“It’s what the bartenders call you. Although maybe we should have called you a sad gigolo.”

“You’re very nosy on pain meds,” he said.

“I really am. Haven’t been on them before. Lot nicer than feeling all the cuts and scraps on my body.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Stiff, sore, probably embarrassed when my heads back on normal.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Robby replied with a hand lightly resting on your knee. He seemed to realize what he was doing and removed his hand.

“When can I leave?” You asked. “I want to be in my own bed.”

“You’ll need another neuro test before I feel comfortable letting you go,” he said. “Do you have someone to stay with you? Friend? Family? …Partner?”

“I’ll call a friend. Family is in a different state. And no partner. Who knows, maybe I’m a slut too,” you said.

You watched his lips quirk up. “You don’t like people enough to be a slut.”

You snorted. “That is so accurate. Having someone sweaty uselessly humping me is so boring.”

“Uselessly?”

Once again, you’d like to thank the pain meds for your loose lips. “Let’s just say, it’s been a real lack of skill in my bedroom from other humans. My vibrator? Astounding. She does great work.”

Robby cleared his throat as color washed over his cheeks. “Right, well—“

“If you’re a slut, it stands to reason that you probably wouldn’t be useless,” you thought out loud.

“Okay, looks like we should dial back the pain meds,” Robby said.

“So you are useless?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” he stated.

“Absolute babes went home with you apparently more than once. That must mean something,” you mumbled.

“You’re killing me,” Robby groaned.

“Where do you pick up women now that you don’t drink.”

“It’s really none of your business,” he tried to say. You continued talking,

“Coffee shop? I feel like you’d have a coffee shop you go to now.”

He did have a coffee shop he went to now and he didn’t like that you were able to puzzle that out so quickly while on pain meds.

“Look, I think we’re off track here,” Robby tried again.

“You’re hot, you know that?”

Robby cleared his throat and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I think I’ll send Mel in.”

“I’m just going to keep talking like this. Because for the first time in my life I cannot figure out how to shut up,” you stated. Distantly, you knew you’d be horrified by this later. But it wasn’t later. And the words kept coming.

Robby sighed and sat down next to you. “I’m not going to answer your questions.”

“That’s fine. Your prerogative.”

“So it seems we’re at an impass,” he stated.

“Apparently,” you said. “Although, I do have something to confess.”

“Is it going to make me uncomfortable as your current healthcare provider?” Robby asked tiredly. You snorted.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“All right, go ahead.”

“I don’t like you as a drunk, but as a doctor dealing with me on pain meds, I find you surprisingly charming. Long suffering, for sure, but charming too.”

“That is the meanest compliment I’ve received,” Robby half laughed, disbelievingly.

“It wasn’t meant to be mean!” You protested. “God these meds are fucking with me.”

Robby patted your hand and said, “Once the meds wear off and we check your brain again, I’ll discharge you. I…I am going to write down my number and if you feel comfortable, I just want you to let me know you’re okay.”

“Is this how you picked up the women?” You asked conspiratorially.

“No,” he said. Then almost to himself, added, “This is such a strange version of you.”

“Oh I know. I’m going to be mortified tomorrow.”

Robby snorted. “I’m putting my number in your discharge paperwork, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Robby. I think I might sleep again.”

“Probably a good call for both of us.”

-- -- --

It was two days post-discharge when the memory of your pain‐medicated encounter with Robby came swimming back.

“Oh fuck,” you groaned.

You were sitting on your couch with your leg propped on pillows and your arm in a sling, still in ratty pajamas you hadn’t changed out of since getting home. A dull ache radiated from every bruise and stitch, and the concussion made the world feel slightly tilted. But none of that compared to the slow, creeping horror pooling in your gut as you remembered exactly what you’d said to him.

Are you still a slut?

My vibrator does great work.

You're attractive, you know that?

You dragged your one good hand down your face and wished you could legally induce a coma. For your entire life, you had always been a little socially awkward. Most of the time your sense of humor never quite lined up with everyone else, your grasp of small talk was a battle fought for in awkward silences. Years of forcing yourself to get better at talking finally made you comfortable, but now you wanted to melt into your couch never to see another person again.

“Who was that?” you whispered to no one.

Part of you, the delusional part, hoped maybe you’d hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe it hadn’t been real. Then you glanced at your coffee table. The discharge folder sat there. Hesitantly, you opened the folder and tucked under the business card for the hospital was a Post-It with a phone number and one line written in neat block letters:

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU’RE OKAY. —R

“Nope, it was real,” you muttered. “Kill me.”

You tossed the folder back on the table and stared at it like you were afraid it would explode. There were two choices now: one, fake your death or two, be an adult and text the confident and normal version of Robby who had put up with your drug addled word vomit. Option one was very tempting.

You spent the rest of the day alternately sleeping and cringing. Every time you drifted off, your brain generously replayed another snippet of the conversation in 4K quality. It was easy to remember his hand on yours, the way he so effortlessly kept you calm and from panicking. You even recalled his panicked look when you asked him if he was still a slut. Groaning you wondered if you could smother yourself with a pillow. But he had been so kind; his kindness was the only reason you hadn’t absolutely lost your shit.

(Realistically, you knew Mel would have been able to calm you down, but still.)

You stared at your phone.

“You should text him,” a traitorous part of you whispered.

“Absolutely not,” the rest of you replied.

You sat with that for ten minutes.

Then twenty.

Then an hour.

You almost threw a pillow across the room. “Goddammit.”

You grabbed your phone.

Fine.

You’d text him.

One simple, neutral message.

Something mature, like: thanks again for your help.

Something that did not reference slut discourse or vibrators or the fact that you maybe, possibly, kind of liked him.

You typed:

hey. i lived, thanks for the stitches i guess

You stared at it.

You deleted “i guess.”

You added:

and sorry if i was weird. pain meds are evil.

You hovered over “send” for a solid sixty seconds.

Then, daring to breathe, you hit send.

Three seconds later, anxiety punched you in the throat. You threw your phone on the chair next to you hoping you wouldn’t hear it if it buzzed with his response. Painfully, you stood and limped over to your tiny kitchen. Making tea with one hand took double the time it did with two, it meant you were busy for double the time it would have normally distracted you for. Perhaps, you could still unsend the message. You checked the clock. Five minutes had passed. Maybe he wouldn’t respond. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he’d changed his number. Maybe—

You heard your phone buzz. Fuck. For a moment you stared at the chair, and slowly limped over to it, grabbing the offending device and terrified to see the response.

Finally, you grabbed it.

Robby (unknown number):

Hello. I’m glad you are safe. How is your pain level today?

You glared. Of course he was more normal than you were in this situation. That really annoyed you. He was meant to be the one who was awkward and cringey. You eased back onto the couch with your tea and wrote out:

headachy and sore. the stitches itch, too.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Robby: Are you having any new symptoms? • Worsening headache • Dizziness • Nausea • Vision changes • Difficulty focusing more than before

You rolled your eyes.

You: you text like a web-md checklist

Robby: That is perhaps the rudest thing you could say to a doctor. I just want to make sure you’re okay.

You: yeah, im fine. thank you for your concern Robby. stitches are driving me crazy tho

There was a longer pause this time. Then:

Robby: I’m glad you’re better. Have you eaten today?

You: none of your business (yes, a friend brought me soup).

Robby: Sounds like you have good friends. I’m glad you’ve eaten. A good diet and sleep are your best healing assets right now.

You: best healing assets?

Robby: Was that inappropriate?

You: no you just sounded like a dork

Robby: Seems to be something I frequently deal with around you.

You: are you blaming me for your inability to talk to women?

Robby: I can talk to women just fine. Something you have already established.

You: touche. so it’s just me?

Robby: I think it is.

You: do you still think i don’t like you? is that why you’re so weird?

Robby: Partially

You: and the other part?

Robby: I’ll plead the fifth, that. Your stitches should be ready to come out in a week or so. If you don’t want to go to the doctor, I can take them out for you. If you want, that is. No pressure.

You: technically pleading the fifth is only something you can only do when dealing with the government, but i’ll allow it since you were very kind to me when i was an absolute nightmare on pain meds. and that would be very appreciated. ill buy you a coffee as a thanks. and i won’t be mean

Robby: You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.

You: was that a joke?

Robby: Yes, evidently not a good one.

You: i am impressed, nonetheless.

Robby: Please keep me updated on how you’re feeling.

You: i make no promises. im terrible at texting

Robby: I’ve noticed. There has not been a single capitalization this whole time. You’re getting a PhD.

You: if you think about it, getting a phd is really the dumbest thing you could do, so i would argue it’s in character.

Robby: We’ll agree to disagree there.

Texting with Robby was strange. It was strange to communicate with someone you once dreaded seeing. It was very weird for him to offer to take out your stitches for you, saving you a trip to the campus clinic or urgent care; neither option seemed attractive to you.

The next week and a half passed like molasses. Each time you thought your body had improved enough to do an extra chore, or your brain had healed enough to open your laptop, your body aggressively reminded you that rest was still required. Thankfully, a few days into your boredom inducing bed rest, the TV became a viable option again assuming you kept the brightness down and the volume at a tolerable level.

Every so often you would text Robby an update or he would ask for one. You found yourself looking forward to the messages. Not drunk and seeking mental health help, he actually was funny and the maudlin angst had been replaced with the occasional dark joke. One time he sent you the middle finger emoji and you were unironically proud of him.

It wasn’t until the fifth day on bed rest did the occasional text turn into something more.

You: what do i do if the stitches are red and kinda making me nauseous?

Robby: Nauseous because you have a weak stomach or because you think it’s an additional symptom?

You: unclear, kinda been sick all day but i’ve also had a bitch of a headache too

Robby: I’m going to video call. I want to see the wound.

You phone rang a moment after you liked the message. Robby’s face appeared and it looked like he was at home. It was instinctually to search his background looking for any hint of his history that he hadn’t already poured out to your at the bar. He seemed to be sitting on a couch or chair, and behind him was a wall full of vinyl records. There was soft lamp light and the faint hum of music in the background.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” you told him wincing.

“I could have ignored your message,” he replied simply. You wondered if there was ever a world where he would ignore someone who needed him.

“I’ll owe you a whole meal when this is over,” you told him.

“You’re way too poor for me to take you up on that,” he replied, making you snort.

“That is unfortunately correct. Still, I’ll figure out a way to repay you,” you told him.

A faint blush appeared on his cheeks and you couldn’t figure out why he seemed flushed by your words. (Later, upon reflection you would hear the double entendre, but frankly, that was his problem not yours.) Clearing his throat, he said,

“Aim the camera at your wound, please.”

“Okay, I can’t really look at it, so you’ll have to tell me if my camera work is off,” you said.

You moved your phone so it reflected at your lap and the ratty cotton shorts you’d been living in. They barely covered any of your leg, which was useful when you had to change the dressing on your wound. Before it started turning red and weeping, it wasn’t that bad. Now, just looking at it made you sick.

“Can you turn on your phone flash light or make it brighter?” Robby asked.

“Sure thing,” You said, turning on your phone’s flashlight.

“Is it warm?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it throb?”

“No,” you replied.

“Are you running a fever?”

“How the fuck would I know?” you asked.

“Do you not have a thermometer?” he asked. For the first time, you heard a hint of exasperation in his voice. It made you smile.

“Maybe? My mom sent me a care package when I got the flu a few months ago. Let me see,” you told him, turning the phone back to your face.

You eased off the couch and limped to your kitchen where you shoved the box your mom had sent. Propping up your phone against the kitchen backsplash, you rummaged through the box and to your surprise, found a thermometer. It was the basic kind you put under your tongue.

“Gotta love a woman who can’t express her love with words and instead sends a care package to her adult daughter in her thirties,” you said, popping the cap off the thermometer and sticking it under your tongue.

You hadn’t glanced at your phone since aiming it at your leg in fear you’d see something that would make your stomach churn even more than it already was. Now, propped up, you could see that Robby slid on his reading glasses and to your shock and horror, he looked hot. So attractive in fact, you almost let the thermometer slip out of your mouth.

His rugged, slightly scraggly beard was reminiscent of how you’d seen him at the bar, but this time it was due to him rubbing his hand through the hair as he waited for you to measure your fever. Something about the addition of the glasses brought into focus how his narrow face was actually quite enticing. You briefly wondered what his beard would feel like between your legs.

“Christ,” you said without realizing that he could obviously hear and see you.

“Are you okay? You seemed freaked out,” Robby replied. “Is your temperature high?”

Thankfully, the thermometer beeped loudly, giving you a chance to pull it out of your mouth and look at it. “99.6.”

“Not too bad. You sure you’re good?”

“I am a bit freaked about the leg,” you said. It wasn’t a lie, but certainly wasn’t the whole truth. You briefly the revisited the idea of smothering yourself. What happened when you hit your head that made you think Robby was attractive?

“It certainly looks inflamed. I would do a good clean and put some antibiotic cream on it.”

“And what if cleaning it makes me gag?”

“Then I guess we’ll have to amputate,” he said.

You stared at him. “I’m annoyed that I found that funny.”

“And yet, you didn’t laugh.”

“Well, the annoyance won out in the end.”

Robby snorted. “Do you need me to come over and help clean it?”

“I can’t ask you to do that. Plus, I don’t think I’ve annoyed my friends enough about this yet. Why bother the very nice doctor when I could bug my friends?”

“So I’ve graduated from Sad Paddington Bear to very nice doctor?”

“Congratulations. It does not come with a pay increase. But what can you do? The economy is in shambles.”

He snorted and shook his head. “I want you to send me an update on your leg tomorrow, please. If it gets worse you’ll need to go to urgent care.”

“Ugh, anything but that,” you complained. “It’s terrible there.”

“And yet so much better than sepsis,” he replied.

“I dunno, juries out,” you grumbled limping back to the couch.

“How is your head?”

“Hurts and I can barely do anything. I can watch TV if I don’t look directly at the screen, so that’s something. Mainly listening to audiobooks of shit I’ve already read.”

You settled back onto your couch and buried yourself back under the covers you had created your nest from. The view of your camera caught the warmth of your couch and some of the quirky decor including the art print of a woman leading a man on a leash with “This Ain’t My First Rodeo” painted above it. Angling the camera away from the slightly inappropriate art work, you felt better with the section of wall that was now showing. It was a corner of your diploma and photo from a christmas party with your friends. Much more appropriate.

“What have you been listening to?”

“A lot of comedy and re-listening to my favorite book series. My entertainment is purely escapism since I spend most of my day reading, writing, or doing math about politics,” you told him.

“You’ll have to send me suggestions. Nothing I’ve read recently has kept much of my attention,” he replied.

You then delved into details of your favorite book series. The conversation spiraled from books to television to the records Robby had on current rotation. More than that, he asked questions about your PhD, hesitantly, and you answered. It didn’t feel like a weird overreach anymore. Robby really was intelligent and normal when not drunk or tipsy. You almost felt proud of him. By the time the phone call ended, you felt calmer about your leg and less worked up over the boredom.

You chose not to think about it too much.

-- -- --

When the stitches were due to come out, you almost didn’t text Robby. It felt like an imposition. Over the past day or so you felt tremendously better. Your head was no longer one overstimulation away from a migraine, you could feel your brain fog lifting, and movement didn’t hurt much. Everything was still a little sensitive, but the real annoyance was how bored and pent up you were. Still, the relief from getting the stitches removed almost didn’t beat the feeling of taking advantage of Robby.

Robby: Can I come by after my shift ends to take out your stitches? I want to look at everything and make sure it’s healing well.

You: you don’t have to but yes please if i think about having thread in my body too long it kinda freaks me out

Robby: Please send me your address. I’ll be by around 7:30 or 8:00pm.

You: you text like an octogenarian. here’s my address.

Robby: Octogenarians don’t text.

You: tell that to my grandma. she’s a whiz with those me-mojis or whatever the fuck they are.

Robby: That is not a real thing. I think you’re messing with me.

You: i am not. but regardless. see you tonight. and thank you again!

Robby: It really is not a problem. I want to do this.

You tried not to let that go to your head. It was weird someone liking you the way Robby did. Most people, even romantic prospects tended to tolerate your rough personality and busy schedule. Your friends were a niche group of individuals far more focused on their careers.

This was new. This wasn’t bad.

At 7:45 you heard a knock at your door. Slowly, only due to your leg—not anything else at all, you made your way to the door. You had slightly tidied up throughout the day. Being couch bound had made your living room a bit of a war zone. Now you had your laundry going and you’d even managed to load your dishwasher.

Opening the door to Robby was strange. You had seen him in exactly two places and now he was walking into your apartment. He even walked like a new person now. He didn’t slouch or slump or plod. He still had abysmal posture, but there was a surety that had replaced the downtrodden-ness of his person.

He wore dark cargo pants, a black scrub top with a navy blue long sleeved shirt underneath. Said shirt was pushed up to just below his elbows and your eyes focused on his forearms before finally stepping back and letting him into your space.

“Can I get you something to drink?” You asked.

“I don’t drink anymore,” he said.

“Congrats. I don’t drink at all. I have about five flavors of sparkling water and generic sprite,” you replied, shutting and locking the door. “I also make a mean hot chocolate.”

“I’m good for now,” he said. “Where do you want to do this?”

“Shouldn’t that be your call?”

“I just need to wash my hands,” he replied, shrugging. His hands were in his pockets.

“Then let’s do the living room. I’m still a little sore,” you told him. “Kitchen is right there. I even have out my Christmas hand soap.”

You pointed at the kitchen in the very open concept front part of your apartment. There was a small hallway just to the right of your front door that held a small hallway where your bathroom, washing closet, and bedroom door opened.

Your living room was a surprisingly decent size for your rent. It was big enough for a couch, bookshelves and your desk. Your kitchen was narrow, and looked even more so with Robby’s broad frame standing in front of your sink. He thoroughly washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel.

Sitting on the edge of your couch, you watch as he pulled over his backpack and grabbed a smattering of tools. There were scissors, hemostats, and various cleaning wipes and creams.

“Can I sit here?” Robby asked pointing to your coffee table. It was one of the few expensive things you owned.

“Yeah, she’s study enough,” you replied.

Robby sat down. Your shorts were plenty short and you found yourself curious how he was going to do this. He seemed confident and self assured. Dr. Robby was a man who wasn’t cowed by his snarky and too-mean bar tender.

“I’m going to slightly readjust you and put your leg on my lap, is that okay?” Robby asked sliding on his ready glass.

“Yes,” you said breathlessly. He glanced up at your tone and lightly put a hand on your knee.

“Don’t panic. This will be over quickly.”

Interesting, he read the slightly shocked and a tiny bit horny reaction you had to worried. You couldn’t help but be a little grateful. Not trusting your voice, you just nodded at him. He gingerly lifted your socked foot and put it in his lap. The fabric of his pants was scratchy against your skin, but you could fill the heat of his legs burning through.

“This has healed well,” Robby replied. He’d donned gloves at some point after putting your leg in his lap and was manually inspecting the wound. You stared up at the ceiling mostly to keep from seeing the stitches but an added benefit was not seeing Robby.

“Oh yeah, this looks great. You should be fine after we get the stitches out,” he said. You just hummed not trusting your voice.

The sensation of removing the stitches far outweighed any pleasantness from having Robby’s hands on your skin. You tried to focus on way his hand gripped your thigh or the way you could feel his stomach against your foot. Instead when you felt a thread pull through you shuddered and tried not to gag.

“Do you need a break?”

“No, I need you to finish this as quick as possible,” you said.

“Yes ma’am.”

He continued his ministrations and you desperately tried to focus on the subtle smell of his cologne. Or the growing yearning in your stomach for him to push you down on the couch and fuck you within an inch of your life.

That had been a startling realization but one that felt like it was always meant to happen. Another thread pulled through your skin and you heard yourself whine sharply. Not even horniess was getting your through this.

After the last thread was pulled from your leg, resulting in a twitch at the awful feeling, Robby took off his gloves and began putting his tools back in the backpack. Your leg was still in his lap.

“I was going to order dinner, if you want to stay,” you heard yourself say. “I can even watch a full episode of TV now.”

Robby snorted. And then said, “I would love to stay. Mainly to make sure you don’t look at your leg and pass out.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.

"You didn't look down once that whole time," he said.

"And therefore, didn't pass out."

You managed to open your phone and scroll through the different food options. Your stomach was in shambles from the feeling of getting stitches removed, so picked the deli down the street. Handing the phone to Robby you had him pick his meal.

When he handed the phone back, he had already ordered and paid with his card details. You scowled at him.

"This was meant to pay you back for your kindness."

"It would feel unethical. I know how much grad students makes."

He had since moved to the opposite corner of the couch. From your propped up position, he looked a little tired, but more than that he looked amused. He was laughing at you. It ranckled you. But it also made you a little happy: sad, drunk Robby would never have laughed at you.

While waiting for the food, you both chatted about his work, your students, how taking time off has put you seriously behind and your unread emails are closer to 1,000 than not. Once the food arrive, you both tucked in.

Eventually, Robby asked,

“What’s the hardest thing about the whole PhD thing?”

It felt like a natural question from the previous conversation, so you didn't think twice about answering it.

“Having to not take criticism personally. Anything I finish, make progress on, or whatever gets critiqued and criticized and studied until it feels absolutely useless. But that’s just how it works—it’s how we make sure our research is the most accurate and representative of the world,” you said shrugging. “What about being a doctor? What’s the hardest thing about that.”

“Oh that’s easy, not being able to save everyone,” Robby told you.

“Yeah, I can imagine that would be difficult to contend with.”

“So does no one tell you “good job” or encourages you?”

“Not in so many words. One time I had a bit of a breakdown and planned on dropping out. My advisor said that would “be a waste” so it’s not like people are needlessly mean.”

“You make so much more sense now,” Robby said shaking his head.

“The fuck does that mean?” You said lightly kicking his thigh with your good foot. He grabbed your ankle and stretched it out over his lap. The movement made you tense but, frankly, you wanted this to continue so you forced yourself to relax.

“You’re one of the most tightly wound people I’ve ever met,” Robby laughed.

“I think that’s the pot calling the kettle black,” you grumbled. Hesitantly, you stretched out your bad leg and crossed it over your good one still rest on Robby’s thighs.

“Perhaps that’s why I know,” he said. His hand rested on your ankle and you tried not to stare at the way his hand dwarfed your not-small ankle.

“And what would the good doctor recommend for that? I hate to break it to you, but it’s not like I can call up my parents and ask them to say they’re proud of me and I’m doing a good job.”

“Someone should,” he said quietly. His thumb began to circle the bone of your ankle.

“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.

Robby was silent for a moment before saying, “I think you’re very impressive. I think you work very hard. And I’m really honored to know you.”

For an awful minute, you thought you were going to cry. “Knock it off.”

“Make me.”

“If you don’t I’ll make you talk about something even more uncomfortable,” you threatened.

“You can’t make me do anything.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll try.”

“I’ll take the chance,” he laughed. Robby hand drug up and down your leg. You knew it wasn’t smooth—your injury having made sure you missed your monthly waxing appointment—but he didn’t seem to care. Frankly, you refused to let yourself care, even if it danced in the back of your head.

“Brave considering you think I’m mean.”

“You’re not mean,” Robby said, looking over at you.

“Not what you used to think,” you commented.

“True, but I know you better now. You’re just blunt. It’s nice when you get used to it.”

You snorted. “You absolute liar.”

His hand landed on your knee and reached down to flick it. He caught your wrist before you could smack him. Eyes boring into yours, Robby said,

“I’m serious. I think you’re amazing.”

“You do huh?” You asked.

“Clearly.”

“Then why haven’t you done anything about it? I’m not good at schooling my features. You must know how I’m feeling.”

In an instant, Robby’s expression shuttered. “You did pick something uncomfortable.”

“So either this is a personal thing or I am way worse at reading you than I thought. I’m not wildly inclined to believe the latter since my feet are in your lap and I got a special house call for something I could have gone to the clinic for.”

Robby sighed and looked away from you. “It’s a personal thing.”

“Do I get let in on what the personal thing is?”

“I don’t want you to try and talk me out of it. Because you’ll win,” he murmured.

“If it’s not dumb, I won’t. I’m not a starry eyed romantic, Robby. Sometimes people that are attracted to one another shouldn’t do anything. Just because I want you to fuck me into my mattress and maybe also go on a date, doesn’t mean I’m going to do something bad for me or my goals. No offense, you’re not more important than finishing my PhD,” you told him.

He smiled ruefully. “I just am not good enough for you.”

“Oh, that is dumb,” you replied.

“Or maybe you just don’t know how impressive you are,” he challenged.

“Maybe,” you acquiesced. “But maybe not being “good enough” for someone is an archaic measure of comparability and I get to decide what is and is not good for me. Now, if you don’t feel ready for a relationship after everything, that’s different. But if you’re just worried about being…depressed or mentally ill, join the club then.”

“There’s also the age gap,” he added.

“I’m an academic. I’ve seen far less ethical relationships than a decade and some change. Not to mention you weren't my dissertation advisor,” you told him.

“For my peace of mind I'm going to ignore that last bit. And try closer to two decades,” he said.

“I’m an old man at heart,” you said back. “Doesn’t change the fact I want you to fuck me into the mattress.”

“I really don’t want you talk me into this,” Robby said quietly.

“Then you need to either tell me you don’t want this, which I’ll respect or you need to get out of your own way. I’m in favor of the latter.”

“Can I ask something first?”

“Always.”

“What changed for you? You really didn’t like me.”

“Valid question,” you said. He still had a grip on your wrist. Gently you pulled out of his grasp and wrapped your hand around his. “I am so picky about people. I always have been. But even more than that, no one normal does a PhD and I deal with those freaks all day. By the time I got to the bar, I was over dealing with everyone, not just you. Frankly, drunk you was a lot. But no one is their best self when they’re drunk. Sober you? He’s still awkward, a little earnest but very charming. Funny and confident too.”

“You are very different than when you’re at the bar,” he said.

“I’ll lay my cards on the table, Robby. I like you. I think you’re very attractive and getting to know you has been fun and I hate getting to know new people. If you’re amenable, I would really love for you to fuck me into my mattress tonight.”

“You’re still injured.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It isn’t a yes.”

“There’s one more episode of Bake Off before I’m caught up. I’m going to lay back down and if by the end of the episode you’re still undecided or the answer is no, I’ll respect that. But don’t take yourself out of the game just because you’re nervous that you’re not good enough of whatever.”

“Okay, yeah,” Robby replied softly.

You released his hand and he placed it back on your legs. Pressing play, you settled back to a prone position on the couch. The distracting pressure of his hands on your legs meant that most of the episode passed without you taking in too much of what was happening.

Periodically, you glanced over at Robby. He seemed deep in thought. His brow was furrowed and while he faced the TV, he seemed to stare at nothing. Sometimes his fingers would trace a pattern on your calves and then go still. At one point, you saw him stare at you from the corner of your eye, in a reminiscent way to how he used to watch you while he was wasted. Instead of feeling annoyed, you settled more deeply into the couch and held out your hand for him without looking. He took it.

The episode ended and you couldn’t help but feel nervous. No one liked being rejected and you hoped that Robby got out of his own way. You wanted him. You knew he wanted you too. It was torture to not crawl into his lap and kiss him within an inch of his life.

“Before you tell me,” you said. “I just want you to know that regardless of your decision, I am proud of the work you’ve put into yourself. And I’m not fibbing when I say you’re incredibly attractive.”

“You are a lot nicer than your give yourself credit for,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“Then what was that?”

“Honesty, dick head.”

He snorted. “My head still isn’t fully on straight.”

“Neither is mine.”

“Sometimes I have really bad days.”

“Okay.”

“Sometimes I can be mean, too.”

“Join the club.”

“But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want this,” he breathed.

“Help me sit up,” you said grabbing at his arm. He helped you move into a sitting position, your arm and leg still a little sore. When you were next to him, you kept your legs draped over his and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes with conditions,” he told you.

“Ugh,” you groaned leaning your forehead on his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re still healing. I’m not going to fuck you into the mattress tonight.”

“But Robby,” you whined. “I just know you’re so good at sex.”

A surprise laugh erupted from him. “Thank you. I’m still not going to fuck you into the mattress. I will however, if you want, if you feel comfortable and up for it, I am more than willing to make sure any humping isn’t…I think the word you used was, useless.”

“Yeah?”

“I knew you would talk me out of it,” he sighed.

“Wanna see my bedroom?” You asked grinning.

“You look very proud of yourself,” he grumbled, pulling you into his lap.

“I’m not joking when I say it’s been years since I’ve had good sex. I just have a good feeling about this.”

“Because you saw me being a slut?”

“Nope, because you’re a doctor and I heard you went home with the same person more than once. That doesn’t happen unless you fuck.”

“You’re so strange,” he laughed, dipping his head closer to yours.

“Good. I don’t want you under the impression I’m normal.”

“Never a risk, trust me,” he laughed.

His nose bumped your cheek as he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your mouth. The press of his lips was electric. You grinned and twisted your head to press your lips against his. It was exactly how you hoped it would be. His lips were soft against yours, but each movement decisive. His hands, so warm and large, held you on your waist and the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbled against your lips.

“I’m pleasantly surprised by the beard,” you replied.

“I oil it,” he replied placing kisses down your neck.

“Hot,” you replied, sounding strangled as his sucked gently on your pulse point. You felt goosebumps erupt along your back.

He laughed and his hand that rested on your thigh squeezed. You wished he’d move it up, maybe press against your already throbbing core. Instead he massaged your leg and continued his ministrations against your neck.

“Christ,” you hissed when he nipped at your skin. “Already so good.”

“You’re so responsive for me,” he said. “I’ll bet you make beautiful noises.”

“You’re more talkative than I guessed,” you replied.

He pulled back and you huffed, already missing the contact. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“You’ve said a lot tonight,” you told him, pulling his face back to yours.

“That you’re smart and impressive. That you’re a good researcher,” he said before wrapping a hand around your neck and kissing you harshly. “Since no one else seems willing to tell you, I will. You’re incredible.”

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered.

“Too bad,” he replied.

“Can we move this to my bedroom?” You asked, hoping to distract him.

“Please.”

He helped you stand and took a quick look at your leg. His thumb was gentle as he caressed the red, puckered line on your thigh. Placing a gentle kiss on it made a well of emotion rise to your throat. His hands gripped your waist and he stared up at you from the couch.

“You’re breathtaking,” he whispered.

Caressing his face you said, “You’re going to give me an ego.”

“Someone has to,” he said placing a kiss on your T-shirt covered stomach.

“You’re going to kill me,” he groaned, pulling him up.

“How’s your arm?” He asked, following you through your short hallway.

“A little stiff, but mostly healed.”

“Please promise me that you’ll say something if you’re uncomfortable,” he asked quietly.

“Pinky swear,” you said stopping in front of your bedroom holding out your pinky to him. He laughed, shaking his head, and wrapped his pinky around yours.

Thankfully, your bedroom was mostly clean. There was some laundry waiting to be folded. It was small enough that it was only a couple steps until Robby was prodding you to sit on the bed.

“Can I undress you?” He asked.

“I’m not exactly wearing much,” you said smiling.

“I know, trust me,” he grumbled, grabbing your leg and rubbing his hand up the skin.

“Will you take your shirt off?” You asked still grinning up at him.

“Anything you want,” he said.

Leaning back on the bed, resting on your elbows, you watched as he flushed. He was large in your tiny bedroom. He reached behind him and in one fell swoop, pulled off his scrub shirt and undershirt.

“That was hot,” you said eyeing him.

“Yeah?” He asked, standing in between your legs.

You couldn’t help but run your hands up his torso. Dark hair dusted his chest and down his stomach. It led down to the waistband of his pants. Even his body hair was soft. Without a shadow of a doubt, you knew he oiled this as well. Something about the intentionality of that action made you clench.

Lightly raking your nails down his stomach, you watched as his muscles twitches. His shoulders, just out of reach, were broader than you expected. With ease, you unbuttoned the cargo pants and slid them over his waist.

“I seem to recall trying to undress you,” he said, stepping out of his pants and socks all at once.

“I got distracted,” you saying eyeing his boxer briefs. He was only half hard and already straining against the fabric.

“Maybe I want to be distracted,” he replied tugging at your shirt. You lifted your arms for him, so your T-shirt could be pulled up over your head. You hadn’t worn a bra since being couch bound, so he had an immediate eyeful of your tits. “You’re stunning.”

“Yeah? Prove it?,” you goaded.

He huffed a laugh and pushed you back on the bed lightly, before pulling off your shorts and underwear. He kneeled down on your floor and kissed the inside of your thigh.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Already so wet.”

“Wetter than I’ve been in a long time,” you told him. He groaned and closed his eyes.

“I want to touch you,” he breathed.

“Please,” you begged. “I want you to touch me so bad.”

In a move that would live in your brain for the rest of your life, Robby stuck two of his fingers in his mouth to wet them before he ran them up and down your slit. The first finger that slid inside you felt foreign. It had been a long time since anyone had pressed into you. When Robby added his second finger you couldn’t help but gasp out a moan.

“You open up so pretty for me,” Robby breathed. “You’re so good.”

His words did something to you. You knew he was doing it on purpose.

“Shame no one else is willing to get on their knees and worship you like you deserve,” he continued softly. He pressed soft kisses up and down your thigh. “Such a beautiful pussy should be kissed and praised.”

The sound you made when Robby began sucking on your clit in earnest was more of a squeal than anything else. It felt like every nerve was focused on the feeling in between your thighs. His fingers worked in and out of your slowly and with a firm pressure that you felt deep in your stomach. His tongue and mouth were far more impressive than you could have imagined.

“Oh my god, you’re so good at this. What the fuck,” you whined, burying your fingers in his hair. You wanted him pull him closer and grind on his face, but his grip on your hips kept you still.

At some point he added a third finger which made you release a choked laugh. With your good leg, you threw it over his shoulder, allowing his fingers to move deeper and hit your g-spot more effectively. The sensation of him between your thighs was overwhelming and you felt your legs trembling just slightly.

You braved a look between your legs and saw him staring up at him. Even without seeing his face, you knew he was grinning at you. Apparently, Robby was a smug bastard in bed. A particularly strong suck had you arching off the bed calling Robby’s name.

“Stop, stop,” you breathed lightly pushing him away. “I can’t cum twice and I want to come on your cock.”

Robby pulled away from your pussy and was drenched with your fluid. He looked proud of himself when he said,

“You really do make the best noises.”

“You really are good at eating a girl out,” you said breathing heavily. “When I am healed I’m going to suck your brain out of your dick.”

Laughing, Robby stood (his knees let out a massive crack that had you giggling), and laid down next to you in the bed. His hand trailed up your stomach before cupping your tit in his hand. Even if you weren’t particularly sensitive on your tits, having his hands on you was a mesmerizing feeling.

You hummed at his touch and pulled him over into a kiss. Your hand ran up and down his side until your fingers slid under his boxer briefs. Unsurprisingly, he was hot and heavy in your hand. He wasn’t quite as big as you feared, but you were glad he slid that third finger inside you.

“You’re so hard,” you said in between kisses.

“We have to talk over this before we start,” he replied pulling back and removing your hand from his underwear.

“Ugh,” you groaned. “You and your consent and safe sex.”

“Would you rather me force you down and fuck you?” He asked unimpressed.

“Maybe not tonight but we should table that idea for later,” you replied rolling on your side to look at him. His ears were bright red at the thought.

“I think you might kill me.”

“Pity, this is a lot of fun.”

He laughed pulled you on top of him. You laid half on him, your head pillowed on his chest. Even though you desperately wanted to know what he felt like shoving his cock in you, cuddling with him was certainly very enjoyable in itself.

“How are you feeling?”

“Arm is a little sore. Leg doesn’t hurt. Emotionally, doing great. You?”

“My knees will feel that tomorrow, but I’m also good. Feeling quite amazing, in fact.”

“I’m glad you said yes,” you told him pressing a kiss on his chest.

“I think we both know that I can’t say no to you.” He sighed. Then said, “I’m clean, I get tested regularly. Haven’t had sex since my last test. Happy to show you.”

“I trust you. I haven’t had sex in well over a year with anything other than my vibrator and was good during my last wellness exam.”

“I can’t wait to see you use this vibrator,” he said. “Watching you fall apart is so beautiful. I want to turn your brain off.”

You snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“You don’t think I can?”

“If anyone could, it would be you. I just don’t think my brain ever turns off. Rather annoying.”

Robby’s hand traced light trails up and down your back making you shiver.

“Guess we’ll see.”

“If you take that as a challenge it won’t be sexy,” you complained. “I don’t care about my brain turning off. I care about this, us, feeling you finally fuck me.”

“Finally, huh?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an IUD, there’s condoms in my side table, there’s nothing stopping us,” you complained poking him.

“You’re injured. There’s a lot stopping us.”

“If you bail on me now because you’re worried about hurting me, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Trust me,” he said. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. One taste of you was addicting enough.”

“As much as I want to see you, if I’m on my stomach on the bed, there’s not much of a chance to hurt myself,” you said.

“I like that,” he said.

“I want you on top of me, though,” you grumbled. “And then when my leg and arm are healed I’m going to ride you like a bronco, I swear to Christ.”

“Whenever I imagined this, I have to be honest, this is exactly how I thought you would be,” Robby laughed as he kissed the top of your head. “So stubborn and smart. The best ideas.”

“Robby,” you warned.

He noticed you never truly told him to stop, and you were not someone who shied away from voicing your opinion on something. He slid out from under you and opened the drawer of your side table. There was a nail file, some tissues, a rather sleek looking vibrator, and a small box of condoms. They were barely within their expiration window. He wondered who you bought them for.

Once he slid the condom on, it took a minute for the two of you to find a position that was comfortable. The two of you propped your hips up on some pillows and you reveled in the feeling of Robby’s body hovering over your own.

The first slide of cock against your folds made you whine. When he finally pushed in, you gasped and clenched at your sheets. He was big and from this position, he was firmly pressed on your g-spot. The feeling of him fully sheathed in you made you released tension you had no idea you held in your body.

Hovering over you, caging you with his body, made your nerves dance and tingle. It was not a surprise to you that you liked a man that could push you around, but the feeling of Robby pressing his weight down—even partially—confirmed what you suspected: you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

“You feel so good around me,” Robby groaned in your ear. “You’re so good for me.”

“Just like that,” you moaned as his slowly pistoned his hips.

“Yeah? Take it. take what I’m giving you, sweetheart. I want you to know how amazing I think you are.”

Each thrust from Robby sent delicious tingles through your body. He braced his forearms by your head and you felt his chest press down on your back. The pressure of him made you groan into the bed. His mouth was by your ear. You could hear each breath, moan, and gasp he let out.

“Don’t muffle those pretty sounds. I want you to fall apart. Let go for me. Be my good girl,” he murmured.

Tomorrow you could be embarrassed by the way your body reacted to Robby calling you good girl, right now you couldn’t hide the tremor it sent through you. Your pussy clenched around him tightly.

“Good girl does it for you?” He asked. You could hear his smile.

“Fuck off,” you grumbled. He slowed in you until he was just lightly grinding against you, making you whine.

“As much as I love your attitude, that isn’t nice. Don’t you want to be good for me? Tell me how you feel. Tell me how I make you feel.”

And suddenly you realized why Robby was so successful with women he slept with. His whispered commands against your ear sent you to another stratosphere. You were confident this man could make you erupt with the power of his words alone.

“You feel so good, Robby,” you panted, trying to grind back onto him but in this position you had no leverage. “You’re so big and I want to feel it forever. Your pressed against me so well and it’s making me crazy. I don’t want this to end.”

“I’m so proud of you for using your words, sweetheart. Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes, please,” you whined.

His hips began to move again and you released a punched out groan at the renewed friction.

“Feel it,” he commanded. “Feel me inside you.”

“So good,” you mumbled.

“Not as good as you are. You're perfect. Made for me. Made for me to slide into. Made for me to ravish and worship. Every sound you make. Every twitch and tremor. I’m memorizing it. Archiving it. I want to watch you give into the pleasure.”

“Ah, your dirty talk is insane,” you told him as he began to thrust into you more earnestly.

“You bring it out of me sweetheart. You make me crazy. So pretty, so young, so smart. And you’re letting me fuck you. I want you to feel as lucky as I do.”

For a few minutes there was nothing but the sounds of his hips slamming against yours and his quiet pants against your ear. You wrapped you hands around his wrists that were pressed above your shoulders. It was an awkward position, but you needed to hold onto him. Each thrust of his hips and press of his body made soft groans erupt from your mouth. You found yourself wanting to be more vocal for him.

“You’re so perfect under me,” he grunted. “You fit me so well. Such a good girl for me.”

“Fuck,” you hissed. Your body clenched so tightly even Robby’s pace faltered

“Are you getting close, sweetheart?” He almost cooed.

“Yes, please keep going just like that,” you mumbled against the pillow.

“Ah-ah, I want to hear you,” he said, redoubling his efforts.

“Please, Robby,” you said louder. “Keep going. I want to cum on your cock.”

“Do you need me to touch your clit?” He asked.

You nodded. “Yes please.”

You were sure how he managed to hold himself up and also snake a hand under you to rub two thinking fingers along your clit. Frankly, it was none of your business, because the sharp increase in pleasure make your hips buck. Being caught between Robby’s pistoning hips and deft fingers was getting you closer far faster than you expected.

“Jesus Christ, I’m getting close.”

“Yeah? C’mon, then, be a good girl. Cum on my cock for me. I want to feel you clench around me. I want to feel you lose control because of me.”

“Robby,” you whined.

“Don’t you want to be a good girl for me?” He asked. You could hear the breathlessness in his own voice as his hips became a little more frantic.

“Yes,” you moaned.

“Say it.”

“I want to be a good girl for you,” you cried. In this moment you would have done anything he asked you.

It was only a few strokes of his cock and fingers before you felt your body tighten and sparks fly. It was a slow build up at first, it almost crested gently. But once the orgasm hit, your muscles locked up and each continuing rub of his fingers and movement of his hips overwhelmed your body until you were shaking underneath him.

“Such a good girl,” he growled in your ear as he managed to hold back his own orgasm. “Squeezing me so tight. Can’t wait to cum in this pussy.”

It was another two thrust before Robby buried his face in your neck with a long groan, as he lazily fucked you through his own orgasm. Goosebumps erupted down your back as his beard almost tickled you. For a minute, he was sheathed deep inside of you, blanketing your body with his own.

It felt luxurious.

(It felt safe)

You wouldn't have admit that last part out loud, but there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that Robby’s arms would be a safe place to fall. For more than a few minutes, you soaked in the presence of another person against you, appreciating the feeling of his body heat, the scratch of his hair, the puff of his breathing. It was so human and so monumental.

When he went to move, you whined and halfheartedly managed to pull him back down against you, resulting in his deep chuckle. Some of his weight on his knees, he wrapped his arms around your middle and began to place featherlight kisses along your shoulder making you shiver against him.

“You feel so good,” he mumbled against your skin.

“Same,” you sighed, fully blissed out. “I just want to stay like this for a minute.”

“As long as you want, sweetheart,” he said, continuing his kisses. It almost tickles and you can’t help the shudder that travels from your neck through your hips.

“Sweetheart, huh?” You asked. “I think that’s an oxymoron.”

“You’re not very nice to yourself.”

“I’m just well aware of how I come across.”

“I really don’t think you are,” he said frankly. He placed his lips against your ear and whispered, “You don’t seem to know how every time you walk into a room, you absolutely own the place. Or how everyone turns and listens when you talk. You’re competent and commanding, and more than that you're kind.”

You couldn’t help but snort. “Am not.”

“Don’t know what planet you’re living on, but you go out of your way to make sure bar patrons get home safe, you cover shifts when it’s inconvenient, and you called Jack even when you didn’t have to. I owe you a lot for that.”

“You would have been fine,” you protested weakly. “I’m just being a good community member.”

“I don’t know if I would have been. And sweetheart, being a good community member is being kind,” Robby said.

“I just don’t believe you,” you finally said.

“Then I’ll keep saying it until you do. Just like I’ll keep telling you how brilliant you are and how amazing you are. And maybe one day, I’ll hear you say it back.”

“Doubt it.”

“I believe it enough for the both of us,” he said kissing your cheek.

He slowly peeled himself away from you, and almost immediately you missed the weight and warmth. You heard him dispose of the condom and wander into your bathroom. At some point you needed to move, but frankly, you were still boneless after a good fuck and even better orgasm. Feeling the bed dip at Robby’s arrival, you felt him gently run a washcloth between your legs. It was intimate and caring in a way you were unfamiliar with. Vulnerable in a way that made your throat feel scratchy.

“Let me help you readjust,” Robby said, after finishing. You heard the washcloth tossed into your laundry basket.

You let Robby ease you off the mound of pillow propping up your hips. The bad leg was a little stiff, but not painful as you rolled over on your side. It’s the first time you caught a glimpse of Robby. His skin was still flushed and his glasses were perched precariously on his nose. There was a crooked smile on his face as he leaned over and kissed you.

It was his eyes that caught your attention the most. They always held emotion. You had noticed the pain and heartbreak all those nights at the bar. Now, however, slowly laying down next to you, his eyes were soft, creased with a happiness that seemed to be foreign on his face.

“I’m glad you let me talk you into this,” you admitted.

He shifted so you were wrapped in his arms, chest to chest, nose to nose. The blankets were still kicked to the end of the bed, but neither of you felt cold. Brushing you nose with his, he said,

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. This was very nice. Memorable. I can confirm that you do fuck. And you fuck well,” you announced.

Robby chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

“Was that all this was? A fuck?” His voice was vulnerable.

You knew the question was coming, which is why you didn’t stutter over your answer,

“Depends, on if you plan to keep your promise of reminding me how great I am all the time.”

“I think it’s something I could make time for,” he said grinning.

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More of an author's note: I can't remember if I saw the sad paddington bear thing on tumblr or not. If I accidentally stole this from someone let me know and I'll tag and credt. I just couldn't find anything when I looked.

Hope you all enjoyed!

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join the taglist for my stories here.

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