Hi, lads~ welcome! My name is Mel (she/her) and I typically write for Chris Evans characters but I also write for a few other misc. characters! I also create dividers for writers to use.
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Other Fandoms/Characters that I am feeeening to write for:
Raymond Smith from The Gentlemen
Tommy Shelby from Peaky Blinders
Eric Coulter from Divergent series/films
Bellamy Blake from the 100
Matt Murdock from Daredevil
Clark Kent from DCU 2025 (love HC but David Corenswet is a new fixation)
Dr. Michael ''Robby'' Robinavitch from the Pitt
✦summary: five times Dean thought the peace would be forever, and one time he was sure.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, husband!dean, dad!dean, domestic, tooth-rotting fluff, overprotective dean, idiots in love, implied smut✦
✦wc: 8.8k✦
✦author's note: the highly requested return of dad!dean✦
Dean isn’t used to thinking this feeling is going to be forever. He trained himself to know it would’ve be. That happiness was a pit stop that got blown up behind you, rare and dangerous on the long road of life. You could carry bits of it, in the glove compartment and your pockets. You could savor it for a second on your tongue, but then your teeth were getting knocked out and you were choking on blood and you forgot for a long while after. How good that taste had been.
When you finally settled down together, he was happy. But he held onto it with white knuckles. He grit his teeth and dragged it against his chest, always braced for it to slip away. For you to leave.
But you didn’t. You fought, and then just… stayed.
Dean had never had someone stay before. For a while, he still didn’t trust it. You staying was the kind of thing that used to make him think he was in a Djinn dream. Too good to be true.
You don’t talk about that one time, when he had one of those bad weeks, and you found him freaking out in the kitchen with the Colt in his sweating hands. He had thought it was Djinn dream. It took you hours to truly convince him it wasn’t. Sometimes you still have nightmares about it, or Dean does, or you both do and you hold each other tight until sunrise.
He’s gotten better at, at least, knowing that this is real. He’s hitched. He’s a dad, and he hasn’t dropped your kid on her head yet. Once he let her stumble and she scraped her knee. You found them sitting in the Dean cave with popsicles and Scooby Doo after. Dean looked more freaked out by the whole thing that Charlie did. She’d mostly been happy that Daddy let her have a popsicle, and she didn’t even have to promise not to tell Mommy.
You would’ve smacked him upside the head, if he hadn’t looked like he’s just watched Charlie die.
“She’s fine, De.” You’d whispered that night, and he’d grunted.
“I know-“
“Do you?”
He’d let out a slow breath, shoulder slumping. His head had bowed, one hand shooting out to steady himself against the dresser. You’d padded across the room, and wrapped your arms around his stomach. He’d grabbed your interlocked hands, holding them there. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d shuddered like you were pulling him apart.
“I keep thinkin’,” he’d choked out. “That I’m gonna blink and something’ll get past me.”
“Nothing gets past you-“
“Yet.” His voice had lowered. Dark and tired. “There’s always something new, sweetheart. You know that.” He’d let out a slow breath. “Always fucking something.”
You hadn’t answered. There was never anything you could say, to make this kind of thing better. All you could do was stay. Let Dean hold onto you, until he was sure you weren’t going to start dissolving between his fingers like sand. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d turned around, pulling you tight into his chest.
He still wasn’t sure, then. Not of you and Charlie—never of you and Charlie—but of himself. He wasn’t sure he was enough. That he’d given enough, to have earned this sticking to his hands.
The first time he is sure is when Charlie is two. She runs around faster than her little body can handle, and wears the kind of sneakers that light up—because he bought them for her, after she gave him that face that’s far too similar to yours, and how the hell was he supposed to say no—and laughs at almost everything anyone does.
Sometimes, she’d get serious, and Dean would think she only got his face. Her little lips pout and wobble, and she crosses her arms and refuses to move, and Jesus, that’s all you. He tells you as much. That does get him smacked.
“She’s just stubborn, that’s not like me.”
Dean smirks down at the dishes in his hands. “Sure, baby.”
“Sure.” You mock, rolling your eyes. “Fuck you.”
“Mhm.”
“Don’t mhm me-“
“Sorry, princess.”
“You- You fucking-“
Dean looks up with raised brows, and finds you flushed and sputtering with anger. He chuckles, and your flush deepens.
“Shut up,” you whine, and his grin turns shit eating.
“Didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking things,” you grumble, shuffling right into his side.
Dean smiles to himself, when you press your face into his shoulder and hug his bicep. He’ll let you shove him around all he wants. He likes it more than he’ll ever tell you, and at least it reminds him he has two feet on the ground to trip over. He kisses the top of your head, and goes back to the dishes. He’s done this dance before. A lot, over the past few months. It’s like you got shot up with some kind of horniness serum. He’s a little worried that, at this rate, you’re going to break his poor dick.
Good way to die, though. He never stops you, because he can’t think of a better one.
“Charlie’s asleep.” You say softly, and Dean laughs under his breath.
“Uh huh.”
“She made me tell her the story about Daddy and the evil men again.” You hum, tracing your pointer finger over ever line in his forearm.
Dean sighs. “Jesus, you’re gonna make her think I’m Superman or something.”
“I think you’re Superman.”
“Yeah, well-“ Dean clears his throat, bowing his head so you don’t see his blush. “I fuck you. That doesn’t count.”
You laugh softly, propping your chin on his shoulder. “You know, my favorite story to tell her is about Uncle Sammy and the spooky town.”
“Of course it is-“
“Because.” You cut off his grumble with a dangerously adoring smile. “She always gets so excited when Daddy shows up. And saves Uncle Sammy.”
Dean’s heart stumbles. He has to put the dishes down and squeeze his eyes shut. You’ve seen him cry countless times, but he still hates it. You reach up and wipe the tears escaping down his cheek, and he leans into the touch.
“She loves you, Dean. You’re a hero-“
“I’m not,” he grunts. “I sold my soul, heroes don’t do that shit-“
“Oh, I know that. I was there. I nearly killed you myself.”
Dean chuckles, wet and tired. You turn his face, forcing his gaze to meet yours.
“But just because you were stupid, it doesn’t make you less of a hero.”
Dean works his jaw. He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. Not fully.
One day, maybe he’ll believe Charlie.
“I don’t love that you tell her those stories, sweetheart,” he rasps, and you huff a laugh.
“Because they make you look good?”
“’Cause that shit isn’t something she should know about-“
“She thinks it’s fake, Dean. She knows you’re a hero.”
“I don’t tell her about all your stuff-“
“Liar.” You give him a pointed look. “Last week she asked me if I really beat an archangel.”
Dean chuckles guiltily. “Hey, she asked. I’m not gonna lie to her about how cool her mom his.”
“Well, I’m not lying to her about how cool her dad is.”
Dean sighs. He stares at you for a moment, and you just smile back. You know you’ve won. You always win.
“She’s pretty cool herself,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Yeah. She is. What kinda toddler likes hearing about her old man getting beat up for a bedtime story.”
“Your toddler.”
“Nah, sweetheart. That’s all you.”
You roll your eyes, and your expression shifts. Dean tilts his head, already questioning, and you sigh.
“You have to promise not the be weird about it.”
“Me? Bein’ weird about something? Baby, never-“
“Dean.” You squeeze his bicep. “I’m serious.”
Dean sighs. “Yeah. Alright. Hit me.”
And he’s a little worried. What if he said something. What if you’re done. What if you remembered that he’s not that cool guy anymore. Just some douchebag with a jawline who eats all your daughter’s fruit snacks and lets her sit in the Impala with him while he works on the engine. No better than his dad, no good for you and Charlie-
“I want another one.” You blurt, staring at his neck instead of his face. “Please.”
Dean blinks. “Another… baby?”
You nod, flushing furiously, and a grin breaks slowly over his face.
Another one. Another little piece of him, in a whole lot of you. Another kid. You still love him, enough to have another kid with him, on fucking purpose.
“I think I can swing that,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes, but smile. You smile when he kisses you. You giggle when he throws you over his shoulder, because damn, he’s still fucking got it.
And he thinks it. Right there.
Maybe this is going to last forever.
The second time he thinks it is when you’re full and knocked up and it becomes painfully clear. This place is too big. There are too many sharp and pointy things, too many cold drafts, and—according to you, but Dean never argues—not enough color. Charlie’s going to be going to preschool soon. You’re going to have a second kid, and sure there are plenty of rooms, but raising a family in this place sounds like hell.
Too many memories, as well. There are rooms Dean can’t go in alone, and rooms you can’t go in all together. For Christ’s sake, you have a dungeon, and Charlie’s going to find it one day.
The bunker can’t be home anymore.
You’ve gotta move.
Dean spends weeks, looking at buying land closer to the city. Somewhere mixed with woods and people, so you’re not one of those annoying suburban families you used to make fun of on hunts. You aren’t getting yoga pants and joining a Friday night book club. Dean isn’t about to start golfing, and he sure as shit isn’t driving a minivan. Block parties sound like hell. All those people, outside on his lawn, messing up the hidden wards. No damn way.
“You can’t build a house, De.” You sigh, leaning over his shoulder. Dean just kisses your cheek and clicks his tongue.
“No faith in me, sweetheart. I got a hammer. We got wood. Put ‘em together-“
“If you say house, I am throat punching you.”
Dean chuckles, and grabs the hand hanging against his chest. It’s the one he put a ring on. Sometimes he likes to fidget with it, just to remember that it’s there.
“Remind me why we’re so against the suburbs?” You murmur.
“’Cause we don’t suck,” Dean drawls your name, and you laugh softly.
“I think we suck.”
“No, I think we’re awesome. Maybe sometimes I suck. And- Heh.” He smirks. “Sometimes you suck, but I ain’t talking about the adjective-“
You clamp a hand around his mouth, and he laughs, grabbing it and turning it over to kiss your knuckles. You get pushy and violent when you’re pregnant. And you’re always a little pushy and violent—in a hot way—but not usually towards him. Not like this.
Charlie had been worse, though. Dean had joked the whole time that she was going to come out like him, because there was no way she was getting all that sass from you. Sam had muttered that he might have rose colored glasses, and you’d thrown a shoe at his head. But you’d been pregnant. Sammy should’ve known better.
“Dean Winchester.” You hiss in his ear, and Dean doesn’t know better. He loves you too much for it to matter anyway. “Charlie is in the other room-“
“Playin’ with her toys, baby. She’s not listenin’ to us.”
“What if she is-“
“She’s not.”
“But what if-“
Dean says your name, stern and low, and you drop your face dramatically into his neck.
“You don’t suck,” you mumble against his neck.
“I know.” He doesn’t. It’s why you always say it.
“And you- You could build the house, I just- I don’t think we’re going to have time.”
“Yeah.” Dean sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Know that too. Just- Woulda been pretty sweet.”
You hum, looking up at the computer. “You could build use a shed. Or- This one would love a tree house.”
You pat your swollen belly, and Dean laughs. “Would she, now?”
“Mhm.”
“And she’s tellin’ you that through what, the umbilical cord.”
You roll your eyes. “No. She just- She feels more like you.”
And that knocks him off his feet. He would’ve loved a tree house. They never had a tree to build one in—or a dad who would’ve picked up the hammer—but Bobby had come pretty close once. Old thing in his yard, where Dean used to sneak up when he needed no one the find him. Bobby had known, of course. Bobby had always known. He hung up a hammock one afternoon, and never mentioned it to Dean again.
But his kid, they would have more than a hammock that Dad made Bobby rip down when he found out. They’d get a proper tree. A proper dad. A real, full blown childhood.
“What’s so bad about the suburbs?” You repeat the question, softer this time. And for the life of him, Dean can’t think of a real answer.
“Those places are expensive.” He mutters, and you hum.
“We got money.”
“Stolen money-“
“Still money.”
He looks back at you. You hold his gaze, gentle but firm.
“I love spiders and foxes as much as anyone else, De-“
“We wouldn’t have spiders-“
“We would in the woods.” You give him a stern look, and he shuts his mouth. “They’ll want their friends to come over. We’ll want our friends to come over.”
“We don’t have friends-“
“We will. And you’ll go fishing with a bunch of other dad’s who suck.” You pet his hair, rising fully up so his head is pressed against your belly. “And I’ll hang out with mom’s who hate their husbands, and tell you all the gossip they tell me-“
“Even the bedroom problems?”
That gets a laugh. “Especially the bedroom problems. And we can make fun of everyone together then host a very nice, boring dinner, then make fun of them some more.”
Dean sighs, looking up at you under lidded eyes. You smile. He smiles back, because that this point his face just does that, in reaction to you.
“You get a grill,” you add, and he chuckles.
“I’m already sold, princess.” He kisses the back of your hand. “I’ll start lookin’.”
You smile, and lean down to kiss his lips. Dean stays up late that night, then the next, looking for that boring, easy house. And he’ll never tell you how right you were—he doesn’t have to, you know—but a small, long buried part of him is poking it’s head up in excitement. Nothing’s more fun that people watching with you. This is just gonna be a whole life of that, and being five minutes from a nice bakery, and not needed to worry about his kids getting lost in the woods and being raised by wolves.
He finds the place in a week. He shows it to you, hands shaking more than he’s ever going to admit, because he wants it. It looks like what he used imagine houses looked like—what he’d close his eyes and try to remember, from the house that burned down—and Dean wants it so bad he can feel it, drumming in his chest.
“Listing says the garage door needs fixing, and- One of the doors doesn’t close all the way- One of the sinks doesn’t get hot right, either, but-“
“You can fix it.” You say, looking back to folding Charlie’s clothes. “Okay.”
Dean blinks. “Okay?”
“Okay. We’ll do that one.”
He coughs. It can’t be that easy. “You, uh- There are more pictures, if you wanna look more-“
“Is it in a good school district?”
“Yeah, and they got a good library, too-“
“Then okay.” You shrug.
Dean swallows. There’s a lump in his throat he can’t logic with. He doesn’t want you to hear it. “You wanna go check it out first?”
“No. I trust you.”
I trust you.
Just like that.
Dean has to sit on the edge of the bed. You notice him falling apart—you always do—and set down the clothing to hug him. He gets to put his face right in your boobs. He always forgets that part. If he remembered, he’d cry a hell of a lot more.
“You think Charlie’s gonna like it?” He chokes out, because he can’t think of anything else to say.
“Yeah,” you say, like it’s easy. Like he doesn’t think this might be forever again. “I do.”
Charlie loves it. That’s when he feels it the third time.
It takes months to get out of the bunker. There are so many things that need to be boxed up and shipped, more things that need to be given away, and uncountable thing that he doesn’t even know what to do with. Dean didn’t know they had so many things. As far as he could remember his whole life could fit in a duffle bag, and that duffle bag could be stuffed in a car, and if he lost the bag at least he still had the shit on his bag and in his pockets. But now he’s waking up and there are toys and photos and trinkets and shoes and jackets and a million other things to mark and pack.
Charlie keeps growing, but you say that you should keep everything for the next one.
“What if it’s not a girl?” Sam asks, eyeing your belly, and you shrugs.
“It’s a girl.”
“Did you guys check the sex-“
“No.”
“Well,” Sam shoots a look at Dean, like he’s supposed to know what to say about this. “You- You can’t know what the sex of the baby is, then-“
“But I do.”
“No, you literally can’t-“
“Is she inside you, Samuel?” You give Sammy a withering glare, and he flinches.
“No…”
Sam bows his head like a child in time out. You hum, pleased with yourself—you usually are, because they’ve known you for years and Dean can’t remember a single time when you haven’t won an agruement—and rub a hand over your swollen stomach. Dean isn’t sure if you got this big with Charlie. He thinks that might point to it being a boy, but he knows better than to tell you that directly.
“Winchesters get big,” He murmurs to you that night, testing the water. “Sam was five billion pounds.”
You snort, running your fingers through his hair. “Five billion?”
“Mhm. Massive freakin’ head, too. Dad let me hold him, thought he was an alien.”
That just gets a giggle, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. He should keep you pregnant all the time. You get sweet and soft, and mean and sharp, and he’s never sure if he’s supposed to be coddling you like an angry kitten or bracing for the bite of feral dog. He kind of loves it. Sam says that ain’t healthy or whatever. Dean tells him that he’s just never had a wife as hot as you are. Sam says he’s never had a wife at all. Dean says exactly, and walks away before the argument can become something he loses.
Sammy just understand how much you are when you’re knocked up, and how awesome that is. It’s like there’s twice as much of you for Dean to love. You’re perfect no matter what, but you’re so perfect Dean doesn’t know what to do with it sometimes, and when you’re knocked up you just tell him. You kiss him like you’re drowning, then burst into tears when Charlie goes to bed because she’s growing so fast, and Dean feels useful keeping you steady.
“What’re you gonna do if it’s a boy?” He asks casually, and you roll your eyes.
“It’s not a boy.”
Dean sighs. “Sweetheart-“
“It’s not.”
“I know, but I just kinda wanna know what’s gonna happen if it is.”
You glare at him. His lips twitch up—you’re pretty when you glare—and you don’t seem to know if you want to smile back or keep trying to kill him with your eyes.
“I know you’ll love him either way,” he adds, softer this time. “I’m just thinkin’- like- Names, y’know?”
That makes you relax. You look up the ceiling in thought, and Dean kisses your breasts over your shirt. It’s his shirt, but you’ve long claimed all rights to things that he touches. He doesn’t mind. Makes him feel wanted. And son of a bitch, if you don’t look like a wet dream with your belly all swollen from his kid and his shirt hanging just above your thighs. Dean’s had that wet dream. He thinks it might’ve been practice, for not blowing his load when he has you like this for real.
“If it’s a boy…” You say slowly. “We can name it Robert.”
Dean likes that plan, and kisses your cheek. You smile at him, and it knocks him out every time. You keep pulling that shit, you’re going to end up pregnant all the time.
“How’d you know it’s not a boy, anyway?” He asks, because he kind of hopes you have a real answer.
He wants it to be a girl. He’ll love the little monster if they’re a boy too, but Charlie looks too much like he does. Doesn’t mean he loves her less. He just wants one that looks like you. He wants fifty that look like you. They can start a new nation of little Amazons that don’t try and kill their dads, and every country in the world can be run by his brilliant daughters.
“It feels like you,” you tell him, and Dean pauses.
“You think I feel like a chick?”
You giggle, and kiss his forehead. That doesn’t feel like an answer.
“I’m not a freakin’ girl-“
“You’d be a very pretty girl.”
“Oh, I’d be smokin’, that’s not the issue-“
“Dean-“
“Nothing wrong with being a girl,” he cuts you off with an aimless grumble, mostly because you’ve been married for two years, together for far longer, and now he’s finding out you think he’s a girl. “But I’m not.”
You hum, clearly amused. “You’re right. You’re a very pretty man.”
Dean scowls, and you kiss him, and that’s a little better. He still doesn’t love it, at least until you show him some fancy article the next morning about how men with higher testosterone have more daughters, and that fixes pretty much everything.
“You’re an idiot.” Sam says flatly, and Dean flips him off.
“You’re just jealous you don’t have daughters, Sammy,” he says smugly. “Don’t worry. Few horse pills and performance enhancers, you’ll get there.”
Sammy throws a paper towel at his head, and you laugh. Dean considers himself rich, for a moment. Maybe an elite, when Charlie starts shouting for him from her room, and demands that he sits with her while they go through her room.
“You wanna keep this one, kiddo?” Dean asks, holding up one of those poofy flower dresses she wears. Charlie nods, and Dean sighs.
She’s wanted to keep every dress. Dean doesn’t think there are enough boxes in the world, to get them all to the new house.
“You sure?” He tries. “You don’t even let Mommy put you in this one-“
“Not for me.” Charlie frowns at Dean like he’s crazy. “For baby.”
Dean blinks. For a second he thinks she’s talking about the car. “Uh- I’m sure baby appreciates it, but I don’t think it’s gonna fit-“
“Mommy says baby is growing.” Charlie says wisely, and Dean feels like an idiot.
The literal baby. Right.
“Did you give uncle Sammy your dresses?” Charlie asks, and Dean snorts.
“Oh, yeah. All of them.”
Charlie hums, pulling on the ears of her stuffed animal. “Did he like them?”
“Yep. Still has them today.”
An hour later, Charlie asks Sam if she can see his dresses. Dean dies laughing, holding himself up with a hand on the counter while Sam glowers at him. The kid will get over it. Dean’s the one who gets in trouble anyway, because now he has to go out and buy dresses for Sam to pretend were his, and you’re not happy with him for lying.
He apologizes and gets away with it. He gets away with more than he cares to admit. Probably because he’s just that good at being a husband.
“Think we got everything,” he mutters, looking around the library for a stray mug or blanket. “Just gotta- Y’know,” he grins at you. “Move.”
You hum, and lean into his side. Dean rests a hand on your bump, and pointless tears sting at his eyes. This kid is never going to know what it’s like to live in a place with alarms and guns and chains. There won’t be halls with blood crusted on the wall, that Dean might’ve spilt himself. She’s going to grow up with Charlie, in a house with a backyard, and the ability to throw a punch but never a need to.
And part of him is worried, when they take Charlie to the house, that she’s going to hate it. He spent hours painting rooms and building furniture. Hours thinking about exactly what she’d like, what you’d like, and—secretly, although he thinks you know anyways—what he would’ve wanted for himself.
Charlie toddles behind him through the door, holding his hand. He’s got you on the other arm, and tries not think about how chick flicky this feels. Like a shot from a cheesy movie, the kind he used to avoid like the toxin of happiness would seep into him, and he’d start to miss what he knew he’d never even had.
Dean looks at you, and you’re smiling around the hall. That’s a good sign. You’ll probably tell him that painting is a little crooked, but he left some things wrong on purpose, because he knew you’d want to fix a few things.
Charlie tugs on his arm, and he glances down. She’s blinking up at him with those eyes you say are just like his. He’s never been able to agree. They look better on her. More hopeful. More important.
“Daddy.” Charlie whispers, and Dean raises his brows.
“Charlie.”
“Mr. Ears needs to go potty.”
Mr. Ears is the elephant. Dean bites back his laugh. “You think so?”
Charlie nods solemnly. “He told me.”
“Alright.” Dean stretches out a hand. “I’ll take him, you can stay with Mommy-“
“No.” Charlie holds Mr. Ears tight to her chest. “He wants me to go potty with him.”
You laugh softly. It makes it pretty hard to keep his serious Dad face on.
“Well, do you need to go potty too?”
Charlie shakes her head, and Dean shrugs.
“I think Mr. Ears is gonna want some privacy, then. So I’ll just take. Him, and-“
“I do need to go potty!” Charlie says quickly, and Dean grins, scooping her up with one arm.
“I know, kiddo.” He kisses her cheek, and she giggles.
He’ll never get sick of that sound. It’s more like your laugh than his, and you’ve got the best laugh in the whole damn world.
Charlie observes the halls as he carries her upstairs—leaving you to collapse on the couch, because you’re getting to the point of pregnant where Dean has to pretend he’s not half-carrying you everywhere—and seems to be mimicking your analyzing face. It’s the one where your brows pinch and your lips pout, a sharp glint in your eyes as the world becomes a courtroom and you become a judge.
“Horses.” Charlie points to a picture Dean found at some yard sale, and he hums.
“Horses.”
“Do we have horses now?”
Dean snorts. “No, Char. You can’t have a horse in a neighborhood.”
Charlie huffs. “Why not.”
“’Cause. They’re too big.”
“But you’re big, Daddy. And we keep you.”
Jesus. He’s glad you’re not here. He’d never get you to stop laughing. “I’m think I’m smaller than a horse, sweetheart.”
“Hm.” Charlie tips her head up, and she might look like him, but that righteous, confident look is all you. “Mommy told Auntie Eileen that you were big.”
Dean chokes on the air. He sputters for a second, trying to think of what the hell he could possibly say to explain that, but Charlie’s already moved on.
“You’re bigger than a doggie.” She examines Dean like he’s just some asshole walking around in her house. “Can we get a doggie?”
Dean sighs. “Let’s do the baby first.”
Charlie looks skeptical. “Are you bigger than a baby?”
“I’m bigger than you,” Dean pokes her, and she giggles. “And you’re gonna be bigger than the baby.”
“I’m gonna be bigger than the baby?!”
“Oh, yeah. Baby can fit in Mommy. We can’t.”
Well. Dean can. He’ll tell you that joke later, and it’ll probably get him smacked, but it’ll also be worth it when you kiss him stupid after.
“Pants.” Dean reminds Charlie when she tries to climb on the toilet with them still up. She rolls her eyes like he’s crazy. Another thing that’s all you.
“I was gonna take them off, Daddy.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I was showing Mr. Ears how to get up.”
“Ah. ‘Course.” Dean smiles to himself. “Very thoughtful of you, Char.”
Charlie nods, like she already knows. Dean helps her with the potty—she ain’t that big, he doesn’t know where the hell she keeps those massive shits in her body—and when he checks on her face, she’s staring at the bathtub with an open mouth. Dean tips his head.
“You alright, kiddo?”
Charlie nods, hugging Mr. Ears tighter to her chest. “We have a pool,” she whispers, and goddamnit. There’s a lump in his throat now, and he has to grab the toilet seat to keep himself up on his knees.
Because it’s just a damn tub, but the Bunker didn’t have those. And he can swear on his battered, fogged up memory of his childhood that Sammy once said the same thing, when Dad finally swindled them a motel with more than a rusty shower.
“It’s called a bathtub.” He says, so choked he worries Charlie is going to hear. “Kinda like a tiny pool.”
“Can I play in it?” Charlie looks at him hopefully, and even if she couldn’t, there was no way in hell Dean could ever say no.
“Yeah. We can do some bathtime tonight.”
Charlie beams, and there it is. That feeling. You were right, talking him into this white picket house with bathtubs and horse pictures on the wall and a big garden that Charlie rolls around in, all afternoon. It’s everything he never let himself dream about. He almost cries there in the bathroom, then in the garden, then that night with his face back in your boobs because he feels it, and it’s lasting more than a moment.
He can see himself here in ten years. Twenty years. Thirty, maybe forty if he’s got that much left in him. He’s never been able to see himself past next month.
But he’ll be here until something finally gets him. Couldn’t drag him away.
And this. This is going to last.
Years pass, and Dean doesn’t feel it all the time, but it comes and goes with more certainty. Like a desert that’s slowly turning to ocean, the tides rising higher and higher every day. It’s small. He doesn’t even really notice the difference until it’s at his ankles, then his knees, then his waist.
He really realizes how high it’s gotten when Charlie hits six, and the second one—Ella, the exact photocopy of you he wanted, but with a bubbly little kick in her that you say is all Dean—is in preschool. He’s trying to get you to go for just one more. You say you’ll think about it, and Dean doesn’t say it, but he knows that means yes. If you didn’t want to do it, you would’ve cut off the shooter supply yourself with the scissors in the kitchen. But he tells you he’s scheduled the appointment, and you make him cancel it.
He grins, wiggling his brows, and you give him that disgusted look that’s always a little too flushed to be real.
“Shut up.”
“Didn’t say anything-“
“You’re thinking things.” You point an accusing finger, and he just keeps grinning.
“Yeah?” Dean slides a hand up your waist. “What kinda things am I thinking, baby?”
Your breath hitches, and your body leans, but you keep that pretty little pout on your lips. “You know.”
He kisses your shoulder. “Do I?”
“Mhm.” You’re hugging yourself now, and Dean chuckles. He’s gotta work for it. He can do that.
“You know, if we call Sammy, he and Eileen need practice herding the monsters tonight.” He kisses under your jaw. “Really, we’d be doing them a favor.”
You sigh, your arms wrapping around Dean’s neck, and he smirks against your skin. You always fit so well against him, so soft and pliant in his arms. He’s feeling pretty generous tonight. Generous and selfish. Not much of a difference, when it comes to you.
“Know that sweet pussy of yours is already dripping for me, sweetheart.” He pulls your thigh up, tracing his fingers on the curve of your ass. “Don’t worry, Daddy’s gonna take care of it.”
You hit him and whine, but it doesn’t do much. You’re strong, you’ve only gotten stronger, but your punches against Dean have always landed flat. Hell, some days he thinks that the only reason he’s still kicking. Just like he’s never been able to push you away, you’ve never been able to get properly pissed at him. Fair trade, he thinks. He can’t even pretend to be mad at you.
“Gonna go call Sammy,” he mutters. “He’ll take them tonight, the gremlins will love it. He can feed them sugar and learn what that does to them after midnight.”
You pause, your nails digging into Dean’s neck. “Tonight tonight?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan-“
“We can’t tonight.” You sigh, dropping your face into his shoulder.
Dean reaches up, rubbing your shoulders as he tries to figure out why you can’t tonight. Ain’t a holiday or birthday. Charlie’s got none of those kid activies she’s gotta be driven to, the ones where Dean sits on some cold bleachers for an hour while you ignore his texts about how awesome Charlie is at everything. You’re not bringing Ella to any of those toddler classes where you get in a sexy swimsuit then just sing nursery songs for half an hour. You got that neighborhood book club thing now, but you hate it—you spend three hours in bed after, complaining about the book and the women—and he’s pretty sure it’s on Fridays anyways-
“Sam’s already taking them.” You sigh, a light dancing in your eyes. You know he forgot.
Dean grimaces, his smile tighter as he keeps trying to figure out what he fucked up. “Right- Uh- Because…”
You raise your brows, and Dean swallows. It better not be something real. He’s been so fucking good about remembering everything, and if it’s your anniversary or something, he’s going to find the nearest ghost and let it kill him.
“It’s… Our…”
“Parent teacher conference.” You prompt gently, your smile stretching your cheeks all pretty, and Dean groans.
“Shit, you said that was the ninth-“
“It is the ninth.”
“No, it’s Thursday, that’s the tenth.”
You roll your eyes, grab his phone out of his pocket, and show him the date. The big, fat 9 on the screen is mocking. Dean groans and drops his face into your chest.
“I wanted to have sex tonight,” he grumbles, and you laugh.
“I know, big guy.” You lower your voice to that honeyed, sweet coo he only gets when you’re real confident. “Sammy’s got them the whole night. If you’re on good behavior…”
You trail off, and Dean pulls back, scanning over your teasing expression.
“Yeah?”
You shrug, and he grins. He’ll be on the best behavior. No jokes that make the other parents look at him like he’s some kind of asshole. No snide comments about how soft they all are. No bullying the other kids, even though they’re not half as good at math as his Charlie. You probably don’t want him smacking your ass or making out with you in front of the other, perfectly classy and boring couples. But he really misses having you for a whole night. It’s been too many months of quickies and hushed fucks under the covers. As sexy as it is, to cover your mouth with his and rut into you until you’re crying, he needs to hear it again. The way you moan and scream his name.
So he’s on the up and up. He wears a shirt that he irons, like an asshole, and jeans without oil handprints. His shoes are clean. He even puts some of that good smelling shit in his hair and rolls up his sleeves like an adult. You smile at him, adjusting his buttons—he doesn’t think he did them wrong, but you seem dead set on touching him, and he’ll never say no to that—and Dean kisses your cheek.
“Look at us,” he says. “So normal.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re wearing a dead guy’s watch.”
“Everyone’s got a dead guy’s something, baby. Mine is just cool as shit.”
“Mhm.”
“Mhm?”
“What? I’m agreeing with you-“
“You’re sassing me.”
Dean noses at your cheek, and you roll your eyes. He doesn’t know why you bother, when he can feel your heartbeat under his fingers. “Shut up.”
He hums, kissing your nose. “Fighting words.”
“They’re not-“
“They will be. Trust me, pretty girl.” He leans back, holding your blown out gaze. “I’ll take care of you later.”
You try to scoff, but it’s so pathetically breathy, Dean knows he’s not going to be the one begging by the time the night is over. He squeezes your ass once for the road, and you drag him out the door. You’re always so worried about being on time, and Christ, Dean wouldn’t give less of a shit if he wasn’t worried about you snapping yourself in half.
“Breathe, baby.”
“I am breathing-“
“You’re gonna hurt yourself-“
“I’m gonna hurt you.”
You mutter the words under your breath, and Dean snorts. “Oh, now you’re just askin’ for it.”
He gets smacked, and laughs it off. You get violent and bratty when you’re trying to invite him to do something about it. And he will. After being—as you told him to—on his best behavior.
Usually, during these kinds of activities—the ones where his kids aren’t actually there to need his support, he’s just supposed to show face and smile for the sake of all the other families—Dean tunes out. His hand rests on your hip and his eyes stay fixed on the curve of your mouth when you talk, the melodic sound of your voice over all the other noise. He’s barely more than a figurehead for the Queen. You’ll deal with it, and tell him what to say, and he’ll keep an eye for when you start to get too tense and it’s time to take over or—even better—just hit the road.
But Dean stands in the little first grader classroom, and he can’t stop thinking about it. How tiny all the chairs are. How bright and colorful the walls and carpet are. He never got this far, in school. Dad kept them out of the systems until he couldn’t anymore, so first grade was a workbook he picked up in a goodwill with half the questions already done in red felt marker.
You’re floating through the room—you always do—and Dean lingers in your wake, trying to wrap his head around it. Everything is so small.
“I was never this small,” he mutters in your ear, and you laugh softly.
“Yeah? You popped out six feet?”
“Six-two, baby.”
“Your poor mother.”
“’Least I wasn’t Sammy. That’s actually what killed her, you know.”
You snort, shooting him a disbelieving look of amusement. He’s gotten better at joking about that. Distance and time and you, all mixing together to make old gashes turn to muscles that ache when he twists them just wrong. He sits down at Charlie’s desk, knees pushed up to his chest, and pats his knee in offering. You shake your head.
“C’mon-“
“No.”
He glances around the room. All the other families have the mom sitting in the chair. Oops. He tries to get up, but you push him back down by his shoulders.
“She’d want you to sit there.” You crouch down at his side, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“She’s five. She doesn’t know what she wants-“
“Well, I want you to sit there.”
Dean huffs, because what the hell is he supposed to tell you, no. Never really been an option before, and it’s sure as shit not one now.
“I love you,” you whisper, and he grunts.
“Sure you do.”
“You look very handsome-“
“I look like I’m being packed to ship, sweetheart.”
You laugh, and take a picture of him that’s probably getting sent to Sammy, and he’s never going to get it down. At least he talks you into perching on his knee. Anyone who’s got a problem with it better remember that they all got kids here, so no ones got any puritan legs to stand on.
The teacher rambles about learning objectives and goals for the year. Dean doesn’t pay attention—he tries, but it’s not like there’s a pop quiz later—and his gaze wanders over Charlie’s desk. She clearly wrote her nameplate, and probably drew the fat unicorn that covers the ie. Her a’s look better. Dean’s pretty proud of that. They’ve been working on them a lot.
Charlie left a pile of her papers on the surface. Dean doesn’t know if he’s supposed to look at them, but he does anyway. It’s a lot of first grader stuff. Rainbows and letters and numbers all in crayon. Dean smiles to himself, thinking of Charlie scribbling her name on the top of the paper the same way she does on diner napkins. He thinks she’s shaping up to have good handwriting, even though he has no idea what the hell good handwriting looks like for a kid.
But that’s not what gets him.
It’s the drawing. Four stick figures, all stringy proportions and massive heads. There’s the little on in the middle, with pigtails. Dean doesn’t think Charlie’s ever had pigtails, but it’s labelled me in wobbly, scribbled letters. There a tiny lump on the floor that’s got feet poking out of it, labelled Ello, and the kid ain’t wrong. Ella’s not much more than a lump right now. Of the big ones, there’s the one got your hair, and is labelled Moomy. He chuckles, and almost pulls on your arm to make you look at it.
Then he sees himself. He’s got spiky sticks for hair and scribbles all over his face. He touches his jaw, and his beard has gotten longer than he meant it to, but you never complain. He’s the only one with shoes on, and the only one without any scratched on clothing. He’s holding your hand, standing a foot over your head, and he’s not that tall. Or broad. And he sure as shit doesn’t have bug eyes like Charlie gave him, but he’s never loved a picture of himself more.
A lump forms in his throat, as his fingers trace over the label. Doody. He snorts, but it’s wet and quiet, and you give him a strange look. He gestures weakly to the paper, and you smile. You kiss his brow and rub his shoulder, and Dean just bows his head. He’s not going to break down like a little bitch right now. Not with so many people around.
He folds the paper up, and shoves it in his pocket. He’ll put it in his wallet later. Hug Charlie real tight when he gets home. She’s still so small, but she’s getting bigger. She’s already older than Dean was, when he had a gun in his hands and one eye on the door all night. He never allowed himself to think she’d end up with a life like that. But now time passes, and he realizes in that first grade classroom that he was still clenching his jaw. Bracing himself for the other shoe to drop, for the luck to dry out and his sorry ass to be stranded back in the burning, cold and lonely desert.
But it’s only getting better. Dean allows himself to sit in it, for the first time. All of this is only getting better. And he’s never going to allow it to get worse again.
Ella has her first nightmare when she’s about three. Dean’s dealt with them from Charlie before, but it’s different. Charlie’s quieter. More serious. Usually he doesn’t figure out she even had a nightmare until she comes down the stairs in the morning with drooping eyes and messy hair, then says she didn’t sleep the night before. Ella gets loud. She screams and cries, and Dean thinks he’s about to walk into a murder scene. His heart gets hard like softer metal being pressed into something they could make bullets out of. He grabs the gun you let him keep in the dresser the kids can’t reach, and runs out of the bedroom before you can even call his name.
He locks you in the bedroom. If it’s a fire he’ll go back, if not you shouldn’t be anywhere near a monster. You can be pissed at him later, but you’ve got the third one cooking in your stomach, and Dean can take care of the ones with legs. He’ll take care of all of it. That’s what he’s for.
But there’s nothing in Ella and Charlie’s room. Charlie’s knocked out and grumbling in her sleep, the closet is a little ajar, and Ella’s curled into a tiny ball against her headboard. The blankets are bunched in her little hands, but she lets go of them to reach for Dean. He lowers his gun and goes to scoop her up, scanning around for the threat. He finds only silent room, and isn’t really sure what to do with it.
“Ella, what’s wrong-“
“Monster.” Ella sobs, pressing her little face into Dean’s neck. “Monster in- In the closet-“
She starts crying so hard she can’t talk, and Dean sets his jaw. There’s no bad smell. No temperature drops and flickering lights, but he knows better than to just dismiss it.
“Alright, sweetheart, I’m gonna put you down and check it out-“
“No!” Ella wraps her arms around his neck, and Dean doesn’t know how such stringy little arms can choke him better than some demons ever managed.
“El,” he tries gently. “You’re just gonna wait on the bed, and I’ll make sure there’s nothin’, okay?”
Ella sniffles, shaking her head, and Dean sighs. The fact that he’s been in here so long without an attack is a good sign. He kisses her forehead and pries her off his neck, slinging her onto one arm. He almost asks her to keep quiet, but that’s what Dad would’ve told him. And Dad never warded the house like you did. The more he thinks about it, the more Dean realizes that there’s no damn way something could’ve even gotten past the driveway.
He keeps his gun in his hand, though. Old habits.
Ella’s still shaking, when he pokes open the closet and finds nothing but lumps of clothing and boxes of toys. Charlie seems to have shoved everything in, before bedtime, and it’s made a strange shape and cast long shadows. And there, on the top, is that damn stuffed dog Sammy got Ella for her birthday. The one she drags around everywhere and screams about when they so much forget about it in the car. Dean grabs it and holds it near Ella’s face, lips twitching.
“This the monster?”
“Don’t wanna look, Daddy-“
“You sure?” He sighs, pressing the dog’s nose to her cheek. “Think he might be your friend.”
It takes a few seconds, but Ella looks. She shrieks in delight, and rips the dog out of Dean’s hands. It does the trick, even if she’s still a little spooked. Dean carries her back to your room to drop off the gun, then brings her back to bed.
“Did he fight the monster?” Ella asks him when he puts her down, and Dean pauses.
And he’s got a choice. Tell Ella there was never a monster, and that monsters aren’t real, or tell her that a damn stuffed dog can fight them off. Dad would tell her there was never a monster, but that when one comes she better not reach for the stuffed animal.
But Dean isn’t Dad. And looking at Ella’s big, soft eyes—far too much like yours for him to know how to let them cry—he doesn’t understand how Dad ever managed to let Sammy be afraid like that. How he let either of them be afraid like that. It’s not like Dean’s not going to be there, if something like that comes. Ella never has to worry.
“He was the monster, El,” Dean says, and it feels like the right thing. “And do you need to be scared of him?”
Ella giggles. “He’s not a monster, daddy-“
“You thought he was-“
“Because he was looking scary.”
“But was he scary?”
Ella pauses, still sniffling, then shakes her head. Dean smiles, running his fingers through her hair.
“Told you.”
“Hm.” Ella pulls at the dog’s ears, then looks up at Dean. “Can you sleep here, Daddy?”
Dean sighs, glancing at the door. “I think Mommy wants me with her-“
“Mommy can come too.”
Ella looks at him with those big eyes, and Dean caves. He always caves. You say he’s just big and soft like that, but he’s not. Stronger men would give in, if they had kids like his.
“How about we go to Mommy,” he offers. “So Charlie can keep sleepin’.”
Ella considers it, then agrees. It’s a bit of a trial, getting in bed without waking you up or letting Ella kick the baby bump, but Dean manages. Ella goes out in seconds, wrapped more around you than Dean, and he doesn’t mind. You pulled her into your arms without thinking, and she’s got her face pressed into the pillows just like yours, and Dean doesn’t know how he got so luck. Maybe he’d been banking up, all those years, and it just decideds to cash itself out. Maybe he hit some kinda lottery. Doesn’t really matter. All he knows is that he’s got this, and it’s not going away.
It’s not going away.
He lets himself breathe in that, for the first time in his life.
He’s got this good thing, and it’s not going to go away.
He doesn’t notice anymore. And he notices that he doesn’t notice on his birthday. You make him a cake. Charlie and Ella get him a mug and a shirt, and they’re kind of crappy but they picked them out, so he loves them more than anything else he owns.
You’re so pregnant you waddle more than walk, and Dean refuses to hear about you taking care of it. He doesn’t care that it’s his birthday. You’re the gift, he tells you, then laughs when he gets smacked in the face.
And he spent so many years, making his birthday one real nice pie and some expensive motor oil for baby. He glanced at red, analogue motel clocks and watched the clock hit midnight, before sighing and throwing an arm over his face. He wouldn’t sleep, because he was never sure if he’d make it to the next one. If this was the year his time ran out, and he was hitting the last number on his line.
But he has this birthday, and he blows out his candles, and he’s just… Not surprised. Another year. For the next one you won’t be all round and wobbly—which he’s still into, but you don’t seem to find that as reassuring as he means it to be—and you can take care of everything the way you keep insisting. Charlie will be older, and Ella will be stronger, and he can rent that lake house he’s always wanted and take his girls fishing.
The next one.
He thinks it, and doesn’t pause. Because it’s not a feeling worth dwelling on forever. This is just it.
This is going to last forever.
✦End note: i would have his babies. ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Author Note: Thoroughly loved conceptualizing this from an ask @stargazingfangirl18 threw into my inbox: Andy and sex pollen, and I didn't want to take an easy AU approach, so ... I hope this is as wickedly wonderful as I hope!
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
A box waits for Andy on the porch, the address written in a hand he doesn’t recognize. He’d noticed it as he’d arrived home, but left it there while he went inside, dropped his keys in the ceramic dish on the table in the entryway, and took off his jacket.
He opens the fridge and stands there, hand on the door, looking for the thing he knows he doesn’t have: some dinner that isn’t toast or yogurt. He glances at his phone, no messages. He looks around before releasing a deep sigh. The house always feels too silent.
Now he’s back at the door, peering through the storm glass, the box still waiting unobtrusively before him.
It isn’t his birthday, not for another three months. He’s not sure who would send him a package anyway, and he’d made no orders recently. Andy’s neighbors are too old to bother with pranks. He opens the screen, bends down to collect the box, and slips the package under his arm, carrying it in to the kitchen counter.
A neat arrangement of flowers emerges as he opens the box. No cellophane, just a pale blue tissue cushioning the stems and a small card. Not even in an envelope. The handwriting is blocky: TO ANDY. That’s it. No return address, no signature, just his name as if that alone would explain everything.
He looks at the flowers: some kind of bloom he’s never seen before. The petals seem delicate, and they’re a strange, precise shade of ivory, each petal streaked with a faint green that seems to deepen as he stares. The scent is so thick he almost recoils, first overly sweet, almost rotten with anticipation, syrupy-sweet and high-pitched, but settling, after a breath, into something lusher, like the inside of a greenhouse after rain. The air feels heavy, and on a second, unguarded inhale, his chest swells with a pleasant, tingling warmth. He can feel the pink rising along his neck, the way his hands want to fidget, like he’s standing awkwardly at a middle school dance, which is so strange he almost laughs. The scent—if he admits it, even to himself—reminds him of you, his new neighbor.
He wonders if you’re home, and the thought is so sudden, so absurd, he nearly puts the flowers back in the box. But that would be ridiculous.
He’s only met you twice: once waving from your side of the street as you retrieved your mail from the mailbox at the curb, and once at the neighborhood meeting, where after introductions were made the two of you had exchanged a handful of words about the late pick-up of recycling before Janice had called the meeting to order.
Maybe he should give the flowers to you.
No, that would also be ridiculous. He hardly knows you.
He goes to the kitchen sink and fills a water glass, digs under the cabinet for the only vase he owns—one of those heavy-glass things, left behind by someone in the house before it was his, maybe a relic of a more optimistic era, or more likely, a leftover from a florist’s upcharge. He arranges the flowers, still cautious, sets them in the middle of the kitchen table. For a minute he stands, simply staring, as if they might reveal something by being observed.
He sits at the table, scrolling his phone, forcing himself to focus on the news, but the scent of the flowers—now more bearable, even comforting—keeps lapping at his attention. He tries to read about the city council’s new water restrictions. Then about the meteor shower predicted for next week. When he looks up, the glass vase is throwing long, refracted ovals of green-tinted light onto the table, and the petals are trembling faintly, as if in a draft. There is no draft. He wonders what kind of flowers these even are. The urge to Google it is strong—maybe they’re from some rare local shrub. Maybe you’d know.
He huffs in frustration, then pushes away from the table. He makes his usual evening circuit through the house—checking doors, clicking on the living room lamp, pulling a can from the fridge—but each time he passes the kitchen, the wet-glass shimmer of the flowers is waiting, like a question he forgot to answer. He hovers in the doorway during commercials as he pretends to watch the game while really watching the slow collapse of petals in the vase. He tries to remember what you looked like across the street, what you were wearing, but all he can recall is how you hadn’t noticed him at first, and how that felt sharp and interesting in a way he didn’t know what to do with.
He eats cold noodles over the sink and finds himself rehearsing, in his head, how you might react if he brought you the flowers after all. What kind of note would he write? Would you even open the door?
The phone buzzes—a work group text, something about interviews for the new interns next week—and he thumbs out a reply, then set the phone down and finishes his shoddy meal.
He can’t remember the last time he was this preoccupied with anything. You’ve crossed his mind a number of times since you moved in across the street, but tonight it’s somehow impossible to think of anything or anyone but you. He’s never thought of himself as the “intrigued by a neighbor” type. And yet. The air feels crimped with possibility, which is stupid, because what would that even mean? He wonders if you’re watching the same game, or if you’re home at all, or if you’re across the street eating your own sad single-person dinner, oblivious to the fact that you’ve taken up residence in someone’s mind.
It doesn’t get any better.
He blames the flowers. The scent is everywhere, and he can’t make it stop, can’t crack a window wide enough to dilute it, can’t shake the sense that the petals are folding and unfurling at a speed just shy of human perception. He’s always been able to fall asleep instantly—smirking at friends who whined about insomnia—but now it’s as if his head is a hive. Minutes after crawling into bed, he’s restless, hot, the sheets sticking to him. He twists, then sits upright, the pillowcase damp and smelling faintly of the flowers. He gets up, paces the kitchen, then the living room, then stands at the window and stares across the street.
Your porch light is on. A rectangle of light throws out from your living room, and there’s a silhouette moving inside, maybe you, maybe a coat thrown over a chair, but all the same, the knowledge of you being over there is a burr under his ribs, a contamination in his bloodstream.
He can’t take it. He runs his hands through his hair, then growls in frustration and strides out his front door and down the steps of his porch before he knows what’s happening or what will come next.
The knock on your door startles your heart clean out of your body because no one should be knocking on your door this late at night.
You freeze, bowl of cereal in hand. In place of chewing, you hold your breath. After a full, tense ten seconds, there’s a second knock, insistent and measured, as though whoever is out there has no intention of going away.
You reach for your phone, thumb shaking a little more than you want to admit, and check the time, knowing you should’ve headed to bed ages ago. Not even the delivery apps will come out this late, not in this blissfully suburban neighborhood.
You mute the TV and tiptoe to the entryway, bowl cradled to your chest like a shield. Peering through the peephole, you almost drop the whole thing—milk, cereal, ceramic and all—because Andy from across the street is standing on your porch. He’s alone, wearing lounge pants and a t-shirt that’s wonderfully too tight, his usually soft-looking floofy hair wild, face creased with some expression you can’t decipher.
You step back, breathing through your nose, heart in overdrive. It’s not as if you’ve fantasized about him showing up at your doorstep in the middle of the night. Except you have. Far too many times.
You set the bowl on the entry table and smooth your hair in the faint reflection of the hall mirror. Four seconds elapse. Too long? Too short? You open the door just enough to wedge your face out the crack, just far enough to shield your pajamas, which feature a cartoon from your childhood with a long-defunct brand logo, but not so much that you’d seem like you were hiding. Andy’s bearded face is flushed; he runs a palm over the back of his neck.
“Hey,” he says, honeyed voice low, and pitching right to your twisting core. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”
You make yourself smile. “Is everything okay?”
“I, uh, yeah. I—” He glances back at the perfectly safe, empty street, then leans a little closer to the door frame. “Actually, could I come in? Just for a second?”
There’s a quality in his voice you can’t name. An urgency layered under hesitancy. You nod, opening the door wide, and back up through the narrow entry, suddenly very aware of the state of your hair, your house, the half-finished bowl of cereal.
He nearly pulls the door out of your hand, pushes it tenderly but forcefully shut, and before you can arrange your face into the appropriate social mask, Andy is kissing you like he came here to do exactly this and nothing else in the world has ever mattered. His hands are reverent and greedy at once, one cradling your jaw, the other fisting in the back of your t-shirt. He tastes faintly of toothpaste. You respond as you always imagined you would—if not out loud, then with every part of your animal self—gripping his shoulders like a lifeline, digging into the muscles you’d admired from across your respective sidewalks.
You’re already a little winded when you break apart, but Andy’s eyes are glassy and his breathing is ragged. His thumb is tracing delicate lines over your cheekbone, and you’re trying to remember how to speak when he does it again—lips on yours, but this time slower, like he’s trying to press your molecules together, seam to seam. You let him. He mouths at your lower lip until you open for him, tongue gliding in, deliberate and sure. His body presses yours backward, and you feel the flat cold of the door through your pajamas. Andy’s body is all heat and intention and hard planes against your utter softness, and the pressure of him caging you in is heady.
He pulls back, just enough to look at you, eyes wide and startled as if he can’t quite believe what he’s doing. “Sorry,” he says, almost in a daze of his own, “I just need…”
He kisses you again, mouth hot and desperate, tongue slick against yours, like he’s been thirsty for weeks. His hand never strays from your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it with a tenderness that nearly undoes you, but he slides the other down, skimming your side, the subtle flex of muscle through his shirt as he grips your waist. Your mind cracks open, every synapse alert, every cell singing.
You arch into him, needy, shameless. You think there’s no way this can be real. But even as you think it, he smothers a groan into your neck, lips dragging from your mouth to the pulse that hammers there, then back again, like he can’t bear to be away from your lips for more than a single heartbeat.
His palm curves over your hip, slow and decisive, then dips past the loose elastic of your pajama shorts. You gasp a warning that’s half protest, but mostly need, as his knuckles drag against your belly, then he’s inside, palm cupping you, and the simple warmth of his hand makes every thought you’ve ever had vanish. Andy kisses you with the same searching hunger, open-mouthed and ruined, as two blunt fingers sweep through the wet slick of you, slow at first, deliberate, petting the lips of your cunt until you’re squirming for more, until it’s embarrassing how wet you are, how quickly you’re coming apart.
You brace both hands against his chest, meaning to slow him, but instead you just hold on, clutching the soft cotton of his shirt, small noises escaping you. The way he kisses you is relentless—mouth devouring, tongue hot and sure, as if the world might end if he doesn’t taste every inch of you. His hand works down your body, urgent and hungry, and his fingers push deeper into your shorts, parting the seams, as if he’s opening a gift he’s thought about unwrapping for months. He slides two thick fingers into you, curling them with a deftness that feels like it should belong to a darker, more dangerous man—the kind of person your mother warned you about, not Andy, who always walks his recycling bin out at the exact right day and waves at the old lady three doors down.
You’re already trembling and he’s barely started. He fucks you with his hand, slow at first, then ruthless, setting a rhythm that makes your knees threaten to buckle. You clutch his shoulders, gasping into his open mouth, and he swallows the sound, grinning against your lips.
How is this happening?
You can’t think. You feel the split between your thighs and Andy’s hand, the way his palm is big enough to cover all the space there, possessive and gentle at once, drawing out tight circles over your clit. His fingers drive in unyielding and sweet, crooking with precision, the heel of his palm grinding firm as he fucks you through a shattering pleasure—one that comes so fast and hot you actually try to bite it back, your teeth sinking into his lower lip. He huffs a desperate, laughing sound, and when you come, it’s not like climbing some steady hill, but being dropped through a trapdoor.
You gasp and shudder, clutching at the man who just wrecked you. You should’ve protested all of this, shouldn’t you?
You want, more than anything, to collapse to the cool hardwood and drag him down with you, but Andy must sense this, because he presses you harder to the door, trapping you upright between the wood and the furnace of his body.
Andy’s hand doesn’t ease up. He holds you pinned, like you’re an answer he’s demanded from the universe and now that he’s got you, he won’t let you out of his grip. He presses his lips to your temple, riding out your aftershocks, but you feel the tremor in his arm, like restraint is costing him something precious. When you try to shift away, to breathe, he gives a small, strangled sound—almost wounded—and tugs you back, mouth at your ear.
“No,” he whispers, and his hand strokes lower, like he’s determined to find the bottom of you, the root of this need. “I need more. Need to see you—” His breath stutters, and he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth. “Need to watch you lose it for me again.”
You’d argue, but the truth is you want the same thing, no part of you wants him to stop.
The twist of his wrist, the scuff of his palm over the tight bundle of nerves, the softness of his mouth on your jaw, your neck, the corner of your lips—he’s everywhere, demanding and worshipful. Andy’s body presses closer, crowding you against the door, and you can feel every frantic beat of his heart through the thin shield of his t-shirt. He murmurs nonsense into your skin—good girl, so gorgeous, fuck, need, need, need.
You think you’re going to say his name, but it gets stuck behind your teeth, too many syllables suddenly unfathomable. It’s ridiculous. The pressure builds, sweet and sharp, and Andy’s hand is never not exactly where you need it, somehow reading micro-adjustments on your face, your breath. He curses—soft, reverent—when your whole body shivers, when your hips buck into his palm. You’re making noises you don’t recognize, high and pleading and so raw you’d be embarrassed if you could think straight. There’s no shield. There’s just Andy and his hand and you, the way your body opens for him, the way you melt and tremble. The second release is so complete it whites out everything—and what brings you back is not your own breath or heartbeat but the faint, helpless trembling in Andy’s forearms, the way he is shaking almost as badly as you are.
He’s watching you, face open and wild, like he’s just been let out of a cage. And the sight of him—lips parted, brow damp, pupils obliterating the blue—turns your insides to syrup. You are about to collapse, or maybe just melt, when you realize Andy’s hand is still inside your shorts, but now it’s gentle, just a palm pressed over your cunt, and his other hand has caught your wrist and pinned it gently but immovably above your head.
You try to breathe. You fail.
He kisses you, softer this time, and you let your eyes flutter closed. For a long minute, the world is just your breath curling together, the press of his lips, the warmth of his chest pressed to yours, and your heart constricts beautifully, remembering how you’ve longed for a moment just like this.
And then a sudden, vivid memory of the other night, ambushes you mid-kiss.
You, alone and wine-drunk a week ago, flicking through late-night TikToks until you scrolled upon a witch who was too intriguing to pass by. She spoke about manifesting and desires and moon cycles. She was answering comments with wisdom that was tinged with only a whiff of whimsy. The whole thing seemed so exquisitely stupid, so precisely the sort of thing you’d mock with a friend at brunch, but that was half the ache that had you wine-drunk and scrolling. You’d never been in a serious romantic relationship, but now you were also in a new town with no family, no friends, lacking connection, and feeling so alone.
So you’d stayed, wanting to believe, just a little, in magic.
The witch hadn’t seemed much older than you, if at all—hair in two space buns, eyeliner winged so sharp it could slice through time. Unlike the other algorithmic spiritualists who popped up on your feed, she answered comments with candor and missed no opportunity to call out the grifters. She laughed often, cackled sometimes, and radiated a low-budget but compelling earnestness that you respected. Her handle was something like @HexAndFlex, and before you knew it, you’d clicked through to her profile and linktree, then her Etsy, then, in a tangle of embarrassment and fascination, to the checkout page.
Wine glass in hand, you signed up for her $19.99 “Goddess Alignment Manifestation” bundle via Etsy, which included a personalized reading and three PDF guides. You filled out the intake questionnaire at 2:12 a.m., pausing long and hard on the prompts: “What are your hopes? Who are you inviting into your life? What does love feel like in your body?”
Waking up the next morning, you had an email from Sage Moonwater—a name that was either a branding masterstroke or her actual birth certificate humiliation—inviting you to select a time to consult that evening via her convenient Calendly link so you could step into your power and claim the life you deserved, specifically by manifesting “your soulmate’s touch” before the next crescent moon. It was so transparently silly, but her voice had had a way of making you feel less like a joke and more like a person who could actually want things, and what the hell did you have to lose now that you’d already paid the twenty bucks?
You’d set up the call for the same evening, all self-mockery, already rehearsing the text you’d send to Emily about what you were about to do. But as soon as the video chat connected, you felt a weird, grounding nervousness, like maybe you were about to reveal something shameful and true.
Sage had an actual backdrop—galaxy stars on a rich tapestry, a candle burning low, shelves of glass jars and labeled bottles that might hold essential oils or ketchup packets for all you could see. She greeted you with a firm, confident wave and a smile so wide it bordered on conspiratorial. She asked about your day, your mood, how you slept, and the questions came not as a checklist but as a real curiosity, like she wanted to know what you’d eaten for lunch because it was the first data point in a cosmic equation. The whole interaction felt, bizarrely, more intimate than your last three actual dates.
She asked and you talked about desire, about heartbreak, about loneliness, about the years and years of being the person everyone called “so independent” and “so intimidating” when really, you would’ve given up every self-actualized inch of it just to have one person see you across a crowded room and want you enough to cross the distance. You had not intended to say any of this, not even to yourself, but in the slow momentum of Sage’s affirming silences and cocked eyebrows, it all tumbled out. The next thing you knew, you were telling her about the feeling of your last almost-relationship ending, how it made you feel like a fading echo in a canyon, and how the new town had seemed like a possibility for a reset, a new chapter and new connections, but instead just made everything echo louder.
And then you mentioned your neighbor. Andy. Not by name at first, but by silhouette: the broad-shouldered man who was clean cut and seemed so kind and took his trash bins to the curb at the exact legally sanctioned minute, who always mowed the lawn of your elderly neighbor. You admitted—your cheeks burning, as if Sage could sense it across the pixels—that your neighbor looked like the actor who played Captain America, only with a beard that made him look less Marvel franchise and more the Northeast suburban lawyer that he was. You told her that, and Sage grinned, writing notes on an index card, and said you should never apologize for wanting a man whose forearms could probably open a stuck pickle jar with hardly an ounce of effort.
Sage guided you through a ritual that was half guided meditation, half pep talk, and one hundred percent more soothing than you expected. The rest of the call was a blur, but you remembered the precise click of the lighter as Sage torched a little twist of something in a shell, then told you to believe, for just a minute, that the universe would not play you if you simply asked for what you wanted, no disclaimers, no shame. At the end, Sage closed her eyes and murmured something, then said, “Manifestation doesn’t mean sitting still. When you see the signal, walk into it. Be the spell.” You laughed—together as she took her craft but not herself too seriously, you promised to leave her a five-star review, and closed the laptop.
Then you forgot about it. Full on forgot for the rest of the week, until the entire affair reverberates with the force of a sucker punch, the moment Andy’s hand, slick with you, presses harder, grounding you in the exact present of everything Sage told you to want.
Now, as you gasp for air—Andy’s mouth still pressed to the hinge of your jaw, his hand holding your wrist pinned—you have the wild, horrible thought that you might actually have done this. Not just metaphorically, not in the way of I set an intention and now the universe is showing me signs, but in the literal, actions-have-consequences sense of the word. That you, in a fit of late-night desperation, tapped your wishes into the digital void with the help of an Etsy witch, and then the void, bored or mercenary or high on its own power, sent you Andy, unfiltered, nearly deranged with need, to finish what you started.
“Oh, no,” you murmur, breathless, aware at cellular level that you’ve broken something and there’s no undialing it back. Andy’s mouth is still on your neck, but his hand has stilled, fingers wet and honest where they rest. You feel the insane urge to confess all of this, to babble out the chain of cause and consequence, but that would be even more unhinged than what’s actually happening, so you just clutch at his nape like you can anchor yourself to him and ride it out.
Andy, meanwhile, is not waiting for your existential reconciliation. He’s pulling you from the entryway, hands gentle but insistent, urging you through the darkness of your own house toward the living room. Neither of you turns on the light, as if to do so would break this spell and lay bare the ordinary details—your couch’s threadbare arm, the red-wine blot you still haven’t cleaned from the rug.
You stumble a little in front, Andy’s body close behind, and he makes a sound, half-plea, half-laughter, and tells you to, “Wait, wait,” and then he’s pulling you, deft hands at your hips, to the couch.
He presses you down by the shoulders. Not rough, not even assertive—just a gentle, inarguable pressure until you’re seated, knees spread slightly by the width of his own. Then he is on his knees before you, hands sliding up your thighs with a kind of focus you’ve never been on the receiving end of, certainly not from a man who, until ten minutes ago, was no more than a participant in your erotic daydreams. He looks up at you, gaze level and starved, and you realize with a choked hitch in your breath that Andy’s intent is not ambiguous. Not even slightly.
You know how this scene is supposed to go. You’ve read enough, watched enough, spent enough late nights with a hand beneath your sheets and a fantasy running wild to recognize the choreography: the kneeling man, the parted thighs, the hungry eyes and trembling hands. Your heart should be galloping, and your body should be velvet and opening, but what you actually feel in this precise instant is a kind of underwater panic—a clutching in your chest that says, This isn’t you, this isn’t how you imagined it, not even in the most fevered, shame-laced moments before sleep. You want him, yes, but you want the wanting to be mutual, not conjured or compelled or rolling downhill because gravity says it must.
You seize his wrists—not to guide, but to stop him. For a second, the only sound is your breath, jagged and raw in the dark. Andy’s arms tense, and he freezes, hands hovering just above your knees.
“I need to know,” you say, surprised at how thin and breakable your voice is. “Do you actually want this?”
He’s startled, like you’ve splashed cold water in his face, and draws back just enough for a wedge of lamplight from the street to silver his jaw. He blinks, hard, and his mouth forms a quizzical line. “Of course I want this,” he says, and when you don’t let go, he adds, “I need it.”
You should let that be good enough. You should. But something inside you is a little stubborn, a little afraid this isn’t about you, but about magic and that the spell won’t last if it isn’t real.
You tug Andy’s arms higher, make him look at you. “Not need,” you say, the two words sounding childish, a repetition from some earlier, unsophisticated self. “Want. Do you even like me?” It’s an absurd moment to ask, and you nearly laugh, except the stakes are so much sharper than they were a minute ago.
Andy’s head tilts, and you see the fight in his face, the tangle of what’s happening and what he thinks should be happening. His brow knits, lips pursing as if considering this seriously, like you’re a witness in some small, late-night court, and he needs to get the answer right on the record.
“I—” The word is thick. He tries again. “Yes. Jesus, yes. Since you moved in. Hell, I thought I was being subtle. I—” He drops his gaze, and his hands flex hard on your knees.
Then his hands come up to cradle your hips, steady and unquestioning, and for a moment he just looks at you. His hands squeeze your hips, like he’s grounding himself, and he says, “No, I wasn’t being subtle. I was being careful. Guarded.
“Last time I had something that was supposed to be good, it blew up, and I lost it all. I couldn’t keep it, and I swore I’d never want that hard again.” His thumb slides, absently, along the bare skin where your shirt rides up. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Not since the first week you showed up. I don’t even know why I’m here, doing this, skipping a hundred steps. But I want to want you, actually want you, and not just for tonight.”
You stare at him like an idiot, every word a stone dropped in the deep well of your body. You surge forward and now it’s you who’s kissing him like he’s the air you need to breathe. Your mouth meets his and this time there is no hesitation, no apology. You wind your hands into the back of his hair and tug, not to hurt but to anchor, and when Andy’s teeth scrape your lower lip, you welcome the pain because it means presence, it means both of you are here. The kiss tastes a little of resolve and a little of blood, and you devour it, clambering forward until you’re no longer seated but crouched over him, both of you half off the couch, falling together into the negative space between bodies.
He moves with you, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his lap, so you’re straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands gripping his face. The feel of his beard on your palms is shockingly soft, and you run your thumbs along his jawline, mapping him, learning the shape of what you’ve summoned into existence. “Andy,” you whisper, testing the word against the flat of his tongue, and then again, like this will root him in place and keep him from dissolving away. He shudders, arms banding you tight, and you think, This is what it means to be wanted.
You can’t stop your hands. You want to clutch the collar of his shirt and drag it over his head, but instead you just knead the soft cotton over his shoulders, wanting to memorize every contour, every heat map of skin and muscle. He lets you, hands feather-light at your back, as if he’s still recalibrating to the idea that it’s possible, that this is happening. You dig your nails into his shoulders, shivering at the thought that this is real. Andy shivers too, and when your hips rock down, you both moan, a glorious, unscripted duet.
You laugh, or do something like it—a sound that is threaded with disbelief, with the creeping thrill that this moment is real. Andy is kissing your throat, your jaw, your face, kisses everywhere. You let your arms go slack, let your head fall back so he can drag his mouth along the column of your neck. All shyness has evaporated. You grind against him now, swim in the dizzy, churning heat, and every friction of your body ratchets it higher.
He rocks you in his lap, hands steady, and you can feel him straining hard beneath the soft jersey of his pants. There’s a voice in your head that wants to script this, to slow time and savor every beat—but you’re already gone, fueled by something that feels elemental. You hook your fingers under the hem of his shirt—his body is so warm, too warm, as if he’s been running a fever for you—and drag the fabric up his back. Andy helps you strip it off, and you stake your palms against his chest, which is warm and smooth, and you realize with delight that you had guessed correctly—light brown hair, just enough to tangle your fingers in. You do, just because you can, and Andy hisses, then laughs, catching your wrists and kissing the insides of them.
Your own shirt is next, or maybe he gets there first, but either way you’re bare chested against him, your nipples dragging over the broad terrain of his chest, and the friction is electric. You shudder, and Andy’s breath is hot on your neck as he buries his face there, humming low. His hands find the small of your back—one splayed to anchor you, the other traveling up your spine to cradle the curve of your neck, fingertips tracing fire along your vertebrae. His palm is huge, a brand against your skin, and you arch into it—hungry, greedy, alive.
You reach down, pulling at the drawstring on his lounge pants, and brush your knuckles along the line of his hip, skin so hot you think it might burn you. Andy’s teeth scrape your collarbone, and you laugh again, gasping.
You slide your hand beneath the waistband, push past the taut elastic, and find him hot, hard, and heavy in your palm. Andy’s eyes screw shut, jaw flexing. His head tips back, lips parted, and the sound he makes is so raw, so unguarded, you grip him tighter just to hear it again.
He lets you stroke him for three, maybe four slow pulls, until his patience fails and he tackles you backwards, the suddenness of it sending you sliding to the rug. He lands above you, catching your skull in his hand so you don’t hit the floor, the other braced by your shoulder, and for a moment you both hover, suspended over the thrum of your own need, before he’s tearing at your shorts, shoving them down your legs and off, then pulling your thighs around his hips. You’re naked on your living room rug, limbs akimbo, world reduced to the heat where his body meets yours.
Andy’s hand finds your knee, wedges himself between your thighs, and your heart stutters when you feel the heavy press of his cock against you, notching himself at your entrance. He presses forward, the head of him breaching you, then stops, sucking in a breath so sharp it’s almost a curse. “Fuck,” he growls.
The tenor of it sends a sliver of doubt through you. “What is it?”
He looks down, like this is the first moment he’s considered anything other than skin and the immediacy of you. “I, uh,” he says, “I don’t have anything on me.” The way he says it—on me—drags you back to the shore of reality. “Fuck, I’m sorry, this is so… Do you have anything?”
You don’t have to think hard about it. You know there is no pharmaceutical miracle in your bedside drawer, no leftover Trojan in your purse, not even a faded old wrapper in the medicine cabinet. You are never reckless, never this unprepared, and yet—“I don’t,” you say, and there is no hiding the want in your voice, no matter how much you try to paste on a veneer of caution. So you say the only other thing that’s blaring through your mind, “I don’t care. I want you.” And you mean it.
Andy freezes, some battle of conscience visible in the sharp lines of his face. But your next words crack him open. “I trust you.”
He leans in, presses his brow to yours. “I’ll pull out,” he says, voice a rumble and a promise, but you know even as he says it that you’re both already beyond that kind of discipline. He lets the head of his cock push just inside—enough to make your body go tight, desperate—and then he fucks you. It’s want, it’s intimate, but it’s an unadulterated fuck.
There is no slow easing in, no warmup. He’s already so thick and hard that the first push makes you gasp, makes your knees come up to lock behind his hips, makes your eyes flutter shut so you can concentrate on the sensation of being split with wanting. Andy cradles your head in his palm, mouthing frantic apologies into your neck, but you clutch at his ass, digging half-moons into his skin, urging him deeper. He’s past the point of teasing, and so are you. He drives in, the long, forceful motion grinding your back into the rug, and you can feel every inch of him, feel the way your body adjusts and grabs at him, absolutely unwilling to let go.
The sounds are obscene—yours, his, the wet slick of every thrust amplified by the chamber of your ribs. With each stroke, Andy mutters a gospel of fuck yes, you feel so good, so tight, fuck, never, never, not like this, fuck, need, fuck. You lose the shape of your own voice, the thrum of your body a radio tuned to a single frequency—fullness, friction, the absolute need to have him inside you.
You feel the edge building with every thrust, the thick heat of his cock nearly too much, the sweet ache of him pushing against the deep wall of you, and then—he angles your hips and suddenly he’s hitting something that turns you inside out. Your yelp is wild, and he does it again just to hear it, just to chase it. The rhythm is relentless, not violent but insistent. Your hands catch at his arms, shoulders, back—anywhere, everywhere—and your nails rake lines down the ladder of his spine.
He braces himself above you, then drops onto his elbows, crushing your body beneath his, pressing your breasts to his chest, so every thrust rocks you together. One palm cradles your jaw, tilting your face up, and he kisses you so deep the longing goes atomic, the world turning inside out.
You know that you’re making noises. You know your mouth is open and you’re emitting a sound with each pulse of his body into yours, but you’re not sure what it is, nor do you care. You’re right at the edge, clinging to the lip of it, and the friction is so much, so constant, that when you blurt, “Don’t stop,” you don’t even recognize your own voice.
Andy cants his hips and you swear he’s gotten deeper, impossibly so, and he grazes the spot that makes the world flash white at the edges.
You teeter at the precipice, clutch at his back, your legs straining around him. He feels your body start to come undone and murmurs, “That’s it, just like that,” right by your ear, breath molten. He grinds even deeper, and the pressure is so much you’re not sure if you’re gasping or screaming. Climax devours you in greedy waves—first ripping and sharp, then rolling, sensual, heady. Your cunt clamps hard around him and you feel him stutter, lose cadence, gasp your name like a plea. He’s close, so close, so ready to follow, and you sense his muscles tense, his will battling itself.
He tries to pull out, you feel it, the faltering withdrawal, and something primal and vast surges up from your deepest self. You fist your hands in his hair, drag his mouth to your ear, and whisper, “Don’t. Please. I want you to finish inside me.” Your voice is shredded, a raw thing, almost animal.
He groans, the sound wrenching from him, and he punctuates it with your name, the syllables snapping and falling apart, and then he’s coming inside you, the heat of it blooming in deep, pulsing bursts, and your body cages it, cages him, takes in all of it because it wants to, because you can. He’s heavy on top of you and you pull him down, press your face to his shoulder and hold him through that long, shuddering ride-down, both of you panting, hearts jackhammering against rib and skin and the braided muscle of your entwined bodies.
Eventually, Andy shifts, bracing himself carefully on his elbows so as not to crush you under his weight, but he looks down at you, face awash in disbelief and—if you’re reading it right—something like worship.
For a long time you just breathe. Your body hums, a sweet ache radiating from your pelvis, your thighs, your shoulders. Andy strokes your ribs in slow, lazy circles, like you’re a cat he’s coaxed into his lap. The air smells like salt and sweat and ozone, like something essential has been altered at the molecular level.
Andy is the first to break the silence, resting his brow against yours and exhaling, “Jesus Christ.”
You giggle softly and press a kiss to his jaw. “That was…” You don’t finish the sentence. Can’t. The words would be inadequate.
He nudges at you, gentle as a suggestion, and rolls your entire body with his until you’re both on your sides, limbs still knotted, belly to belly. The rug itches at your hip and the room is cold now that the furnace of him has transferred from on to next to, but neither of you is willing to move. Andy tucks your head under his chin, beard scraping your scalp, one arm pillowed under you, the other banded around your ribs.
You go slack in his arms, the exhaustion of pleasure rolling in after the storm, but your mind is a live wire, all overloaded circuits and impossible, bright newness.
“We should get up,” you say, because you were never one to fall asleep on the living room floor, but now you know you and Andy are both far too old to stay here for long in any kind of comfort.
Andy rumbles a laugh in your hair. “We should,” he agrees, but neither of you does, and you lay there, two bodies caught in a gravity well, breathing in tandem.
You run your palm up Andy’s rib cage, feeling the slight tremor beneath his skin, and look up into his face. He’s already watching you, blue eyes luminous in the dark. You’re both still naked; your bodies are still a tangle, and neither of you is prepared to speak just yet. He kisses your forehead, so light it feels like a benediction, and then he sighs, long and low, utterly without artifice. “You’re unreal,” he says.
You want to tell him, in that moment, about the witch, the twenty-dollar spell, about the two a.m. confessional and the shattering loneliness that made you whisper your want directly at the universe. You want to tell him you think you made this happen, that the ties between coincidence and desire are thinner than dental floss, but the words tangle up in your chest.
Because as surreal as the first moments were rocketing through the two of you as he showed up in your entryway, everything after felt real. The ache in your limbs is a perfect echo of satisfaction. You’re aware of Andy’s hand moving, tracing slow, distracted circles along the small of your back, like you’re something fragile or a secret he’s only just discovered.
It’s only a few minutes later that you do shift and groan at the discomfort of the floor, and Andy laughs.
You both untangle, groaning dramatically at the effort it takes to stand. Andy is first to his feet, and he has the nerve to offer you his hand like he’s some kind of courtly gentleman and not the man who just railed you so hard your vision is migrating out the sides of your skull. You snort and take it anyway, let him steady you as if you might topple, even though you are perfectly well balanced, thank you.
You shuffle toward the bathroom and he hangs back, fastening his pants, fussing with the drawstring. When you turn back to catch him, he’s straightening the couch cushions, gathering your clothes, and—hilariously—folding them into a neat pile on the endtable.
“Andy?” you call softly.
“Yeah?” he answers, turning to look at you.
“Come shower and stay the night?”
He looks at you for the space of four heartbeats, but it’s all intensity and warmth, and so you know before he says it, that the answer is a simple, “Yeah.”
Maybe this will be nothing. Maybe this will be everything. Right now it’s just this: a real thing, a warm thing, a thing with no name yet and no need for one, and the rest of it can wait.
AND???
WHAT DO WE THINK?
Did you like? 🥹 As I said in the A/N at the beginning, I had some immediate AU possibilities come to mind, but then I felt like they were all stories I'd probably read before, and I was happy enough to play in the typical sandbox, but then I thought....
WAIT!
WHAT IF ETSY WITCH?! And then my muse was gleeful in that idea... scrolling through Tiktok, going ahead and just trying the thing, and then maybe the witch thinking... maybe let's give these two a little push and sending those flowers Andy's way, see if she could send just a little bit of harmless magic your way because she genuinely liked you.
A little sex pollen never hurt anyone, right? 😌
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chapter summary: Matt takes you on a date you'll never forget, and gets a little tongue tied in the process.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 5.3k
"I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we've suffered enough."
- Seventy Years Of Sleep
When you got home from the studio, the penthouse was even tidier than usual. And quiet. You noticed it before you’d even slipped your shoes off.
The lights had been dimmed low, leaving the apartment washed in warm amber instead of its usual brightness. Somewhere deeper inside, soft soul music drifted from the turntable. One of your favorite vanilla candles was already burning, the familiar scent wafted gently into the entryway.
You frowned. “…Matt?”
No answer. God, he'd been acting so strange lately. Smiling to himself for no apparent reason. Randomly buying you artisan chocolate because he “felt like it.” Staring at you in his own way over breakfast this morning. Head tilted, with that soft, completely besotted expression until you finally asked if he could sense something on your face.
You rounded the corner toward the bedroom and stopped. Hanging carefully from the wardrobe door was a garment bag. Your heartbeat immediately stumbled. “Matty?”
Still nothing.
A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. He's being dramatic again. You stepped into the bedroom, reaching out to unzip the black bag. You froze completely when you peeked inside. “Oh my God.”
The dress hung against the wardrobe in rich plum silk, the color somewhere between a dark wine and crushed berries. It caught the afternoon light softly as though the fabric had been poured instead of sewn. Pure liquid. Luxurious without being heavy.
Soft draping fabric. Open shoulders. A flowing skirt that brushed just below your knees. Elegant enough that your stomach immediately flipped. Carefully arranged beneath it sat a pair of heels. And pinned to the garment bag itself was a folded note. Your heart sped up instantly and you picked it up with careful fingers.
Wear this for me tonight. And your hair like you did at dinner last week.
I'll be home at 8.
I love you.
— M
You stared at it for a long moment. Then smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. “Hairstyle request?” you muttered to the empty room. “The audacity.” A tiny chirp interrupted you from the bed and you turned before inhaling sharply.
Dilly sat proudly in the middle of the comforter wearing a perfectly tied plum ribbon around her neck. The exact same shade as the dress. Your eyes probably looked like saucers. “No.” The kitten blinked at you. Entirely innocent. You crossed the room immediately, scooping her into your arms. “Did dad make you fancy too?”
Dilly answered with an enthusiastic purr. “I know,” you said, scratching beneath her chin. “I think he's sweet too.”
The soft chime of the elevator echoed through the penthouse and your stomach fluttered immediately. You smoothed your hands once down the sides of the silk dress before making your way toward the entryway.
The elevator doors at the end of the long private hallway slid open and Matt stepped inside. Dark suit, white shirt, and the tie you’d bought him for Christmas. He was sporting a much shorter beard than you remember him having this morning, very obviously groomed at some point today. Your mouth curved automatically. His surprisingly didn’t, not immediately. He stopped just inside the apartment, completely still.
“Matt?” A slow breath left him and you blinked. He crossed the apartment without another word. One hand settled carefully at your waist and the other brushed lightly over your shoulder, before his fingertips skimmed the silk of your dress. Like he was making sure you were really standing there.
“You okay?” you asked quietly.
“Mhm.”
“You look like you’re thinking very hard.”
“I am.”
“About?”
His thumb drifted once across the fabric at your waist. “You.” Your heart gave one traitorous little squeeze. “That’s very smooth.”
“I’ve had some practice.”
You smiled. “So, how do I... feel?”
Matt let out the softest laugh. “You already know.”
“I wanna hear you say it.”
His hands settled a little more securely around your waist. “You feel beautiful.” The simplicity of it, even if coaxed out of him, somehow made your cheeks warm more than any elaborate compliment could have. You reached up automatically, smoothing the lapel of his jacket. “You clean up pretty well yourself." You studied him for another second. “…You trimmed your beard.” You smiled, reaching up to brush your thumb lightly across the silver threaded through his jaw. “I like it.”
His breath caught almost imperceptibly. Then he leaned down and kissed you. One hand still resting against your waist while the other settled gently beneath your jaw. There was nothing hurried about it. Nothing desperate. Just warmth.
When he finally pulled back, he stayed close enough that your foreheads almost touched. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. You watched curiously. “What’s that?”
Instead of answering, he unfolded a length of familiar black silk. Your eyes widened immediately and the corner of his mouth lifted. “I thought you might recognize it.”
“You cannot possibly be serious.” You stared at the fabric and then back at him. “The last time you blindfolded me, you shut down the Met.”
“I did.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “I cannot believe we’re doing this again.”
He stepped closer. “So?” You looked from the blindfold back to him. He wasn’t teasing anymore. Just waiting patiently, the same way he had last year, on the sidewalk outside your former apartment. “Trust me?”
Your answer came without hesitation. “Always.” For the briefest moment, something in his expression softened so completely it almost stole your breath. He lifted the silk carefully. “Hey- I spent way too long on my hair, just like you asked," you warned him.
“I know.”
“So if you ruin it…”
He laughed quietly, then tied the blindfold gently behind your head. Darkness settled around you and immediately, the rest of the world disappeared. There was only Matt’s hand in yours. The familiar cedar scent of his cologne. The warmth of him standing impossibly close.
Your other hand found the front of his suit jacket instinctively, clutching it briefly. His fingers laced more securely through yours. “Ready?” You smiled into the darkness. “Mhm, yeah.” He squeezed your hand once, then led you toward the elevator.
He guided you carefully from the apartment, never letting go of your hand. The elevator hummed quietly beneath your feet. A few moments later, warm summer air brushed across your skin and the familiar sounds of Manhattan wrapped around you immediately. Traffic somewhere nearby. A distant siren. Laughter drifting from a restaurant patio. The muted thud of bass from a passing car. Someone walking a dog.
Matt’s hand remained steady around yours as he opened the town car door. “Careful.” You ducked inside obediently. “This is very mysterious.”
He laughed quietly as the door shut behind you both Those first few minutes passed in comfortable silence. You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder, still blindfolded, listening to the rhythm of the city slipping past outside. Eventually curiosity won. “So… restaurant?”
“No.”
“Hm.” You thought for another second. “Broadway?”
“No.”
“A boat?”
Matt sounded genuinely offended. “Absolutely not.” You smiled. “You answered that awfully fast.”
“I’ve made my feelings about boats very clear, you know you'll never catch me voluntarily boarding one. Heightened senses and seasickness do not go together."
You laughed softly and decided to give up, he obviously wasn't going to tell you anything more. The car continued through the city for several more minutes before gradually slowing to a stop. Matt climbed out first before offering you his hand again. “Step down.” You carefully found the pavement beneath your heels. “Where are we?”
“You’ll see.” He began leading you forward again. Slowly. The sounds around you shifted with every step. Concrete beneath your heels became smooth stone and the noise of the city faded behind you once a door was opened for you. A gentle rush of warmer air brushed across your face and immediately felt different. The air. It wasn’t cooler. If anything it was warmer. Almost humid. Your brows knit together. “...Why does it feel tropical?”
He only squeezed your hand. The air also smelled different now. Green. Fresh. Earth after rain. Something floral. Just... alive. You inhaled again. "Flowers?”
“Mhm.”
Your heart skipped. Somewhere nearby water trickled softly. Not a fountain exactly. More like a gentle little stream. The sound echoed gently around the space, telling you the room had to be enormous. Your pace slowed instinctively. His thumb brushed once across the back of your hand. Birds. You could hear birds. Not city pigeons. Little chirps high overhead and leaves rustling somewhere above you. Above?
Your pulse began climbing. “Are we-”
“No questions.”
You smiled despite your impatient huff. He guided you another dozen steps before stopping completely. It was so peacefully quiet, the kind that existed in places built for people to simply exist. You became suddenly aware of your own heartbeat. Fast enough that you could hear the blood rushing in your ears.
Matt lifted both hands carefully toward the knot at the back of your head. His fingertips brushed lightly through your hair as he loosened the silk. His voice, when he finally spoke, was almost a whisper. “Okay, sweetheart.” A tiny pause. “You can look.”
The blindfold slipped away. Light flooded back all at once and you blinked a few times. Then you forgot how to breathe. “Oh…” Your eyes lifted instinctively. Glass. An enormous vaulted ceiling of glass stretched impossibly high overhead, catching the last golden light of evening while the glow of the moon began to appear beyond it. Everywhere beneath it, orchids. Thousands of them.
White orchids cascading from towering branches. Deep magenta blooms climbing elegant arches. Soft pink petals spilling from enormous arrangements. Delicate sprays of lavender flowers suspended like little clouds above winding stone paths. The entire conservatory glowed beneath hidden golden lights, every bloom illuminated so gently it looked almost painted.
Warm air wrapped around your bare shoulders. Water trickled quietly through a pool nearby. Somewhere farther inside, music drifted so softly you almost thought the room itself was just humming. It didn’t feel like New York anymore. It felt dreamlike, someone had folded summer into a building.
Your eyes wandered farther. And finally landed on the candlelit table waiting beneath an archway of orchids. You covered your mouth without thinking. “Matt.”
He was facing you when you turned. Waiting, almost holding his breath. You turned slowly in a circle, trying to take everything in at once. “This…” You laughed once in complete disbelief. “This can’t be real.” Your eyes found him again. “How did you even do this?”
Matt only smiled, one shoulder lifting in an almost sheepish shrug. You laughed, breathless, still turning slowly beneath the orchids. “Orchids are my favorite." He tilted his head and his smile softened. Matt’s answer came so naturally. “I know.”
Your smile faltered. Just for a second and warmth trickled through your chest. You reached for his hand without thinking. “Well,” You squeezed it once, "thank you.”
Matt’s thumb brushed across your knuckles. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.” He gestured toward the table waiting beneath the orchids. “Come on.”
Candles flickered between you, their reflections dancing across crystal glasses while soft jazz drifted lazily through the large conservatory.
The food arrived one course at a time. Fresh peaches. Honey whipped ricotta. Warm bread that Matt insisted on buttering for you. Handmade pasta that was bright with lemon and herbs. Everything tasted like summer. Everything smelled incredible and mixed with the scent of the flowers. You kept catching yourself looking around just to convince yourself it was real. “This is ridiculous.” Matt smiled over the rim of his wineglass. “You rented a botanical garden.”
“I rented one room.”
“Oh, excuse me.” You gestured broadly around you. “He only rented one room in the botanical garden.”
He chuckled, and conversation came easily. You told him about the studio earlier, and how your newest employee accidentally burnt an entire batch of lavender and gave Luis a heart attack.
Matt laughed. Asked questions and really listened. Every word out of your mouth still seemed endlessly interesting to him. Every now and then his hand found yours across the table. Sometimes your wrist. Sometimes your fingertips. Sometimes your knee beneath the linen tablecloth. You finally smiled. “You’re touchy tonight.”
“Hm?”
“You’ve held my hand through... like seventy two percent of dinner.”
"That's an oddly specific number." A tiny smile tugged at his mouth. “But yeah I suppose I have.”
By the time dessert arrived, the candles had burned almost halfway down. You’d spent more time talking than eating. The orchids around you glowed beneath hidden lights, filling the conservatory with shades of ivory, blush, and deep violet. You rested your chin lightly against your hand. “I think this might be the prettiest place you’ve ever taken me.”
Matt smiled. “I hoped you’d like it.”
“I love it.”
His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. You reached across the table, slipping your fingers around his. “Thank you.” His thumb immediately stroked across the back of your hand.
“You never have to thank me for loving you.”
His words settled quietly between you and your chest tightened. “…That’s a very unfair thing to say to me in a room full of flowers. You’re making it very difficult not to kiss you across this table.”
“I can think of worse problems.”
You giggled, and a brief silence settled comfortably between you. Matt traced slow circles against your skin. Then, so quietly you almost wondered if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud, “I love you... so much.”
Everything inside you softened, the words sounded almost involuntary. You smiled. “I love you too... you’re emotional tonight.” A quiet laugh escaped him and you added, “You gonna tell me why?”
Something shifted in his expression. His mouth opened. Closed again. Then he smiled, that small, warm smile that always made your chest ache. “…I’m just really happy.” You searched his face for another second, and you smiled back. “Well," you lifted your wineglass, "to really happy.”
Matt picked up his own. The crystal chimed softly between you. “To really happy.”
You took another sip of wine, smiling over the rim of the glass. The conservatory had grown quieter as late evening settled outside, the last traces of sunset long faded beyond the glass ceiling. Matt set his glass down first. He looked at you for a long moment. “Walk with me?”
You smiled immediately. “Yeah, course.”
He stood first, rounding the table before offering you his hand. You slipped your fingers into his automatically, letting him help you to your feet. He lingered for just a bit longer than necessary before he started leading you away from the candlelit table. The farther you wandered from dinner, the quieter everything became.
First you heard the faint clink of the dishes being cleared. Then the soft jazz faded behind you. Soon there was only the gentle trickle of water weaving through the conservatory and the quiet click of your heels against the winding stone path.
You found yourself slowing without even realizing it. “…This place is unbelievable.” You looked around again, still incapable of taking it all in. “You’ve completely ruined normal dates for the rest of my life.”
Matt chuckled beside you. “I was afraid of that.”
“No, seriously.” You laughed, looking over at him. “How am I supposed to enjoy dinner at some little Italian place after this?”
“I have faith in you.”
“I don’t."
His smile widened. and your shoulder bumped gently against his as the path curved around another enormous bed of orchids.
The farther you walked, the more the conservatory changed. Near the dining area everything had felt elegant and intentional. Now it felt almost wild. Long flowering vines spilled from towering branches overhead, white blossoms cascading toward the stone pathways while broad green leaves caught the moonlight filtering through the glass ceiling.
You stopped beside a cluster of orchids almost as tall as you were. “Oh…” Matt stopped beside you. “They’re beautiful.” You reached out carefully, brushing one fingertip along a smooth green leaf without disturbing the flowers. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“No?”
You shook your head. “I’ve seen orchids in planters. But not… this.” Your eyes wandered upward again and you smiled “I think I could stay here for hours.”
“I know... You’ve always liked quiet places.”
That made your chest warm. “I have, haven’t I?” You slipped your hand back into his. “I think… I think I forgot what quiet felt like.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” You laughed softly. “It just feels like," you gestured vaguely around the conservatory, “everything’s been so busy lately. I don’t think we've stopped moving in months. And then you did this… It’s like somebody pressed pause.”
Matt didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter. "We both needed that.” You smiled. “We did.”
For a little while neither of you said anything. You simply walked. Hand in hand listening to the water, breathing in warm air scented with earth and flowers. The path curved gently around a long reflecting pool, its surface so still it mirrored the orchids hanging overhead almost perfectly.
You slowed without thinking, eyes welling up a little. “Matt.”
He smiled beside you. “I was wondering how long it would take.” You laughed softly, turning another slow circle beneath the flowers. “It’s…” You shook your head. “I don’t even have words.” Matt tipped his face upward, taking a slow breath through his nose.
“They're blooming all at once I can smell it,” he murmured. “The water and fresh soil.” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And now you smell a little like the flowers too.” Warmth bloomed in your chest. “I think I love the way you see things.”
For just a second, he looked almost caught off guard. A faint flush climbed into his cheeks before he ducked his head with a quiet laugh.
Your hand remained tucked comfortably in his while you wandered slowly beside the water, stopping every few feet whenever another arrangement caught your attention. Eventually Matt cleared his throat. “Do you…” He stopped, and you glanced over at him.
“Hm?”
His thumb brushed once across the back of your hand. “Do you remember… what you said about the painting at the Met?” Your smile came immediately. “The Monet?”
“Mhm.”
You laughed softly. "Yes. Of course I remember.”
How could you ever forget? The quiet galleries. The way he’d somehow shut down an entire museum to let the two of you wander through it alone. The Monet lilies. Matt spoke again beside you. “You said something.” His voice faded again and you waited. “When we were standing in front of the water lilies.” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
You smiled sheepishly. “I talked your ear off. I remember telling you why I loved it.”
“You said…” He searched for the words. “You said it felt…” His sentence drifted away again. You watched him fondly for a moment before rescuing him. “Peaceful?”
He nodded once. “Yeah. And private.”
Another nod. “Like the rest of the world couldn’t quite reach it," you recalled. Your gaze drifted back toward the water. “I still think that’s true.” The reflection of the orchids barely rippled beneath the glass ceiling. “It feels like…” you searched for the feeling all over again, “like whoever painted it had found one tiny place where nothing bad could follow them.”
You smiled to yourself. “I think that’s when I realized I was in trouble.” Matt turned his head slightly. “What do you mean?”
You laughed under your breath. “I remember standing there thinking…” You shook your head at yourself. “Don’t do it.” A smile slowly spread across his face as you spoke. "Don’t fall in love with him." His expression softened so completely it made your chest ache. “And then I did anyway. Pretty spectacularly, actually.”
Matt let out a quiet breath through his nose, looking down at your joined hands. Then he spoke again. “When you said that painting felt…” His voice trailed off and he frowned ever so slightly. “…I thought…” Another pause. Then, after what felt like forever, he smiled again and gave the smallest shake of his head. “I-I don’t know, I forgot what I was going to say I'm sorry."
You looked up at him, amused. “You keep losing your train of thought tonight. That’s unlike you.”
“I know.”
A tiny giggle escaped you and you grinned, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Well, whatever it was…” You shrugged lightly. “It’ll come back to you.”
Matt smiled at that. “I hope so.” You smiled, giving his hand one last squeeze before turning your attention back toward the winding path ahead. “Come on,” you said lightly. “I want to see the rest of-”
You only made it a single step before your hand caught gently. You looked back over your shoulder to find that Matt hadn’t moved. He was still standing beside the reflecting pool, your fingers linked between you. “…Matt?”
He looked almost thoughtful and somewhere far away. You took a small step back toward him. “What is it?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His thumb brushed absently across your knuckles. “I had…” He let out the smallest breath. “I had something I wanted to say.”
You smiled. "Yes, I know. Did you remember?”
He laughed quietly at himself. “I’ve been trying to say it for about an hour.” That made you giggle. What is going on with him? You smiled, still holding his hand. “Well…” you tilted your head, studying him. “I’m officially curious now.”
“So am I.”
Your brows knit together. “What?”
Matt looked down with another quiet exhale, his thumb still moving absently across the back of your hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous.” He let out a slow breath. “I’ve been repeating what I wanted to say to myself all day.” You felt a tiny, inexplicable flutter low in your stomach. He laughed quietly under his breath, though there wasn’t much amusement in it. “And every time I hear your voice I forget everything."
Your pulse was loud enough you could hear it. Matt took one slow breath and closed his eyes for the briefest second. When they opened again he smiled, his bottom lip wobbling minutely. He let your hand slip from his, then took one careful step backward and reached slowly inside his suit jacket.
Your breath caught. No. Your heart slammed so hard it almost hurt. No, there was no way.
He turned his head up to face you again. The smallest shake of his head like he was laughing at himself. “I can’t remember a single word.” Your vision blurred instantly. Oh my God. Oh my God. “So…” he said softly. “I think I’m just going to tell you the truth instead.” And then he lowered himself onto one knee.
The world disappeared, everything blurring until there was only your Matthew. Looking up at you with tears already gathering in his eyes. Your own vision flooded so quickly you could barely make out his face.
His laugh came out shaky and he looked down for one brief second, collecting himself. When he looked back up again, his smile was small. Almost embarrassed.
“You were supposed to be temporary.”
The second the words left his mouth, he closed his eyes. “…Shit. I had a much better opening than that.” Your hand flew over your mouth and he shook his head at himself. “I told myself I wasn’t going to start there.” His voice caught. “But…” He looked back up at you. “…it’s true. You were supposed to be this…” he paused to release another shaky breath “...arrangement. This beautiful woman who was going to stay for a little while… and then leave.” Your tears spilled freely now.
Matt laughed once through the tears pooled in his own eyes. He looked down at the little velvet box in his hands, then back up at you. “I keep trying to find the right words.” Another quiet shake of his head. The conservatory was impossibly still, even the water seemed to hush around you.
“I don’t want temporary, I-I don't think I ever did.” His voice was quiet. Another tear slipped down his cheek. “I just…” His laugh broke again. “I want to wake up next to you when I'm eighty.” Matt's thumb brushed over the little velvet box. “You are the safest place I’ve ever known.” His tender and earnest words landed somewhere so deep inside you that breathing suddenly felt impossible. “I want every version of life that exists if you’re standing in it with me.” His voice had become almost impossibly soft.
Slowly, carefully, he opened the box. The diamond caught the warm conservatory lights, and tiny rubies glinted like scattered pomegranate seeds, nestled within the ornate filigree.
His unfocused eyes never left your chest. “Princess...” He took one shaky breath. “Would you let me spend the rest of my life with you?” The smallest smile trembled across his face.
Every feeling you’d ever had seemed to collide inside your chest at once. You couldn’t breathe or speak. You nodded. Once. Twice. The tears wouldn’t stop.
Matt stayed perfectly still and his brows knit together. “…Sweetheart?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I…” He laughed nervously, the sound almost apologetic. “I’m so fucking nervous I can’t tell.” Another tiny laugh escaped him, shaky with emotion. “Was that… was that a yes?”
A sob escaped you before you could stop it. “Yes-” Your voice cracked so badly it barely sounded like your own. "Yes, Matthew…” You huffed through another sob. “Of course it’s yes.”
The breath that left him sounded almost painful like he’d been holding it for hours instead of a couple seconds. His head dipped briefly, and when he looked back up he was crying openly.
A smile spread across his face so bright it almost didn’t look real. Your own laugh dissolved into another sob as you dropped to your knees in front of him, wrapping your arms around him before he could even think to stand. He caught you instantly, like he always did. The little velvet box was still clutched safely in one hand while the other wrapped around your back so tightly you wondered if he was afraid you might disappear.
He buried his face against your shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking completely, “so much.”
“So do I.” You pulled back just enough to cradle his face between your hands. “So much.” He leaned into your touch without thinking. Then, with a soft huff, he blinked.
“…I should probably put the ring on you.”
You laughed through another sob, holding out your shaking left hand without a word. Matt smiled so broadly it looked almost boyish. His own hands were trembling as badly as yours as he carefully slid the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly. Your fingers laced through his and he smiled so broadly, the kind of smile that only comes once in a lifetime. Finally, like he still couldn’t quite believe you’d said yes, he cupped your face and kissed you softly.
- FIVE YEARS LATER -
Morning sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains in soft bands of gold, warming the comforter where it had slipped down around your waist sometime during the night.
You stirred first not because of the light, but because someone was kissing your shoulder. Quite leisurely. A sleepy smile tugged at your mouth before your eyes had even opened. “Morning.”
A warm chuckle rumbled against your skin. “Morning, princess.”
Your eyes fluttered open just enough to find him only inches away. Matthew. A little more silver threaded through his hair now, a wash more at his temples. His beard was longer than it used to be, just rough enough that you always complained it scratched when he kissed your cheeks. You secretly loved it though and he knew that.
One elbow was propped beneath him as he looked down at you with that same expression he’d worn for years now. It always felt like he’d never gotten used to waking up beside you. You reached up automatically, your fingertips combing through the the side of his hair.
His hand found your waist beneath the blankets, warm and familiar, drawing lazy circles against your side. Then he kissed you properly. The kind of kiss that came after years together. Unhurried. Comfortable. You sighed happily into it, and when he pulled away, it was only far enough for his lips to brush your cheek. Then your jaw. Then slowly, your neck.
A breathy laugh escaped you. “Oh?”
“Mhm.”
“So that’s where this morning is headed?”
“I was hoping.” His mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear and you shivered immediately. “Matthew…”
“Hm?”
Your sentence dissolved into another sigh as his lips brushed lower. Warm and lingering. He kissed your neck once, twice, then smiled against your skin. “I miss you.”
You snorted. “We were literally asleep together.”
“I still miss you, we were both so busy yesterday."
“You're so clingy.”
“I'm aware and I’ve accepted that.”
“Hm, you should probably seek professional-”
He interrupted you with one tiny, playful bite against your neck. Just enough to make you gasp. “Matt!”
“What?” he chuckled, continuing to mouth at your neck.
“You better follow thro-”
He froze completely. The change was so sudden your brows furrowed with confusion. “Matt?” His head lifted slightly and tilted, obviously listening. A tiny smile spread slowly across his face. “They’re awake.” You groaned dramatically, tucking your forehead against his shoulder. “Already?”
“Mhm.”
“They were supposed to sleep until at least,” you squinted toward the clock, “eight.”
He laughed quietly, and then you could finally hear it. Tiny footsteps. Fast. Very fast. Pattering down the hallway, and you both looked toward the bedroom door at exactly the same moment. Matt’s grin widened and then the bedroom door flew open. Two little voices greeted you both in perfect, delighted unison.
"Mommy!"
“Daddy!"
Matt’s entire face transformed. You never gotten used to that. The Devil had long ago disappeared. But even the brilliant attorney disappeared briefly in this moment too, and all that remained was a father. Pure joy lighting up every inch of his face.
Two tiny bodies barreled toward the bed with absolutely no concern for you both. You barely had time to lift the blankets before they launched themselves onto the mattress. One crashed happily into your side and the other landed squarely across Matt’s chest with a dramatic little “Oof!”
The bed shook with his chuckles. “Easy there, buddy.”
“I jumped so high!”
“You did.”
The second little body wriggled over you and beneath your arm, immediately demanding what they both came here for. “Cuddle pile!”
“Cuddle pile!” the other echoed enthusiastically.
“Well,” Matt said gravely, wrapping one arm around both of them while reaching his free hand toward you, “I don’t believe we have much of a choice.” You giggled, sliding closer until all four of you were tangled together beneath the blankets.
Little arms and legs. Morning hair everywhere. Someone’s tiny foot was inexplicably in your ribs and one of them was giggling so hard you were worried if they could even breathe properly. Matt eventually found your hand beneath the comforter and his fingers laced through yours. He tilted his head, presumably taking in the beautiful chaos surrounding all of you before turning back to face you.
The corners of his mouth lifted into that soft, almost shy smile that still belonged only to you. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”
You looked around at the four of you tangled beneath the blankets. At the littles, already arguing over whose turn it was to be in the middle. At the man beside you who still made every impossible dream of yours wonderfully real. You squeezed his hand. “Happy anniversary, Matty.”
He smiled. Then he leaned over and pressed one last kiss against your forehead.
🌸 THE END 🌸
notes: i don't even know where to start. but i'm so incredibly grateful for the love that this series has received. Never in a million years would i have imagined this beast of a fic existing anywhere but in a locked folder on my notes app. i genuinely can't believe or conceptualize that anyone wants to read my amateur writing 🥹 i hope this was a satisfying conclusion for all of you, and a big thanks to those who've been there since the beginning, and all your lovely comments on each chapter.
i will definitely be posting more! i'm extremely motivated right now and have been getting quite a bit of NEW writing done.🤭 and of course we have some epilogue and flashback content for these two still! i have a pretty lengthy bonus chapter about their children in the works if that's something that you all are interested in seeing at all. originally i was going to conclude their story after their wedding, but this proposal really felt like a full circle moment and the perfect place to end. if you are interested in seeing their wedding that's certainly something that can be explored in a bonus chapter. let me know what you all wanna see! sorry for the ramble, feeling a lot of feelings here.
you all will definitely get to see their kiddos! those bonus scenes are already in the works♥️ as for the wedding i am still undecided but if there is enough demand for it i'll absolutely make it happen 🥰
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: Matt comforts you on your period.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 3.9k
There is never a moment in which I do not adore you.
- Marie Antoinette
You knew it was going to be a bad day by about 3am. Mostly because you woke up convinced someone had stabbed you.
A soft sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, your eyes squeezing shut as a particularly vicious cramp twisted through your lower abdomen. Jesus Christ. For one disorienting moment, you couldn't tell what the heavy weight pressing into you was. Then your brain slowly caught up.
Right, of course. Matt. Apparently your uterus had seen fit to remind you of its existence in the least dignified way possible. You remained perfectly still for a moment, breathing carefully through another cramp while trying not to wake the man sleeping behind you.
Matt was warm against your back, one arm draped heavily over your waist beneath the blankets. At some point during the night, you’d rolled around and onto his side of the bed, your head even on his pillow. He’d compensated by wrapping himself around you like a particularly handsome weighted blanket.
You shifted carefully, immediately regretting it, grunting uncomfortably into the darkness. Matt made a soft sound behind you, somewhere between a hum and a sigh, his hold tightening instinctively. “You okay?” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
You froze. Technically, no. But he’d had an impossibly long week, and there was something kind of silly about waking your old man at three in the morning just to announce that your reproductive system had declared war. “Mhm,” you lied quietly. “Go back to sleep.”
Matt was silent for a moment. Then, still very much half asleep, he pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “You’re... terrible liar.” The warmth of his breath against your skin made something in your chest ache.
“I’m fine.”
“Mm.” Clearly unconvinced. His breathing remained slow and steady against your back as another cramp rolled through you. Whoever designed the female body had some serious explaining to do. There was another moment of silence before Matt’s hand slid beneath the oversized t shirt you’d stolen from him, settling over your stomach.
Warm. Heavy. Comforting. “Better?” he mumbled. You could’ve cried. “Yeah.”
“Mm...” A pause. “Need anything?” The question was slurred with exhaustion.
“No.”
“...Heating pad?”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“So?”
You smiled despite yourself. “You have work tomorrow, go to sleep." He sighed dramatically into your shoulder. “Y'very... difficult to take care of.”
You giggled softly at that. Matt’s arm tightened around your waist once more before his breathing slowly began to deepen again, sleep reclaiming him almost immediately. Unfair. Some people could apparently fall asleep any moment.
You remained awake for another twenty minutes, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing and mentally drafting a strongly worded letter to your uterus. Eventually, exhaustion won.
By morning, things had somehow gotten worse. Your head hurt. Your back hurt. Your stomach hurt. And, perhaps most offensively of all, the scale in the bathroom informed you that you’d somehow gained six pounds overnight. You stared at it in betrayal.
“No.”
The scale remained unmoved by your suffering. Dilly, who had followed you into the bathroom for reasons known only to herself, offered no opinion on the matter. “You don’t understand,” you informed her. “I’ve retained about half your body weight in water.” She blinked. “Exactly."
By the time you shuffled into the kitchen thirty minutes later, Matt was already dressed for work. Of course he was. The man woke up looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread. Crisp dress shirt. Tie hanging loose around his neck while he made coffee. Rude.
You leaned heavily against the kitchen island and watched him for a moment. He was in an unusually good mood. His movements lighter. There had been a lot of that lately. Small smiles when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Quiet moments where he’d simply pull you into his lap for no discernible reason. Looking at you like he’d won something.
Matt paused for a moment in the middle of pouring coffee. He set the pot down and turned toward you then, coffee in hand, his expression softening almost immediately. “There she is. My grumpy girl.”
“I am not grumpy.”
“Princess, you’ve spent the last ten minutes arguing with a scale.”
“You heard that?” You crossed your arms over your chest, cheeks warming. “Well... For the record, I still maintain that six pounds overnight is completely ridiculous.”
“It’s water weight.”
“I know that. I don’t care.”
Matt’s smile softened further, almost amused and endeared at your attitude this morning. There was that look again. “What is that?” you asked immediately.
“What's what?”
“That.”
“Very descriptive, thank you sweetheart.”
“You keep looking at me weird.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Weird?”
“Fondly.”
“I’ve been looking at you fondly for almost a year.”
“More fondly.”
“Is that measurable?”
“Stop answering my questions with questions," you huffed.
“I’ll consider it.” He crossed the kitchen then, setting his coffee down before gently taking your face between his hands. “You really don’t feel good, huh?"
“Mm.”
Matt stifled a laugh before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Take it easy today, princess. I’ll text you later,” he said softly, reaching for his coat. “and if you start feeling worse, call me. That's not a suggestion by the way.”
You rolled your eyes. "Yes, sir.”
Matt cleared his throat, suddenly looking very interested in finding his glasses. “What did I tell you about calling me that?" You grinned despite yourself as he crossed back over to steal one last kiss. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I can certainly try.”
And with that, he disappeared out the front door, still wearing that strange little smile you’d been trying to figure out for the better part of three weeks. You watched the elevator doors slide shut. You immediately began to make your way to the couch when another cramp hit. “Ow- fuck me.” you plopped onto the cushion with a pained groan.
Dilly meowed sympathetically just as your phone chimed with a text. “Thank you,” you told her while reaching for it. “At least there is one other lady in this house who can understand my suffering.”
Matt♥️: That can certainly be arranged when I get home.
You stared at your phone in complete disbelief. Then, because he had quite literally just left less than thirty seconds ago, you simply opened your mouth and yelled, “Are you sexting me before nine in the morning?!” Your phone buzzed almost immediately.
Matt♥️: You started it.
“I absolutely did not!”
Another buzz.
Matt♥️: You said and I quote fuck me.
“THAT WAS A COMPLAINT.”
Matt ♥️: It sounded like a request.
You narrowed your eyes at your phone. “I hate him,” you informed Dilly. She blinked slowly. “You’re right. That’s not true.” Another cramp promptly doubled you over. “Ow- okay, maybe I hate him and everyone a little today.” Your phone buzzed one final time.
Matt♥️: I love you too sweetheart.
You spent the next several hours trying your very best to be a contributing member of the family. It went about as well as expected. By ten you’d answered at most six emails and approved two wholesale invoices.
Your heating pad had become a permanent accessory at this point, wrapped around your waist beneath one of Matt’s sweatshirts while you sat curled into the corner of the couch with your laptop balanced precariously across your knees.
Dilly had claimed the remaining half of the couch as her own. “This is discrimination,” you informed her while replying to an email from a supplier. “If men had periods, there’d be government funded recovery centers.”
A few minutes later you took a call. "...we’d be happy to discuss a larger wholesale order for the blackberry lavender syrup...." Another wave of cramps hit and you muted yourself immediately, groaning in pain.
By 1pm, you’d somehow agreed to a meeting next Tuesday with a bar interested in carrying your syrups, answered three more customer emails, and consumed enough peppermint tea that you knew the sharp minty smell would linger in the house for Matt and his sensitive nose the rest of the week.
Your migraine, meanwhile, had settled firmly behind your left eye. You realized you’d spent the last four minutes rereading the same email without retaining a single word of it. You slowly closed your laptop. A nap. Just twenty minutes, that's all you'd need.
The bedroom was cool and dim when you finally crawled back into bed, curtains still drawn closed. You held the covers open for Dilly, who immediately settled herself against the heating pad on your stomach with the self importance of someone fulfilling a critical medical role. “Thank you, baby.” She purred.
You pulled the blankets up to your chin and closed your eyes. Just twenty minutes.
The first thing you noticed when you woke up was that the room was darker.
The second thing you noticed was that your heating pad had long since gone cold and was somewhere out of reach beneath the blankets. The third thing you noticed was that Dilly was no longer asleep beside you. You frowned. That seemed… concerning. Slowly, you reached for your phone on the nightstand.
5:47 PM.
You stared at the screen. “…Excuse me?” You had somehow slept through the entire afternoon. Matt would probably be home soon. You pushed yourself upright with a groan, everything still hurt. Wonderful. But something else felt… off. Warm and damp. You frowned and shifted slightly beneath the blankets. Oh. No, no, no.
Very slowly, you pulled back the comforter. The dark stain against the pale blue silk sheets stared back at you in silent condemnation. Not just any sheets.
No. These were the sheets. The extra set of those ridiculously expensive silk sheets Matt preferred. He had bought these three months ago because you’d casually mentioned liking the color of them while scrolling through home decor online.
“They’re pretty, Matty. Blue like a Monet pond.”
“Mm.”
Three days later, they’d appeared on the bed.
You sat there in complete horror. “No-” You launched yourself out of bed with significantly more energy than you’d possessed all day. “Oh my God.” Panic. Immediate and all consuming panic as you stripped the comforter back with frantic movements. Could silk be bleached? Was that a thing? You gathered the fitted sheet into your arms, staring at it in despair. Matt loved these sheets.
Correction. Matt loved that you loved these sheets. Which made you feel even worse. You were halfway through contemplating whether it was possible to throw these sheets out before Matt got home when the elevator dinged.
“Sweetheart?”
Your eyes widened. Fuck. Even if you threw the sheets in the hamper with hopes Matt wouldn't pick up on the smell of blood, your own clothes were completely bloodied too.
"Princess?"
“Don't come in here!”
Silence. Then, immediately sounding more concerned, “Are you hurt?”
“No...”
You heard him set something down in the entryway and you tightened your grip on the offending sheet. Then you heard the unmistakable sound of his footsteps moving farther into the penthouse. The footsteps stopped in the bedroom doorway. For one long, awful second, neither of you said anything. You couldn’t make yourself look at him. The fitted sheet was still clutched against your chest, your knuckles white around the silk.
Matt didn’t move immediately. You knew he didn’t need to. His senses had already done the work for him. The uneven hitch in your breathing. The tears you’d been trying to blink away. The metallic scent lingering in the room. “Oh, sweetheart.”
His voice was so gentle that your eyes immediately filled again. “I ruined the sheets.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” You held the fitted sheet tighter against your chest like somehow that might undo the damage. “They’re ruined.” Matt crossed the room without any urgency whatsoever. He was quite unflappable considering there was a crime scene currently balled up in your hands. By the time he stopped in front of you, his attention was still entirely on you.
“Princess.”
Your chin wobbled. “I got blood all over our sheets. The blue ones. You bought them because I liked them.” A tear slipped free despite your best efforts. “And I slept all afternoon. I’ve literally accomplished nothing today.”
Matt’s expression softened even further. He reached up slowly, brushing a tear away with the pad of his thumb. “You’ve been in pain since three this morning.” His voice stayed impossibly calm.
“I slept for four hours.”
“Then your body needed four hours.”
“I shouldn’t have.”
Matt finally frowned. “Why?”
“I just…” You looked down at the sheet again. “I feel lazy.”
He didn't look annoyed, instead genuinely sad you’d even thought that. “You got through a miserable day. I’d call that productive.” Your throat tightened all over again. He reached for the sheet and instinctively you pulled it away. “No.”
His eyebrows lifted. “No?”
“I’m not letting you touch it.”
He waited. “Why?” Your face immediately burned. “Because... It’s,” You gestured helplessly at the sheet. “it’s gross.” Matt was quiet for exactly one second. Then when he spoke it was warm and amused. “I have bled on my sheets more times than you ever will.”
You stared at him. “That is not comforting." A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “My point is that the bed has survived significantly worse.”
“But this is…” You looked away again. “It’s different.”
Understanding settled over his expression almost immediately. “This is because it’s period blood.” You groaned and he reached up again, gently tipping your chin back toward him. “There is nothing embarrassing about this.”
Another tear escaped. “Oh, angel…” The endearment came out almost like an exhale. He always hated seeing you cry. You’d learned that months ago. It wasn’t even that he needed to fix every emotion you had, but every single tear seemed to land somewhere directly behind his ribs. “You’ve been hurting all day and you're hormonal.”
You let out a miserable little laugh. “When you say it like that…”
“It sounds exactly as fixable as it is.”
He tried reaching for the sheet again and this time you let him. The second he took it from your hands, another realization hit you. “…Oh my God.”
Matt paused. “What?”
“The sweater.” He tilted his head. "The one I’m wearing.” Your voice climbed another octave. “I got blood on your sweatshirt too.”
Then you looked down at the faint stains near the hem. Fresh tears immediately spilled over. “I’m so sorry.” Matt actually looked alarmed now because you were crying harder. “I’m ruining everything.”
“You are absolutely not.”
“What if it doesn’t come out?”
“I’ll buy another sweatshirt.”
“But this is your Columbia one.”
“The one you keep stealing?” You nodded miserably. He couldn’t help smiling. “Then I suppose you’ll just have to steal the t shirt too.” You laughed a little despite yourself and he smiled a little wider at the sound. You sniffled and he was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. Then he gathered both the sheet and your hands in one practiced movement. “Here’s what’s going to happen.” You looked up. “You’re going to take a hot shower.” You opened your mouth. “No arguments," he continued smoothly, “I’m going to strip the bed meanwhile.”
“Matt-”
“I’m gonna start the laundry.”
“You don’t have to-”
“And then…” His thumb rubbed slow circles across your knuckles. “I’m gonna take care of my sweet girl, and make sure she stops apologizing for having a body.”
Your eyes immediately stung again. A tiny smile tugged at his mouth. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, then rested his forehead against yours. “And for the record…”
“Hm?”
“I am not remotely bothered by your blood.”
Your eyes narrowed as you pulled away. “…What is that supposed to mean.”
A slow, amused smile appeared. “I’m not opposed to your blood, sweetheart. At all." Your entire face burst into flames. “You’ve officially become weird.” His smile widened, but he didn't elaborate. “Now.” He nudged you gently toward the bathroom. “Shower.”
You took two reluctant steps before glancing back over your shoulder. “…You’re sure?”
Matt didn’t hesitate. “Sweetheart.” His voice was quiet and certain. “If the woman I love is hurting enough to sleep for four hours in the middle of the day, the absolute least I can do is wash the sheets.”
You stared at him for another heartbeat and then crossed the room and threw your arms around him without another word. He caught you immediately. Holding you close for a long moment, one hand rubbing slowly up and down your back while the other rested against the back of your head. “You’ve got me,” he murmured into your hair.
“I know.”
“And I’ve got the sheets.” A tiny laugh escaped you.“Now go get warm.”
This time, you listened. You stayed in the shower longer than you meant to, letting the hot water soothe the worst of the cramps until your fingers pruned. When you finally stepped out, you found one of Matt’s softest t shirts, a pad, and a fresh pair of underwear already waiting on the large counter. You smiled and got dressed.
The bedroom was dim when you padded out, but it was no longer the scene of a crime. The bed had been stripped and remade with clean, crisp sheets-the regular dark gray silk ones this time-and the comforter was already turned down on your side. A heating pad sat in the middle of the bed like a throne, and on the nightstand was a tall glass of ice water with a straw. And then there was Matt.
He’d already changed out of his work clothes. Shirtless, in just a pair of low slung grey sweatpants, and he was standing at the foot of the bed like he’d been waiting for you. The sight of him made something in your chest ache in a completely different way.
“Hi,” you said quietly.
“Hi, sweetheart.” His voice was warm. “Come here.”
You crossed the room without argument, and he immediately pulled you into his arms. The second your cheek met his bare chest, you sighed. He was so warm. Like a living, breathing heating pad. You pressed closer on instinct, and he chuckled softly, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “Cold?” he asked, even though it was the middle of summer.
“My feet are freezing,” you mumbled into his skin.
Matt didn’t even hesitate. He steered you toward the edge of the bed, helped you sit, then disappeared into the closet for a moment. You didn’t see the way he paused at his own drawer first, pulling it open just enough to let his fingers brush over the small velvet box tucked at the bottom as of today. His thumb lingered on the edge of it for half a second. A soft, secret smile flickered across his face before he closed the drawer again and grabbed your socks.
When he came back, he was holding your favorite fluffy socks, the obnoxiously thick ones with little devils on them. You'd never told him that's what was on them, though.
You watched, a little stunned, as he knelt in front of you without a word. He took your right foot first, sliding the sock on with careful fingers, then the left. He smoothed the fabric up over your ankles and gave each foot a gentle squeeze. “Better?” he asked, looking up at you. Your throat felt tight. “Yeah. Thank you.” Matt rose and kissed your forehead, then nodded toward the bed. “Get in. Food’ll be here in twenty.”
You climbed under the covers while he adjusted the heating pad so it rested perfectly over your lower stomach. He walked around to his side and climbed in after you, immediately pulling you against him so your back was to his chest, one of his arms draped over your waist. His skin was warm everywhere it touched you. You let out a long, shaky breath. “This is nice.”
“Good.” He pressed a kiss behind your ear. “I ordered from our dumpling spot. Extra chili oil on the side.”
You made a small, grateful sound and burrowed back against him. His free hand found yours under the blankets, lacing your fingers together. “Matt?”
“Hm?”
“You’re kind of the best.”
He smiled against your shoulder. “Only kind of?”
“Don’t push it. I’m still hormonal.”
His quiet laugh rumbled through your back. “Noted.”
You closed your eyes, letting the steady thump of his heartbeat and the warmth of his body sink into you. The worst of the day finally felt like it was loosening its grip. Matt’s hand rested on your stomach, just above the heating pad, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles. “You still in pain?” he asked quietly.
“Comes and goes,” you murmured. “Right now it’s… tolerable. Especially with my personal furnace holding me.”
He chuckled again, the sound vibrating against your spine. You let the silence settle for a few minutes, broken only by the occasional soft hum he made when a cramp rolled through you. His fingers stayed gentle, patient. “You know,” he said after a while, voice deceptively casual, “I do have a solution for the cramps.”
You hummed, already almost half asleep from his warmth. “Is it more peppermint tea? Because I think I’m ninety percent mint at this point.”
“Better.” His hand slid a fraction lower, over the heating pad now, warm palm pressing just enough to make you notice. “Orgasms. Very effective. I’d be happy to volunteer my services.” You snorted, but a tiny spark of interest flickered through the ache. “Of course you would.”
“Scientifically proven,” he added, sounding far too pleased with himself. “And if that doesn’t appeal, there’s always the more permanent option.” You cracked one eye open. “Permanent?”
“Mm.” He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. “I could just knock you up. No periods for a while. Problem solved.”
Your hand flew back without hesitation, smacking his thigh hard enough to make him grunt. “Matthew Murdock!”
He laughed, catching your wrist before you could swat him again and rethreading your fingers through his. “What? I’m just offering solutions.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” His tone stayed light, but there was something warmer underneath it now, something that made your stomach flip despite the cramps. His hand drifted lower again, this time sliding under the hem of your shirt to rest against bare skin. Slow, idle strokes. Testing. “I could make you feel good right now, sweetheart. If you wanted.”
You shivered, leaning back into him even as another faint cramp tightened low in your belly. His fingers traced higher, brushing the underside of your breast in a way that felt deliberate. You sighed and he responded with a pleased hum.
“Matt-”
The buzzer from the front desk for the elevator cut through the moment. Dumplings. He sighed dramatically against your shoulder. “Saved by the food.” You giggled, breathless. “Go get it before I change my mind about letting you near me again.”
He kissed the top of your head, then untangled himself with obvious reluctance. You watched him stand, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, and couldn’t help the appreciative glance as he padded out toward the elevator. He threw a smirk over his shoulder like he knew exactly what you were doing. “Be right back, princess. Try not to miss me too much.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed on your face as he disappeared. The worst of the day didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.
notes: he's such a flirt oh my God. and Matt... you gotta hurry up old man, there's only one chapter left... 💍
｡𖦹°‧➵ Hot. Tall. Blond. Australian. All words that describe your ex. Unfortunately, incredibly stupid fits him too. When he lands himself in the ER, gossip spreads fast, and every coworker has a joke to tell. All of them, expect for Robby.
｡𖦹°‧➵ warning/tags: smut, minors dni, porn with plot, fingering, pussy eating, handjob, car sex, unprotected piv, semi-public sex, cumshot, f!residentreader, jealous!robby, Aussies, I’m sorry for the stereotypes, I swear I love you all, this is just humor
Working in the pitt had prepared you for many things. Multiple vehicular crushes, shootings, mass casualties that turned minutes into hours. But no matter how much you’d learned, how much training or experience you’d gained, nothing would’ve prepared you for this.
You were halfway through your 12-hour shift in the ED, charting at the nurses’ station, when McKay approached you.
“Hey,” she said. “Bay four. Twenty-eight-year-old male, fever, abdominal pain, nausea for three days. Australian tourist, no insurance card on file yet. You mind taking that up?”
You nodded automatically, and even if you were behind with your charting, work was work, and when a senior resident asked you to take up a case, you couldn’t refuse, no matter how boring abdominal pain and nausea might be. You glanced at the name on the intake sheet Cassie slid across the counter.
Callum fucking Hayes.
That stupid name made your stomach drop, a nauseating pull just beneath your ribs, and suddenly your day got ten times worse. Of course it was him. Of course the universe, with its sick sense of timing, decided that today, of all days, your ex, the one you dated for eighteen disastrous months in med school, walked into your ER.
Callum. The one who showed up in the States on a “gap year” that never ended. The one who could make you laugh until your sides hurt and then, minutes later, make you want to scream because he once asked if the moon landing was filmed in Australia. Hot didn’t even cover it, the man looked like he’d been made for sunscreen ads. But dumb? God, yes. The kind of dumb that was endearing at first, until it wasn’t.
You swallowed hard and stared down at the intake board like it might save you.
“Actually,” you said carefully, “I’m a little behind with my charting.” You tried to fake an innocent smile, the kind that suggested there was absolutely no ulterior motive here. “It’s just abdominal pain… can’t Whitaker just take this one?”
McKay arched a brow with suspicion for half a second before it hardened into impatience. “Charting can wait. Patients can’t. Come on.”
Your pulse ticked faster. “Please, can’t you give this to someone else? Just this onc—” You tred again, but Cassie’s no-nonsense expression shut you down instantly. You knew that look. This conversation is already over.
“What’s going on here?” Robby’s voice cut in as he approached, and your heart sank further. He took the intake sheet straight from your hand, adjusting his reading glasses as he scanned the page.
“Fever. Abdominal pain. Nausea,” he murmured to himself. Then, to you. “Let’s go. We’re on it.”
He placed a guiding palm at the small of your back, just a professional gesture. “Javadi, Kwon,” he added without looking up, already moving. “You’re in too.”
And just like that, there was no escape. You took a slow breath, forcing your expression into something neutral, professional, and headed toward bay four. Amazing, as if having your ex here wasn’t bad enough, now apparently half the ER was going to know him too. Your hot, and stupid, stupid, ex. And worse than that, Robby, the one person you’d been crushing on ever since you started working here, was about to find out that this was the kind of man you used to date.
You already knew you had absolutely zero chances with Robby. He was a grown man. Someone solid, someone who had lived a full life already, who had years of experience. And you? Barely a second-year resident. Fresh into life, still figuring things out, still stumbling your way through adulthood like most people your age did. Hell, your frontal lobe had only just fully developed, and some days you were painfully aware of it.
To him, you were probably a kid. Nothing more than another resident rotating through his service. Another eager, and occasionally annoying trainee he had to teach and supervise. Someone he gave advice to, not someone he looked at. Not enough of a woman to even earn a second glance.
And now Callum was here, about to overshare and drag your past out into the open like it was something charming instead of embarrassing. He was going to make you look even more immature than Robby already thought you were. He was going to make you look just as dumb as he was.
You could almost see it forming in Robby’s mind, the disappointed conclusion. Oh, so this is the kind of man she goes for. Like that was your type: Young, and careless, and stupid.
And just like that, whatever microscopic, imaginary chance you’d ever had with him went straight down the toilet. Flushed away completely. As if you’d had any chances to begin with.
Callum was sitting on the gurney in a paper gown that was far too small for his shoulders, stretched tight across a body that had no business looking that good in hospital lighting. His blond hair was messy in the same careless way you remembered, and his tan was somehow still perfect even though it was January. Those ridiculous blue eyes lit up the second he saw you.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hayes,” Robby said smoothly. “I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Dr. Robby. These people here are Dr.—”
“Babe!” The word hit you like a slap. Callum’s stupid Sydney drawl rang out loud and clear. “Nauur way. You’re here?”
Robby narrowed his eyes in confusion. Why was this man calling him babe? Then, a second later, it clicked. He wasn’t talking to him. He was talking to you, who were now staring intensely at the floor, half-hidden behind Robby’s shoulder like that might somehow make you invisible.
Robby stepped aside, his attention snapping to you.
“Chook!” Callum grinned wider, completely undeterred. “Look at you, dressed like that. You look all professional now.” He let out a soft laugh, roaming his eyes over your figure shamelessly. “I think I just died in that waitin’ room and now I’m in heaven seein’ an angel.”
Robby blinked once, clearly perplexed, then slowly turned his head to look at you, arching his brows in silent question.
You couldn’t look at him. You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole. The embarrassment burned under your skin. You knew Callum had issues when it came to keeping his mouth shut, and it wouldn’t take much before he started sharing deeply embarrassing details about your relationship, or worse, making comments that would only highlight to everyone in the room just how stupid he could be.
“I’m sorry,” Javadi asked, her eyes widening as she looked between the two of you, clearly struggling to reconcile what she was seeing with what she was hearing, “do you two know each other?”
“That’s my chookie over there,” Callum said, tipping his chin in your direction like he was introducing a prized possession.
You cleared your throat at the exact same time Robby cleared his.
“Well, she was,” Callum went on, rolling a shoulder, unbothered. “Long story. Babe, they take years to let you in here. If I’d known you worked here, I would’ve told them.” He laughed softly at his own joke. “Sure they’d have given me a VIP pass.”
Joy pressed her lips together, fighting a grin, flicking her eyes between you and Callum like she was watching live entertainment.
Robby didn’t smile, not even a flicker. “Mr. Hayes,” he said evenly, “what brings you in today?”
“Mate, think I ate somethin’ crook last night,” Callum replied, wincing theatrically as he shifted on the gurney. “Hurts bad. Almost tripped off my surfboard this mornin’.” He turned his head toward you, looking with those bright eyes and that infuriating sparkle. “And you know I never trip, babe.”
“Mr. Hayes,” Javadi chirped again, and you shot her a look, the kind that said we are absolutely having a conversation about this later. “What brings you to Pittsburgh, if it’s not too much to ask? It’s not exactly known for being a… prime surfing location.”
“Oh, you knooour,” Callum shrugged, completely at ease, like he hadn’t just detonated a social bomb in the middle of the ER. “I was tourin’ with the boys. Thought I’d look for her while I was stateside.” He pointed at you, grinning wider now. “Lucky me, yeah?”
Your ears rang, and your skin felt too tight. You wanted to crawl under the gurney and die. You didn’t want to touch him. You didn’t want to examine him. You didn’t want to deal with the memories clawing their way up your spine, the late nights on the beach, his hands on your waist. The way he’d forget your birthday and then show up last minute with a rock he picked up from the sand, as he told you a part of his soul had reincarnated into that stone and that he was gifting it to you so you’d look after it forever.
You remembered standing there, exhausted, holding that stupid rock and wondering how you’d ever fallen for him.
Robby cleared his throat. “Mr. Hayes,” he said with authority. “On a scale of one to ten, where’s the pain right now?”
Callum paused, furrowing his brows as if the question required genuine contemplation, staring up at the ceiling like he was searching for the answer written there.
“Solid eight, mate,” he finally said. “Feels like a shark bit me insides.”
Robby nodded once, already moving on, already reclaiming control of the room. You heard Joy muttering, “Jesus,” under her breath. “I wanna put him and Ogilvie in a room and watch them. Like animals in a zoo.”
You moved automatically, finding his wrist as you checked his pulse while Robby took his temperature. 102.1. Not great. His blood pressure was a little high too. When you moved on to palpation, pressing gently but deliberately over McBurney’s point, he hissed sharply.
“Oi, easy there, doc,” he complained, sucking in a breath. “She’s always been a little rough. Should’ve seen her, she was like a wild kangaroo when she got mad.”
Callum offered them a smile, bright and unapologetic, but no one smiled back.Instead, the room filled with that awkward silence where everyone suddenly became very interested in the floor, the monitors, the curtains, anywhere but him.
He had all the classic signs of appendicitis. Every single one. You straightened, already mentally ordering labs. “We’ll need bloodwork,” you said. “Ultrasound. Maybe a CT if it’s unclear.”
He grinned through the pain, like he couldn’t help himself. “You’re sexy when you’re all serious like that. Remember that time in—”
“No.” You cut him off sharply. “We’re not doing that here.”
For the first time, he looked almost surprised. Then, the curtain suddenly rustled, and Dana poked her head in. Her eyes widened comically the second she took him in, flicking his gaze from him to you and back again. “I’ve heard there’s an ex in here.”
Of course. Apparently, rumors in this ER spread faster than the flu.
“I’m the ex,” Callum muttered proudly. “And that’s my little possum over there.” He tilted his head toward you. “Aw, babe, don’t hide behind that file.”
Dana bit her lip hard, her small shoulders shaking as she tried not to laugh. “Perlah!” she called over her shoulder. “Bring Princess over here. You have to see this.”
Within minutes, it was a full-blown circus.
Princess sauntered in with the portable ultrasound, took one look at Callum, and let out a low whistle. “Girl,” she said, dragging the word out, “you dated this? Your standards were sky-high and rock-bottom at the same time.”
You shot her a glare sharp enough to draw blood, briefly debating whether to remind her about the ugly guy from Tinder she’d fucked in the backseat of his car at an In-N-Out drive-through parking lot. Instead, you exhaled slowly. “Can we focus?”
Of course not. Princess gelled the probe and started the ultrasound, narrating like she was hosting a nature documentary. “Look at that. Abs for days.”
Perlah hummed thoughtfully. “Shame about the brain, though.”
Callum blinked. “What’s wrong with my brain?” His eyes widened, suddenly alarmed as he looked around at the growing audience of doctors and nurses crowding the bay. “Babe, is there somethin’ wrong with my brain? Oh, mate… I knew I should’ve come in when I hit my head with that rock while snorkelin’.”
Joy groaned softly. Robby didn’t react outwardly, but you could feel his presence beside you, like his professionalism that was the only thing keeping this from tipping completely off the rails.
Dana looked over at Robby, offering him one of those accomplice smiles, the kind that came from years of working together in the ED. But Robby wasn’t even looking at her, he was too busy trying to distract himself, fixing his eyes on the tablet in his hands. His jaw was set, his shoulders rigid, and his attention anywhere but on the conversation unfolding around him.
“Nothing a few more years of evolution couldn’t fix,” Dana said sweetly.
Robby snorted so hard he nearly dropped the tablet in his hand. The sound echoed in the bay, and for half a second everyone froze, stunned that it had come from him. Robby coughed once, straightening immediately, as he reined himself back in.
You knew this was only the beginning, that the jokes, the side comments, the knowing looks would stretch on for at least a week. This ED never forgot anything, and this… this was prime material.
Robby turned his attention back to the screen, as he reviewed the ultrasound images. He asked Callum a few pointed questions, about pain migration, nausea, last bowel movement. Callum answered with surprising accuracy for once, probably because Robby’s stare right now looked like it could freeze lava.
“Looks like appendicitis,” Robby confirmed finally, tapping the screen once. “We’ll get you up to surgery soon. Our charge nurse will handle the admission.”
“Aye? Apendicitis?” Callum frowned deeply, knitting his brows together as if the word itself had personally offended him. “Babe, what’s that? What’s wrong with me?”
So many things, you thought. Luckily, Robby answered before you could.
“Your appendix is inflamed, Mr. Hayes. We’re going to remove it surgically. It’s minimally invasive, so you have nothing to worry about.”
“Appendix?” Callum repeated slowly. “Isn’t that somethin’ from a book?”
There was a beat of silence.
“An appendix can be something that contains supplementary material that supports the text in a book,” Javadi said brightly, clearly enjoying herself now. “Or it can be a sac attached to and opening into the lower end of the large intestine. In your case.” She smiled at him like a kindergarten teacher explaining colors.
Callum stared at her blankly. “And you lot are sure I need surgery?” he asked after a moment. “Like—cut me open?” He shook his head immediately. “Naur. Can’t you just give me some heavy antibiotics or somethin’? I’ve got a shoot next week.”
“A shoot?” Robby asked, the word slipping out before he could stop himself.
“Yeah, mate,” Callum said, suddenly animated again. “Fitness modelin’ gig in Miami.” He gestured vaguely to his torso. “Can’t have a scar wreckin’ the aesthetic, ya know?”
“If we don’t treat it, your appendix can rupture,” Robby explained, like he was speaking to a particularly slow child. “That can cause peritonitis. The bacteria would spread throughout the abdominal cavity. It can lead to sepsis.” He paused, just long enough to let that information land. “And death.”
Callum shrugged, entirely unimpressed, and turned his head toward you. “As long as you’re holdin’ the knife, babes, I’m not worried.”
“I’m not a surgeon, Callum.”
His face fell instantly, full of confusion and disappointment. “You’re not operatin’, darl?”
“No,” you said, keeping your voice steady. “The general surgery attending will. I work here in the ER.”
“Shoot. That would’ve been mint.” He reached for your hand. You pulled away before he could touch you, pretending to jot annotations in the file, your pen scratching just a little harder than necessary. “You’ll take care of me, yeah?” he pressed. “Hold my hand and everythin’.”
“I’ll do my job,” you said flatly.
“Missed you, you know.” His voice softened. “You look hot in scrubs. Always told you blue was your color. You’re like the ocean, babes, the only place where I belong.”
Your patience snapped quickly. “Callum,” you said firmly, finally looking at him. “We broke up for a reason. I’m in my workplace now, so I’m asking you to keep it professional. Call me Doctor. Not babe. Not possum. Not chookie.”
“We might be over,” he said unfazed, “but I’ve grown.” He grinned like he was proud of himself. “I even know what an appendix is now.”
He clearly thought that was a mic drop. If the ER had been even a little quieter, you might’ve been able to hear Robby’s jaw ticking.
“Doctor,” Robby said sharply, turning toward you. “Go page Dr. García. I’ll make sure our…” He scanned the room, his eyes landing briefly on the assembled onlookers. “…crowd starts with the pre-op.”
You nodded immediately, silently thanking him with your eyes for the out, for sparing you from spending another second trapped in that room with Callum and half the ED watching your humiliation unfold.
Twenty minutes later, you were doing a surprisingly good job of forgetting all about Callum. It helped that the ER had gone back to its usual controlled chaos, but then someone had to bring him back.
Trinity leaned over the nurses’ desk. “So,” she said casually, “what’s between you and Dumbstralia?”
“There’s nothing between us,” you replied immediately. “Hasn’t been for a long time.” You couldn’t hide the defensiveness in your voice even if you tried.
Trinity hummed. “He is stupid hot. For straight-women standards, anyway. But I was just passing by and heard him ask if the ultrasound uses radiation like an X-ray machine. He seemed genuinely worried about getting ‘superpowers.’”
You groaned, dropping your head back for a second. “Please. Don’t start.”
“I just don’t understand why you would date someone like that,” Javadi said, shaking her head slightly as she scrolled through a chart. “You’re pretty, and smart, and he’s just so… stupid.”
Princess swung by, pretending to check the crash cart, not even looking at you. “Girl, those abs are the reason why. Chef’s kiss.” She shrugged. “Sometimes the size of the brain isn’t that important if other… sizes can compensate.”
“Ugh, gross,” you pinched the bridge of your nose. “He’s not that stupid, he’s just… not book smart.” You paused. What was the point in trying to defend him? Callum was very stupid.
“Understatement of the year,” Dana said. “But that Australian accent? It’s like Chris Hemsworth walked in here complaining about his guts. Like Thor decided to take a gap year and learn to say ‘mate’ a lot.”
“He’s so pretty, it’s unfair,” Javadi added, finally looking up from the computer. “Pretty and vacant.” She sighed. “He thought fentanyl was a type of font. He said, and I quote, ‘It’s like Arial and Times New Roman, right?’”
You dropped your head into your hands. How long would it take for everyone to stop talking about Callum? For the memory of him to fade? You wanted to scream at them that Callum had just been a stupid mistake you’d made when you were still immature. That he’d been nothing more than company on lonely nights when all you had were anatomy books and too much silence. And that it hadn’t been so bad, when he was shirtless and kept his mouth shut.
“He’s like a little puppy. A golden retriever who learned how to talk.” Dana smiled. “Adorable, until it pisses on your new rug.”
“Hey,” Whitaker said, reappearing in a fresh set of scrubs after dealing with a car crash for the last fifty minutes. “What did I miss?”
“Miss Australia here,” Trinity said, pointing directly at you, “has her ex in the ER. He’s as hot as he is stupid and apparently has a big dick, according to Princess.”
You made a noise somewhere between a groan and a scream.
“Hey, that’s—” You started, then stopped. What was the point in denying it? You sighed. “Can we forget about him? He’s just staying one night. Then he goes back to whatever beach he crawled out of.”
“I’m just pointing out the facts,” Princess said, raising her hands innocently. “Why else would a woman be with a guy like that if it wasn’t for really good sex?”
“Is he the tall blond guy?” Whitaker asked. “He just asked me if morphine was gluten-free because he has a shooting and can’t look bloated for the cameras.”
That earned a cruel, collective laugh from everyone clustered around the nurses’ station. Through all of it, you were painfully aware of Robby hovering just at the edge of the group. He was pretending to read a chart, keeping his posture casual, and attention elsewhere, but you caught him glancing toward bay three every thirty seconds, like clockwork.
“Are you done gossiping, ladies?” he called out, over the noise. “Come on. Back to work. All of you have patients to see and charts to do.”
There was a chorus of groans and exaggerated sighs as people dispersed. Just as you were about to slip away with them, Robby added, “Ah, ah, ah, ah. Not so fast.” He said your name next. “Mr. Hayes has been asking for you.”
Your stomach dropped. “He’s still here? I thought they already took him up for surgery.” You rubbed your face. This was definitely not your day.
“His surgery was delayed,” Robby explained. “Asked to see you personally.”
A sound somewhere between a complaint and a whine slipped out of you, but you followed Robby anyway.
As you headed back toward bay four, you noticed the curtain half-open already, and the sounds of complaint drifting out confirmed exactly who was inside. Mateo and McKay were sitting there, while Perlah adjusted the IV pump.
Callum was scrolling through Instagram, animatedly showing Javier pictures of his “sick waves” back home. “See this one? Barrel roll. Nailed it.”
His face lit up the second he saw you step into the room.
“Babe!” he said brightly. “I was just tellin’ the blokes about that summer out in California. Tried to teach this one how to surf, she looked so cute every time she fell off the board.”
He said it like it was a fond memory. Like you hadn’t swallowed half the fucking sea through your nose.
“What do you want, Callum?” you asked flatly.
He propped himself up on the bed with a grimace, clutching his side. “This is bullshit,” he complained. “Feels like I’ve been kicked by a roo. When’s this surgery happenin’?”
“As soon as we can,” Robby said. He tried to sound patient and professional, but you could tell he was doing a terrible job at it. His voice was tight, clipped at the edges, like every extra second in this room was testing him.
“Chook!” Callum complained immediately. “Tell these blokes to hurry up. I’m dyin’ here.”
You ignored the babe entirely and turned your attention to the monitor instead. Blood pressure elevated, his heart rate hovering at 115. Not catastrophic, but climbing.
“Pain level now?” you asked, keeping eyes still on the screen.
“Eleven out of ten,” he groaned dramatically, his hand flying to his abdomen. “Like, worse than that time I tried vegemite on pizza.”
You didn’t react, only drew up the morphine, flicked the syringe once, and pushed it slowly into the IV. “This should help. Two milligrams. We’ll reassess in fifteen.”
The change was almost immediate. His shoulders loosened, and his body sank back into the pillows as the medication washed over him. His eyelids fluttered, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth.
“You’re a lifesaver. Always were.” He sighed contentedly. “Remember when I had that hangover after your uni party and you made me that electrolyte drink? Tasted like ass, but it worked.”
McKay and Mateo exchanged amused looks “Electrolyte drink?” McKay said. “Oh please, don’t spare us the details.”
“Don’t,” you warned, already knowing it was pointless.
“Yeah,” Callum continued cheerfully, completely unbothered. “She’s got all these doctor tricks. Smart as hell. That’s why I fell for her. She’s got the brains and the beauty, innit?”
The heat crept up your neck again, but you focused on capping the syringe, and snapping it closed with more force than necessary.
“Sounds romantic,” Mateo chuckled.
Callum grinned lazily, the morphine loosening his tongue even further. “Oh, it was. We met at this beach bar in Cali. I was teachin’ surf lessons. She wiped out on her first wave, looked like a drowned rat.” He smiled fondly. “Cute as hell, tho. I pulled her out, and boom.” He snapped his fingers. “Love at first wave.”
You felt it then, before you even looked. Robby shifted his weight slightly, fixing his eyes on the monitor like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the entire ED. His jaw was tight, the muscle there ticking faintly, his fingers drumming once… twice… against the chart in his hand.
You steered the conversation back. “Any changes in symptoms? Nausea worse?”
“Naauur, just the pain,” Callum said. Then, without missing a beat: “Hey, you still single? ’Cause if you are, once I’m fixed up, we could grab a bite. Pittsburgh’s got decent pubs, right? I’ll buy, make up for that time I forgot your birthday.”
The bay went silent for a beat. McKay eyebrows shot up. Mateo pretended to fiddle with the pulse ox to hide his grin.
“C’mon, don’t be like that. We were good together. You with your books, me with… everythin’ else.” He winked at the group. “She used to read me anatomy flashcards in bed. Hot, right?”
Your face burned, and Cassie choked on air. You heard Robby clearing his throat loudly, at this point, after doing it so many times, you could guess his throat had to be irritated.
“Aw, loosen up. You blokes all so serious here. Back in Oz, we’d be crackin’ jokes.” He looked at Robby, who was double-checking the IV. “You, mate, the quiet one. What’s your story? You look like you could use a surf lesson. Loosen those shoulders.”
Robby paused, then said mildly, “I’m good, thanks. Focus on breathing through the pain.”
Callum only laughed. “See? Serious. Babe, tell ’em about that time I convinced you to skip class for the beach. Best day ever.”
The embarrassment hit you like a wave, you snapped the patient file closed. “Enough. Rest.”
Finally, as if god had listened to your prayers, surgery paged. They had the OR ready to take Callum upstairs.
“You gonna miss me when I’m upstairs? Promise you’ll visit.”
“No promises,” you said.
He searched for your hand, trying to hold it. “C’mon. One date. For old times.”
Robby stepped forward. “Mr. Hayes, let’s keep it professional. She’s your doctor.”
Callum blinked, and then grinned, like he had everything going on here figured out. “Jealous, mate?”
Robby’s expression didn’t change. “Concerned for boundaries.”
You shoot Robby a grateful look as Mateo wheeled Callum out, not before he called back, “Think about that date, babe!”
Lucky enough for you, the hours after Callum was taken upstairs for surgery seemed to pass faster. You were grateful, deeply and genuinely grateful, that it was now other nurses and doctors who had to put up with him.
By the time your shift finally came to an end and you were changing back into your clothes in the locker room, you let yourself believe it was over. But apparently, people still had a lot to say.
“So,” Trinity said casually, nudging you with her elbow as she pulled on her jacket, “Robby looked like he wanted to prescribe your ex a one-way ticket back to Oz.”
You snapped your eyes open. “Wha—what? Of course he did not.” You let out a laugh that came out too high, too fast, desperately trying to mask the fact that you had a massive crush on the attending. You knew if Trinity even suspected it, you’d never hear the end of it.
“He did,” she insisted easily. “He was so jealous. The man has it bad for you.” She shook her head as she changed. “It’s a little pathetic, honestly. I mean, how old is he? Mid-fifties? And he looks like a kid with a crush. Why men can’t just be direct like women?”
“That’s not—” You tried to find words, something logical, something solid to shut this down. Nothing came, because what she was saying was absurd. Completely ridiculous. There was no way Robby had any kind of romantic feelings for you.
You glanced at Whitaker, silently begging for moral support. He didn’t even hesitate, just shook his head. “Leave me out of this.”
“Oh, please,” Trinity said, rolling her eyes. “Huckleberry.” She nudged his arm, harder than playful. “You’re a guy. Give us your insight.”
Whitaker sighed deeply, like a man walking into a trap. He looked at you, then away. “I’m not saying anything,” he said slowly. “But I am saying… people can tell. I think he’s too… professional to do anything. But—” He paused, choosing his words carefully, which somehow made it worse. “He’d probably ask you out. I mean… if you didn’t work here.”
The room seemed to tilt. You let the weight of his words sink in, your brain scrambling to catch up with your heartbeat. Was it really that obvious? To everyone except you? Or were they all delusional, projecting something that didn’t exist? They couldn’t see that all that was going on between Robby and you, was your stupid high-school kind of crush, one you’d never fully shaken, no matter how many times you reminded yourself that Robby was an attending, older, untouchable, and entirely out of your league.
“Are you talking about Dr. Robby and—” Javadi said your name as she walked in, already halfway to her locker, her ponytail swaying as she popped it open.
You groaned and immediately covered your face with your hands, digging your fingers into your temples. “Oh, no. You too?” The embarrassment crawled up your neck, being the topic of conversation all day in the ED had already been bad enough, this was just cruel.
“Yeah,” she said it like she was commenting on the weather. “I mean… it’s pretty obvious.” She shrugged one shoulder, completely unbothered. “Robby looked like he wanted to do that appendectomy with his hands right there.”
Your mouth dropped open, and a noise escaped you before you could stop it. You grabbed your bag a little too aggressively, slinging it over your shoulder as if the locker room itself had personally offended you.
“I’m done talking,” you muttered, already halfway toward the door. “Have fun gossiping about my romantic life.”
“We will, Miss Australia,” Trinity called after you, her voice smug. "Or should I say Mrs. Robinavitch?"
The locker room door swung shut behind you with a dull thud, muffling the laughter and chatter inside. The silence in the hallway felt heavier as you exhaled and started toward the exit.
By the time you stepped outside, the night had fully settled in. The air was cold enough to bite, it made you hunch your shoulders as you prepared for your usual walk back to your apartment, replaying every humiliating moment of the day whether you wanted it to or not.
That’s when you heard footsteps behind you. And then a voice you’d recognize anywhere, because it always did that stupid thing to your chest, made your heart kick harder against your ribs before you could stop it.
“Hey.”
You slowed instinctively, and Robby fell into step beside you. He’d changed out of his scrubs, now in worn jeans and a dark hoodie, the sleeves pushed up slightly to reveal his hairy and strong forearms. His hair was still a little messy, like he’d run a hand through it one too many times during the day.
“Heading out?” he asked.
You nodded, suddenly hyper-aware of yourself, and too tired to pretend you weren’t exhausted. “Yeah. You?”
“Same.” He hesitated, just for a beat. “But I wanted to see how you were doing. After today.”
You shrugged, the motion coming out as a little defensive. “I’m fine.” Then, before you could overthink it, the words tumbled out. “Listen, Robby… I’m sorry about Callum. He’s an idiot, but he’s harmless.”
Robby let out a quiet breath, shaking his head as a flat smile tugged at his mouth. “No need for apologies,” he said gently. “That’s… none of my business.”
“I know,” you replied, fixing his gaze ahead. “Still, it looked like it was everyone’s business today.”
You wrapped your arms around yourself, more for comfort than warmth, though the cold night air suddenly felt colder. “I just want to get home, open some cheap wine, and forget today ever happened.”
Robby’s steps faltered, just barely. His heart stuttered in his chest as the moment stretched, his mind was suddenly racing ahead of his mouth. He knew the risks, knew the lines he wasn’t supposed to blur, but something about the way you sounded, still trying to laugh it off, made something in him snap.
He swallowed, forcing himself not to overthink it. It was now or never. “You want to grab a drink?” he asked, trying to sound casual, like he wasn’t asking something that felt dangerously close to… a date. “Maybe something better than cheap wine.” He nodded down the street. “There’s that dive bar two blocks over. It’s quiet. Nothing fancy.”
You hesitated. Your bed was calling you, you had Netflix waiting for you on your tv, and a frozen pizza ready to be shoved into the oven. But the residue of the day still clung to you, rinity’s teasing, the way everyone had watched Callum, and his voice echoing in your ears long after he’d been wheeled upstairs.
And then there was Robby. He was looking at you with that gaze, the one that always made you feel like he wasn’t just looking at you, but through you. Like you weren’t just another resident, but an actual person he noticed, remembered, cared about. Don’t be stupid, he looks at everyone this way, you thought.
You let out a slow breath. “You know what?” you said quietly. “Sure. I could use a drink. Whitaker and Santos are probably still in the locker room. I’ll go see if they want to—”
Before you could turn, Robby reached out. He wrapped his fingers gently around your wrist, not tight, not possessive, just enough to stop you.
“Actually,” he said, “I was thinking it could just be you and me.”
You looked up at him, and your breath got caught halfway in your chest. He smiled then, not the polite attending smile, not the one he used with patients or consultants, but something softer, like it was meant just for you. The faint lines around his eyes deepened, and that alone made your pulse stumble like it forgot what it was supposed to be doing.
“If that’s okay with you,” he added.
“Uh—” You swallowed. “Uh. Yes. Yes, of course.” God, you sounded like an idiot. You mentally kicked yourself as heat crept up your neck, furious at how easily he unraveled you. That tall, calm, brilliant man was just standing there smiling at you like this wasn’t completely wrecking your ability to form a coherent sentence.
“My car’s this way,” he said, tilting his head toward the lot. Then his hand found your lower back. It was gentle, and placed just high enough to be appropriate. The same spot he guided you from bay to bay in the hospital, the same professional touch you’d felt a hundred times before. And yet, outside, in the quiet, it felt entirely different.
Warmth bloomed under his palm, spreading outward until your whole body felt too aware of itself, every step suddenly charged with something that made your stomach flutter.
The drive was short. Just a couple of blocks, barely enough time for the engine to warm up, yet you sat there acutely aware of everything. The hum of the car, the way his hands rested comfortably on the wheel, the faint scent of his perfume.
You were alone in your chief’s car. Alone. On your way to have a drink with him. A date? No, don’t be stupid, you scolded yourself. This wasn’t a date, it didn’t count, Robby would never ask you on a date. It was just a drink, a pity drink. He felt bad for you after you’d been the unintentional punchline of the ED all day. That had to be it.
The bar came into view quickly, a low-lit place tucked between buildings, the kind of spot you’d never notice unless someone took you there on purpose. Inside, it was half-empty, a couple of regulars sat at the bar, and in the corner booth, a small group of college kids took turns throwing darts.
Robby ordered a local beer from the bartender, something that sounded dark and strong, and you went for a blueberry gin and tonic, watching the bartender muddle the fruit until the glass turned a soft violet.
He didn’t sit at the bar. Instead, Robby guided you toward a booth tucked in the back, away from the noise, away from prying eyes. He slid in next to you, setting his glass down carefully, like he wasn’t in any rush to fill the silence.
“So…” he started, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Australian Ken. That was… something.”
You immediately choked on a blueberry, coughing as you covered your mouth. “Australian Ken?” A laugh burst out of you despite yourself. “Okay, that’s actually better than what Santos has been calling him. Dumbstralia.”
Robby snorted, lowering his gaze to his beer. “That seems… appropriate.” He traced the rim of the glass absently with his thumb. “I mean, hey, we’ve all got exes. But yeah. The guy was a… character.”
“That’s one way to put it.” You took a long pull from your drink, the bite of gin blooming on your tongue, loosening something in your chest.
“Model?” Robby asked casually.
You winced. “Personal trainer. And part-time surf instructor.” You wanted to hide behind your glass.
Robby made a quiet sound that sounded like a laugh and groan at the same time. “Of course he is.”
The alcohol began to do its quiet, dangerous work. The nerves you usually carried around Robby, every second-guess, every careful filter, started to dissolve. The words slipped out easier now, and you were much bolder and confident than your usual self.
“Did you know he gifted me a rock for my birthday?”
Robby blinked. “A rock,” he repeated. “As in… a diamond?”
“Nope.” You popped a blueberry from your glass into your mouth. “A rock. A literal rock he found on the beach.” You chewed it. “He said his soul had reincarnated in it.”
Robby held it together for maybe half a second, then he lost it. The laugh that came out of him was deep and unrestrained, the kind that shook his shoulders and filled the booth. He clapped a hand against the table and wiped at the corner of his eye, genuinely crying from it.
“You’re joking,” he said between laughs. “You have to be joking.”
You groaned, sinking back against the booth. “Ugh. I wish I was.”
You took another sip, bigger this time, and only vaguely registered that you might be oversharing. But it felt good. Cathartic, for some reason. Like finally saying all the things you’d locked away for years.
“And there was this one time,” you continued, the words tumbling out now, “he told my entire study group from med school that vaccines caused autism.”
Robby froze mid-smile. You closed your eyes, shaking your head like you could physically shake the memory loose. “I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I was so embarrassed.”
Robby stared at you for a moment, then leaned back slowly, with disbelief written all over his face. “You survived that,” he said quietly, with sympathy in his voice. “You deserve a medal.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head, the sound fading as quickly as it came. The amusement slipped off his face, replaced by something heavier. “Look,” he said finally, lowering his glass. “I know it’s none of my business. You dated the guy. He’s…” He hesitated, searching for a neutral word. “Objectively symmetrical. Whatever.”
“Symmetrical,” you repeated, a surprised laugh leaving you despite yourself. Of all the ways to describe Callum, that one caught you off guard.
Robby gave you a half-smile. “You know what I mean.” He exhaled through his nose, his shoulders rising and falling. “It’s just—can I ask you why?”
You tilted your head. “Why?”
“Why did you settle for someone like him?”
The question was too honest. Maybe even too direct. The alcohol had loosened his restraint just enough to let months of unspoken thoughts slip out.
You didn’t know it, but Robby had been thinking about you since the first day he’d watched you walk into the ED, confident and already holding your ground like you belonged there. You had earned your place from day one. You weren’t afraid to challenge him, to question decisions, to speak up when something didn’t sit right. He respected you for that, even admired you.
And somewhere along the way, that respect had quietly twisted into something else… something he had no business feeling. He was fifty-four years old, an attending, a man with too much life behind him. And you were a second-year resident, brilliant, but still standing at the edge of everything that was about to begin. He told himself, every single day, that the way he looked at you was wrong. That the warmth in his chest when you smiled at him was inappropriate. That the pull he felt had to be buried under the excuse of professionalism.
And then Callum walked in. Young, attractive, but empty. Robby couldn’t understand it, he simply couldn’t reconcile how someone like you, someone so smart, so wonderful, could choose a man who didn’t even know his own anatomy. When you could have someone who truly saw you, someone who would never make you smaller. Someone like him.
“I guess…” you shrugged, dropping your eyes to your glass. “I was lonely. And he was cute when he kept his mouth shut. He just wanted to hit the beach or grab tacos. And yeah, he’s hot. Like, stupid hot. It was a distraction.”
Robby’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I get it,” he said gently. “Stupid mistakes when your frontal lobe isn’t fully developed.”
He reached for you, his hand finding yours. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched you, you’d felt his fingers brush yours handing over charts, or to steady your elbow during procedures… but this was different. It somehow felt electric, and it made your pulse jump under his skin.
His thumb rested lightly against your knuckles, grounding you. “But I hope you know now,” he continued, “how much you’re worth.” You looked up at him. “You’re beautiful, you’re brilliant. You have a future that’s going to be extraordinary. You deserve better than dumbstralia.”
You laughed it off, or tried to. “Okay, now you’re just being nice. Trying to salvage my ego after the Callum show?”
Maybe it was just the alcohol, softening the edges of reality, letting your brain wander into places it normally wouldn’t dare to go… but it felt like Robby was flirting with you. You could almost tell… from the compliments slipped in between sips of beer, the way his mouth curved when you spoke, like he was genuinely enchanted by you. The way he listened like every word you said mattered. And those looks, God, those looks that made you feel seen.
So what if Santos, Javadi and Whitaker weren’t wrong? What if this wasn’t just pity or professionalism? What if all this time, Robby had felt exactly what you felt, and both of you had been too careful and too scared to act on it?
It sounded ridiculous, like something you’d imagine on the walk home, something that would only happen if this was a movie and not real life. Men like Robby didn’t look at women like you that way… not without there being some misunderstanding on your part.
He shook his head. “I’m not being nice, just honest. Look, I’ve seen you in action, you juggle ten things at once, keep your cool when everything’s falling apart. Guys like him? They’re a dime a dozen. But someone who matches you? That’s worth waiting for.
“Thanks,” you said softly. “Really. I needed that.”
He shrugged, like it was no big deal, and took another sip of his beer. “Anytime. Now, tell me, did he really think the moon landing happened in Australia? Because that one’s going in my all-time favorites.”
You bursted out laughing, and launched into the story, with all the dumb details you’d buried for years. Robby listened, chuckling at the right parts, asking questions that showed he was actually paying attention.
One drink turned into two. The bar filled up a little, the music loud and a trivia night starting in the corner, but your booth felt like its own bubble. Robby shared fun stories from his intern year that made you feel less lame from all your disastrous life choices, and you counter with your own horror tales.
You were on your second gin and tonic, recounting another Callum disaster: the time he tried to “fix” your leaky faucet with duct tape and school glue, and how he ended up flooding the bathroom.
“God, no,” Robby said, shaking his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And you let him near tools? Brave woman.”
You leaned forward, placing your elbows on the table, your chin in your hand. “Hey, I was a young, broke student who couldn’t afford a plumber. Desperate. And he looked good doing it, shirt off, all focused like he was defusing a bomb… with glue.”
Robby’s gaze flicked to yours, holding a beat longer than necessary. “Focused, huh? Must’ve been a sight.”
There was a tease in his voice, and something subtle that you could recognize as… jealousy. The flirting had been creeping in since the first drink, little things, like the way he brushed lint off your shoulder earlier, his fingers lingering on your hoodie, or how he’d lean in closer when the bar noise picked up, until you felt his breath warm against your ear as he repeated a question.
You sipped your drink, meeting his eyes over the rim. “Jealous of his plumbing skills?”
He chuckled, setting his glass down with a clink. “Jealous? Nah. Just thinking, next time you need help with a leaky faucet… You know my number.” The words hung, the double entendre in the air, and his smile turned playful now, a dimple flashing.
Heat pooled in your cheeks, and lower, between your thighs. “Oh yeah? Didn’t know your skill set included plumbing too.”
He shifted in the booth, closing the space between you just a fraction, pressing his knee against yours under the table. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”
You were both a little drunk now, the kind where inhibitions loosened, where every touch felt amplified. You nudged his calf with your foot, playful, and he didn’t pull away.
You talked more, about everything and nothing, but laced through it all was the now more obvious flirtation: the compliments, glances that linger on lips, necks, the way his eyes darkened when you laughed and tossed your hair back.
Robby realized then that subtlety wasn’t working. You weren’t playing coy, you genuinely didn’t see how much he wanted you, and if he didn’t make himself clear now, this moment would slip through his fingers like so many others already had. There was no time left for restraint, and no room for overthinking.
“You know,” he said after a pause, “I meant what I said earlier. About you deserving better than Australian Ken.”
You tilted your head, emboldened by the alcohol. “Yeah? Like who?”
On a sober brain, you would’ve never dared to sit this close to him. Never would’ve talked the way you were talking, said the things you were saying, bit your lip and let out that soft and breathy giggle when you noticed how his eyes drifted, traitorous, down to your mouth like he wanted to devour it.
He locked his eyes on yours. “Like someone who sees you. All of you, the brilliant doctor, and also the woman who’s somehow even more stunning after a twelve-hour shift.”
The words hit you like a shot of adrenaline. You felt your pulse quicken. “Stunning, huh? You’re drunk, Robinavitch.”
He shook his head, leaning closer, his hand covering yours on the table. “Tipsy, maybe. Honest, definitely.”
The touch sent a shiver up your arm, and you turned your hand palm-up, lacing your fingers with his. Robby stroked the back of your hand with slow circles that made your breath hitch.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmured, voice softer now, the gin making you brave. “You know how to be quiet, but in a good way, Callum really lacked in that department. I always wonder what goes through your mind.”
He smiled, closer still, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on your jaw, tracing lightly down to your chin. “Thinking about you, mostly. Have been for a while.”
The admission was finally out. And you didn’t have a moment to think about it, because right away the space between you evaporated. You weren’t sure who moved first, maybe it was both of you at the same time, but suddenly his lips were on yours, soft at first, a little tentative, like he was testing the waters. But the alcohol and the tension from the day, from two years of lingering looks in the ED, ignited the fire fast. You deepened the kiss, parting your lips, and he responded with a hum. Robby slid his other hand to your waist, pulling you closer to his body, pressing them together.
Before you could realize it, you two were making out in a bar booth like teenagers, tangling your tongues, your breaths mingling, and your hands roaming each other. Yours found his hair, threading your fingers through the dark strands you’ve wanted to touch for months. His slid under your hoodie, splaying his fingers against your lower back, pulling you flush against him. The kiss was urgent now, hungry.
You broke it for air, but didn’t move far, just stayed there with your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard. His eyes were dark, and a flush was creeping up his neck. “Fuck. Been wanting to do that forever.”
You laughed breathlessly, nipping at his lower lip. “What took you so long?”
“Timing,” he said, kissing you again, shorter this time, but no less intense. He squeezed your hip, brushing his thumb against the skin just above your waistband. “And maybe a little fear of rejection.”
You pulled back slightly, still tangled in him. “You? Afraid of rejection?”
He grinned, and leaned in for another kiss, this one slower. His lips trailed to your jaw, your neck, giving you a soft bite that made you gasp. You roamed his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under the hoodie, matching your own racing pulse.
Finally, he pulled back, both of you flushed and disheveled. He searched your eyes, stroking your cheek. “This is probably a bad idea, work and all, but… you wanna get out of here?”
“Yes.” The word slipped out breathlessly, like it had been waiting on the tip of your tongue since the first kiss.
He didn’t waste time, Robby paid the tab in record speed, and guided you out of the booth with a hand low on your back. The bar’s noise faded behind you as you stepped into the night.
His car was parked there in the parking lot, tucked under a streetlamp. You reached the car first, and he unlocked it with the fob, the lights flashing once, and yanked the passenger door open for you, but neither of you made it inside right away. He crowded you against the side of the car instead, pressing you in with his warm body.
His mouth found yours again, hungrier this time. The kiss was messy and desperate enough for your teeth to clash, your tongues to slide. You fisted in his hoodie, pulling him closer until there was no space left.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, cupping he back of your neck with one hand, thumb stroking your jaw. “Can’t wait anymore.”
You arched into him, rolling your hips on pure instinct, feeling the hard line of him against your thigh. “Then stop waiting.”
That was all it took. He opened the backseat’s door of the car, spinned and lifted you just enough that your ass hit the edge of the seat. You half-fell, half-slid inside, dragging him with you. The door slammed shut behind him, and he was on you in seconds, kneeling awkwardly between your legs, one hand braced on the headrest, the other sliding under your hoodie, moving his palm all over your ribs, your waist, and higher.
Your own hands were greedy too, searching under his shirt, raking your nails down his back, feeling the flex of muscle as he pressed himself closer.
The kiss broke only long enough for him to yank your hoodie over your head, tossing it into the front seat. His mouth was on your neck then, sucking a mark just below your collarbone that you knew you’d have to hide tomorrow. You moaned shamelessly and he growled in response, grinding his hips down hard enough that you felt every inch of how much he wanted you.
Your fingers fumbled with his belt, clumsy with need, but he stopped you. Instead, he popped the button on your jeans, sliding the zipper until his hand slipped inside, cupping you through your underwear. You both groaned at the contact. You were stupidly wet already, like you were every night when you imagined this in your bed.
“Jesus,” he breathed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder for a second like he was trying to keep control. “You’re soaked.”
You rocked into his palm, searching for more contact and friction. “Your fault.”
He laughed against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you as he slipped his fingers beneath the soaked edge of your panties. He stroked your bare pussy slowly and teasing at first, gliding his pads through your slick folds, circling your swollen clit with just enough pressure to make your thighs quake and your hips jerk forward involuntarily.
You bit down hard on his bottom lip in retaliation, and he growled, shoving two thick fingers deep inside your dripping cunt without warning. He curled them instantly, hooking right against that spongy spot, stretching your tight walls wide around his knuckles while you gasped, letting your head fall back against the car seat with a thud.
“Fuck! Robby—” you cried, cracking as he plunged his fingers deeper. They were thicker than you’d imagined in all those late-night fantasies. You’d pictured these long, capable hands so many times. how they’d feel splitting you open, but the real thing was obscene: the burn of the stretch, the way your greedy pussy sucked him in, fluttering around every inch.
“Say it again,” he rasped, pumping his fingers harder now. The lewd shlick-shlick-shlick of your arousal filled the car, your juices coating his digits in shiny strings, dripping down his wrist as proof of how badly you’d wanted this, how responsible your body was for him. “My name. Just like that. Let me hear how much you want this.”
“Robby! Yes—fuck, like that—don’t stop!” you sobbed, dropping your eyes to the filthy sight between your spread thighs: your pussy lips stretched around his thrusting fingers,the creamy arousal frothing as he pressed his thumb harder, grinding circles over your clit until you arched your back violently off the seat.
He kept working you ruthlessly, drawing tight spirals over your clit, then flicking the oversensitive nub sharply before pinching it between thumb and forefinger just enough to make you scream. You bucked your hips wildly, riding his hand like you were starving, clamping down hard around his pumping fingers as the pleasure escalated.
Then Robby pulled his fingers out of your dripping cunt with a wet drag, strings of your slick clinging to his knuckles. You whined needily at the sudden emptiness, twitching after him like your pussy couldn’t stand to be without him.
“I wanna taste your pussy,” he growled hot against your ear. “You want that? Want me to eat you until you’re screaming?”
You were so lost in the haze of pleasure, your brain melted, so all you could manage was a slurred, desperate mumble. “Y-yes—yes please, Robby, please, fuck, please—”
He slid down your body fast, shoving your thighs wider as he settled between them, until his face was just inches from your glistening folds. “Goddamn… look at you. So fucking beautiful.” He dragged his tongue in one long stripe from your leaking entrance all the way up to your shiny clit, moaning like he’d just tasted the best thing in his life. “Fuck, you taste so good. I could live with my tongue buried in this pretty pussy forever.”
You cried out as your hands flew to his hair, threading it tight and yanking him closer. He flattened his tongue against your clit, pressing it hard before he switched to quick, devastating flicks that made your hips jerk. He groaned against you, the vibration ripping straight through your core like electricity, then sucked your clit into his mouth with a type of suction that made your vision flash white for a heartbeat.
“Fuck—oh god—Robby—”
He didn’t let up for a second. Robby gripped the back of your thigh with one hand, yanking your leg over his shoulder to spread you even wider, opening you completely to his mouth. He alternated ruthlessly from sucking your clit like he was starving, and then dipping lower to thrust his tongue deep inside your fluttering hole, fucking you with it while his nose ground hard against your nub, smearing your slick all over his face.
“Tell me how it feels, baby,” he rasped between licks, his voice muffled against your cunt. “Does my tongue feel good eating this pussy?”
“I-it feels—fuck! Amazing… shit, you’re so good… too good—” That earned a smug, wicked curl of his lips against your folds, the bastard knew exactly how amazing he was at this. “Please don’t ever stop, Robby—I need to—fuck—”
“Shh, shh, I know,” he soothed, and then he doubled down, sucking harder, flicking his tongue faster, curling his fingers back inside you and hammering that perfect spot over and over until your thighs shook uncontrollably.
You bucked your hips, grinding your soaked cunt all over his face, smearing your arousal across his beard, his cheeks, his nose. He fucking loved it, growled in approval right into your pussy. “That’s it, ride my face, baby. Use me. Make yourself feel good on my tongue. I’m right here.”
You fisted his hair tighter, stroking through the strands almost tenderly even as you fucked yourself against his mouth like you were desperate. He groaned louder, lapping at you like he couldn’t get enough.
“Robby—please—gonna—”
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, with his lips swollen and shiny and his beard drenched and glistening with your juices. “Cum on my tongue. Let me taste every drop when you cum.”
He dove back in, moving his tongue in rapid circles while he curled his fingers harder, pounding that spot until the dam broke. Your orgasm slammed into you, making you arch your back violently off the car seat, clamping your thighs around his head. A choked scream teared from your throat as your cunt spasmed around his fingers. Slick gushed out in waves, coating his hand, dripping down his chin, soaking his beard while he drank you down, groaning like he was coming undone right along with you.
You gasped for air as Robby kept tracing lazy circles around your oversensitive clit with his tongue before he pulled back.
“God, you taste fucking incredible,” he murmured, pressing one last almost tender kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then he sat up beside you.
In the next heartbeat you were moving, sliding onto his lap with urgency, your knees bracketing his hips until you were straddling him fully, your soaked cunt hovering just above the big bulge straining his jeans. You roamed his hands down his chest, your fingers dragging over the soft give of his belly, tracing the trail of hair leading to his waistband. He was rock-hard beneath the denim, the fat outline of his cock throbbing against your palm when you pressed it firmly. He groaned into your mouth, jerking up instinctively, chasing the pressure like he’d die without it.
“Fuck,” he dropped his forehead to yours, closing his eyes shut for a second as his breath fanned. “Touch me. Please, baby—fuck, I need your hand on me.”
You didn’t need convincing. You attacked his belt with frantic urgency. The buckle clinked in the car as you yanked it open.The button popped free with a snap, and you dragged the zipper down in one pull, shoving his jeans and boxers just low enough for his cock to spring out.
He was huge, standing tall and proud, the veins pulsing along the shaft, the dark red head already slick and weeping pre-cum in fat beads. You wrapped your fingers around him, barely able to close them fully around his girth, and smeared the leaking tip with your thumb in teasing circles until more pre-cum welled up and dripped over your knuckles.
He shuddered violently as you stroked him with firm drags from the swollen base all the way to the leaking slit and back again. He was thicker than three of his fingers combined, filling your hand so perfectly it made your cunt clench emptily, aching to be stretched around him. Every stroke made him throb harder, rocking his hips forward in shallow thrusts like he couldn’t stop himself from fucking your fist.
“Just like that—fuck, yes,” he breathed, bracing one hand against the car roof for leverage while the other cupped your face, stroking your cheek almost tenderly even as his cock jumped in your grip.
You pumped him slowly at first, savoring every twitch, every hitch in his breath when you twisted your wrist over the sensitive head. Fresh pre-cum slicked your palm, making every glide wetter.
“Like this?” you whispered, gripping him tighter, sliding up and down with urgency. “Like how I touch your cock?”
“Mmmmhm… you’re so fucking good at it,” he groaned, dropping his sight to watch your small hand struggle to wrap around his entire girth, the sight making him leak even more. “Look at that, your little fingers stretched around me… fuck.”
“Your cock is so big,” you breathed against his ear, knowing exactly what those words would do to him. “I can’t wait to feel it stretching me open.”
“You’re killing me,” he growled against your lips, nipping hard at your bottom one until it stung. “Need to be inside you. Right now.”
The words sent a rush of heat flooding your core, and you nodded frantically, releasing his throbbing cock just long enough to shove your jeans and soaked panties the rest of the way off one leg, they tangled around your ankle in a messy heap, forgotten as you straddled him fully.
He gripped the base of his shaft, helping line himself up, until the blunt head was nudging your dripping entrance, parting your slick folds with pressure. Robby clamped his hands down on your hips as he guided you down, inch by inch, until your pussy swallowed him whole, bottoming out with a wet slap of skin on skin.
The stretch was exquisite and obscene at the same time, bordering on almost too much. His fat cock was splitting you wide, filling every fluttering inch until you felt him throb against your cervix. Your walls clamped down around the invasion, fluttering as they adjusted to his girth.
Robby twitched deep inside you in response. “Holy shit,” his head fell back against the headrest, and he kept his jaw clenched like he was fighting every instinct to pound up into you. “So fucking tight… so perfect wrapped around my cock.”
You braced your hands on his broad shoulders, digging our nails through the soft fabric of his hoodie, and started to move with slow rolls at first, grinding your hips in circles that dragged your sensitive clit against his coarse pubic hair with every rotation. The friction was electric, shooting straight to your core as he filled you so completely, the thick ridge of him raking over every spot inside you until stars burst behind your eyelids on every downstroke.
Robby roamed his hands over you, shoving under your bra to cup your heavy breasts, rolling your nipples into stiff peaks with his thumbs. He kneaded the flesh possessively, then ducked his head to close his hot mouth around one nipple, sucking it with wet pulls that made your back bow and your cunt clamp down harder around his buried cock.
You gasped, arching into his mouth, and picked up the pace, lifting higher now, slamming down harder, the slap of your ass meeting his thighs echoing in the car. The whole vehicle rocked subtly with your rhythm.
“Fuck—yes,” he growled, sliding once hand down to grip your ass, spreading his fingers wide, digging in to help bounce you faster while the other stayed on your breast, pinching and twisting the nipple just enough to rip whimpers from your throat. “Ride me, baby. Just like that. Use my cock, fuck yourself on it.”
You did, bouncing faster, until your thighs burned with the effort, but the pleasure drowned out everything else anyway. Your head fell forward, as you chased that edge.
His breath was hot against your face, mingling with grunts and filthy curses that only spurred you on. “You feel so fucking good,” you panted, clenching deliberately around him on the next brutal downstroke, milking his length. “So deep! Oh god, ou’re stretching me so full—”
He surged up to kiss you as your hips snapped together harder. The angle shifted when he thrust up to meet you, driving even deeper, battering that sweet spot until you cried out into his mouth.
You were close, and every grind of your clit against him was pushing you even higher. “Robby—I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he urged you. “Cum on my cock. Let me feel that tight pussy squeeze me.”
The command shattered you. You came hard, spasming violently around his length as wave after brutal wave of pleasure crashed through you. Your vision whited ou as you ground down hard, riding the orgasm in frantic circles until your whole body trembled, boneless and wrecked, slick gushing around him and dripping down his balls.
Robby didn’t stop, he kept thrusting up through your aftershocks, dragging out every last pulse until your oversensitive cunt was clenching around him in helpless spasms.
With a low growl, he flipped you in the cramped space, his —strong arms maneuvering you until your back slammed against the seat, him looming over you, hooking one of your legs high over his shoulder, the other wrapping tight around his waist, spreading you wide and open.
Then he slammed back inside in one smooth thrust, burying himself balls-deep, the new angle letting him sink even deeper, battering his fat head against your cervix with every snap of his hips.
You arched hard off the seat, a moan tearing from your throat as your slick gushed around his pistoning cock, easing every punishing plunge.
“Fuck—you’re so fucking wet,” he panted, his pace turning savage, slamming forward with force. He braced his hands on either side of your head as he pounded into you relentlessly.
He stared down between your bodies, mesmerized by the filthy sight of your creamy arousal coating his shaft, leaving white rings smeared around the base with every deep withdrawal and re-entry.
The position let him hammer your g-spot without mercy, every thrust grinding right against that swollen spot until the pleasure built impossibly fast, so close to overstimulation.
“Harder,” you begged, sounding wrecked. “Please! Don’t stop, fuck me harder—”
He obliged, pistoning his hips faster, making the whole car rock violently with the force.Robby slipped between you, finding your swollen clit with his thumb and rubbing in quick circles that made your vision spark. “One more,” he demanded, his sweat dripping from his brow onto your tits. “Give me one more. Cum all over my cock again, let me feel that tight pussy squeeze me dry.”
It was too much, just simply too good, and you shattered for him. Another orgasm ripped through you, stronger and filthier than the last. You screamed his name “Robby!” and arched your back off the seat, curling your toes as your pussy milked him in rhythmic waves.
That’s what broke him. His rhythm faltered, his thrusts turned erratic as he chased his own edge. At the last second he yanked out with a groan, wrapping a fist around his slick, cock and stroking it hard.
Thick and warm ropes of cum erupted from him, painting your lower stomach in creamy streaks, splattering across your skin and pooling in the dip of your navel, sliding slowly toward your sides.
“Fuck! yeah—take it all,” he moaned, looking at the obscene mess he was making of you, watching his load drip and smear over your skin like he was marking you as his.
He finally collapsed half on top of you, both of you wrecked and panting. Robby pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your lips, as your breathing gradually slowed.
“Incredible,” he murmured against your hair. “You’re fucking incredible.”
You smiled lazily, tracing lazy patterns through the damp hair on his chest. “I thought I was having the worst day ever. Turns out it was the best.”
He chuckled, rummaging in the floorboard for a crumpled take-out bag, pulling out a handful of napkins. He wiped the streaks of his cum from your stomach with careful strokes, cleaning you up while his mind wandered to filthier thoughts: Next time I’m filling her up, pumping her full until it leaks out for days. But tonight the last shred of reason had won out, you hadn’t had time to talk about contraception, and he didn’t carry any condoms with him anyway, so it was better to be careful, than regret it.
“I’m glad I could make you forget about dumbstralia,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.
“Believe me, he’s long forgotten,” you replied, still playing with the coarse hair on his chest, tugging it lightly. “Sooo… your place or mine?”
“Mine’s closer,” he answered, already reaching for his discarded clothes. “ I’m not done with you yet.”
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this one-shot, and if you did, I’d absolutely love to hear your thoughts. Your support truly means the world to me🩷🩷
If you enjoyed this, I also have some longer fics, feel free to check out my masterlist! You can also follow my updates account @cinnxmxngxrlupdates if you’d like to stay up to date with new fics!
Also, sorry again to any Australians reading this😭 I swear it’s nothing personal, you gave us 5SOS, Bang Chan and Felix, Margot Robbie, and Jacob Elordi, and for that we as a society are forever grateful. I just couldn’t help myself, whenever I picture the society-standard “perfect guy,” he’s blonde, tanned, Australian, and knows how to surf. And… well, making him a little dumb was purely for comedic purposes.
Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Chief Resident!Reader
When the ED finds out about you and Robby, the whispers and side-eyes start piling up. After an exhausting HR meeting, Robby reminds you exactly where you belong. With him.
warnings/tags: smut, porn with plot, minors DNI, handjob, unprotected piv, creampie, fingering, pussy eating, lots of praise, kinda protective!robby
A/N: Arianaaa what are you doing here???? I know The Pitt isn’t one of my fandoms, and it’s not where most of my mutuals are, but I felt inspired and ended up writing something anyway. It’s my first time writing for Robby and I only recently started the series, so it’s probably shit, but I wrote this specifically for me, myself, and I, and I figured why not share it?
The first HR meeting came one week after you and Robby stopped hiding.
There was no big announcement, just the two of you walking into the Pitt together, brushing your shoulders, looking like two people who’d woken up in the same bed. By the shift’s end, when you left holding hands, walking toward your car, the gossip had already caught fire.
You’d both known the risks: the sideways comments, the bureaucratic headaches. But after six months of secrecy, after deciding to move in together, sneaking around like teenagers felt ridiculous.
It all went south quickly, because the next morning, the murmurs started. Not loud or outright hostile right away, just sharp enough to disrupt the rhythm of the ED.
You were in bay 6, supervising the placement of a central line on a septic patient. The resident was doing well, she had steady hands, but every time you leaned in to give some direction, you caught the way the other residents glanced over. One of them muttering to another, low enough that it was meant to be private but wasn’t: “Of course she gets the plum procedures. Sleeping with the chief attending will do that.” Your shoulders stiffened for half a second, but you didn’t react. You were ready to face some shady comments, and you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t let it affect you. But damn it, it was hard not letting it get to you.
Later, in the break room during a rare five-minute lull, it got more direct. You were refilling your water bottle when two nurses walked in, and you managed to catch a little of their conversation before they abruptly stopped once they noticed you.
“…just think it’s unfair for the rest of the residents. He’s the chief attending. And now his little girlfriend gets all the high-acuity patients? Come on. That’s favoritism, plain and simple.”
It keeps happening throughout the day, getting worse when an intern questioned you for having two trauma 1 cases the same morning. And suddenly, the interns you were supposed to be teaching, the ones who were meant to learn from you, were doubting every single one of your orders, as if you didn’t know what you were talking about, as if you were only there because you’d slept with Robby.
"Just saying. People are talking. You get all the complex cases lately. Like that GSW yesterday? I could've handled that, but it went straight to you." One of them said.
You kept your voice professional. "The GSW went to me because I was the chief resident on shift. Now focus, you have the chance to learn, but if you want to miss it then I'll do the procedure myself."
He muttered something under his breath as he finished, but the seed was already planted in the minds of all the residents, especially those who didn’t really know Robby, who didn’t understand he would never compromise anyone’s education, no matter who he was in love with.
"She's chief resident, yeah, but come on. Sleeping with the attending? No wonder her evals are glowing. I bet her reports are padded."
"Look at her latest report. Perfect scores again. Meanwhile, the other us are struggling to get by. If that's not favoritism, I don't know what is. And assigning her the lead on that multi-trauma? Please. Someone should say something."
Dana overheard the interns talking, and slammed her tablet down. "Ladies, if you've got a problem, take it to admin. Otherwise, shut it and get back to work. We've got patients dying while you're busy gossiping."
You felt the eyes on you all afternoon, and suddenly, the place that, up until today, had felt like a second home, where you’d always moved like a fish in water, now felt like you were being slowly kicked out.
Thankfully, the people you were closest to: Mel, Santos, Whitaker, Dana, never stopped looking at you or treating you the same. They knew you, and they knew Robby. They had your back, and more importantly, they made you feel normal when everyone else made you feel like an oddity.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Mel was explaining while you both worked through charts on the computers. “The regulation isn’t specific enough when it comes to cases of fraternization between a chief attending and a chief resident. You can allege—”
“What’s up, Melancholia?” Trinity said as she approached the two of you. “Hey, Chief Slutty.” Chief Slutty, the affectionate nickname Santos had given you. “Jesus, I can’t believe people are still going on about this shit. Why do they care so much who you’re sleeping with? Every time I close my eyes I picture you and Robby going at it, and I want to rip my eyes out.”
“Some of us would like to rip our ears off when it’s three in the morning and we can’t sleep because some people are… very enthusiastic,” Whitaker added as he passed by, pushing a patient in a wheelchair. Everybody knew about Santos and Garcia, except, of course, nobody cared, since Garcia wasn’t a chief attending. Lucky them.
“Oh, deal with it, Huckleberry. You’re not even paying rent,” Santos shoot back before looking at you. “I was meaning to ask, any chance you can get your boyfriend to write me a killer recommendation later?”
“Believe me, I know what it’s like, people thinking you got here because of who you’re related to,” Victoria chirped as she stepped out of Trauma 2, pulling off her latex gloves and tossing them in the bin. “Don’t listen to them. Only you know how hard you worked for this.”
You offered her a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your friends did their best efforts in cheering you up, and even though Robby tried to comfort you once you were back home, you still felt uneasy.
“They’re talking,” you said quietly. “A lot. Favoritism. Unfair. Wrong. That I’m getting special treatment because we’re…”
He didn’t look up from his phone, only exhaled through his nose. “I know.”
You crossed your arms. “Doesn’t bother you?”
“It bothers me that it bothers you.” He leaned on the couch, readjusting his glasses, finally putting down his phone to look at you. “But I’ve been here long enough to know how this place works. People talk. Always have. When I got chief, half the attendings said I wasn’t ready for it. When I started pushing for better trauma protocols, they said I was power-tripping. Now it’s this.” He shrugged one shoulder. “They’ll get bored. Or they’ll get used to it. Either way, I’m not changing how I run my department because of what they say.”
You nodded slowly. “And me? They think I’m riding your coattails.”
“Well, it’s not my fault I’m extremely popular, and a damn good catch,” he said with a smirk, nudging you with his foot.
“Robby,” you started.
“Listen to me, you’re one of the best residents I’ve ever worked with. You were before we started this. You still are. Anyone who can’t see that is either blind or jealous. And if they want to question your competence because of who you’re sleeping with, that’s their problem. Not yours.”
You felt the heat flooding your face, just as much as when he’d first complimented you on our first day at work. “You really don’t care?”
“I care that it’s making your day harder.” His hand found yours, squeezing it briefly before letting go. “But I’m not sorry. I’m not going to pretend we’re not together just to make them comfortable. We’re adults. We’re professionals. We follow the rules, no sex in the hospital, no conflicts on shared cases if it comes to that. Beyond that? They can gossip all they want. Besides, it’ll be a nice change of scenery to have Gloria bugging me about something other than patient satisfaction scores,” he chuckled to himself. “Being nagged for having amazing sex with my amazing girlfriend doesn’t sound so bad.”
His bad attempt of being funny made you roll your eyes. “Stop. It’s not funny.” You playfully swatted at him. “Now I’m going to feel like every time you fuck me, it’s not because of me, but just to indirectly piss off Gloria.”
“Can’t a man do his two favorite things at the same time?” he said with a half smile right before you threw a pillow at his face.
Things got even worse by Wednesday, when you were running a chest tube on a pneumothorax patient. Robby was there, supervising, watching your technique with approval. The intern assisting you, a new guy named Mark, kept glancing between you and Robby like he was waiting for something to happen.
The tube was placed, the patient was stable, and you were securing it when Mark finally opened his mouth.
"Guess that's another perfect procedure for the chief resident," he said, just loud enough for the three of you. "Must be nice having the chief personally oversee everything. Some of us have to actually earn our stripes without a boyfriend doing us favors."
The words landed like a slap. Robby turned slowly. "Excuse me?" His voice was low, the kind that made people lean in to hear it.
Mark flushed, and he doubled down. "I just said—"
"I heard what you said." Robby stepped forward, not raising his voice, no matter how pissed he was. "You want to repeat it? Louder? So everyone can hear how little respect you have for your chief resident and the work she does?"
Mark opened his mouth, but closed it right away. Robby didn’t give him time to recover. "You're new, but you’ve been here long enough to know how this department works, Mark. You want to question a procedure? Fine. You want to question my judgment on case assignments? Go ahead. But the second you imply that she didn't earn her spot because of who she's sleeping with, you're not just talking shit about her. You're talking shit about me, about this program, and about every patient who walks through those doors expecting competent care."
Mark's face was beet red now. "I didn't mean—"
"You meant exactly what you said." Robby stepped closer. "You think favoritism got her here? Look at her numbers. Look at her complication rates. Look at the patient satisfaction scores that are higher than yours and mine combined. She's chief resident because she's the best doctor in this class. Not because I enjoy sleeping with her."
The bluntness hit you like a shockwave. Mark flinched, and you could see the heat crawling up his neck. Robby kept going. "If you can't handle the fact that two consenting adults are in a relationship, that's your problem. Not hers. Not mine. But if you ever, ever, question her competence again in my hearing, I will personally make sure you spend the rest of your rotation doing nothing but rectal exams and bed baths. And I will make sure every attending in this hospital knows exactly why."
Mark stared at the floor, swallowing hard. "I… I'm sorry."
Robby didn’t soften. "Apologize to her. Not me."
Mark finally looked at you. He looked completely miserable, like a little kid who just got scolded. "I'm sorry, Dr. That was out of line."
You nodded once. "Accepted. Go help with the MVC patients. We don't have time for this."
During the rest of the shift, you heard the echoes of Robby’s words filtering through the department:
“Did you hear what he said to Mark? Called him out right there.”
“‘I will personally make sure you spend the rest of your rotation doing rectal exams.’ Jesus.”
“He basically told the whole room he’s sleeping with her and doesn’t give a shit who knows.”
By mid-afternoon, the story has spread to every corner: trauma, the hallway beds, even the pharmacy techs are repeating variations of it. Some people sound impressed. Some sound scandalized. But apparently, everyone had an opinion. on your sex and romantic life. The ED wasn’t that different from highschool.
As the shift wound down slowly, the board got cleared, and the last critical patient got transferred to the ICU. Everyone was tired, coats already half-on, bags slung over shoulders.
But when the last update was done, Robby didn’t dismiss the group. He stayed standing, “I’ve got something to say,” he started. “And I’m only saying it once, so listen up. For the last few days, there’s been a lot of talk in this department. About me. About your chief resident. About whether she’s earned the position she’s in, the cases she runs,and the evaluations she gets. Let me be crystal clear: the answer is yes. She has. Every single time. I’ve been running the ED here for many years. I’ve watched every one of you come through these doors, some of you as interns, some as attendings. I know what competence looks like. I know what excellence looks like. And I know favoritism when I see it, because I’ve fought against it my entire career.”
He paused for a second.
“What I do not do is hand out special treatment because I’m sleeping with someone. If anything, I’ve been harder on her to make sure no one could ever question it. And still, people decided to run their mouths. To imply that her work, her outcomes, her patient care, are somehow tainted because of who she’s in a relationship with.”
A few people shifted uncomfortably. Mark was in the back, staring at the floor like he wanted it to swallow him.
“So let me make this easy for everyone. She is the chief resident because she’s the best doctor in her class. Her numbers are the best. Her patients do better. Her families remember her name. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the data. Take it up with me. But do not question her competence again. Not in my hearing. Not in this department. We’re all tired. We’re all burned out. We’ve all seen shit in these halls that would break most people. The last thing we need is to start tearing each other down over personal lives that don’t affect patient care. If you’ve got a real concern about bias, about fairness, about anything that touches a patient, bring it to me. Bring it to Gloria, though I doubt you’d want to. Bring evidence. But if you’re just looking for something to whisper about because you’re jealous, insecure, or bored? Keep it to yourself. Or find a new place to work.”
He looked around one last time, landing his eyes on you for half a second, long enough for you to see the quiet pride there, the protectiveness, before he looked away again.
“That’s it. We’re done here.”
Robby knew he had let his emotions win in that moment. He shouldn’t have said the things he said, or at least not in the way he said them. His speech was the match that struck the fire. Because on the morning of Tuesday, you were called to the HR office.
You sat, smoothing your scrubs unconsciously, folding your hands in your lap to steady the faint tremor.
"For the record, this meeting is being recorded for documentation purposes. Date: January 10, 2026. Time: 10:22 a.m. Present: Sarah Smith, HR Director, Finn Rivera, HR Assistant.” You shivered when she said your name next. “Chief Resident in Emergency Medicine at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center."
Sarah adjusted her glasses, opening a folder. "Dr., we're conducting an investigation due to a formal anonymous complaint regarding potential favoritism and conflicts of interest in the Emergency Department. The allegations involve your personal relationship with Dr. Robinavitch and its possible impact on departmental fairness, evaluations, and assignments. We'll go through a series of questions to gather your perspective. Please answer as fully and honestly as you can. Do you have any questions before we begin?"
You shook your head, and Finn started with the basics, looking at the tablet in his hand. "To confirm, can you describe the nature and timeline of your relationship with Dr. Robinavitch?"
You took a measured breath. "We're in a romantic relationship. It began about six months ago. We started as colleagues, and it developed naturally from there, outside of the hospital. We've always kept it professional at work."
Sarah nodded, jotting a note. "And how would you characterize the start of the relationship? Was it mutual and consensual from the outset?"
"Absolutely," you said it firmly. "It was entirely consensual. We were both single adults, and no power dynamics were abused. We talked about the potential complications early on, given our roles, and decided to proceed carefully. There was no pressure from either side."
Sarah's pen scratched across her pad. " Have there been any instances where you felt the relationship was not fully consensual or where professional boundaries were crossed?"
"No," you replied immediately. "Never. We've been very intentional about consent and boundaries. If anything, we've over-communicated to make sure neither of us feels pressured."
Sarah's tone shifted slightly, more probing. "Regarding the consensual nature, given the inherent power imbalance between an attending and a resident, have you ever felt that Dr. Robinavitch used his position to influence the relationship, even subtly? For example, implying better opportunities or evaluations in exchange for personal involvement?"
You met her gaze with security, leaving no room for argument. "No. Never. It was consensual because we’ve always treated each other as equals outside work. No quid pro quo, no manipulation."
Finn scrolled on his tablet. "Moving to the professional side, the complaint alleges that since the relationship began, you've received preferential treatment, such as being assigned more high-profile cases, higher performance evaluations, and perhaps leniency in feedback. How do you respond to these claims?"
You leaned forward slightly. You’d worked your ass off to get where you stood now, and you’d be damned if you let anyone underestimate you, thinking you’d earned your place by sleeping with someone instead of the endless nights of study, the brutal shifts, and the hard dedication it actually took. "I respond by saying they're not accurate. My role as chief resident already involves leading on high-acuity cases, that's part of the position, assigned by the program director based on seniority and performance. I've handled tough traumas because I'm available and capable, not because of favoritism. My evaluations have been strong since my intern year, from multiple attendings, not just Dr. Robinavitch. If you compare my pre-relationship evals to now, there's consistency. In fact, he's given me more pointed feedback recently."
Sarah tilted her head. "Can you provide a specific example of a case where you believe the assignment was merit-based rather than influenced by your relationship?"
"Sure," you said. "Take the multi-car pileup two weeks ago. I was the senior resident on shift, so I took the lead on the most critical patient, a pedestrian with abdominal evisceration. Dr. Robinavitch supervised, but he didn't hand-pick me, the triage nurse assigned me based on protocol. We stabilized the patient and got them to the OR. My outcomes on that case were with minimal complications. If it were favoritism, why would he push me harder in debriefs? He doesn't let me slide, he expects more because he knows I can deliver."
The interview stretched on for nearly forty minutes more, asking you of examples of critical feedback from Robby, and instances of perceived shielding. You provided dates, patient outcomes, and even suggested they pull resident feedback surveys where you'd been rated highly by peers.
An hour later, they called Robby in.
"Dr. Robinavitch, thank you for coming on short notice. I'm Sarah Smith, HR Director. This is my assistant, Finn Rivera. Please, take a seat."
Robby took the offered seat across from them, keeping his back straight, resting his hands loosely on the table. He wasn't here to fidget or defend himself or the relationship, he was here to state facts.
"For the record," Sarah began, her voice sounding practiced, "this meeting is being recorded for documentation purposes. Date: January 10, 2026. Time: 11:20 a.m. Present: Sarah Smith, HR Director, Finn Rivera, HR Assistant, and Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Senior Emergency Attending and Chief Attending Physician at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center."
Robby nodded once. "Understood."
Sarah adjusted her glasses, glancing at the thin folder in front of her. "Dr. Robinavitch, we're here today to discuss a formal anonymous complaint we've received regarding potential favoritism and conflicts of interest within the Emergency Department. The allegations center on your personal relationship with the current chief resident, and how it may be influencing departmental operations, including case assignments, performance evaluations, and overall fairness to other residents and staff."
Robby's expression didn't change. He'd expected this exact script. "There are no explicit rules in this hospital regarding fraternalization between chief attending and chief resident. The complains should be marked as unsubstantiated."
Sarah nodded, her tone neutral. "We're aware of that. However, following your public comments during last night's sign-out, where you addressed the department directly, additional concerns have been raised. Multiple staff members have contacted us expressing discomfort with what they perceive as a power imbalance. Some feel it creates a hostile work environment, where raising legitimate issues could lead to retaliation, based on your statements. Our role in HR is to conduct a thorough, impartial investigation to ensure compliance with hospital policies and to protect all employees."
“All of this is bullshit. This place would have more stars in Google than Disneyland if instead of concerning with what competent workers do in their personal lives,” Robby said. “They’d concern with the fact that people have to wait twelve hours just to be seen by a doctor, or with the current shortage of nur—”
“Dr. Robinavitch, I understand your frustration, but we’re here to address the nature of your relationship with your chief resident,” Sarah said, trying to calm Robby down before he launched into a full-on rant about every fucking thing that was wrong with the hospital. “If you have any other concerns, you can direct them to Dr. Underwood.”
Robby let out a laugh that lacked any real amusement. “Oh, that’d be just fantastic. Brilliant idea.”
Finn tapped his tablet, pulling up notes. "Dr. Robinavitch, could you please confirm the nature and timeline of your relationship with the Dr.?"
Robby met his eyes steadily. "We're in a romantic relationship. It started approximately six months ago. We kept it private initially, but it's become public knowledge in the last few days."
Sarah made a quick note on her pad. "And prior to this relationship, what was your professional dynamic with her?"
"She's been a resident in the program for four years. I supervised her as part of the attending rotation, same as every other resident. She was appointed chief resident last year based on her performance evaluations from the entire faculty, not just me. That decision was made before our relationship began."
"The core of the complaint alleges that your partner has received preferential treatment since the relationship began. Examples include being assigned disproportionately high-acuity cases, receiving inflated performance evaluations, and being shielded from constructive criticism that other residents face. How do you respond to these claims?"
Robby exhaled slowly, keeping his voice level. "They're unfounded. Let's break it down. First, as chief resident, she's expected to lead on high-acuity traumas, that's the role. Assignments are based on resident availability and skill level. Her complication rates are the lowest in her class, and her patient throughput is the highest. I assign her tough cases because I trust her not to screw them up, which protects patients. If other residents feel they're not getting enough exposure, they can request more rotations. No one's come to me with that until this anonymous complaint."
Finn scrolled on his tablet. "We've pulled some data on case distributions over the last six months. She has handled 28% more level-one traumas than the average resident. Does that not suggest bias?"
"No," Robby countered. "It suggests she's reliable. Check the outcomes, her mortality rates on those cases are 15% below the department average. He patient satisfaction scores are 92% higher than the rest of residents. That's not bias, that's excellence. If I were playing favorites, I'd be assigning her the easy stuff to pad her stats. Instead, she's getting the grind because she can handle it."
Sarah tilted her head slightly. "And the evaluations? The complaint notes that your written assessments of her performance are consistently outstanding, with minimal areas for improvement noted."
"Pull the full set," Robby said. "Compare my evals of her to those from other attendings, even the surgical consultants she rotates with. They're aligned. Now compare my evals of her from before we started dating to after, there’s no change in tone or scoring. If anything, I've documented more constructive feedback post-relationship to ensure transparency. For example, in October, after a multi-vehicle crash, I noted in her report that she could improve on delegating ancillary tasks during codes to free up her focus on critical interventions. That's not 'inflated', that's fair."
"Have there been instances where you've intervened in criticism directed at her from other staff?"
"Only if it's unfounded or unprofessional," Robby replied. "Like yesterday, when a resident made a snide comment implying her skills were due to who she sleeps with rather than her merit. That's not criticism, that's sexism. I addressed it publicly last night because the gossip was spreading and affecting morale. If someone has legitimate feedback on her performance, they can bring it to me. But baseless attacks? No. That undermines the team."
Sarah's expression remained neutral, but she leaned forward. "Regarding your speech at sign-out, several witnesses described it as confrontational. You mentioned disciplinary actions, like reassigning duties, for anyone questioning her competence. Some staff feel this creates a chilling effect, where they might fear retaliation for raising concerns."
Robby tightened his jaw. "I said consequences for unfounded gossip that questions her competence based on our relationship, not for legitimate concerns. But what I've seen is whispering in hallways, second-guessing her calls in front of patients, implying she's 'sleeping her way' to success. That's not a 'concern', that's sexist bullshit. And yes, I'll shut it down hard. A hostile environment? That's what the gossip creates, for her, for me, for anyone trying to do their job without personal lives being dissected."
Finn cleared his throat. "Do you believe your relationship could compromise your objectivity in supervising her or the department as a whole?"
"I've asked myself that," Robby admitted. "Multiple times. And the answer is no. We keep boundaries. If a conflict arises, like if she were up for a promotion I directly influence, I'd recuse myself. She's in her final year, so she'll be out of residency soon anyway."
Finally, Sarah leaned back. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Robinavitch. We'll review all materials, including the data you've referenced, and follow up with recommendations. In the interim, please continue your duties as usual, but remain mindful of how perceptions can impact the work environment."
Now, Robby has his hands tight on the wheel, his knuckles going white, he’s that same controlled tension you’d seen in the ED many times before when a patient was crashing and he was the only one who could keep it together. You keep glancing at him, he was staring straight ahead, like he’s still seeing whatever went down in the HR office.
You can’t stand the silence anymore. “Robby.” He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales through his nose. “Talk to me,” you say, softer. “Please.”
He flicks the turn signal, and takes the exit toward home, but still doesn’t speak.
You reach over, resting your hand on his thigh. “You’ve been silent since you came back. What happened up there? What did she say to you?”
“Same they said to you, probably. I told them it’s bullshit. You’re the best resident we’ve got. Told them your numbers speak for themselves, patient satisfaction, outcomes, complication rates. Told them to pull every report I’ve written on you, before and after we started. There’s no difference. I’ve been harder on you, if anything, to avoid exactly this.”
“You’re pissed,” you say quietly. It’s clear in his tone, even if he tries to soften it for you.
“Yeah.” The word comes out rough. “I’m fucking pissed.”
You nod, letting that sit. “At the hospital? At the person who complained? At me?”
He shoots you a look, almost startled. “Not at you. Never at you.”
“Then talk to me. I can take it.”
He pulls into the driveway and kills the engine. The sudden silence is deafening, but neither of you moves to get out. Robby scrubs a hand over his face, his beard rasping against his palm. “I’ve spent years building this place. Years of fighting for better protocols, better staffing, better outcomes. I’ve taken every hit, budget cuts, admin bullshit, burnout, families screaming in my face. I’ve never once compromised patient care.”
You stay quiet, letting him go. “And now? Now someone’s trying to turn what we have into a fucking scandal. Like you didn’t earn every case you’ve run. Like your evals are fake. Like I’d risk the department, the patients, everything, just to hand you favors.” He laughs once, humorless. “I’ve had attendings question my decisions before. Residents push back. Families threatening me with lawsuits. But this? This feels… personal. Dirty. Like they’re trying to drag you down to make themselves feel better.”
You reach for his hand on the gear shift, lacing your fingers through his. His grip is tight, almost too tight, but he doesn’t pull away. “I hate that they’re making you doubt yourself,” you say softly. “Even a little.”
“I don’t doubt myself.” He turns to look at you. “I doubt them. I doubt the system that lets one anonymous asshole throw mud and force me to defend something that’s none of their goddamn business.” He exhales, and you can see how some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. "How'd yours go?"
"Long. They asked about everything, the timeline, how it started, if it was consensual from the beginning. Like they were checking for some hidden coercion or something."
Robby narrowed his eyes. "Consensual? They went there?"
"Yeah. I told them it was mutual, that I made the first move outside work. No pressure, no imbalance exploited. But it felt… invasive. Like they were dissecting us." Your voice cracks on the last words, and suddenly the frustration boils over with unexpected tears that prick in your eyes. You blink them back, but they come anyway, spilling over as you drop your head into your hands.
"Hey." Robby's pulling you into his chest in a second. His arms are solid, cupping the back of your head with one hand. "Hey, talk to me."
You shake your head against his shirt, but the words tumble out anyway. "I'm just… so frustrated. So fucking angry. I worked my ass off for this. Years of med school debt, rotations where I barely slept, and proving myself every single shift. I earned chief resident. I earned those cases, those evals. And now? Now it's all being discredited because we're together? Like none of it matters. It's bullshit. It hurts."
The sobs come harder now, muffled against him. He holds you tighter, rocking slightly, stroking slow circles on your back. "I know. I know. Fuck them, you know you earned this. The people who matter in the ED, Dana, Yolanda, Cassie, we all know it."
You pull back just enough to look at him with tears streaking your face. "What if they don't believe us? What if this tanks my fellowship apps? Or worse, what if it makes people think I'm not good enough? I've fought for every inch in that department. The late nights studying protocols, the extra simulations, even when I was exhausted. And now some anonymous coward gets to smear it all?"
Robby's touch is gentle as he wipes your cheeks with his thumbs. "Listen to me. You're not being discredited. Not by anyone who matters. Your work stands on its own, patients alive because of you, families grateful. Think of that family that sends you flowers and cupcakes every year after you saved their child, think of all the life’s you’ve positively impacted. The data backs how professional a doctor you are. HR will see that. And if they don't? We'll fight it. Together."
You sniff, leaning into his palm. "I just… I hate feeling like this."
"You're stronger than this shit. Better than it. And fuck anyone who tries to make you doubt that." He pulls you close again, kissing the top of your head, holding you until the sobs ease into shaky breaths.
Eventually you pull back, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. "Sorry. I didn't mean to fall apart."
"Don't apologize." He brushes a strand of hair from your face. "You needed to let it out. Hell, I wanted to punch a wall after my meeting."
You manage a watery smile. "Yeah?"
"Yeah,” He says, pressing slow and open-mouthed kisses along your neck and cheek, making you shudder from head to toe.
The heat blooms instantly in your lower belly. Just that simple touch, the heat of his lips against your skin, is enough to set your whole body alight with arousal.
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t fracture your fifth metacarpal. I wouldn’t want these hands in anything less than perfect condition.”
“Oh, I know how much you like these hands,” he says, downright smug now. He slides his palm to your waist and squeezes, making you jolt against the passenger seat. “Want me to remind you exactly what they can do?”
You nod, too breathless for words. The second your head dips, he’s already moving, stepping out of the car. “C’mon. Inside the house. Now.”
You follow on legs that feel unsteady, knees weak, every step making you feel the wetness between your thighs. You can feel how soaked you already are, the slickness coating your panties, spreading with each movement. Just the promise of him, of what’s coming, has you aching.
As you cross the threshold, Robby lands his hand on your ass in a quick and playful smack. You jolt forward on your feet with a startled laugh that melts into a needy sound.
He doesn’t bother with the stairs, he’s too desperate for that, too impatient. He curls his fingers around your hip, guiding you straight toward the couch in the living room.
Only when you’re both stretched out on the couch, you under him, caged by his body, does he pull back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze drags over your face, your neck, down the line of your body still fully clothed in the soft T-shirt and leggings you threw on after your shift. There’s something reverent in the way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing you all over again, even though he’s seen you like this dozens of times.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and with the way he says it… the way his eyes darken further, it makes heat pool in your belly.
He starts slow. His mouth finds yours in a deep and languid kiss as he slips his fingers under the hem of your shirt. He pushes it up inch by inch, trailing his lips from your mouth to your jaw, then down the column of your throat as more skin is exposed. When the shirt is bunched under your arms, he pauses to tug it over your head, tossing it aside without looking. He immediately moves his hands back to you, sliding his palms over the newly bared skin of your waist, your ribs, brushing his thumbs all over the undersides of your breasts through your bra.
Robby kisses his way down your sternum, leaving a trail of wet kisses, pausing to mouth at the swell of one breast over the lace. You instantly arch into him, threading your fingers through his dark hair almost unconsciously, and he hums in approval, the vibration making you twitch under him. With efficiency, because he’s always efficient, he reaches behind you, unhooking your bra with one hand, drawing the straps down your arms slowly as he kisses every inch of skin he uncovers.
When your breasts are bare, he stops, allowing himself just a second to look at you. His breath stutters out, and you feel his hands tremble slightly as they cup your tits, using his thumbs to circle your nipples until they peak under his touch. “Jesus,” he breathes almost to himself. “Look at you. Look at this body.”
Then his mouth is on you. He takes one nipple between his lips, sucking gently at first, barely flicking his tongue. But the tenderness doesn’t last long, he goes harder as his impatience grows, grazing with his teeth just enough to make you gasp. His hand works the other breast in tandem, kneading your soft flesh, rolling and pinching until you’re writhing beneath him, rocking your hips up against his thigh, where it’s pressed between your legs.
He switches sides, giving the same devoted attention and murmuring praise against your tits between kisses. Words like perfect, gorgeous, mine fall from his lips like he can’t help himself. He moves his free hand lower, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, mapping every inch like he’s starved for it.
Eventually, he moves lower, kissing down your stomach, dipping his tongue into your navel, making you shiver. He hooks a hand into the waistband of your leggings, and he looks up at you, locking his eyes on yours as he peels them down slowly along with your underwear, until you’re completely bare beneath him.
He sits back on his heels for a moment, just drinking you in. The hunger in his expression is raw. It’s the same hunger you saw the first time you laid naked in front of him. “Fuck,” he says quietly, “I could look at you forever.”
You feel yourself flush under the intensity of his compliments, but there’s no embarrassment, only desire. He runs his hands up your calves, behind your knees, along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, parting them gently. His touch is everywhere, exploring your body as if it were the first time he’s ever seen it, worshipping you like you were divine. When he finally slides his fingers between your legs, you’re already soaked, and he groans at the discovery, dropping his head to your thigh as he presses an open-mouthed kiss there.
“All this for me?” He murmures against your skin, and you can only whimper, a sound he takes as a “yes”. He starts maddeningly slow, dragging the flat of two fingers up through your slick folds in one long pass. He parts you open, spreading your swollen lips wide before sliding back down, coating himself in your wetness. Then he circles your clit with tight little spirals as he watches your face while he touches you.
He pushes those same two fingers inside you, stretching you open until your walls flutter around the intrusion. He curls them on the withdrawal, dragging over that spongy spot that makes your back arch off the couch. He keeps his thumb pressed on your clit, drawing those circles that give you overwhelming pleasure.
His forearm comes down across your right thigh, pinning it firmly to the couch, forcing you wide open for him. The position leaves you completely exposed, glistening and helpless, and he groans at the sight. You buck your hips uselessly against his hold.
“Stay still, baby. Let me play with this pretty pussy.” His pace stays torturously controlled, and when he finally lowers his mouth between your legs, you nearly cum right then.
His tongue is fucking molten. Robby starts with wide and sloppy drags at first, coating your entire cunt in wet spit as he laps you up like he’s starving. Then he narrows in, curling the tip over your swollen clit, flicking just hard enough to make your thighs jump.
“Please… right there, baby, please…” Your throaty moans come straight out of your chest. “Your tongue feels so good!”
He curls his two fingers deeper inside you, grinding his knuckles against you every time he thrusts into you. Robby groans against your pussy, like he’s getting off on the taste alone. Suddenly, he's yanking you down onto his face so there’s no escape, so he can bury his nose against your mound, fucking you with his fingers while his lips suck messily around your clit.
“Taste so goddamn sweet I could stay here all night.” He pulls away just for a second, just to admire his wrecked you look. “Keep those thighs open for me, baby.”
Every time you try to squirm, he growls and pulls you back harder, smearing your slick across his chin, his beard, his whole face glistening with you. He’s relentless and greedy, moaning louder when you clench around his fingers, like he’s chasing his own release just from drowning in your cunt.
“I’m gonna cum—fuck, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”
You’re trembling now, your thighs shaking around his head, and your fingers twisting tight in his hair as the pleasure takes you higher and higher. He doesn’t let up, he keeps devouring your pussy until you arch your back off the couch as the orgasm crashes over you in waves.
You gush against his mouth, and he flattens his tongue wide to catch every hot pulse of your release. Robby laps at the flood greedily, with long drags up your soaked folds, gathering the slick that’s dripping down your ass and pooling beneath you. He seals his lips around your clit again, coaxing out the last trembling spurts while you whimper and twitch.
Then he dips lower, pushing his tongue inside your fluttering hole to taste you one more time, slurping noisily at the creamy sheen coating his chin and dripping from his mouth.
He doesn’t stop until you’re boneless and totally oversensitive, tugging weakly at his hair to pull him up.
Only then does he back up your body, kissing every inch along the way, until he’s hovering over you again, his beard glistening with your arousal, and his eyes dark with satisfaction. You pull him down into a deep kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.
Your hands frame his face, brushing your thumbs over his wet facial hair, “You’re amazing. God, Robby… you make me feel so good. Every time.”
He exhales sharply, his eyes are full of pride, the satisfaction of a man who knows he succeeded in deeply satisfying his woman. He kisses you again, slower this time, “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You smile into the kiss, sliding your fingers down his neck, over the collar of his T-shirt. He’s still fully clothed, and suddenly that feels unfair. You tug at the hem. “Your turn.”
He sits back on his heels, letting you pull the shirt over his head. You take your time, tracing the lines of his chest as they’re revealed, his broad shoulders, the muscles earned from years of hauling patients and running around the ED. You move your hands lower, untying the drawstring of his pants, pushing them down along with his boxers. He helps kick them off, and then he’s bare above you, unapologetically himself. You drop your gaze to appreciate his naked body, and the heat floods you all over again.
His cock is thick and long, the veins are standing out in pulsing ridges along the shaft, the fat head flushed dark and already glistening with precum that beads at the slit and slowly drips down the underside. It rests against the plane of his lower belly, the tip kissing just below his navel, smearing a shiny wet trail there. The dark, trimmed, but still wild, hair at the base is the same texture as the beard on his face, unkempt and curling slightly where it meets the root.
You wrap your hand around him, your fingers barely meeting around the girth. The skin is hot and smoothl, and he’s throbbing hard against your palm like it’s got its own heartbeat. You feel every ridge, every vein, the way it twitches and swells thicker in your grip. A fresh bead of precum wells up and slides over your thumb as you stroke once, lazily.
He jerks his hips forward involuntarily, fucking up into your fist like he can’t help it, chasing the pressure. The motion makes his balls draw up tight, brushing the heel of your hand.
“Fuck… your hand,” he rasps, one hand hovering over yours like he’s fighting not to grab your wrist and make you move faster. His cock pulses again, and another thick drop of precum spills over your knuckles. He shudders when you squeeze just right at the base, milking another low moan out of him. “Baby, you’re killing me.”
Robby doesn’t let you tease for long. He leans down, kissing you hard. “Need to be inside you,” he says against your lips. “Need to feel you around me.”
Without a word, he stands up and slides his strong arms under your thighs. He positions you near the edge of the couch, as he stands between your spread legs. You whimper, letting your thighs fall open wider on instinct.
He doesn't give you time to beg. Robby just steps closer, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock and the other sliding under your ass. He lifts your hips off the couch in a single effortless motion, bringing your pussy to the same level as his member. Your lower back arches off the edge of the couch, keeping your shoulders, neck, and head still pressed into the cushions, but your legs dangling uselessly in the air except where he holds you up.
The position is obscene, it feels vulnerable, you’re completely at his mercy. Your pussy hovers just above the couch, exposed and dripping.
He drags the swollen head of his cock through your drenched folds, letting the fat tip catch on your entrance, then slide up to nudge your oversensitive clit, smearing your slick all over him until his shaft glistens. Then, without warning, he lines up, notches the blunt head against your fluttering hole, and thrusts in hard.
Your back bows off the couch like you’ve been electrocuted, a cry tearing from your throat as your cunt is forced to take every thick inch at once. The stretch is fucking devastating, it always is with him, it makes your walls clamp down instinctively around the invasion. He bottoms out right away, slamming his hips flush to yours, the coarse hair at his base grinding right up against your clit, rasping over it with every tiny shift.
He stays buried deep, unmoving for a long second, letting you feel it all, the throb of his cock stretching you wide, the way his balls press tight against your ass, the way your pussy ripples and squeezes around him like it’s trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time.
He’s breathing hard through his nose like he’s savoring the moment. “So tight… You have no idea how good you feel.”
"Fuck—Robby—" You cry out, but he doesn't give you any more time to adjust. He starts fucking you immediately, with punishing snaps of his hips that drive him deep every time.
Each thrust jolts your whole body, making your breasts bounce, tipping your head back against the cushion. The angle is devastating, he's hitting that spot inside you on every stroke, dragging the head of his cock against your G-spot relentlessly.
You can't keep quiet, the whimpers and moans spill out of you, the words tumbling between gasps. "S-so—good—fuck—ha-ah-rder—please!"
He drops his gaze to where you’re joined, fixating his eyes on the filthy sight of his cock splitting you open, glistening with your slick every time he pulls out slow, only to slam back in deep, stretching your pussy wide around him. Your arousal is coating his shaft, dripping down his balls with every thrust.
His stare lingers there a moment longer, watching how your lips cling to him, how your clit peeks out every time he bottoms out. Then he drags his eyes higher, llanding on your tits, on the way they’re bouncing hard with the force of his hips. One hand leaves the grip on your hip, sliding up until he cups one breast, his palm engulfing it completely. His swipes his thumb over the stiff peak, sending a jolt straight to your core.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “These tits… fuck! Moving just like that while I fuck you. You’re gorgeous. You’re so beautiful. I’ll never get tired of watching you.”
He speeds up gradually, the slap of skin on skin filling the room, mixed with your gasps and his groans. Robby digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your ass as he holds you exactly where he wants you, lifted and open, helpless to do anything but take it. The couch creaks under the force, the cushions shifting beneath your shoulders.
"Look at me," he orders you, "Watch me fuck you. You feel how sloppy this pussy gets when I’m fucking you?”
You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, and his face looks flushed as he pounds harder into you. The sight… the way his cock disappears into you over and over, it makes you clench hard around him.
"Fuck! yeah, just like that," he groans. "Squeeze me like that."
You do, and your walls start fluttering and gripping him on every withdrawal, trying to swallow his cock, to keep him deep inside you and milk his load. Your hands scrabble at the cushions, digging your nails into the fabric, then up to his forearms, clinging as he fucks you harder.
He angles his hips higher, tilting just right so the ridge of his cock drags relentlessly over that swollen spot inside you. The pressure makes you curl your toes, and your vision blur at the edges. You bite your lip to desperately muffle a scream, but it still rips out anyway, way too loud, echoing off the walls like you’re trying to wake the whole damn neighborhood.
“There?” Robby snaps his hips faster, keeping that same angle that has the head of his cock punching right up against your cervix, a kind of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. “Right there, baby?”
"God! Yes! Robby! right there—don't stop! Right there!" You scream, and he doesn't stop. If anything, he goes harder, thrusting into you with bruising force, making his balls slap against your ass on every thrust. The angle also makes your clit rub against his pelvis every time he bottoms out, sending bursts of pleasure spiking through you.
"Your pussy’s so fucking tight," he pants. "So wet… you’re dripping down my thighs, making a big mess—" You can feel it, your arousal is slicking his cock, coating his base, dripping down to where his fingers grip your ass. The couch is probably ruined, but neither of you cares. "Touch yourself. Play with that pretty clit, cum on my cock."
Your hand flies between your legs, finding your swollen clit and circling it fast with your fingertips. The added stimulation shatters you, your cunt clamps down hard around his cock like a vice.
“Fuck… yeah, rub that clit for me. Make yourself cum for me. You don’t know how pretty you look like this..”
"R-robby—I'm—g-gonna—"
"Do it," his thrusts start to turn erratic, he’s losing the rhythm as he chases his own edge. "Cum—let me feel it… fuck—"
You shatter. The orgasm rips through you, harder than the first, making your walls clamp down on him like a vise, pulsing in tight waves. You cry out his name, arching your back so sharp your shoulders lift off the couch as your fingers keep rubbing frantic circles over your clit to drag it out.
He groans loud, his hips stuttering as your contractions squeeze him. "Fuck—fuck—take it—Gonna pump you so full."
He buries himself deep one last time, his cock pulsing as he cums hard inside you. You feel every single fat rope of his thick load painting your walls, filling you up until it’s too much, until the pressure builds and you can feel the warmth spreading and coating every inch of you. His cock jerks with each release, the head pressed tight against your cervix like he’s trying to pump it straight into your womb. He grinds in filthy circles, rolling his hips to milk every last drop out of himself and into you.
You can feel the heat of his cum starting to leak out around his buried length, mixing with your own mess, dripping down your ass and soaking the couch beneath you. He doesn’t pull out, just keeps you pinned there while his cock softens, but still remains thick inside you, plugging you full while he catches his breath.
For a long moment neither of you moves, but after a couple of minutes he slowly lowers your hips back to the couch, careful now, easing out with a low hiss. You feel the warm trickle of his cum leaking out, pooling under you, making an even bigger mess.
Robby exhales against your neck, scraping his beard against your tender skin. “You’re fucking incredible,” his words go straight into your bones. “I can’t even begin to tell you how good you make me feel.”
Suddenly, everything else just… dissolves. The remarks from the other residents about you and Robby, the tedious HR meeting, the people who doubted your worth and your hard work. All of it vanishes.
“Better?” he whispers, brushing his lips to your ear.
You huff a quiet laugh against his skin. “Yeah. Better.”
You stay like that, wrapped around each other, the anger and sadness from the day burned away, at least for tonight. Tomorrow will bring whatever it brings. But right now, it’s just you and him.
A/N: Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll write anything else for Robby, inspiration works in mysterious ways, so we’ll see.
If you’re a moot, hi🫶🏻 If this is your first time seeing me, I usually write for Joel Miller and Tom Hardy’s characters, and I also have an updates account @cinnxmxngxrlupdates
Robby has never been a fan of birthdays. This year, loneliness drives him to download Tinder on an impulse, only to come across the last person he expected to find there: his favorite resident.
warning/tags: minors DNI, p0rn with little plot, masturbating, sexting, pet names (sweetheart and good girl) robby loves talking you through it, unprotected piv, pussy eating, multiple orgasms, body hair, fingering, creampie, handjob, kinda softdom!robby, age gap (I imagined reader being in her 20s or 30s but could be in her 40s too, tried to keep it broad)
For those of you who read it the first or second time I uploaded it: during the days the fic was down, I expanded some scenes, added a bit more dialogue, and made it a little kinkier along the way. You might want to read it again for some extra content
He knew this was stupid, plainly a terrible idea. On any other day, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but today wasn’t any ordinary day. Today was his birthday. Fifty-five years old, and he had never felt more lost in his own life. Nothing had turned out the way he’d once imagined it would. If someone had told him, back when he was a resident, that he would still be coming home to an empty apartment at this age, no wife curled up on the couch waiting for him with a tired but loving smile, no chorus of small feet thundering toward the door, shoving drawings into his hands and saying “Look what I made for you today, daddy!” he would have laughed in their face and called it a cruel joke.
Yet here he was. No relationship had ever survived the weight of the hours and the way his mind stayed trapped in the ED long after he left it. He couldn’t be present anymore, not the way a partner deserved. The job had hollowed him out in ways he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
It had been almost a year since he ended things with Noelle, not long after he returned from his sabbatical. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do. Maybe it really was better this way. At this point in his life, trying again felt pointless, almost selfish. He was saving whatever good women were still out there from the inevitable complications of loving Michael Robinavitch.
But today the emptiness hit differently. The apartment felt quieter than usual, and his thoughts were louder, circling like a vulture. He knew it was the birthday doing this to him. Birthdays had a way of dragging the sorrows out into the light, every missed milestone, every abandoned version of the life he thought he’d have. Jack had tried to pull him out of it, offering a beer after shift, but Robby had politely declined. He wasn’t in the mood for forced cheer, for anyone raising a glass to another year of the same.
He’d made it clear to the whole department that he didn’t want any birthday cake, no cards, no presents, nothing. Still, the well-meaning murmurs had followed him all day: “Happy birthday, Dr. Robby,” each one met with a progressively wearier smile until the words blurred together. By the end of the shift, he was only managing quiet nods of acknowledgment, the kind that said thank you and please stop at the same time.
So here he was, in an apartment that was too big for himself, lying on a couch that felt even bigger, downloading Tinder on his phone. He rubbed a hand over his face, he’d tried Tinder once, maybe two years ago. Downloaded it, swiped for a week, then deleted it when the superficial nonsense started bothering him too much.
He started with the basics. Photos. Robby opened his gallery and scrolled slowly through the meager collection. Most of the images were work-related, grainy screenshots of charts, or blurry shots of trees and roads he’d taken during his bike rides. After a long hesitation, he picked a silly selfie he’d sent Jack a few weeks earlier. He was holding up the book the two of them had been texting about, half-smiling at the camera like he felt ridiculous even taking it. It wasn’t terrible, he supposed. He looked… friendly. Approachable, maybe.
Next, he chose one from the department barbecue he’d actually forced himself to attend last summer. He was wearing the sleeves rolled up on a button-down shirt, and holding a beer in his hand. He didn’t hate it, it showed a version of himself that still showed up for people, even when he didn’t feel like it. The last one was from the hospital fundraiser gala two years ago. He looked elegant in that photo in a black suit, but he had to crop Jack out of the frame, his face was still half-visible over his shoulder. Three photos, not exactly a compelling portfolio, but they were honest, he wasn’t pretending to be anyone other than himself.
He moved on to preferences. Gender: Women. Age range… His thumb froze. At first, he set it to 50–60. Women at the same stage he was, maybe divorced, maybe widowed, or just tired of feeling alone. But then something flickered in his chest, part curiosity and part desperation, and before he could talk himself out of it, he dragged the lower end down. Twenty to sixty. The wider net felt reckless, almost embarrassing. But what if the love of his life existed somewhere in that range? What if he missed her by something as stupid as a single year on a slider?
As if the love of your life was sitting on Tinder on a Sunday night, he thought. Don’t be fucking stupid, Robby.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, and with a quiet sigh that sounded too much like surrender, he tapped confirm. Now it was time for the bio. Robby stared at the blank field for a long minute. What the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t looking for anything specific. Company? Distraction? Someone who wouldn’t mind a man who came home at crazy hours, sometimes covered in blood and whocarried more baggage than he could carry?
He typed slowly what felt the most honest: “ER doctor in Pittsburgh. Love long bike rides to clear my head and 70s rock. Not entirely sure what I’m looking for here, but if you can handle sarcasm and odd hours, we might get along.”
He read it back. It sounded stiff, after all, he wasn’t used to this. But it was him, and so he hit save before he could overthink it more. The app prompted him to start swiping. Robby leaned back against the couch as the profiles began loading, smiling faces, pictures of holiday destinations, and bios full of lists of requirements. He swiped left on most without much thought.
Left. Left. Left. Some of the women seemed nice, but nothing pulled him in. He kept going until the endless scroll of faces started blurring together. No one stuck, just the same hollow feeling that had driven him to download the damn thing in the first place.
But then your profile appeared. Robby’s entire body froze. The photo loaded first: you, one of his own residents. You were standing in scrubs outside the Pitt with the same smirk you got after a particularly chaotic shift. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered as the heat crawled up his neck. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling right now.
At work you were talented and dedicated, but still green enough that he rode you hard during shifts. And here you were on Tinder, of all places. The thought that you, or anyone else from the department, might stumble across his profile made his stomach twist with embarrassment. He could already imagine the gossip: Dr. Robby on Tinder. How pathetic.
He should swipe left immediately, delete his profile, and pretend this never happened. Instead, curiosity won. Robby tapped on your profile, telling himself it was just… professional concern. Making sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. He cared about his residents. Yeah, that was it.
Your bio loaded beneath the main photo: “If you like girls who will force you to watch her Letterboxd top four and then talk your ear off for hours about the hidden meaning behind her favorite songs, then I’m your girl. Emergency med resident with zero free time. Not looking for anything serious, just fun, meeting people, seeing where it goes.”
Robby let out a chuckle despite himself, the sound was unexpected in the quiet of the moment. He had only ever seen you in the chaos of the ED, running on adrenaline and too little sleep. But this version of you felt… different. He found himself thinking about how little he actually knew you. How little he’d allowed himself to know.
He didn’t know where you were from, or what your family was like, whether you had siblings who called too often or parents you tried to make proud. He didn’t know what you did outside of the hospital besides the occasional beer in the park, or what made you laugh until your sides hurt. All those small and ordinary pieces of a life that existed outside the emergency department.
It felt strangely intimate, seeing you like this. Like stumbling across a part of you he wasn’t supposed to have access to. A version of you that wasn’t filtered through the hierarchy of resident and attending. Up until now, you had been “his resident”, contained within the professional boundaries he’d carefully maintained.
He started swiping through your photos. The second picture was you laughing in what looked like a group hike, with your hair windblown and your eyes bright. You looked undeniably pretty. Objectively, he’d always known you were attractive. The kind of natural attractiveness that turned heads in the hospital corridors even when you were exhausted and covered in sweat. But once again, he’d never thought about it. You were a resident, he’d gone down that path before, and it’d ended badly. That made you off-limits, end of story.
The third photo was of you in a cozy sweater, curled up with a book and a mug of coffee. It was cute, almost sweet. The kind of image that made the loneliness in his chest ache. He kept swiping until the last photo hit him like a defibrillator. You were on a beach somewhere sunny and sandy, wearing a bikini. Your skin was glowing under the sun, and you were smiling at the camera in a confident pose, the kind of effortless beauty that could stop any man cold. Holy fuck, your body barely contained by the fabric of the bikini, the photo capturing the gentle swell and the way the light played across your body.
Robby’s mouth went dry, the heat flooded his face and then lower down his body. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t let himself imagine you like this, outside the hospital, undeniably a woman and not just one of his residents. His pulse kicked up, the nervousness made his hands shake and his grip slippery. He fumbled the phone, trying to swipe left fast. Swipe left, damn it, he thought.
But he accidentally jerked his thumb the wrong way, to the right, and the screen lit up with that unmistakable animation.
It’s a Match!
On the other side of Pittsburgh, you had been lying in bed, still trying to unwind after another brutal twelve-hour shift. Sleep felt miles away, so you’d given in to the guilty habit of late-night Tinder scrolling. Sure, swiping at 1 a.m. probably looked desperate to anyone else, but who cared? It wasn’t like you had much of a life outside the hospital anyway.
You swiped left with efficiency. Guy whose entire bio was just a link to his podcast. Left. Gym mirror selfies and nothing else. Left. Self-proclaimed “entrepreneur in the crypto market” with a Lamborghini in the background that probably wasn’t even his. Left.
How was it this difficult to find someone even remotely decent? You weren’t expecting to meet the love of your life in this digital dumpster, but was it really too much to ask for a man with basic social skills and a profile that didn’t scream immediate red flags? Someone whose opening line wasn’t just “u dtf?”
Guy who still clearly lived with his mom. Another left. “No feminists” in the bio, followed by a rant about “high value woman.” Left.
Then your thumb froze mid-swipe. Michael Robinavitch. Your heart slammed against your ribs. There he was, Dr. Robby, looking straight into the camera in one of the photos, that familiar half-smile you’d seen a thousand times in the ED, only now it was on a dating app.
You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly wide awake. What the hell was Dr. Robby doing on Tinder? You’d scrolled through this app for weeks and never seen him before. He must have created the profile recently. The man you’d been quietly (and not-so-quietly) thirsting over since your very first day of residency was right here. One match away.
How could you not like Robby? He was everything you’d ever wanted in a man, strong, steady, impossibly smart, and so damn capable it made your legs weak every single time he gave you a calm and yet authoritative instruction in the middle of a trauma.
You’d lost count of how many times he’d gently reprimanded you for being distracted while charting. He always assumed you were just tired from the long hours. He had no idea that you kept getting lost in vivid daydreams about him: running your fingers through the silver-flecked hair and that coarse, greyish beard, feeling those big hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close.
You loved the way his eyes crinkled warmly behind his glasses when he smiled, the way his voice dropped into that gravelly register when he needed to command attention in the ED… it did things to you. Dangerous, addictive things. Sometimes getting in trouble with him felt more exciting than it had any right to.
His Tinder bio was unexpectedly adorable. He looked a little lost, like he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged on the app but was willing to put himself out there anyway. That bike is not the only thing I’d like to ride, you thought, as a little smile tugged at your lips.
His pictures made you melt and sigh at the same time. That warm, contagious smil, the glasses that struck the perfect balance between hot and endearingly sweet. The silver threading through his beard that made you press your thighs together at the mere thought of feeling it against your skin, between your legs, specifically.
You swiped slowly through the rest of his photos. Those wide shoulders, that tall and solid frame, that soft belly under the button-down shirt… you wanted him in a way you had never wanted anyone before.
It was almost pathetic the way your heart did a little skip every time he complimented your work on a tough case. The way your thighs squeezed together almost involuntarily whenever he stepped in close during a complicated procedure, guiding you step by step, his voice low and patient near your ear. “Yeah, grab the blade like that… make a two-inch incision, softly, very gently.” “Hold the tube with your left hand, tight, don’t move it.”
It made your mind wander to dangerous places. Was he like that in bed too? The kind of man who talked you through it, calm and devastatingly attentive? In your fantasies, he absolutely was. Late at night, alone in this very bed with nothing but your hand and your imagination, you could almost hear his voice murmuring against your skin: “Keep your legs open for me, nice and wide… just like that.” “Look at you… already making such a mess. I’m gonna start with one finger, okay? Think you can be good and take it for me?”
Should you swipe right? It felt like the only logical choice. If he swiped left, which seemed like the most likely outcome, he would never even know you’d swiped on him. But if he did swipe right… then maybe, just maybe, you could end up in Robby’s bed.
Your hopes stayed low. Never in a million years did you actually expect Robby to be attracted to you the way you were to him. You would’ve noticed something by now, maybe in lingering stares, subtle flirting, or any shift in the way he treated you. But he didn’t. He treated you exactly like the rest of the residents: a young doctor he needed to teach, who could sometimes be frustratingly distracted.
Still, you couldn’t contain the tiny, thrilled scream that escaped your lips when the screen lit up:
It’s a Match!
Robby had matched with you. He wanted you too.
“Shit!” Robby dropped the phone onto the couch like it had burned him. It bounced once and landed face-up, the match confirmation still glowing on the screen. He and you had just matched on Tinder. All thanks to that goddamn bikini photo and his clumsy, nervous fingers.
He stared at it, feeling his heart hammering harder than it had during the worst trauma cases. This was mortifying. You’d seen his profile, you’d swiped right, and now you were going to see that he’d swiped right as well. Part of him, the tired and lonely part that had downloaded the app and widened the age range, wondered what you’d think.
A dozen what-ifs tumbled through his mind. What if you saw his profile and laughed? That disbelieving laugh when something genuinely surprised you. What if you messaged him first? Maybe it had been a mistake on your end too. Maybe your phone had slipped, or you’d been swiping too fast after a long shift, half-asleep and a little buzzed. Or maybe… maybe you’d swiped right on purpose, just to tease him. He could already picture the text popping up on his phone: “Oh my god, Dr. Robby. What are you doing on Tinder? lol.”
Robby ran both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. He picked the phone back up, looking straight at the Send message button. He shouldn’t. The responsible thing would be to delete the app, pretend this night never happened, and go back to being your attending, not your Tinder match.
Instead, he opened your profile again. Robby tried to move past it, he really did, but his eyes lingered on that last photo far longer than they should have. You in a bikini, your skin glowing under warm sunlight. He couldn’t believe that was what you looked like underneath the baggy scrubs you wore every day in the ED.
It felt wrong. Like he wasn’t allowed to see you like this, like he was intruding on something deeply private, crossing a line that should never even be approached between an attending and his resident. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but it wasn’t enough to make him look away.
His body reacted anyway, a sudden heat stirring unwanted, a throb of arousal he hadn’t felt this sharply in longer than he cared to admit. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, hating himself for it even as the reaction deepened. What the hell is wrong with you, Robby? he told himself, but the self-reproach did nothing to dull the pull. What could he do? You were a woman. A beautiful one, and for the first time, he was seeing you not just as his resident, but as someone undeniably, breathtakingly desirable.
Before he could delete his account and go to bed as he should, your message popped up.
You: hii :)
Robby’s breath hitched in his throat. For a split second, he swore his heart actually stopped. Then it slammed back into rhythm, pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears, in his temples, in the tightness of his chest. The little smiley face stared back at him from the screen, innocent and cheerful, as if it hadn’t just flipped his entire night upside down.
You had matched with him. At eleven at night. On his lonely fucking birthday. What the hell was he supposed to say to you at 11 pm. after accidentally matching with her on Tinder? “Hey, funny seeing you” here felt pathetic. “This is wildly inappropriate” felt like a lie because the rush of heat still lingering in his veins said otherwise.
He set the phone down on the coffee table for a moment, dragging a hand over his face for the millionth time. Part of him wanted to delete the match immediately, pretend it never happened, and go to bed like the responsible, professional attending he was supposed to be. But another part, the part that had been sitting alone on his fifty-fifth birthday, couldn’t bring itself to swipe left on this one unexpected connection. So he picked the phone back up and stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.
Another message came through a minute later.
You: robby? it’s me from work... guess you saw my profile too haha
Robby let out a long breath, he couldn’t avoid it now that you’d initiated a conversation with him. It was better to be direct, explain the mistake to you, and shut this down before it got any more awkward.
Robby: hey
yeah, I saw it
listen, this is embarrassing as hell, i was messing around with the app, dropped my phone and it must have swiped right by accident
sorry about that, didn’t mean to make things weird
He hit send and immediately regretted how cold it sounded, but it was the truth. The phone stayed quiet for a moment that stretched too long. He had his eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for your reply so he could shut down this awkward conversation and delete this stupid app before he accidentally matched with anyone else from work.
You: oh. so it was a mistake? damn, i thought you had swiped right on purpose. bummer.
Robby’s eyes widened. You were being direct, not beating around the bush or deflecting by saying it had been a mistake on your end as well. He could practically hear your voice saying it with a teasing edge.
Robby: Sorry about the confusion
i know it might be awkward finding me on here. probably the last person you expected, i don’t usually do this.
You: honestly it was surprising. didn’t peg you as the tinder type at all.
but hey, we all have our moments i guess
Robby: i’m not the type
this is my second time ever downloading it and i already regret it, should probably delete the whole thing before i make an even bigger fool of myself.
You: yeah i get it. i thought the match was mutual so i figured i’d say hi. sorry for texting if it was just an accident. didn’t mean to make it weirder
Robby read your message twice. Thought the match was mutual. The words echoed in his brain. You had swiped right on purpose, not as a joke, not out of morbid curiosity about your boss’s sad dating life. You had chosen him willingly. The realization of what that meant sent a confusing rush through him. You liked him, that had to be it. The thought of you… having a crush on him made a warm feeling run through his body, one he immediately tried to shove down.
Robby: What do you mean you thought it was mutual?
You: idk... i saw the notification and figured you wanted to match with me since it happened. that’s why i said hi right away. didn’t want to leave it hanging if we were both curious
He stared at the screen, his heart beating a little harder. You were so honest and blunt about your feelings, he found himself almost intimidated by it. Some rational part of his brain was trying to tell him this had to be a big joke, there was no way in hell you could like him. You were… you. What would you see in a man like him?
Robby: you wanted us to match? seriously?
You: lol yeah i did swipe right, didn’t i? your profile was actually really nice. the book pic is cute and the 70s rock mention made me smile. plus... i don’t know, you’re interesting. figured why not. no pressure though
Robby: i thought maybe you did it out of curiosity
or just to see if I’d swiped on you didn’t expect you to actually want that
You: well i did. but if it was an accident on your end then no big deal. we can pretend this never happened and go back to normal tomorrow. i won’t mention it at work or anything. promise
Robby let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes for a long moment as he exhaled heavily. He knew exactly what the responsible Chief of Emergency Medicine should do right now: unmatch immediately, delete his profile, and pretend the entire night had been nothing more than a lonely fever dream.
But tonight… tonight he didn’t want to be responsible. He didn’t want to be Dr. Robinavitch, the attending who had sacrificed nearly every personal connection, every version of a fuller life, on the altar of the ED. For once, he wanted to be Michael. Just Michael. The man who had matched with you on Tinder. The man who was currently staring at his phone with his heart hammering like he was twenty years younger.
Before he could piece together a polite but firm way to end the conversation and retreat back into the safety of professional distance, another message appeared.
You: i think your profile’s part of the reason i swiped right. the book pic’s really nice
He smiled faintly at that, a rare genuine twitch at the corner of his mouth. Robby leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
Robby: your profile’s pretty good too, better than most of the ones i’ve seen tonight
You: aww thanks. your’s so much better than the usual bullshit on here which is not that hard to be
but still finding you here is a nice change :)
Robby: you on this app a lot? seems like you’ve got the profile down
You: not really. i’ve been on a couple dates from here but it’s honestly exhausting. hard to find someone decent in this city. most guys are either looking for hookups with zero conversation or they’re boring as hell. you know how it is
Robby: fair enough.
your age range must be set pretty high if it pulled me up
fifty five isn’t exactly the usual crowd for you or is it?
You: haha yeah well
i like older men
Those four stupid words hit him square in the chest like a defibrillator. “I like older men.” Robby reread them slowly, feeling a dangerous warmth bloom low in his belly and spread outward through his chest. He was an older man, and apparently, that fit exactly into your preferences. Was that flirtation? Were you subtly implying that he was the kind of older man you liked? Or was it just a casual, throwaway comment, something you’d say to any guy on the app who happened to have a few gray hairs?
No. He was spiraling too deep, overthinking it the way he always did. Your words didn’t carry some hidden, special meaning meant just for him. They couldn’t. And yet… No matter how hard he tried to talk himself down, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of validation that lit up inside him. He felt desired, really desired. Not just by anyone, but by you: someone younger, and so strikingly pretty it almost hurt to look at your photos for too long. Someone who, in his mind, was clearly way out of his league.
Robby: It’s okay to have preferences
everyone does.
You: yeah exactly. i just find older guys more attractive than the ones my age. they’re usually more mature, know what they want, have actual life experience. it’s... hotter, i guess. plus the conversations are better
He swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He could practically see your face as you typed those words, maybe biting your lower lip in that teasing way you sometimes did right after nailing a difficult procedure.
Then the bikini photo from earlier flashed unbidden through his mind, and the heat in his body flared hotter. He pictured you exactly as you’d looked in that shot: sun-warmed skin, curves barely contained by the fabric. The thoughts he had no right to entertain came rushing in anyway, pulling him deeper. Thoughts of having you all to himself, of finally being able to run his hands slowly over every inch of that bare skin, tracing the line of your waist, sliding up your ribs, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. Of putting his mouth on you and every sensitive spot until you were trembling beneath him.
Robby: makes sense
i usually go for women closer to my stage of life
we have more in common that way
You: do age gaps bother you?
Robby: in what way?
You: like as a concept. are they a problem for you?
Robby: i’m okay with consenting adults doing what they want
as long as everyone’s on the same page it’s not my business.
You: have you ever been in an age gap relationship or anything like that?
Robby: i once dated a woman a bit younger than me
but usually around my age
He paused before sending the next part, he shouldn’t keep engaging in this deeply unprofessional conversation, but curiosity was getting the better of him. And you were simply so easy to talk to that he couldn’t stop himself from letting his walls down a little.
He typed before he could second-guess himself.
Robby: how much older are we talking anyway?
the men you usually like i mean.
Your reply came fast, like you’d been waiting with the phone in hand.
You: usually over fifty up until their sixties or so. around that range. but it’s just a preference, nothing crazy. i feel like older men usually treat you better. they’re more gentlemanly, know how to actually listen, and they tend to understand what a woman wants... in every way, if you know what i mean ;)
Robby read the message twice. Three times. Four. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck me. You weren’t just being polite or making casual conversation. That winky face, the implication hanging there about “every way”. You were deliberately flirting with him, there was no other way to see it. He shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of his own body and the fact that it had been a long damn time since anyone had spoken to him like that.
He took a slow breath and replied, trying to keep some semblance of control.
Robby: do you date men closer to your own age too?
or is it mostly the older crowd?
You: i have tried guys closer to my age. some of them are sweet but a lot are still figuring their shit out. you should try dating a woman younger than you sometime though. maybe it’s exactly what you need.
Robby didn’t know what to say. The words hung there, full of possibilities around them. He was still wrestling with a response when another message from you popped up.
You: anyway sorry again for the confusion earlier. i’ll leave you alone so you can keep scrolling through profiles. i’ll go back to robbing the graves haha (joke, get it? because i like older guys... sorry that was sooo bad)
Robby chuckled despite the whirlwind in his head. The joke was cheesy, so perfectly you that it cut through some of the tension. But it also gave him an out, you were offering to back off and let this weird moment fade into nothing before tomorrow’s shift made everything awkward as hell. Part of him wanted to take the exit ramp, wish you a good night, unmatch, delete the app, and pretend none of this happened. But another part, the one that had been sitting alone on his birthday didn’t want the conversation to end.
He tapped over to your photos again, almost against his will. There it was the last one. You on the beach in that bikini, with the perfect swell of your tits catching the sunlight. Holy fuck. He wanted you, the realization hit him all of a sudden, making him switch back to the chat and move his thumbs almost on autopilot.
Robby: Nothing to apologize for
honestly you’ve kept me better company tonight than I expected
You: see? younger women can be good company too :) you shouldn’t close the door so fast. you could meet someone nice if you give it a chance
Robby: you shouldn’t close the door on guys your own age either
there are decent ones out there, you’ll find someone who can keep up with you
You: out of all the guys i’ve matched with here... you’re easily the best one. no contest
Robby: Really? that can’t be right
you’re selling yourself short.
You: no i mean it. you’re exactly the kind of man i’d usually go for. tall, older, smart... and hot
The word hot hit him harder than it had any right to. His face flushed deeper, his clothes felt constricting, his pants uncomfortably tight. Robby’s cock was already half-hard, thickening and pulsing insistently against the zipper of his jeans with every new message.
All because you’d called him hot. Just a little cheeky, playful comment, and it was enough to unravel him. The touch starvation wasn’t helping. It had been so damn long since anyone had looked at him with real interest, longer still since he’d felt this fluttering feeling low in his stomach. This rush of ego, this sharp need to be close to someone, to be wanted, to touch and be touched.
Robby: thanks i guess
you’ll meet someone worth your time, you’re a good girl
The message was sent before he could fully reconsider the wording. The second it went through, Robby winced. It sounded weirdly sexually charged, maybe it was because he was feeling sexually charged, painfully so. A Freudian slip at its finest.
You: good girl? 😏
Robby: shit i didn’t mean it to sound weird
just a figure of speech i suppose.
You: should i call you daddy then? ;)
Robby nearly dropped the phone again. The winky face, the bold suggestion, the way it played so perfectly into the tension that had been building sent a bolt of pure want through him. He could imagine your voice saying it, teasingly so, with that mischievous glint in your eyes. His mind supplied far too many vivid images: you in nothing but your skin looking up at him, you saying it in person with a flirty smile. He was fully hard. Actually hard, just from a fucking text conversation.
The professional alarm bells were clanging loudly in the back of his head. This was his resident, the age gap, the power dynamic, the fact that you’d have to face each other at the Pitt in a few short hours... it was all wrong. But god, it felt good. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
He glanced down at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, his cock straining against the fabric like a flagpole. He couldn’t believe it. One flirty text from his resident and he was rock hard. Don’t get hard for your fucking resident, he thought. She’s one of your own. Off-limits. This is insane. He adjusted himself uncomfortably, trying to will it down through stubbornness, but the ache only sharpened.
You: too much? sorry i was just messing around lol
Robby exhaled and typed back, trying to sound more composed than he felt.
Robby: Don’t worry about it
i know it was a joke, no harm done
You: it was... unless you don’t want it to be a joke
He let out a surprised laugh, his cock twitched again at the follow-up, you were relentless, and something told him you were noewhere near done.
Robby: you’re funny, i’ll give you that.
You: that’s what i’ve been told. glad you’re having fun with me tonight
Robby: Well, I guess I should let you get some sleep
early shift tomorrow and all
You: i don’t mind staying up. i swiped right on you, remember? yk for a minute i really thought you were gonna flirt with me or maybe even ask me to come over to your place or something
The words hung there. You had been excited, you had hoped he would flirt. The image flashed through his mind, you showing up at his door in the middle of the night, stepping inside and… He shifted again, pressing his hand down against his insistent erection through his sweatpants, trying to get some relief even as guilt gnawed at him. This was crossing so many lines he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross after Heather. But the loneliness that had driven him to download the app in the first place was quieter now, replaced by an electric tension.
Robby: that would be very inappropriate
i’m your boss and there are lines we can’t cross
You: but you’re not dr. robby my attending in here. you’re michael robinavitch, 55, the guy who loves 70s rock and long bike rides. and i’m not your resident in this chat. i’m just a girl who likes movies and older men... and who is really, really into you right now
You were separating the roles so cleanly, drawing a line between the hospital and this private space. It was tempting, dangerously tempting.
Robby: you know it doesn’t work like that
we can’t just turn it off when the shift starts tomorrow
You: nah i’m pretty sure i can
Robby: No.
You: If we really can’t meet then we can do it over text, you know.
He stared at the screen trying to guess if you really meant what you were saying.
Robby: what do you mean?
You: sexting, duh
He let out a short breath, Jesus fuck you were actually gonna kill him tonight.
Robby: that’s basically the same thing.
You: no it’s not. technically we’re not doing anything if it’s just messages. no one has to know.
Robby rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mind was screaming at him to shut this down, but his fingers were already moving. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering to do this.
This was a terrible idea. What difference did it really make whether it was real sex, his hands on you, feeling your heat around him, or just describing it in detail over text messages? A line was still a line. One he had promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. He didn’t want this to end with you giving up your residency, transferring to another hospital, another city, once things inevitably fell apart.
But fuck, his cock was achingly hard, straining against the front of his pants like a caged animal that desperately needed to be freed. The thought of you right now, maybe lying in your bed in, pressing your thighs together, that sweet slick already soaking through your panties because of him… it made it impossible to think straight. He couldn’t leave you like that, so wet, so needy, aching for him.
Robby: what do you want me to say?
You: i don’t know… just say something hot. you’re goot at being hot
He hesitated, he wasn’t sure of what to say. He was scared of seeming naive and old school to you, but he wasn’t used to this whole… sexting thing. The most spicy exchange over texts had been insinuating pictures before asking someone to come over. Okay think Robby, if you can save someone’s life under extreme preassure then you can sext with a woman, just say something typical, he thought
Robby: who’s been a naughty girl?
The second he hit send he regretted it. He winced, already typing another message to backtrack when your reply came through.
You: lmao that was the best you’ve got?
Robby groaned out loud, dropping his head back against the couch.
Robby: forget it. i’m going to bed
You: nooo wait. let’s try again :(
He should’ve put the phone down. He really should’ve. Instead he waited to see if you had anything else to say.
You: you’re so good at giving orders and guiding me at work. maybe you could do that now too? tell me what to do
You were right, in theory. He was good at instructing, guiding, teaching. It came naturally to him to step into that mentoring role, he had always been the one others looked to for direction.
Robby: i feel stupid doing this.
You: pleeeease. i’ve always thought you were the kind of guy who talks people through it in bed. it’s the same here, just write it instead of saying it. tell me how you want me to touch myself
Your words hit him hard. He reread the message twice. He had never consciously thought about it before, but yes… that did sound exactly like him. Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden: the commanding tone he’d used with past partners, the way he’d instructed them. “Open your legs for me.” “Turn around.” “Look at me.” He remembered the way their breathing would change, the way they’d tremble under the weight of his voice and his hands.
Robby: you really want me to talk you through it, sweetheart?
You: yessss that was so much better. keep going
If anyone had asked you how it happened, you honestly wouldn’t have been able to explain it. You weren’t even sure yourself. One moment you were typing a slightly embarrassed apology to Robby for matching with him and the next, the conversation had taken a turn and you were the one demanding he sext you so you could get off. It was bold, stupidly reckless, and yet it felt inevitable.
Robby: good girl that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, i want you to get those pretty legs spread nice and wide for me, can you do that?
You whimpered softly and obeyed him instantly, letting your knees fall farther apart on the mattress. The cool air hit your exposed pussy making you shiver.
You: yes. they’re open
Robby: Perfect
i’d be on my knees between them right now if I could
run your fingers up the inside of your thighs for me slowly, feel how soft they are
As you trailed your free hand up one thigh, you imagined his callused palms and the scratch of his greying beard following the same path.
You: doing it… feels so good thinking about your hands instead.
Robby: that’s my girl
now slide two fingers through your pussy and ell me how wet you are for me
You did exactly as he says, gasping as two fingers glided easily through your slick heat. You were soaked, embarrassingly so, the wet sounds filling the quiet bedroom as you stroked yourself.
You: So wet… i’m dripping. all because of you.
Robby: fuck i knew you would be
i want you to circle your clit for me now
Do it slowly and imagine it’s my tongue instead, licking you just the way you need
i’d take my time, taste every inch of you
Your mons got louder, tipping your head back against the pillows as your fingers obeyed, traxing circles around your clit that sent sparks up your spine. In your mind, it was Robby’s mouth devouring you while his strong hands pinned your thighs down.
Robby: how does that feel, sweetheart? tell me
You: so good, i’m so sensitive. keep talking please
Robby: Good
now slide one finger inside that tight pussy, nice and deep
curl it up just like I would, searching for that spot that makes your legs shake
i’d be watching your face the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look spread open for me, how good you are for listening
When you pushed a finger inside yourself, you curled it upward as instructed to hit that sensitive spot while your other hand kept working your clit in circles.
Robby: add another finger and stretch yourself open
i’d be so much thicker than your fingers, but we’ll start like this
imagine me pumping them in and out while i rub your clit
Adding a second finger, you continued fucking yourself to the rhythm of his words on the screen. It was not enough, it was nowhere near enough to calm the hunger and desperation that was threatening to consume your whole being. You knew nothing would be enough, only feeling him inside of you.
You: wish it was you inside me. can’t get off like this. i need you robby please
Robby: you were the one who told me to do this
You: i know i did. but it’s not enough
send me your address
He was tempted, so tempted that for one second his fingers almost started typing on an impulse. But the reality crashed back in immediately. The risks, the morning after, the way he’d have to look at you during rounds, knowing what you’d done. He was rock hard and aching for you, but the responsible part of him still refused to crumble completely.
Robby: what for?
you’re not seriously thinking about coming over right now, are you?
You: robby i’m literally only like 2 miles away from you. are you dtf? not as dr. robinavitch and his resident, but as two adults who casually matched on tinder tonight. there’s no title or hospital here. it’s just us.
Two miles. You were so close. He stared at your message, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. His cock gave another insistent throb, the head already leaking a little against his underwear. The thought of you actually coming over, right now, in the middle of the night, made his mouth go dry.
Robby: Send me your address and I’ll order you a ride.
You sent your address a moment later. It really was only two miles away. He confirmed the ride, watching the estimated arrival time tick down. Fifteen minutes… only fifteen minutes until you’d be at his door.
You: this is exactly what i meant earlier about older guys. so much more gentlemanly. taking care of the details instead of just telling me to get there
You had no time to get ready, and honestly, you didn’t care. Makeup? Hair? None of that mattered when you were this desperate, this aching for him. You climbed out of bed still wearing the thin tank top and soft sleep shorts you’d worn to bed, and threw an oversized jacket over everything, one that swallowed most of your body and made you look far more put-together than you actually felt.
Your hands were shaking as you grabbed your keys and phone. The rideshare arrived sooner than you expected. The drive across the city felt both endless and far too short, but eventually the car pulled up outside his building.
You stood on the sidewalk for a second, staring up at the apartment complex, suddenly hit with the full weight of what you were doing, showing up at your attending’s door in the middle of the night, soaked and trembling with need, because a stupid Tinder match had spiraled completely out of control.
But you didn’t hesitate for long, you took a deep breath, pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, walked toward his door and knocked on it.
Robby opened it right away. He didn’t say a word, the second you were in reach, you had one of his strong hands cupping the back of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss. It was electric to say the least. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His beard was scraping deliciously against your skin as he moved his lips with experienced urgency. You melt into it instantly, fisting your hands in his shirt, tasting the pure, overwhelming taste of him. Finally. Here he was, kissing you like he’d been starving for it just as much as you had.
He kicked the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his taller frame. You felt the warmth of his hands roaming everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, squeezing the curve of your ass through the fabric of your shorts. In your mouth, he groaned, making a vibrating sound that went through you as he explored every inch he could reach, like he was memorizing the feel of you.
Your breasts were the next to get his attention, he was cupping them with his big hands through your tank top, brushing his thumb over your already hard nipple, while he tangles his other hand in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
You pulled back just enough to gasp against his lips, “It took you long enough.”
Robby chuckled, the sound coming out breathless. “Took you long enough. You have any idea what it’s like waiting twenty minutes for you with a hard-on?” He pressed you closer, letting you feel the thick and insistent bulge against your stomach.
As if they had a mind of their own, his hands couldn’t stop moving, squeezing, caressing, claiming, running down your back, over your thighs, everywhere he’d fantasized about touching. Before you could respond, he bent slightly and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively.
The strength in his arms, the way his broad chest felt against you, sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs. He carried you through the house with purposeful strides. The door to your room swung open and he layed you gently on the bed, climbing on top of you immediately until his full weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress.
The kissing resumed instantly, slower now but no less intense. Robby’s mouth was moving from your lips to your neck, sucking lightly and scratching you with his beard in the most perfect way. Now his hands got bolder, continuing their exploration but this time sliding under your tank top, pressing his palms against your bare skin. He lifted the fabric higher, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room.
“Fuck,” Robby groaned, and maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, but you could see his soft brown eyes turning darker as he stared down at you. “Look at you. These tits… so perfect. So fucking pretty.” His voice was rough with want, the same commanding tone. He cupped them reverently, as if they were something precious, circling your nipples until they pebbled tighter under his touch. “They’re made for my hands. For my mouth.”
He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. The wet touch of his tongue made you arch into him with a moan, threading your fingers through his hair as he kept lavishing attention on your breasts.
From one side to the other, Robby switched sides, licking and sucking the other while his hand massaged the first, rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual sensation, the tingly heat of his mouth and the firm squeeze of his callused hand, had you writhing beneath him, making you so wet you were soaking through your shorts.
The humming of his mouth against your skin sends sparks straight to your core. “So responsive,” he murmured, switching back to the first breast and sucking it harder than before. “These tits are going to ruin me. I could spend hours right here.” Sliding his free hand down your side, Robby gripped your hip possessively, continuing with the worshipping of your chest, licking broad stripes, sucking marks into the soft flesh, massaging and kneading until he had you panting and grinding up against the hard line of his cock through his pants.
The age difference between you only heightened everything, his experience was showing in every skilled touch, in every perfect flick of his tongue. He was being patient but hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long. You could feel how hard he was, he was making you feel it, pressing insistently against your thigh. The knowledge that you did this to him made you even wetter.
Robby lifts his head briefly to lock his eyes on yours. His lips were swollen and his beard slightly damp with his saliva. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, but his hands never stopped, squeezing and caressing, teasing your sensitive nipples with his thumbs as he waited for your answer.
You shook your head, pulling him back down. You’d rather die than stop right now. “Don’t stop. Please.”
His mouth trailed a hot path down your sternum, over your stomach, scraping you teasinglywith his beard against your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands followed strong, sliding down your sides and gripping your hips as he settled between your spread thighs. The weight of him, the sheer size and presence of this man, made your core clench with anticipation.
“These shorts have been teasing me since you walked in,” he murmured with the same steady tone he used in the pitt, but now turned intimate and commanding. Robby hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly peeled them down your legs, taking his time as he revealed more of you. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart. Good girl.”
You obeyed instantly, lifting your hips so he could slide the fabric off completely, leaving you in just your thin panties and the tank top. Robby smoothed his hands up your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle but firm pressure. “Keep your legs open like that,” he instructed you. “Nice and wide for me. Don’t close them unless I tell you to.”
You were already moaning softly, and he wasn’t even touching your core yet. Robby dropped his eyes to the damp spot on your panties, making the fabric cling to your pussy lips, and he let out a groan of desire and hunger. He cupped you over the fabric with one hand, pressing his palm firmly against your heated pussy while his thumb found your clit through the material and began rubbing slow circles.
“Oh god,” you moaned, twitching up your hips into his touch, seeking more of the contact. The friction was simply perfect, it was teasing, and it kept building higher and higher. Robby’s callused thumb was applying just the right pressure on your swollen nub.
He watched your face intently through his hooded and lustful eyes as he worked you higher. “Feel good?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady even as his own breathing grew heavier. “You’re so wet already. Soaking through these panties for me. That’s it… rock against my hand, sweetheart. Show me how much you need this.”
Your moans only grew louder and more unrestrained, as he kept rubbing your clit with precision. The fabric added a delicious layer of friction, and every circle sent sparks shooting up your body. He got you gripping the sheets, your thighs already trembling as you fought the urge to close them around his hand.
Robby leaned down to kiss the inside of one thigh, scratching your skin deliciously. “You want my mouth? Want me to taste this pretty pussy? You gonna wrap these gorgeous legs around my neck while I do it?”
“Yes,” you gasped, nodding frantically. “Please, Robby. I need it.”
He hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down slowly, revealing your glistening, bare pussy to his hungry gaze. “Fuck… look at you. So wet and perfect.” He kissed along your inner thighs, taking his time, brushing his lips and beard against the sensitive skin as he worked his way closer. “Wrap them around me, sweetheart. Lock your ankles behind my head if you need to. I want to feel you holding me right where I belong.”
You did exactly as he said, wrapping your legs around his broad shoulders and pressing your heels into his upper back. The position left you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed. Robby groaned, the sound vibrating against your core as he finally leaned in.
The first lick of his tongue was broad and slow, dragging from your entrance up to your puffy clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and it made you cry out loudly, threading your fingers into his greying hair as he began to devour you with the same intensity he brought to every procedure at work. He licked and sucked with precision, alternating between long and flat strokes to tight and quick circles around your clit.
His beard was scratching your inner thighs and outer lips in the most delicious way, adding a kind of texture that made your toes curl. “Robby… Oh fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, rolling your hips against his mouth.
He hummed in response, pulling back with his lips glistening with your arousal just so he could speak to you. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart. I want to hear it.”
“So good… your tongue—oh god, your mouth, Robby. It’s driving me crazy. Don’t stop, please.”
“You’re being so good for me,” he praised, diving back in to suck your clit into his mouth, flicking it rapidly while applying suction with his lips.
Before you could register it, he teased your entrance with two thick fingers, slowly sliding them inside you, letting your own greedy hole swallow them. Once he curled them upward to find that perfect spot, the sensation had you moaning loudly and arching off the bed.
Robby pumped his fingers steadily, matching the rhythm of his tongue with his digits. A few moments later, he stopped again briefly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes and shiny lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Spread open for me, taking my fingers so well. This pussy is perfect, made for me. Keep moaning for me. Let me hear how much you love my mouth on you.”
You obeyed, your moans spilling freely as he returned to his task with renewed hunger. The pleasure built fast and faster, making your thighs tremble around his head and your feet dig into his back as you held him exactly where you needed him. Robby gripped your hip with his free hand, holding you steadily while he worked you closer and closer to the edge with expert skill. Every command, every praise, every flick of his tongue pushed you higher.
Robby didn’t relent, he kept his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking with rhythmic pressure, devouring you like a man starved. “Robby—oh fuck, yes!” The pleasure was overwhelming, every single nerve ending in your body was alight as he worked you higher.
“Keep those legs open for me, sweetheart,” he growled against your clit. “Don’t you dare close them. I want to feel you squeezing around my fingers while I eat this pretty pussy.” He added a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, the burn blending perfectly with the pleasure. “That’s it… take three for me. Feel how full you are? You’re doing so well. Such a good girl taking everything I give you.”
The wet sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping pussy and his mouth sucking hungrily on your clit filled the air. You were soaking his beard, his chin, his wrist, but he didn’t care. Robby slid a hand under you, grabbing a firm handful of your ass and lifting your hips slightly off the bed. The new angle let him bury his face even deeper, working your clit with more precision while he fingerfucked you harder. “Just like that,” he praised you between licks. “Grind on my tongue, baby. Use my mouth. Show me how bad you need to come.”
You obeyed helplessly once again, rolling your hips and bucking them against him as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The pleasure built in powerful waves until your thighs started to shake violently around his head. Robby kept talking you through it, pushing you closer to the edge.
“You’re getting so close, aren’t you? I can feel this tight pussy clenching around my fingers. Come on, let go. Cum all over my tongue. I want to taste it. I want to feel you fall apart for me.”
The orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity, making your back bow off the bed, a loud and broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy spasmed hard around his digits. Your thighs were squeezing his head tightly, your heels digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. Robby didn’t stop though, he kept sucking your clit through the peak, curling and thrusting his fingers to draw out every last shudder.
You came harder than you ever had. So hard that your vision went white for a moment as the pleasure bordered on overwhelming. Your moans turned into whimpers as the orgasm slowly ebbed, leaving you limp and gasping on the bed.
Robby finally eased back, gently lowering your hips and kissing softly along your inner thighs. He looked up at you with dark and satisfied eyes. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So beautiful when you cum for me.”
You lay there panting, your thighs were still twitching, completely wrecked and already aching for more of him. Robby climbed back up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. He was so close that his hard cock was pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants.
“That was… amazing,” you whisper with your voice hoarse from moaning. “So much better than I ever imagined.”
Robby chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine against your neck as he pressed a kiss there. “Yeah? Better than your hand?” His eyes were sparkling with lust.
You laughed breathlessly, nodding. “So much better. Your mouth… God, Robby. I’ve never felt anything like that.”
He hummed in satisfaction, grinding his still-clothed erection slowly against your bare, sensitive pussy. The thick ridge of his cock was being pressed perfectly against your clit, giving him some much needed relief while teasing you both. “I loved doing that for you,” he murmured. “You were so good for me, sweetheart. So responsive, so wet. The way you moaned my name and squeezed my head with those pretty thighs… fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”
Robby rolled his hips deliberately, the friction making you whimper and arch up into him. You could feel how achingly hard he was and how much he’d been holding back. You slid up your hands down his chest, feeling the soft flesh beneath his shirt.
“I want you,” you breathed, looking up at him with need. “Please, Robby.”
He stilled for a moment, as if to pulling himself together. “Tell me what you want. Be specific.”
You bit your lip, feeling the warmth invade your cheeks. “Your cock. I want you to fuck me. I need you inside me.”
Robby let out a groan, sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing out the anticipation. You sit up slightly, eager to help, moving your fingers to tug his pants down along with his underwear.
“I’ve been dying to see you,” you confessed as you pulled his pants down his hips. He caught your wrists before you could push his boxers down.
Robby looked almost nervous, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Wait… I, uh—” He cleared his throat, flicking his eyes away for a second. “I haven’t trimmed down there in a while. This whole night was… unexpected. I would’ve cleaned up if I’d known we were gonna end up here.”
He said it like it was something to be embarrassed about. Like it might actually make you want him less. It made you soft, you cupped his jaw, turning his face back to yours.
“Robby. Do you honestly think I give a damn about that? It’s just hair.”
He let out a self-conscious breath, still looking a little defensive. “I know. I know it’s just hair. It’s just… it’s probably a fucking jungle down there right now. You don’t have to— I mean, you don’t have to do anything if it’s too much.”
The way he was trying to give you an out was almost painfully endearing. You shook your head. “Just let me see you,” you whispered.
You slid his boxers down his thighs and freed his cock, it sprang out, thick and hard, the head flushed in a dark red with arousal. It was beautiful, so long, girthy, with a slight upward curve, prominent veins running along the shaft. Exactly like he’d warned, there was a thick, dark mat of coarse hair at the base, dense and untrimmed. He looked completely natural, it was so him, deeply masculine and unpolished.
A fresh rush of wetness slipped down your inner thighs. Your fingers twitched with the need to touch him there.
You looked up at him through your lashes “I love it,” you slowly carded your fingers through the thick hair at the base of his member. “You look so fucking hot like this. I like every single inch of you.”
Robby’s whole body shivered under your touch. “God…” he rasped as he stared down at you. “You’re gonna kill me tonight.”
Almost with instinct, you wrapped your hand around it, stroking the shaft slowly from base to tip, feeling the heat and weight of his member.
Robby hissed in pleasure, twitching his hips forward into your grip as he watched your hand move up and down his cock. “Fuck, your hand feels good,” he groaned, letting you stroke him for a while, savoring the sight of your smaller hand working his thick length, making a bead of precum leak from the tip.
After a few moments, he gently stopped you, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. “Lay back down for me, sweetheart. Keep those legs open nice and wide. Just like before.”
You obeyed, lying back against the pillows and spreading your thighs for him. Robby reached over toward the nightstand, stretching one arm past you as he pulled open the top drawer. He rummaged through it for a few seconds, before his hand closed around what he was looking for.
A moment later he sat back, a condom held between his fingers. He held it up, searching for your eyes with his. “I’ve got this if you want me to wear it.”
You shook your head, reaching up to touch his arm. “No. I want you bare. I’m on the pill.”
You both knew it might not have been the smartest option, doing it raw, with nothing between you. But there was a deep, unspoken trust between the two of you, forged through long shifts, that made you feel safe. And in that moment, that trust felt solid enough to lean on.
The hunger that had taken over both of you made anything else almost unbearable. The need to feel each other completely bare, skin on skin, heat on heat, with nothing separating you, was overwhelming.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” He tossed the condom aside, leaning down to kiss you deeply again. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want to feel all of you.”
He groaned, positioning himself between your legs and nudging the thick head of his cock against your slick entrance. The anticipation felt electric, this was the culmination of over a year of longing, of hours of texts, and now all that was left was this desperate connection. Robby gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he looked down at you with hunger.
The night is only beginning, and the way he’s looking at you promises he’s going to take his time ruining you in the best possible way.
As his cockhead was being rubbed up and down your folds, teasing your clit with every pass, coating itself with your juices, the sensation felt maddening, promising everything you’d fantasized about for so long. You whimpered, twitching your hips up instinctively to chase more contact.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Robby commanded you softly, the same authoritative tone that had guided you through countless procedures was now guiding you through this. He cupped your chin gently, tilting your face so your gazes locked. “Keep looking at me the whole time. I want to see you while I fuck you.”
You nodded shakily, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Robby continued rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness, drawing out the anticipation until you were squirming beneath him.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “So wet for me already. This pussy is going to take me so well. Breathe for me, relax and let me in.” He pressed forward slowly, breaching your entrance with only the tip. The stretch was immediate and intense, opening you up inch by inch as he sank deeper. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, but you forced your eyes open, locking them on his as he watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face.
“Easy, baby,” he cooed, stroking your thigh soothingly while the other braced beside your head. “You’re doing so good. Feel how you’re stretching around me? So tight and warm… fuck, you feel incredible.”
You moaned loudly as he continued sliding in, the deliberate thrust filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt, until his hips were flushed against yours. The fullness was overwhelming, his thick cock stretching your walls like nobody had stretched you before, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.
Robby stayed still for a moment buried deep, resting his forehead against yours as he looked straight into your eyes. “There you go. All the way in. You took every inch.” He started to thrust with deep rolls of his hips that drag his cock along your walls with exquisite friction. “Wrap your legs around me. Hold me close while I fuck you.”
You did as he said, locking your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his lower back. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and you cried out in pleasure, digging your nails into his shoulders. Robby kept talking you through it, just like he knew you liked.
“That’s my girl. Feel that? I’m hitting that spot inside you, huh?” He angled his hips slightly, grinding deep on every stroke. Robby slid one hand up to cup and squeeze your breast, rolling your nipple as he thrusted harder.
Robby moved his hand from your breast to cup your chin. His grip was gentle enough not to hurt, yet firm enough that you felt every one of his fingers pressing against the bones of your jaw. “Look at me. Don’t look away. I want to see how good my cock feels inside this tight pussy.” He tilted your face up and held it there, leaving you no choice but to meet his eyes.
And God… what a glorious sight he was. This handsome man, with his face flushed, his brow glistening with sweat, devouring you with his gaze as he kept driving his cock into you.
His face was only inches from yours, and he kept fucking you in long strokes while he held your chin like that, as if he were starving for every single expression that crossed your face. He loved watching the way pleasure wrecked you. The way your lips parted around helpless moans, the way you bit down on your lower lip only for it to slip free again with a broken sound. The way your eyes went glassy and pleading, silently begging him for more even as your body trembled around his cock. He drank it all in like a man who had been thirsty for years.
With his free hand, he gripped your waist, holding you in place so he could drive into you with more power. Every slide of his cock stretched you perfectly, dragging the fat tip along your g-spot like that was what it was made for.
“Robby—oh god, yes!” You moaned loudly, raising your hips to meet his thrust and tightening your legs around him. Your tits were bouncing with every powerful stroke, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth again, flicking his tongue as he continued fucking you.
“You feel so good,” he groaned against your skin, switching to the other breast. “So tight and wet around me. This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it? Taking me so deep.” His hand on your waist slid down to grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly to change the angle as he thrusted harder. “Lift your legs higher for me, sweetheart,” he said against your neck,kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there. Ronny held the back of your thigh, helping guide your leg up. “That’s it… over my shoulder. Let me get deeper.”
You whimpered as he assisted you, hooking your leg over his shoulder. He did the same with the other, folding you nearly in half beneath him. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, until he was pressing the head firmly against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, grinding against your g-spot relentlessly.
“Fuck—Robby, it’s so deep like this,” you moaned, fluttering your eyes shut for just a moment as the intense sensation washed over you.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he chided gently but firmly, cupping your jaw with his hand to tilt your face back to his. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Keep them open. I want to watch you while I fuck you like this. Don’t look away.”
You forced your eyes open, locking onto his hungry gaze as he continued hammering into you. The eye contact made everything more intimate and overwhelming. The feeling of his hand leavinf your jaw and sliding down between your bodies made you shiver. Robby found your swollen clit and began rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.
The combined stimulation was devastating. The pleasure was burning higher in your core, so close to finally exploding. Your body was arching and squirming beneath his frame as you scratched down his back and trembled over his shoulders. Every thrust, every rub of his fingers on your clit, every moan and grunt that escaped his mouth pushed you closer to the edge.
“That’s it,” Robby groaned, never removing his sight from yours. “Look at you taking my cock so deep. You’re getting close again, aren’t you? I can feel it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you cum all over my cock. Keep your eyes on me when you do.”
You bowed your back off the bed as your climax took over your body. A loud cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched rhythmically around his length. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders and you dug your nails harder into his back when the waves of pleasure crashed through you. Robby sekpt thrusting through it, drawing out your orgasm with deep strokes and continued pressure on your clit.
“You look so beautiful when you cum for me… that’s it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. You’re being so good.”
By the time he finally slowed and gently pulled out of you, you were still trembling and gasping. Robby layed back on the bed beside you, with his cock hard and glistening with your release. “Come here, baby,” he said. “Get on top. I want to watch you ride me.”
He helped you shift positions, gripping your hips firmly to guide you as you straddled him. “Easy, sweetheart. Take your time… that’s it. Feel me right there? Let me watch you take every inch.”
You positioned the head at your slick entrance and began to sink down, inch by inch. The stretch was intense all over again, his girth opening you up as you lowered yourself onto him. Robby kept his hands still on your hips to steady you, stroking your skin soothingly while watching every expression on your face.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groaned. “You’re doing so well. Keep going… take a little more. Feel how full you are?”
Louder moans left your mouth as you sank lower, the fullness was overwhelming in the best way. Bracing your hands on his broad chest for balance, you finally took him to the hilt, resting your ass against his thighs. Robby squeezed your hips encouragingly. “Ride me. Roll your hips like that… yes, just like that.”
Whn you started moving, rolling, and grinding your hips in a steady rhythm, the pleasure built quickly. His cock was dragging along your walls as you found a rhythm that made your tits bounce and your clit grind against his pelvis.
Robby kept moving his eyes are everywhere, watching where your pussy stretched around his shaft, sliding up to your bouncing breasts, then locking onto your face. He reaches up with both hands, cupping your tits and rolling your nipples as you ride him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Keep going… faster if you want. Take what you need from me.”
Without a word, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward. He sat up just enough to help you pull it off, and the second the fabric cleared his head, your hands were on him.
God, you loved his body. Your moved your palm slowly over his chest, feeling the coarse hair and the thud of his heart beneath your fingertips. You dragged your hands lower, mapping the soft, rounded curve of his belly with desire. It turned you on more than any gym-honed torso ever could. As you pressed your palms into the softness, your fingers dag in gently. Then you smoothed your hands over it again and again, savoring the way it yielded under your touch.
You were mumbling praises and moans between gasps, completely lost in the sensation. “Robby… you feel so good… so deep… fuck, I love your cock inside me…”
At one point, Robby planted his feet firmly on the bed, bent his knees, and started thrusting up to meet you. The change felt devastating, he was now fucking you from below with powerful strokes that made you cry out loudly as he droveinto you.
The slap of skin on skin grew louder when the slamming into you intensified. “Fuck—Robby!” you moaned, letting your head fall back as the pleasure overwhelmed you.
“Eyes on me if you can, sweetheart,” he growled, moving his fingers down to rub your clit again. “I’m getting close. You feel too good. You’re gonna make me cum.”
You were a moaning and squirming mess on top of him, riding and grinding as he thrusted up harder. His fingers on your clit and his cock hitting deep pushed you toward another peak, but it was his impending orgasm that had you focused on him.
“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, snapping his hips up faster. “Fuck—can I cum inside you? Please, I want to fill you up.”
“Yes,” you gasped, riding him desperately. “Cum inside me, Robby. I want it. Fill me up. Please—”
With a deep groan, Robby thrusted up hard one last time and came, pulsing nside you, flooding your pussy with thick and warm ropes of cum. He held you down on him, gripping your hips tightly as he emptied himself completely. The feeling of him cumming inside you, fully claiming you, triggered your own smaller orgasm, making your walls clench rhythmically around his pulsing cock.
You both stayed locked together, panting. Robby stroked your back and thighs as you came down from the high befor pulling you down against his chest, kissing your forehead, keeping his cock still buried deep inside you as his release slowly leaked out around him, so much that you could feel the hot nd sticky evidence of his climax.
There were no more walls, just the two of you, finally giving in to everything you’ve both wanted and repressed for so long. You stayed draped on top of Robby for a long stretch of time, both of you catching your breath as the intensity slowly ebbed. Eventually, you lifted your head and looked at him. “That was… amazing. I wouldn’t even have dreamed that it’d be that good.”
He hummed in agreement, continuing his soothing path along your back. “It was. Better than I let myself imagine. You felt perfect.”
The praise made a warm feeling bloom in your chest. After a few more quiet moments, Robby gently helped you sit up, easing you off his cock with a shared sigh. You both winced slightly at the loss of connection and the feeling of emptiness, but he pulled you down beside him on the bed, wrapping his arms around you again as you cuddled into his side.
“So… you don’t regret it, do you?”
He met your eyes as a small smile began tugging at his lips beneath the beard. “Right now? I can’t regret having amazing sex with you. My mind is still somewhere up in the clouds.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow when reality hits, but tonight… no regrets.”
You nestled closer, throwing one leg over his. The cuddling felt easy, natural, like you’d been doing this for years. For tonight, the outside world, the hospital, the guilt, the what ifs didn’t exist. There was only the two of you, and Robby might be right about reality hitting tomorrow, but right now, in the darkness of his room, everything felt right.
A/N: Two attempts at posting this fic, and two times Tumblr’s stupid AI mistakenly flagged it😭 I’ve spent days trying to figure out what was causing the problem and doing everything I could to finally get this fic posted for all of you. So if you’re reading this, it means it worked. Hopefully.
If you end up enjoying the fic, I’d really appreciate it if you could help me share it with a reblog (only if you enjoyed the fic) cause I’ve put a lot of work on it
Well, I hope you enjoyed this little something I worked on when inspiration finally struck me. I don’t know if I read it somewhere or if we all collectively decided it, but Robby absolutely feels like the type of guy who talks you through it. You’re telling me the man who spends all day teaching med students and residents how to do procedures wouldn’t also be guiding his girl in bed? It’s literally in his nature!!! This TikTok also got me inspired because, yes, he absolutely looks at you through it too.
I also think Robby’s canon texting style is weirdly inconsistent. In that scene in season one where he’s texting Jake, sometimes he starts messages with capital letters and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he ends sentences with a period, sometimes he doesn’t. In my head, he has perfect grammar but deliberately tries to sound Gen Z and chill when he’s texting someone younger than him lol. Anyway, I tried to replicate that here too.
Thank you all so much for your patience. I really appreciate it, and I hope I can stick around for good this time🩷
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: Matt is acting very weird today. he comes home with a few surprises.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
notes: additional warnings for this chapter include premature ejaculation, oral(fem receiving), and slight degradation if you step away and squint.
word count: 5.8k
Your boyfriend, your older, devastatingly handsome, oh so sweet Matt operated at a baseline level of physical affection that could medically qualify as clingy. But today? Today he was being weird.
You noticed it first in the kitchen that morning, when he came up behind you while you were making coffee and simply stood there holding you for an unusually long time. No conversation. Not even the routine teasing and flirting. Just his warm, broad chest against your back. His arms around your waist and his slow breathing against your hair.
You tilted your head slightly. “You okay?”
“Mhm.”
“You sure?”
Matt kissed your shoulder through your shirt absentmindedly. “Very.” You narrowed your eyes slightly, feeling him smile against your skin.
And then throughout the rest of the morning his rise in touchiness continued. Pausing to kiss your temple while passing by to finish changing in the bedroom. Absentminded fingers sliding through your hair, while you answered emails at the kitchen table from EverSweet vendors.
By noon you were certain something work related was happening. Oftentimes when work was particularly stressful, Matt had a tendency to be less verbal but significantly more touchy. Maybe it was another big case. Maybe he was just tired.
You were still trying to figure it out when Matt appeared from the walk-in closet already dressed to leave. Dark tailored suit, silver threading through his hair and beard catching softly in the light from the windows. Honestly offensive. You stared from where you were currently sat crosslegged on the bed folding laundry. “You’re leaving?”
“Couple meetings, I won't be in the office today so I'll be back after they're done.”
“Ohh, is that what it is?”
Matt paused slightly. “What?”
“The weirdness. You seem nervous about work.”
Matt adjusted the cuff of his sleeve before he nodded. “Nothing bad.” You watched him carefully anyway as he crossed the room toward you afterward. The way this man looked at you, so to speak, made your stomach flip. Like you were something precious he still couldn’t fully believe belonged to him.
His hands settled gently around your face. “You’ll be okay for a few hours?”
You blinked. “Matt, I'll be fine." He smiled softly. Then you added, “You’re only gonna be gone for a half day you said.”
“Yet you’ll miss me terribly.”
You snorted. “Your ego is crazy.”
Matt chuckled and then leaned down slowly afterward. The kiss started soft, that routine goodbye peck almost. The kind you’d exchanged a thousand times by now. But this time he didn’t pull away after a second. Instead, his hand slid into your hair, fingers threading deep, and he kissed you again, slower.
His lips parted over yours and the shift was sudden. He licked into your mouth with a quiet hunger that made your breath catch and you made a small, surprised sound as his tongue brushed yours. Matt answered it with a low hum that vibrated against your lips. His other hand left your cheek to settle at your waist, drawing you in until your chest was as flush against his as you could be in this position.
His mouth was moving over yours with a kind of quiet desperation, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you before he had to go. His tongue stroked slow and deliberate, and when you clutched the front of his coat, his grip tightened in your hair just enough to make your scalp tingle.
Matt pulled away eventually, but only barely. Still close enough that his breath warmed your mouth. Forehead resting against yours. He kissed you one more time softly, followed by another against your forehead. Then he quietly murmured, “I love you, princess.”
Your stomach fluttered instantly. “I love you too.”
Matt lingered another second. Then finally almost reluctantly he stepped back, grabbed his cane, and left. And you sat there afterward feeling slightly dazed. What the hell was that?
The jeweler occupied the top floor of a building on Fifth Avenue.
The appointment lasted nearly three hours, and Matt left with a significant charge to his black card, about a dozen promises about timelines, and the certainty that he’d just commissioned the most important object he’d ever buy. Now he wanted to thank Dani for her help, and spoil you in the process of course.
The confectionery sat tucked beside a private gallery down in SoHo. There was no obvious sign out front beyond a tiny gold plaque beside the door. Very if you know, you know. Dani stopped dead outside the entrance once they'd stepped outside of the car.
“I know you aren't a regular blind guy, but I get the feeling you didn't find out about this place yourself.”
Matt smiled faintly beside her, both hands gripping his cane loosely. “Correct, my best friend Foggy did.”
“I knew it.”
“He bought three hundred dollars worth of truffles after a particularly bad fight with his wife.”
“Wow. Good for her.”
Matt opened the door for her, the air from inside the shop immediately drifting out around them. And god, the smell.
Dark chocolate.
Espresso.
Toasted nuts.
Warm sugar.
Honey.
Vanilla bean.
Matt physically relaxed a little the second they stepped inside. The ring appointment had left him quite overwhelmed emotionally. And this, this was simple. Grounding.
According to Dani the shop itself was beautiful in an understated way. Dark wood shelving with glass displays. Little handwritten flavor cards. No one recognized Matt which honestly made sense. This wasn’t somewhere he frequented constantly.
Foggy had dragged him here once years ago, he knew Matt was picky when it came to sweets because of his senses and this place used very high quality ingredients. Matt had remembered it mostly because the owner described flavors almost as well as he could and it was impressive.
A woman behind the counter greeted them warmly. “Good afternoon.”
Matt nodded politely. Dani was already staring into the display cases like she’d ascended to another spiritual plane. “Oh. My. God.” Matt chuckled hearing it. “Pick whatever you want," he said. Dani turned slowly. “…dangerous thing to say to me in a luxury candy store.”
“I’m aware.”
“Matt, I grew up with CVS chocolate.”
“So did I. You’ll enjoy this experience then.”
Dani immediately started loading a little silver tray with alarming enthusiasm. Meanwhile Matt moved more slowly beside the displays. Head tilted, nostrils flaring a bit as he tried to pick apart what he was smelling. The woman caught on almost immediately. “Would you like descriptions?”
“Yes, please.”
“This first one is dark chocolate with pistachio praline and orange blossom honey.”
Matt tilted his head slightly. Thinking not for himself but for you. He could already imagine the pleased little hum you’d make at the honey note. “I'll take one, please.”
The woman placed it carefully into a box. “This is milk chocolate with sea salt caramel and crispy malt.” Matt smiled faintly. “She’d love that.”
Dani looked over. “You know her scary well.”
Matt’s fingers brushed absently over another sample card, mildly confused. Of course he knows you well. “She just tells me things.”
The chocolatier moved farther down the display. “This one’s a dark chocolate ganache infused with pomegranate and wild berries.” Matt stilled immediately. “Can I sample that one?” The woman handed a thin slice carefully across the counter. Matt let it melt on his tongue, and there it was. Bright berry. Deep chocolate. The tiny tart edge of pomegranate. Fucking delicious.
His mouth curved slowly. “That one too.”
Matt wasn’t just buying expensive sweets. He was building something for you to enjoy. Selecting things the same way he’d approached the ring. Thoughtfully. Tenderly. Every detail mattered to him, and throwing himself into this was helping with his still unsettled nerves, quite frankly.
Eventually Dani wandered back over carrying enough chocolate to feed a small nation. Matt tilted his head toward the rustling bags. “…how much did you grab?”
“A respectful amount.”
“That sounds dishonest.”
“Well... It was dishonest.”
Matt snorted softly under his breath. He'd expected no less from Dani. Then his focus went back to your box. Complex flavors. Nothing overly sweet. The chocolatier tied the filled box with ribbon while Matt listened carefully.
“Would you like a flavor guide included?”
Matt thought for half a second. “No, thank you.” He had a feeling you'd like figuring them out yourself. Dani made a quiet sound of confusion beside him. “She likes guessing games," he explained.
“STOP BEING IN LOVE SO AGGRESSIVELY.”
He couldn't hide his smile. Eventually the boxes were wrapped and bagged neatly. Matt handed over his card while Dani leaned against the counter watching him.
As they stepped back outside into the cold afternoon air, Dani bumped lightly against his shoulder. “She’s gonna cry when she sees it, you know.” Matt adjusted the shopping bag slightly in his hand. “The chocolate or the ring?”
“Both probably.”
Matt laughed quietly under his breath. Then after a second, softer now, “I just want her happy.”
Dani looked at him for another second before he heard the rustle of her hair as she shook her head.
By the time Matt got home, the penthouse smelled faintly of the vanilla candle you were burning and the cup of tea that was steaming on the coffee table in front of you.
You were curled up on the couch with your laptop balanced across your legs, only half paying attention to whatever show was playing quietly in the background while Dilly chased one of her toys across the living room. The front door clicked shut. Immediately, you called out, “You’re late.”
Not actually upset. Just teasing him. You heard the soft rustle of him shrugging out of his suit coat before his voice carried down the hallway. “I brought a peace offering.”
Well. That immediately got your attention. You abandoned your laptop without hesitation and padded into the entryway. Matt had just stepped fully inside, a shopping bag dangling from his hand.
And as per usual he looked unfairly handsome. His dark hair was adorably mussed, and the faintest hint of a smile pulled at his mouth. Your eyes dropped immediately to the bag. "What is that?”
“You tell me.”
Suspicion immediately settled over you. “There’s the weird behavior again. Why are you speaking in riddles today?" Matt laughed softly. “You’re obsessed with this alleged weird behavior.”
“You practically jumped me before leaving.”
“Hm.” His smile deepened slightly. “Maybe I just knew I’d miss you.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t believe you.” But you were already walking closer. Dilly darted happily around Matt’s ankles the second he stepped farther into the apartment, her tiny bell jingling wildly. He bent automatically, scooping her up with practiced ease while balancing the shopping bag in his other hand. Matt crossed into the kitchen afterward, setting the bag carefully onto the marble island.
You immediately spotted the gold embossed packaging inside and gasped. Matt smiled hearing it. "Oh no,” you whispered dramatically. “You went somewhere expensive.”
“She noticed the packaging immediately,” Matt informed Dilly solemnly. You moved closer already reaching for the ribboned box. “Open it," he added warmly.
The second the lid lifted you let out the softest happiest squeak imaginable. Rows of immaculate chocolates sat inside carefully arranged. Gold dust, dark glossy ganache, little pistachio pieces, sea salt crystals. Beautiful enough to belong in a museum honestly. “Oh my god.” You looked up immediately. “You got these for me?”
“Mhm.”
“Why?”
Matt tilted his head slightly. “Am I required to have a reason?”
“Yes. These look like pieces of art.”
“Then you should probably eat one so I don't regret spending an unreasonable amount of money on them.”
You laughed softly and reached back into the box, selecting one dusted with gold and crushed pistachios. The shell cracked delicately between your teeth before giving way to something rich and impossibly smooth and your eyes widened immediately.
“Oh, that’s ridiculous.”
Matt snorted quietly. And when you looked up at him then, there it was again. That same strange expression he’d been wearing this morning. "What?” you asked suspiciously around another bite.
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“I dunno. Looking at me like I’ve done something particularly endearing.”
“Maybe you have.”
Before you could continue interrogating him, he leaned down and kissed you. Warm and lingering. The lingering chocolate on your tongue made the kiss sweeter somehow, and you could tell by the pleased hum in his throat that he'd tasted it too. You melted instantly into him anyway. Matt pulled back barely enough to murmur, “Couch?”
You smiled immediately. “Yes.”
You padded back into the living room ahead of him, settling into your usual spot on the couch. Matt set Dilly down and followed a few seconds later, having removed his tie and rolled his sleeves up to his forearms. He sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed warm against yours. You reached for the remote to turn the volume down to almost nothing.
The box was balanced carefully on your lap. You lifted the lid again and smiled at the neat rows of chocolates, then looked at him. “Okay, you have to try one too. I’m not letting you spend this much money and just watch me eat them," you said, already picking one out. It was a dark square dusted with something pale and sugary. “Open.”
He obeyed, lips parting just enough. You placed the chocolate on his tongue, fingertips brushing his bottom lip on the way out. Matt closed his mouth slowly, and you watched the way his expression shifted as he let it melt. Subtle, but you knew him well enough to catch it. The slight tilt of his head. The quiet intake of breath through his nose.
“Pistachio,” he murmured after a moment. “Honey underneath. It’s… really good.” His voice had dropped a little lower, rougher around the edges.
You grinned and reached for another, but Matt caught your wrist gently before you could. He brought your hand up instead and pressed a slow kiss to the inside of your wrist, lingering there like he needed the extra second of contact.
“So needy,” you teased softly.
“Mhm.” He didn’t deny it. His thumb stroked once over your pulse before he let you go, then reached into the box himself and held a new piece out to you. “Your turn.”
You leaned in and took it, lips brushing his fingers on purpose. The chocolate cracked between your teeth. Milk chocolate, smooth caramel, that little crunch of malt. You hummed happily and Matt chuckled lowly.
For a while it stayed like that. Nothing but quiet, lazy passes back and forth. You feeding him one, him feeding you the next, trading small comments about the flavors.
Every so often his hands would drift, his palm smoothing down your thigh, or brushing a stray crumb from the corner of your mouth and then staying there, thumb resting against your bottom lip a beat too long. He was definitely still in that weird, extra touchy mood from this morning, but it felt softer now that he was home. Like he was letting himself settle into it.
At one point you'd finished feeding him another piece and he caught your hand again, this time pulling your fingers to his mouth to suck a tiny bit of chocolate from your thumb. His tongue flicked around it once, warm and deliberate, before he let go.
“Matt,” you said, half laughing, half breathless.
“What?” His smile was small and unfairly charming. “There was some on your finger.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Probably.” He leaned in and kissed the spot just below your ear, slow and unhurried. “Missed you today.” You turned your head enough to catch his mouth in a proper kiss. It tasted sweet from the chocolate still lingering on both of you. When you pulled back he chased you for one more, then rested his forehead against yours for a second, eyes closed, just breathing.
“You okay?” you asked quietly, echoing your question from this morning.
Matt nodded, but his hand slid around to the nape of your neck and stayed there, thumb stroking the soft skin behind your ear like he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Just… really like this.”
The next kiss lingered longer this time. What had started as slow and teasing quickly deepened when Matt made a low, wanting groan against your mouth and slid his hand into your hair.
He tasted like dark chocolate and honey, and the way he kissed you felt almost greedy. You smiled into the kiss, amused and a little breathless. “Someone’s impatient.”
“Mm.”
Matt’s response was barely a word, more of a hum as he kissed you again, slower but deeper, his tongue brushing yours with deliberate intent. His free hand moved to your waist, thumb stroking just under the hem of your sweater like he needed the skin contact. “You taste too good. Can’t help it.”
You were about to tease him again when he shifted, hands sliding to your hips as he gently urged you down. The movement was smooth but insistent, until you were lying back against the couch cushions with Matt following you down. He braced one forearm beside your head, his body settling over yours. Warm. Solid.
The box of chocolates was forgotten somewhere on the coffee table beside you.
His mouth moved over yours with a kind of focused reverence, like every little sound you made was something he wanted to swallow. “Didn’t expect you to get so worked up over chocolate,” you murmured when he finally let you catch your breath.
Matt chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “It’s not the chocolate.” He dipped his head to press a slow kiss just beneath your jaw, then another lower, at the edge of your shirt's collar. “Been thinking about you all day."
His hips pressed down as he spoke, a slow, deliberate roll that dragged the hard line of him against you. The friction was muted by layers of clothing but still enough to make your breath hitch. Matt felt it and did it again, smoother this time, a lazy grind that matched the pace of his mouth returning to yours.
You moaned softly, a little shaky, fingers tightening in his shirt. “Matt…”
“I know,” he murmured, voice rough with affection. “Just- let me. Feels good like this.”
He kept it like that for a while. These deep, unhurried kisses mixed with the steady, sensual press of his hips. Every so often he’d pause just long enough to nuzzle your cheek or brush his nose against yours, almost playful and sweet.
His hand roamed sliding up your side. Eventually he was cupping your breast through your shirt and squeezing gently. His thumb brushing over the peak in a way that made you arch into him with a whine.
It was dizzying in the best way. You could feel how worked up he already was, the tension in his body. You could feel the slickness gathering in your panties at the sound he made when you began to roll your hips up to meet him. His hips kept rolling against you in slow, grinding presses, the hard line of his cock rubbing insistently through his slacks. Every time you lifted your hips to meet him he groaned into your mouth. These almost pathetic quiet, needy sounds he couldn’t quite swallow. You felt him trembling a little above you.
“Matt,” you breathed, voice already thin. The way he was moving had you aching, the friction just enough to make you restless. “You’re shaking.”
He huffed a soft, embarrassed laugh against your neck, then kissed the spot right under your ear. “Can’t help it. Been wanting you all day.” His voice was rough, low. “Missed you so much it hurts.”
His hands moved with less patience now, pushing your sweater up. You helped him pull it off, and the second it was gone he lowered his head to kiss the swell of your breast. Open mouthed and hungry. You gasped when his tongue dragged over your nipple through the thin fabric of your bralette. The sound seemed to undo him further. He groaned and tugged the cup down so he could get his mouth on you properly.
You arched with a shaky moan, fingers sliding into his hair. Matt’s breathing was getting heavier, almost ragged. He fumbled with the button of your jeans, hands not quite steady. You had to help him shove them down your hips. You removed your bra the rest of the way. Meanwhile, he sat up just enough to yank his own shirt open, buttons flying and scattering across the room. You stared at him completely gobsmacked as he shrugged it off and dropped it somewhere on the floor.
The second he was back over you, bare chest to chest, he let out a low, relieved groan that vibrated against you. His mouth found yours again. Messy and deep while his hands roamed. He cupped your breast before sliding his hand down your stomach, slipping between your thighs to press his fingers against the damp fabric of your underwear.
You whimpered into the kiss and he answered with a soft, desperate whine of his own. “Need you,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “Please- can I?”
You nodded quickly, already reaching for his belt. “Yeah. Yes.” He helped you with the rest of your clothes, then kicked off his own slacks and boxers in a rushed, clumsy motion that made the couch creak.
The moment he was bare he settled between your thighs again. Suddenly you felt the hot, heavy weight of his cock resting against your mound. He rocked against you once, twice. Slow, grinding strokes that dragged the head of him through the slickness between your legs without pushing in yet. Both of you were breathing hard now, panting.
Matt’s forehead dropped to yours. His voice came out hoarse. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want you,” you whispered, legs wrapping around his waist. “Matty, please.”
He reached down, lined himself up, and pushed in with one slow, careful thrust. The stretch pulled a long, shaky moan from your throat. Matt’s mouth fell open against your cheek as he bottomed out, a low, broken groan rumbling out of him like he was already overwhelmed.
He barely gave you a second to adjust. The second he felt you flutter around him, a loud moan punched out of his chest. “Fuck, princess- feels so good,” he whined, voice already strained. “So warm… so fucking tight around me-”
It seemed like he was aiming for a slower pace, but the moment he pulled back and thrust in again, his rhythm faltered. He was trembling hard, every muscle in his body tight with the effort of holding back. You could feel it in the way his hips jerked shallowly. In the choked whimper catching in his throat.
“Matt,” you gasped, the stretch and friction lighting you up.
He grunted and got a few more strokes in, barely any rhythm at all. And then it happened. His whole body locked up. A raw, almost pained groan tore out of him, the sound strangled and helpless. It cracked into something closer to a whimper. His forehead pressed hard against your neck as you felt a twitch and sudden warmth inside of you. Did he just? There's no fucking way.
“No-fuck, goddamnit-” he choked out, voice shaking with the effort, but it was already too late. His cock pulsed deep inside you, spilling hard. He sounded almost agonized as he came, like the pleasure was too much, too fast, too overwhelming. His hips kept twitching forward in tiny, involuntary thrusts as he emptied himself, every sound he made desperate.
You blinked, startled, then felt a shocked, helpless little giggle bubble up in your chest. Matt went completely still.
For a second he just stayed there, breathing ragged against your neck, still buried inside you. You could feel the heat of his release, the way his body was still twitching with aftershocks. When he finally lifted his head, the horror on his face was almost comical. “Oh God,” he breathed, mortified. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink. “I- shit. I’m so sorry. That’s never- fuck, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to-”
You couldn’t help it. Another soft laugh escaped you, surprised and fond. “Did you really just come?”
Matt groaned and dropped his forehead back to yours, clearly wanting the couch to swallow him whole. His voice came out small and ashamed. “I’m sorry. You just felt so good and I’ve been so wound up all day and I- God, I’m mortified.”
You were still smiling, a little breathless, fingers gently stroking through his hair as his cock gave one last weak twitch inside you. The sheer disbelief on his face was making it impossible to stay serious. “It’s okay baby,” you murmured, trying to hide your amusement. “Really. It’s kind of cute, actually.”
Matt made another low, embarrassed sound and carefully pulled out, his come already starting to leak out of you. He sat back on his heels between your spread thighs, looking utterly devastated.
You watched him for a second, the way his hands were still shaking slightly, the way his ears and cheeks had gone pink, and felt a fresh spark of heat low in your belly. There was something adorably sexy about him all embarrassed like this.
His head tilted up toward you, eyes landing somewhere around your neck. His brows were scrunched up, expression pleading behind the shame. “Let me make it up to you?” he asked quietly, already sounding strangely needy again. “Please. I need to. Let me-”
But before you could say anything else, he suddenly dropped down between your thighs without warning. Your eyes widened. “Matt-wait, what are you-” The words died in your throat the second his mouth pressed hot and open against your messy slit.
A shocked, shaky moan spilled out of you as his tongue dragged slowly through your folds, licking a broad stripe up through the mess he’d just made. He didn’t hesitate for even a second. The wet sound of his tongue working through the mix of his come and your arousal was obscene, and he groaned low against you like he'd needed it.
“Oh my- God,” you breathed, hips twitching. The sensation was filthy and intimate and far hotter than you expected. Your fingers instinctively slid into his hair as he licked deeper, cleaning you up with slow, hungry strokes of his tongue.
Matt moaned again, softer this time, the vibration traveling right through you. You couldn’t stop the way your hips rolled up against his mouth, seeking more friction. The second you did he let out a desperate whimper and pressed in harder, fucking his tongue into you like he couldn’t get enough.
“Fuck, Matt-” you gasped, thighs twitching around his head.
He pulled back just enough to pant against your slick skin, voice low and pleading. “Ride my face,” he begged, the words rushed and shaky. “Please, princess. Sit on my face. Let me do it right this time. I need it-need you to use me, please-”
Before you could even answer, his hands were already gripping your hips, strong and urgent. He flipped the two of you in one smooth, desperate motion. You let out a surprised yelp as your thighs ended up straddling his chest, his head resting against the couch cushions below you.
Matt’s hands slid down to your ass, urging you higher, his expression pure need. “Please,” he rasped again, eyes unfocused and glassy as he stared up at you. “Come here, sweet girl. Ride my face.”
You nodded, barely having time to squeak out a "Yes-" before Matt was tugging you higher, strong hands guiding you forward until your knees were on either side of his head. The second your soaked cunt hovered over his mouth, he let out a low, grateful groan and pulled you down onto his mouth.
The first drag of his tongue made your back arch and a loud, unrestrained moan tear out of you. He didn’t ease you in. He was hungry, licking broad, wet stripes through your folds before sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head as you instinctively rocked forward. “Oh fuck, Matt-”
He groaned beneath you, the sound muffled. His tongue pushed inside you, fucking you in quick, determined thrusts before flattening to let you grind against it. Every time your hips rolled, he met you with more pressure, more hunger. You could feel how much he wanted this.
You reached down and fisted a handful of his hair, tugging hard. The noise Matt made was almost pained in its pleasure. His eyes fluttered, then rolled back completely, lashes dark against his flushed skin. He looked gone, completely lost in you, brows furrowed yet expression slack with bliss. You scratched your nails against his scalp and he whimpered, louder this time, the vibration shooting straight through your core.
You were loud. You couldn’t help it. Every time his tongue circled your clit or thrust inside you, a new sound escaped. High, breathy moans, broken gasps of his name, desperate little whines when he sucked particularly hard. Your hips moved on their own now, riding his face in a steady rhythm that had your thighs shaking.
Matt’s hands stayed firm on your ass, guiding you, encouraging every roll of your hips. His eyes had stayed shut and he hadn't said a word, like he was exactly where he wanted to be and had no intention of coming up for air. “Matt- God, that’s so good,” you moaned, voice cracking as you ground down harder. You tugged his hair again, harder this time, and his muffled moan vibrated straight against your clit.
You felt one of his hands leave your body. Then you glanced over your shoulder curiously at the slick sound you heard. Matt’s heavy cock was still mostly soft from earlier, but his hand had reached down anyway. He was palming himself weakly, almost pathetically, fingers loosely curled around his spent length as if he couldn’t stop touching himself even though he had nothing left to give. The sight sent a sharp pulse of heat through you.
He didn’t even seem to realize you’d looked. His focus was entirely on you. On your taste, on the way you were using him, on every sound falling from your lips. Then, a little breathlessly, your next words just slipped out. “Ohh- Good boy, you’re so fucking good at this.” Matt let out a high, broken whine against your cunt, his thighs twitching hard as his hand squeezed his cock tighter.
“Matt- baby, I’m-” Your voice cracked as the pleasure coiled tight, your thighs starting to shake. He doubled down, tongue thrusting deeper, nose pressed against you. His hand gripped your ass harder, holding you down when your movements grew erratic.
The orgasm hit so hard it tore a scream out of you. Your whole body locked up, thighs clamping around his head as you came with a broken, sobbing cry of his name. Matt groaned loudly beneath you, the sound raw and satisfied. He lapped up everything you gave him while his tongue kept working through your release. Your vision whited out for a second, hips twitching in helpless little rolls against his face as wave after wave rolled through you.
When you finally stopped moving, panting and trembling, you looked down. Matt’s eyes were half lidded, lashes fluttering, his face completely blissed out. His mouth was shiny and wet, lips parted as he licked a few slow, lazy stripes through your folds like he wasn’t ready to stop.
You stayed there for a moment, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath. What the fuck just happened? Your thighs were still twitching. Your throat felt hoarse.
Matt had never come that fast before, never lost control like that. And then he’d flipped straight into eating his own come out of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were still blinking through the aftershocks, brain fuzzy, when Matt finally opened his eyes more than just slits and looked up with a soft, hazy expression.
He looked equal parts satisfied and still deeply embarrassed. You stayed like that for a moment, thighs still trembling on either side of his head, trying to remember how to breathe. Matt gave one last slow, lazy lick before finally letting his head rest back against the cushions, eyes dazed as he tried his very best to look up at you.
You let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through your hair. “Jesus, Matt.”
He smiled, small and a little shy, though his hands stayed firm on your ass like he wasn’t ready to let you go yet. You carefully lifted off of him, wobbling as you shifted down to straddle his abs instead. His face was flushed, his mouth and chin shiny, and he looked so blissed out it was almost comical.
You reached down and gently wiped the corner of his mouth with your thumb, still a little stunned. “I can’t believe you just did that,” you murmured, half laughing. “And I can’t believe I’ve never sat on your face before. You’re mean for keeping that from me.”
Matt’s ears went even pinker. He swallowed, voice rough. “Didn’t know you'd like it that much.”
“You liked it a lot,” you teased, still catching your breath. “You look like I broke your brain.”
He huffed a quiet, embarrassed sound and turned his face slightly into your palm when you reached up and cupped his cheek. You grinned, unable to help yourself. “And don’t think I forgot about earlier, old man. Two pumps? Really?”
Matt groaned, mortified, and covered his face with his forearm. “Please don’t.”
“Never seen you lose it like that,” you continued, voice warm with affection. “I thought you were about to cry when you came. You know they make pills for that, right?”
He dropped his arm, equal parts sheepish and defensive. “You felt too good. I tried to hold back, I swear.”
You softened, leaning down to kiss him. He tasted like you and him and the faintest hint of chocolate still somehow. He kissed you back slowly, almost tenderly, like he still couldn’t believe he got to have you like this after his shame.
When you pulled away, his hands slid up your sides, stroking over your waist. There was still something a little off about him. Something extra clingy and quiet in the way he touched you. You didn’t push. Just brushed your fingers through his hair and smiled down at him. “Shower?” you offered gently.
Matt nodded, but didn’t let go of you right away. He just kept facing you with that incredibly fond expression. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “In a minute.”
notes: oh, hi subby Matt. come on in and take a seat. or actually, let reader take a seat on you.
there's nothing quite like a whiny pathetic Matthew is there? hope you guys enjoyed 🫠 if you did not see my recent post i did drop a final chapter count. chapter 44 will be the last of Act 2 and the conclusion of our story. and then we have some epilogues and flashbacks to look forward to. one of course being the long awaited ren faire smut. and also an epilogue that's been in the works of Matt, reader, and their children (yes as in more than one, you read that correctly.)
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Summary: Honeymooning with Andy sprawls into actual honeymoon bliss as the two of spend time simply being married.
Author Note: Time for another IYM!Monday update - a little Monday eve for some of us again, but I'm so eager to share this chapter! I'm sure this link won't be active forever, but for reference, this is the Italian villa on Lake Como that Andy just purchased and where the two of you are spending your honeymoon.
Previous Part | Full Collection
The first thing you notice, waking from a nap on the floating bed in the pool, is that Andy is gone.
Not gone gone, just not on any visible axis of the infinity pool, nor on the adjacent stone terrace, nor peering at you from the shade of the loggia the way he sometimes does, as if he’s making a private study of how thoroughly the Italian sun kisses your skin. You hear the distant echo of his voice, maybe a phone call, maybe not, and the hush of water lapping gently under your body—then, nothing but bird noise and the lethargic patter of an October breeze, already shifting the air toward winter.
You close your eyes and count each lapping wave, the buzz of distant bees, the punctuation of a single, insistent fly spiraling nearby is the only irritant these days. It’s nearly impossible to believe this is your life now, but three weeks in, the unreality is smoothing into a different genre of normal.
The days have been long and slow, a sequence of luxuries and heat, the kind of leisure you used to think only existed for other people. You and Andy fuck constantly, everywhere—on the bed, the pool steps, once on the sun-warmed hood of the vintage Maserati that he’s aquired for this house. There is no schedule, no work—or rather, your work is to be together, to weather the strange storm of his affection and your own disbelief that you are, in fact, married.
The rhythm of the days is built around meals and sex, though not always in that order. Some mornings you wake to croissants and espresso, some to the weight of Andy’s body already moving inside you, his mouth flattening any chance you had at protest. There’s a kind of athleticism to it now, a drive that’s less about conquest than about seeing how far the two of you can dissolve into each other before you lose track of who’s who.
And here there is just time: for sleeping in, for reading entire novels on the terrace, for walking the estate’s perimeter in silence, hand-in-hand, or apart but within each other’s sightlines.
Only twice in these three weeks has Andy vanished, usually for less than an hour, silent and grim, striding off with his phone pressed to his ear. Each time you think you should be annoyed, resent the way he leaves you alone, but shouldn’t you want the alone time? Regardless, the sense of abandonment never quite blooms. He always comes back to you, faster than you expect, with a heat in his eyes that insists you are the thing he wants most.
You learn the gentle rhythms of the house. The gardener, Ugo, arrives at sunrise, and if Andy’s not already up and prowling the study, you’ll often find him barefoot on the dew-wet grass, talking with Ugo in a tangle of Italian that sounds almost like music. You learn that the best breakfast is not at the marble table but at the ancient wooden bench near the back door, looking out over the lake with your legs over Andy’s lap, watching the chop of early light on the water.
The villa is built on a steep slope that plunges into Lake Como, all pale stone and terracotta roof tile, the kind of property purchased only by those who intend to keep it for generations.
Andy is softer here, in a way that doesn’t mean gentle. He is more relentless, if anything, but less guarded. He will spend hours reading in a chair beside you, or spiral into long monologues about Roman history, or sleep like the dead, one hand always on your skin, as if the long habit of possession won’t dissolve even under a Mediterranean sun.
You get out of the pool, towel off in the sun and walk toward the second floor bedroom you share with its view onto the glassy blue lake. You peel off the swimsuit, and change into a loose linen shirt and soft drawstring pants, and even this luxury feels excessive. Since your engagement, Andy has thrown out half your old wardrobe, replacing it with indecently fine things that you pretend to resent but wear anyway. It makes your skin buzz, the way he dresses you for both your pleasure and his.
You tidy your hair in front of the wide, low vanity—a walnut table, ancient, with a marble top. It’s the kind of thing you would have rolled your eyes at a year ago—the velvet stool, a beveled oval mirror, and an array of perfumes and powders, all staged with an artful disregard for clutter. But you’re drawn to it every day, primarily because of the golden brush and hand mirror that sit at its center, a vintage set that Andy gifted to you the first morning here in Lake Como.
He presented them to you the very first morning. They’d been in a heavy walnut case lined with blue silk. “It belonged to my grandmother,” he’d said, watching your reaction with the same intensity he brought to every other element of his life. “My mother used it every day. I think she’d rather you have it than leave it locked in a safe.” The set was shockingly beautiful—brushed gold handles, and fine porcelain painted with an intricate flower pattern. The bristles are impossibly soft. The mirror refracts your face into something both clearer and less familiar. Every morning, you brush your hair with it. Every morning, you catch Andy watching you in the reflection.
He is in the doorway now, arms folded, his own shirt liberally unbuttoned down the front. You didn’t hear him come up. He has a look you know: right on the seam between hunger and amusement, as if the sight of you is a surprise every time, but never unexpected.
“You’re lurking,” you say. In the mirror you watch Andy tilt his head very slightly, a fox reading a threshold.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He approaches and stops just behind you, not touching you yet, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him.
He watches you finish brushing your hair all the way through, slow, deliberate strokes until the ends fall perfectly straight. Setting down the brush, you turn and face him, waiting.
“You look like you belong here,” he observes.
You arch a brow. “Didn’t you hope it was an inevitability?”
“I don’t leave things to hope.”
He bends and kisses your shoulder—slow, savoring—then lingers, breathing in the scent at your neck. Despite your engagement and these three weeks, you are not yet immune to this. He knows it, too, the way every nerve in you wakes up and goes hunting for more.
But today, he does not escalate—he holds you, chest pressed to your shoulder-blade, and lets the moment dissolve without claiming it. You wonder if he’s in a rare mood of restraint, or whether some part of him is truly, for once, at peace.
You pivot in his arms—quick, surprising him—until you face him fully. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing the familiar whorl of dark hair, a constellation of fading scars, and the lick of some of his tattoos exposed.
Andy’s hands settle at your hips, his thumb pressing the linen flat to your skin. “We’re having company tonight,” he says, almost offhand, but you catch the flicker of something in his face—a signal flare if you care to read it.
You blink. “Who?”
He feigns a sigh, but there is almost the hint of a smile around his mouth. “Someone we can’t avoid any longer.”
“That sounds cryptic and ominous,” you say, though not entirely without humor. “Are they dangerous?”
Andy tilts his head as if considering how much he wants to reveal before confirming, “Not to you.”
You frown. “Who is it, then? Another family? A business rival?” You half expect to hear a name you’ll have to Google later, some ancient consigliere or a senator’s nephew with a gambling problem.
Andy hesitates longer than you expect, then finally, “My stepbrother.”
Your brain stutters, reboots.
Stepbrother?
Not a word you’d ever heard applied to the realm of Andy. You comb through every memory of his disclosures, minimal though they have been thus far, and come up empty. You shake your head, as if a drop of pool water still clings to the inside of your ear. “You never said—” you start, but Andy is already laughing, soft and sharp.
“Didn’t seem relevant, until now.” He grins, his hands tightening at your hips as if to steady you through the shock. “He’s an acquired taste.”
“So, is he coming for dinner, or for war?” you ask.
He shrugs one shoulder, brushing off the gravity even as you feel an undertow. “He’ll be here at seven. He’s in Switzerland, claims traffic, but really he’s just never been on time for anything like this.”
You lean back against the vanity. “Why now?”
The answer is a smile, but not one that reaches his eyes. “Curiosity.”
You process this. Maybe you should be mad, but if Thea read way too many mafia romance novels, you’ve read just as many mafia and non-mafia romance novels to have where the heroine manufactures outrage over nothing, and you’ve always found it exhausting—the obligatory fight, the unnecessary tension, the reconciliation that changes nothing.
And you’re not actually mad at all that he hasn’t told you about a stepbrother. There’s a long list of things you haven’t told him about because you don’t want to.
So really, you’re just genuinely shocked at a stepbrother’s existence.
“Should I be nervous?” you ask. You’re already running the math in your head: whether this stepbrother is the mold Andy was cast from, or the thing he was cast against. Whether they’re estranged or just whatever the word is for two men who have learned to exist in separate countries.
“You’re not the nervous type,” Andy says, though there’s a sweetness in it, a note of reassurance. He tugs you closer, hands molding you against his chest. “It’s just a meal. He’s not the enemy, he’s just…” Andy trails off, one hand sliding up and down your waist. “Don’t let him get in your head,” he says, softer now. “He’s got a talent for it.”
You know a warning when you hear one.
Seven isn’t so far off. You spend a bit more time trying to care about what to wear, but finally just keep on the linen, Andy insisting that you don’t need to dress up. Your husband, without comment, switches out his shirt for another almost as lazily unbuttoned.
At precisely 6:58 pm, Andy’s phone vibrates where it’s been abandoned on the edge of the sideboard, humming a predatory sound against the wood. He glances at it, then at you, and the look—dry, resigned—tells you more than words could.
“He’s early,” Andy says, but doesn’t move to get the door. Instead, he lets you lead, and you do, padding barefoot down the stone staircase, the cool tile sending a charge up your calves.
The villa’s front door has already been opened by one of the Italian security detail, and waiting on the threshold is a man who waits, arms crossed, with a patience that broadcasts itself as challenge.
The men are nearly the same height, but the similarities differ endlessly between them. Where Andy is all cool blue flame, this man is severe angles and a sharp, surgical presence, muscles hardly contained by his frame. His blue eyes are nearly black, set under straight, unyielding brows—nothing of Andy’s bright, sly smile here. His nose is as straight as a blade. Even his hair is a darker, more exacting version of Andy’s, trimmed so close at the sides it’s nearly military, but longer on top and combed back with obsessive precision.
His clothes are immaculate, but in a way that feels less tailored and more engineered: a black shirt, jacket fitted so closely it suggests armor. Ex-military, you think immediately, but then you see the tiny glint of gold at his left wrist, a watch so expensive and so quietly worn that only someone who doesn’t need you to notice it would ever put it there.
And that mustache.
That’s certainly its own personality trait altogether.
Andy’s stepbrother is attractive, but not in any safe or approachable way. If Andy is handsome in a way that draws you in, this one is repellent, polar, a negative charge that wants to spark or burn.
Even his name, when Andy says it, carries its own weight: “Lloyd.”
“Andrew.” The greeting is a handshake, but Lloyd’s eyes dart sideways, taking you in with an efficiency that’s almost anatomical.
He clocks you in less than a second, blue eyes cutting across the foyer before you can even finish your first, startled blink. A once-over that would be offensive if it weren’t so openly, audaciously clinical. You feel yourself stand a little straighter, some competitive impulse sparked by his entrance, so you paste a smile on your mouth and force yourself to hold his stare.
He doesn’t smile back. “The wife,” Lloyd says, like a fact he’s verifying on a checklist.
You offer your hand because it’s the only move that gets you both out of the standoff, and he takes it in his own, the grip surgical and dry, yet with a voltage that makes your wrist bones hum. He doesn’t give his name or prompt you for yours, just releases and steps inside, sweeping the room with a predatory calm. When he’s satisfied, Lloyd turns his attention back to Andy, and whatever conversation occurs between them is nonverbal but absolutely deafening.
“Congratulations,” Lloyd says, and the word lands somewhere that feels simultaneously genuine and hideously sarcastic.
Andy only smirks. “Let me get you a drink.”
You watch them move into the library off the foyer, and you follow in their wake, observing Lloyd as he glances at the rows of rare books like he’s casing the place for weak spots.
“Scotch?” Andy asks.
“Negroni, if you’ve got a proper vermouth.”
Andy doesn’t dignify this request with a joke, just flips open a lacquered sideboard and pulls down a cut-glass decanter of gin, a bottle of Campari, and an unfamiliar squat bottle with an Italian label. “They make this two kilometers from here,” he says, pouring with a reverence that is almost priestly.
Lloyd, meanwhile, has found the one chair in the room that could double as a throne and seats himself with a proprietary air. Without invitation, he props a booted foot on the low table, surveying you over steepled fingers. He says nothing, but the silence is medical in its sharpness, and you sense he is running diagnostics with each flick of his gaze. You perch on the leather couch next to where you know Andy will sit, knees angled out, showing Lloyd you’re not planning to shrink beneath a family dynamic you have just now learned exists.
It is an old, beautiful library, full of rare bindings and the smell of dust and oil, but the air between the men is fresher, the distinctions newer. Andy sets Lloyd’s negroni before him, then offers a glass of your favorite drink to you, settling in beside you.
“So, Lloyd,” you try, figuring you might as well trot out some kind of conversational opening gambit, “how long are you in Italy?”
He weighs the question for sport. “I’m based out of Switzerland. But till Friday. Then Tokyo.” He sips the drink, his mouth compressing to a tight, precise line, then finally flickers a look your way. “I’ll admit,” he says, “I did not think Andy would ever get married again.” He makes the word again do all the work of a punchline.
Andy’s face does not move, but you sense him recalibrating in the space beside you.
You shrug, as if immune to the dig. “I was as surprised as anyone.”
“You must have really good dirt on him,” Lloyd says, turning to you with a wry arch of his eyebrow. “Otherwise, I can’t imagine him tying himself down at this stage of the game.”
You sputter, shocked since it was exactly the opposite. But Andy intervenes, with a hand on your thigh. “She doesn’t need dirt to get what she wants from me,” Andy says, just on the edge of a threat, but it seems to be a warning to Lloyd, not to you. “She’s the only woman who’s ever really tempted me.”
You blink at Andy, a little surprised, warmth squirming through your chest, unsure how to catalog what he’s saying, and if it’s just for Lloyd, or if it’s actually true.
You’re still processing what even to say to that, but before you can land a response, Lloyd sets his glass down with a decisive clink and leans forward, elbows on knees, gaze slicing into you with surgical clarity.
“So, what do you actually do, then? Wife of Andrew Barber.” The way he says it, with the capital W, makes it clear he sees it as a job in itself. You cock your head, deciding whether to play petulant, sincere, or unvarnished.
“I sleep in, I swim, I read too much. Apparently, I get kidnapped from my life in Boston and flown here for undetermined weeks of forced relaxation.”
Lloyd surveys you, a flicker of amusement passing across the frost of his face, then turns to Andy. “I really hope ‘forced relaxation’ is code for indecent amounts of honeymoon sex or else I’ll have to object to everything this marriage stands for.”
“Lloyd!” Andy’s tone is the admonishment of an older brother, but also a little exasperated, as if Lloyd is forever blurting the worst possible thing at the best possible time.
You can’t help but laugh, which seems to catch Lloyd off guard. “Oh, it’s absolutely code,” you say. If Andy’s hand tightens a fractional increment on your thigh, it’s matched by the up-curve at the corner of his mouth.
Lloyd throws his head back and barks out a single, cold laugh, and then, abruptly, all the armored tension in the room fractures. He shoots you a look that’s almost warm—impressed, maybe, or at least entertained—and Andy, feeling the shift, leans more comfortably into the sofa.
“For a second, I thought you’d be one of those tragic, blink-twice-if-you-need-rescue brides or a total waif and a bore,” Lloyd says. “But I think I’m going to like you. You’ve got bite. A spine. Under different circumstances we might’ve had a one-night-stand.”
You say nothing to that—what can you say?—and take a slow sip of your drink. Lloyd grins, animate now, as if he’s been waiting for a worthy audience all along.
Andy glances over, reading the beat of your silence, and says to Lloyd, “She’d have eaten you alive.”
“She’s doing that now, Andy,” Lloyd says, tipping his glass at you.
The more Lloyd talks the more you see—he’s not so much Andy’s shadow as his negative. Where Andy is tactician, Lloyd is dismantler. Maybe even a little unhinged, but in a way that’s technically useful. You can see why Andy can’t ignore him, but also why he’s arranged his life at a safe distance.
“Tell me, Lloyd,” you say, enjoying the game, “what do you actually do? And do you bring this much charisma to all your diplomatic functions?”
Lloyd refills his own drink, swirling the red liquid with a kind of absent, precise menace. “Officially, I’m a strategic consultant. Audit committees, risk and compliance, that sort of thing. Unofficially… Let’s say I help people find their limits, sometimes by exceeding them.”
You smile, liking this more than you should. “So, you’re the fixer.”
Lloyd shrugs, a gesture of such exaggerated modesty it circles around to arrogance. “I fix things, sometimes. Break them, sometimes. It’s the same art, in the end.” He slouches further in his chair, all calculated ease. “But unlike Andy, I don’t long for power. I just want to see how everything works. People, organizations, the occasional marriage.” He flashes a brief, knife-sharp smile. “I’m here because I couldn’t miss the spectacle.”
Andy groans before throwing back the rest of his drink. “Let’s get this dinner over with.”
It’s late, and the moon is a white saw-curve over the lake, when you and Andy finally give Lloyd a send-off in the gravel half-moon of the drive, hand in hand.
Lloyd had commented on every course over dinner, praising the risotto, bemoaning the use of an olive tapenade as an accompaniment to the roasted vegetables (to which you had to agree), and providing a two-minute oral history of the grappa served afterward (“Never drink it after midnight, unless you want to wake up in another country, married to a Turkish heiress, with a contract out on your spleen”). He did not attempt to murder Andy, nor did he try to seduce you, though there was a blank period in the middle of the evening where he became weirdly intent on teaching you the difference between “threat” and “risk” (both as a business concept and a party game).
Lloyd catches your eye, and for a moment you see the flicker of a new alliance—something conspiratorial. You suspect the two of you are possibly the only two people in existence to challenge Andy so much, and the shock of it seems almost to delight him.
“How long’s this honeymoon gig scheduled to last for you lovebirds?” Lloyd asks.
You, of course, don’t know, so you turn to Andy, who responds with a simple, “Undetermined.”
Lloyd raises both eyebrows. “If that’s true, that’s a first for the mastermind of our operation.”
Andy doesn’t react to the dig—just shrugs, unbothered—but you catch the way his grip tightens imperceptibly on your hand. Lloyd’s grin is the most honest expression he’s worn all evening, something primal and delighted lighting his face.
“Listen, don’t you ever let him win at anything,” Lloyd says, blatantly baiting Andy for maybe the eightiegh time this evening.
“Careful,” Andy says, “You’re going to make a friend out of my wife, and I wasn’t the marrying kind, but we all know you don’t do friends.”
“No friendship here,” Lloyd laughs. “Maybe an ally though,” he says with a ridiculous wink.
You grin, and at that moment you know you’ve not only survived an impossible dinner, but recruited a kind of secret weapon—one more unpredictable variable in a world where all bets have been, for so long, placed in advance.
You’re not sure what you expected from Andy’s stepbrother—less terror, more frat boy turned finance bro smarm—but the actual Lloyd is something more dangerous. The air always feels as if it’s about to spark, but you’re reassured with the knowledge that the threat is mostly performance. He is less a bomb than a demolition analyst, carefully always looking for the support beams to test.
Lloyd shakes Andy’s hand, the briefest clamp of muscle around bone, then holds your gaze a half-second longer than is polite. “Next time,” he says, tilting his head at you, “let’s try for lunch. Or something more dangerous.”
He stalks off into the dark, coat slung over his shoulder. His footsteps barely crunch on the gravel; you imagine he never leaves a trace.
You and Andy linger at the end of the drive until the taillights are just two points of red at the base of the hill. There’s static in the air, a lingering voltage that belongs to the aftershock of Lloyd, but maybe to something else, too.
“Are all your family gatherings like that?” you ask.
Andy chuckles. “Not even close. He’s the only family I really have left, and that’s the most time I’ve spent with him in years.”
“Really?”
He hums in the affirmative. “Lloyd’s dad married my mom when the two of us were in our last two years of high school. We put up with and defended each other in equal measure. Built trust. Still stuck with each other even though both our parents are gone.”
You soak this in as you walk back into the villa, side by side, Andy’s pinky hooked in yours as if he doesn’t trust the night not to take you. The air’s gone cool, the breeze off the lake hinting at woodsmoke and dying leaves. You’re so full of food and conversation that you could float, but you also sense the edge of some deeper story curling beneath everything Andy’s said tonight.
Upstairs, the master suite is all golden lamp light and the faint scent of warm linens and cypress from the trees outside. You kick off your sandals near the door and watch Andy cross to the low settee at the foot of the bed. He sits, elbows on knees, head bowed in that posture you’re learning means he’s prepping to tell you something he hasn’t told anyone in years.
You open the window wide, let silence in with the night air, and begin your bedtime routine. You’ve learned that it soothes Andy to watch you. You move through it slow, deliberate—untangling your hair, massaging lotion into your legs, washing your face, brushing your teeth. When you glance in the mirror, you see he’s still hunched, lost in the linen folds of his shirt, and you feel a pang that is half affection, half something harder.
Whatever the complex mix of what’s brought you to this point, he is your husband, and there’s a solid, warm weight about that fact that exists in the cavity of your chest now, unquestionably.
You finish by the window, looking out at the moonrise over the lake, and say, “Tell me about your mom and Lloyd’s dad.” You don’t mean it as a challenge, only an invitation.
He stretches his legs, slides his palms down his thighs, then says, “He was widowed, and she was divorced, of course.” He glances up, eyes catching on yours, then flicking away. “The man who ws my father was put behind bars for murder when I was eight. Looking back I can see that the man put us through too much for her to ever want to tie herself to a man again. But when she met Lloyd’s dad—Henry—he found her compelling enough to put in the time, talking, showing up, respecting her boundaries for months before she finally agreed to go out with him. He was aggressive, but not creepy. Just… very determined, reliable.” Andy huffs a laugh. “They were ridiculously happy together. Lloyd and I hated each other at first, but we saw our parents were too happy to ruin it for them. I thought he was a sociopath; he thought I was a pretentious little shit. We were both right.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself, the sound bouncing off the bedroom’s high ceiling. “You still hate each other?”
Andy’s mouth twitches. “We still keep each other sharp.” There’s a thread of pride in it, or something very close. “He’s the only person alive who can predict my moves.” He’s quiet for a moment, then stands and begins to undress for bed as well. “He tests everyone, all the time. You saw that. But if you pass, he’s loyal.” He glances up at you. “Loyalty means something different to him than most people.”
“So you trust him?”
“Essentially,” Andy says flatly. “He’ll always do what he says he will do. That’s almost the same.”
You study Andy’s face as he peels away his shirt—watch the uncanny way his body sets itself at ease, all muscle and self-discipline. He rakes a hand through his hair, the thick, floofy strands that your fingers easily melt into in your intimacies.
“Lloyd’s dad was killed in a hit-and-run accident. My mom made it clear she still considered him a son, but then she only made it two more years—we discovered she had advanced and aggressive breast cancer. We couldn’t save her. He was there for her for every moment at the end. You could say we were trauma bonded.”
Though it’s a stripped-down recounting, you intuit just how much more is unsaid. It’s not happenstance that’s kept these forced-brothers bonded, but a gravitational choice not to sever the association. What they have makes sense given the context of what you know of each man.
And then there’s his mother. Though he’s spoken only rarely of her, the way he speaks of her, you know he loved her with a ferocity that was rare and consuming. You saw it in the reverence with which he gifted you her brush set, in the way he measures his words about her now, in the fondness you’ve seen in his eyes the handful of other times he’s told you something about her.
Now, in the huge, moonlit room, Andy undoes his belt and lets the sound of the leather sliding free punctuate the silence. He steps out of his trousers, as at home in nakedness as in a suit. There is no shame in him, no self-consciousness—only the expectation that you will watch and be affected.
You could, if you wished, make a study of him for hours. You have, some nights: lying sated beside him, or else propped on an elbow, watching the way breath shifts the shadows across his ribs, or how his chest rises and falls when he is, on the rare occasion, truly asleep while you’re still awake.
Andy pulls back the covers and slides in. You move instinctually to join him, crossing the room, barefoot, skin prickled from the open window and the cold stone underfoot. You watch his eyes track your movement, the intensity in his gaze a physical thing, heavy as a hand on your shoulder.
You climb onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. He reaches for you, but he has no need to draw you in tonight. You want him.
You straddle him, sliding over his hips with the smooth confidence of repetition. Andy’s cock is half hard, and the moment your thigh brushes it you feel him tense—a preemptive shudder that assures you how deeply he wants you, never mind that he had you three times earlier in the day. His hands close around your waist, greedy, guiding you down until the heat of him notches against you. You sink down slow, unhurried, taking him inch by inch.
He hisses through his teeth, eyes slitted, watching your face for every flicker of sensation. When you bottom out, you pause, savoring the fullness. His hands grip tighter, thumbs digging into the soft flesh at your waist, insistently rocking you forward. You let him set the rhythm at first—he always wants to be in control—but you slide your hands against his chest and demand the kisses you want in tandem with the slow fucking.
Your lips and tongues are devoted to devastating each other. You fuck him the way you’ve learned he likes best, slow, steady, a kind of deliberate mutual detonation, nothing performative, just the honest, hungry slide of your bodies.
It hasn’t escaped you that the reason he likes this the best is likely because he knows the level to which it completely undoes you.
You rock into him, savoring the friction, feeling every inch. Andy’s lips roam your jaw, your throat, his hands possessive at your hips, thumbs stroking small, private circles into your skin. You move together in a rhythm that’s almost lazy, but the heat underneath is anything but.
Andy’s cock pulses inside you, warm and thick. He slips one hand up to your breast, kneading it gently, running his thumb over your nipple until it’s stiff and aching. You arch into him, letting your head tip back, throat bared, and you hear the catch in his breath—the way he loses a thread of composure whenever you let him see you undone.
You ride him, your nails leaving crescents in his chest, the thick, slow grind so deep you could weep from the goodness of it. When your orgasm comes, it’s not a thunderclap but a long, exquisite ache that blooms out slow and stays. Andy holds you tight through it, riding your shudders, his hips rolling up to meet yours in perfect counterpoint until he comes, not with violence, but with a decisive, shivering surrender. He pulls you down with him, chest to chest, his arms locked around your back, the world narrowing to the feel of his pulse under your fingertips, the aftershocks echoing through both of you.
After, you lie together without talking, your cheek pressed to his heart, his hand running lazy paths over your shoulder, the length of your arm, the line of your spine. You are so tired you think you might sleep, but there is a question lingering, and you decide to put it out there, wondering if he may deign you with an answer.
“What did you mean when you told Lloyd the length of our honeymoon was ‘undetermined?’”
Andy doesn’t answer immediately, but he doesn’t tense or look away, just keeps stroking your shoulder, his fingers tracing patterns that feel like a signature.
“I meant it exactly as I said,” he murmurs, settling a little deeper into the pillow. “We have no return date. I haven’t set one. There’s no obligation for us to go back until we want to.”
You frown at him skeptically. “You don’t have obligations and business you have to get back to?”
Andy’s smile is lazy, almost smug. “Perk of being the one that runs the show,” he says. “I decide when I’m needed. I decide when I’m not.” He nudges your ankle with his foot under the covers, a quiet intimacy that feels more too normal to belong to the two of you. “If anyone has a problem, they’ll take it up with me when I feel like answering.”
You settle your cheek into the warm spot above his heart. “I didn’t realize crime lords had PTO.”
“Not PTO,” Andy says, his voice rumbling against your ear. “Sabbatical. Indefinite. I worked for years to keep the world in order enough that I could disappear for a while, if I wanted. Most days I didn’t want to. Now, I do.” He doesn’t have to say with you; it’s so palpable in every gesture, every way he rearranges the days around the shape of your body.
You’re quiet, surprised by how much you don’t want to leave this place either, not yet. Not ever, if you’re honest. The luxury is lovely, but it’s the feeling of waking up every day with nothing to do but want and be wanted that you’re afraid to lose.
He catches your silence, fingers tightening a fraction at your arm. “I like us here,” he murmurs reverently into your ear.
He says it so matter-of-factly, with no expectation or agenda, that you go absolutely still, unprepared for how real it lands.
But then you melt, and admit, “I do, too.”
Anyone joining me with a little swooning?
ALSO
CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR BROTHER-IN-LAW! MWAHAHAHA!
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✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Wifeyyyyy! I’d really love to know Andy’s POV and feelings from that bedroom scene discussion in the latest chapter of IYM. How did he feel to see the fallout of his disappearance and to hear us shakily request he doesn’t make us the scared, lonely wife waiting on him like that again? 🥺😭😭
For Better and For Worse [I'm Your Man]
Characters/Pairings: soft!dark mafia Andy Barber x curvy Millennial female!reader
Word Count: 1.7k
Summary: The morning of the wedding
Content/Warnings: forced engagement; mafia themes
Author Note: This wasn't on my radar to be the next part, but once I read your ask, Siri, it materialized almost immediately. Happy IYM!Monday (it's already Monday most-where in the world).
Previous Part | Full Collection
Andy only slept for a couple of hours next to you, restless and unsettled, for better and for worse - fitting since the dawn breaking through the window was that of your wedding day.
He props himself on his elbow, watching the sun spill over your skin, striking gold from the fine hairs on your cheek and the unruly sweep of hair across your pillow. The covers have slipped, pooling at your waist, leaving the topography of your neck, your shoulder, and the softness of your curves lit in fresh daylight.
He memorizes the moment, the way your mouth is slightly ajar and your lashes flutter at the threshold of dream. Last night’s conflict has cooled on the air, replaced by the slow, syrupy warmth you always bring to a shared bed, though you don’t know it. God, he’s addicted to you, and he thought it was bad in the beginning.
Andy studies you for three or four shallow breaths, then slides gently out of the bed. You don’t stir, and that’s for the better. He knows he kept you up—kept you up waiting, and then kept you up trying to make up for the waiting.
Part of him is still genuinely surprised over how emotional you had been. That you’d attempted to wait up at all. He knows he’s on a long road to win you over completely, but last night was an unexpected indication that he’s further along than he thought.
He pads to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth, and from there he stands a good three minutes, arms braced on the lip of the marble sink, absorbing the fact that he’s getting married today. He never thought he’d marry again.
Until you.
He thinks of you waking, drowsy and annoyed, scanning for him with that sense you have for knowing whether you’re alone or not. You hate being the first one up, but you hate empty beds more. He will be back before you miss him.
He’s had his share of women. Many, if you cared to count. But this is different—has been different since the first time he saw you. You hit him like a freight train, and you hadn’t even known it.
He’s changed, that’s the unexpected part. All the years building up callus, thickening moral cartilage, solitary walls, drilling in the discipline to never, ever let anything leak out. The years with Laurie had their own currency; that was a different flavor of ambition and mutual respect, a cold calculus he’s always valued even after the marriage ended and evolved into only the business arrangement. She never got in, not really. She never even wanted to. But this—this thing in the next room, wrapped now in sheets and vulnerability—this is something else. This is a full breach of his defense. And he doesn’t know what to do about it.
He stands in the doorway and gazes on you once more.
Then he leaves the bedroom on bare feet, stepping out into the hush of the hall, and finds the house already humming with the early, invisible work of staff. He smells coffee, hears the distant whir of a vacuum, and the low rumble of men’s voices as his security team keeps circulating, moving, monitoring. Everything about this morning is ceremonial, abuzz with anticipation. He’s more used to the casual constancy of threat in the air—a job to be done, a move to be countered. This, the wedding, the luxury of it, makes him almost more uneasy, but things have been different since the first morning you woke in his bed.
Brendan, his head of security, is at the oak table in the security den, laptop and phone and a half-empty mug, eyes flicking up as Andy enters. “Boss,” he says. The casual air is for show, underneath, Brendan is all readiness, efficiency, vigilance.
“Status?” Andy asks, not bothering to sit.
“Mark’s swapping the car rotation,” he says. “Everything is clear so far: perimeter checks, vendor arrivals, a revised guest list. It’s early, but we’ll be on it all day.”
“And any developments since the incident last night? Lupo or Levinson?”
Brendan shakes his head. “Quiet. Lupo’s side is posturing—socials and our sources indicate a few goons gathering but no sign of actual muscle movement. Jersey’s got no appetite for a Boston brawl and Lupo reminded his men of that after the sit down with you and Ari.” He taps the laptop. “Full logs if you want the details.”
Andy waves it off. If something mattered, Brendan would have led with it. He prefers the trust, almost as much as he likes testing it.
“We’ll keep our own hand on the situation, but Levinson’s outfit assured us their boss wants to make sure you’ve got a clean day as his particular wedding gift to you.”
Half of Andy’s mouth quirks up. He nods, a brief flick of the chin, then drags a finger along the grain of the table before pushing off. “Keep it that way.” He leaves Brendan to his screens and walks the circuit of the first floor—habit, comfort, a ritual like prayer but more honest. He checks the kitchen, the garden doors, the garage, noting each detail the way he’s trained himself: who’s working, who’s slacking (no one), where the weaknesses are.
It’s dangerous, getting married. Too many moving parts. Too many incentives to fuck with the day. But he’s made a fortress of the day: layers of staff, loyalty, and contingency plans stacked one on top the next. Even if someone wanted to take a shot, they’d hit a wall of a wall of professional, cold-eyed men before they even crossed the county line.
He will make this happen and do it right, no matter the cost.
The wedding is a statement while also being a gesture.
A statement to everyone around him.
A gesture to the life he intends to build marrying you.
He takes the stairs two at a time, the climb burning off some of the adrenaline that knots at the base of his skull. The master suite is still, the hush broken only by the sound of your breath—the slow, measured in-and-out, so regular he could set his watch by it. You’ve shifted again in sleep, tangled limbs and hair, one knee exposed, the sheet askew at your thigh.
He slips back into bed just as you roll over, blinking awake like you’re coming to from anesthesia. You see him and scowl, though it lacks conviction. Andy reads it as a greeting and presses close to plant a kiss on your forehead.
You can’t seem to help but let a little sigh escape, but then burrow down into the pillow. “What time is it?” you ask, your voice a croak.
“Early. Go back to sleep,” Andy insists.
You mutter, “No, I won’t,” but you settle more into the mattress, your cheek pressed to the pillow, tension gone from your brow. He tucks the covers back over your shoulder, as if making up for all the things he can’t tell you if he can at least keep you warm for five minutes more. He should let you sleep—so much of today will be performance, for both of you—but instead he can’t help but trace his fingers along your jaw, your neck.
He runs his thumb along the curve of your cheekbone, marveling at the warmth that radiates from you, and the hold over him you have that he negotiates inch by inch.
He wants to fuck you again. When doesn’t he? He almost needs it after last night—not because of the business he had to deal with, but because he’s still unsettled with the new element that your existence has created in his universe. You’re a complication. Collateral he won’t let be damaged.
But he doesn’t.
The memory of last night is sharp, and the skirmish between Lupo and Levinson’s men isn’t what has him uncertain, it’s what happened after. He saw the way you collapsed, not just into his arms but into yourself. He saw the fine tremor in your hands, the way your voice had frayed when you’d asked him not to leave you like that again. It was the opposite of a threat and yet so much more potent. He’s been responsible for countless men, held thousands of secrets, and yet the look on your face made him more nervous than walking into the last sit-down with three guns pointed at his chest because last night was a reminder that he can’t make you any of the promises you crave, maybe not even the promises you deserve.
But he won’t relinquish you.
And he can’t leave you unprotected.
He reaches for your hand—fingers barely brushing yours on the sheet. You don’t pull away. He interlaces his fingers with yours and considers, for a fleeting second, what it would mean to never let go of this. When you squeeze once, almost irritably, he feels the pressure all the way up his arm. Married, he thinks. This is what married is supposed to be.
Maybe you won’t regret marrying him forever. He lies there longer than he should, the heat of your body drawing him into a stillness he doesn’t indulge for anyone else. The air is thick with the intimate vulnerability of sleep. Through the glass, the sun carves its way around the heavy velvet curtains, striping your bare shoulder and the mess of hair at your temple. Andy should regret disturbing the scene, but he’s never been any good at leaving beauty unbroken. He smooths your hair. You twitch and mumble, burrow deeper, exposing the tender shell of your ear.
“I’ll give you a perfect day, sweetheart. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you.” He whispers the vow into your hair, too faint for you to hear.
He waits. Two more minutes. The world can roll on without him for two more minutes. Then he’ll leave, letting you continue to sleep until the bridal party descends and sweeps you up for a celebratory brunch and a day of getting ready for you to walk down the aisle where he’ll be waiting for you and make you his.
🫠🫠🫠
So? Feels?
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
a short series featuring Andy Barber as a soft dark mafia boss who set his sights on you and never plans to let you go
While Andy Barber was well-known in Boston, there are whispers of a darker side, but few know his morals know no bounds. He's successful, he's charming, he's generous, and you're about to find out just how dangerous he can be.
Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings]
DUBIOUS CONSENT, extortion, explicit smut (see individual parts for detailed warnings), power plays, manipulation, financial spoiling, forced marriage
COLLECTION:
I'm Your Man [3k]
Morning Radiance [750]
Prepare for Takeoff [1.5k]
Don't Look Too Far [6.4k]
Burned Off the Haze [4.5k]
Cracking Locks [5k]
Dangerous Desires [6.3k]
Only Your Actions Talk [5.9k]
By the End of the Night [6.2k]
ANDY'S POV You Should Know [800]
Currents Sweeping Through [3.8k]
Different Things [3.9k]
Last Vows Before the Altar [7.5k]
ANDY'S POV For Better and For Worse [1.7k]
parts that jump ahead of the timeline and may or may not remain cannon to this AU:
ask: a moment on your honeymoon [350]
Make Her Glow [1k]
EXTRAS:
↠ will Andy let the reader work?
↠ what if Andy were forced into marriage with the reader?
↠ what if sweetheart tried to get rid of her engagement ring?
↠ does Andy have ulterior motives?
↠ did Andy pick you to be the mother of his children/did he watch you before?
summary: Scraping by as a photographer and bartender in new york city, you finally cave under your roommate's pestering and sign up for a sugar baby dating app. The arrangement is simple: Keep Mr Murdock company once a week, and you'll be paid enough to support your artistic pursuits without the side effect of exclusively eating microwave dinners.
Watching Robby sit on his bike and use his shirt to wipe sweat off his face, revealling his squishy, hairy, sexy belly was really all it took…
Words: 7,9k (I can't just be normal, ever)
Content: Older Man/Yonger Woman (Reader is late 20s, Robby is in his fifty), Robby is a dick but reader is lowkey into it, belly riding, degradation, verbal humiliation, light dom/sub, daddy kink, PiV sex, rough sex, hair pulling, oral sex (f receiving), semi-public bj
This is just smut. I have no excuses for this. I was encouraged.
No use of Y/N
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
It was a shit day in the Pitt.
When asked about your day, that was always your reply.
The patients were either monumentally stupid, disrespectful, verbally abusive assholes, intoxicated to the point they could not even hear the questions you asked, or the most precious, sweetest people ever - and the sweet, precious ones were always the sickest.
It was a cruel running gag of the universe, you were sure of it. The stupid assholes survived, and the sweet grandmas who called you hun and made you compliments, the polite single mums tearing themselves apart to keep their children’s worlds whole, died.
PTMC was chronically underfunded, the staff chronically overworked, running on shitty coffee, insomnia, saviour complexes and fumes, and the air conditioning unit perpetually shit.
What was there to love about this job?
You sat on the low wall by the ambulance bay, tucked away from the chaos of the ER against the corner by the wall with your knees drawn up to your chest and your head resting against the brick wall behind you.
It was your own personal little safe haven.
Everyone on staff had one.
Trinity and Dennis had the break room. Donnie and Jessy the hallways leading down into the subbasement where only the generators, central supply and the IT gremlins (as you affectionately called them) hid. Abbot and Robby had the roof.
You had this corner.
You took another sip from the can of soda you held in your lap. The late summer heat was oppressive, squeezing in around you until the air felt too heavy, too thick. The can was sweating as much as you, condensation seeping through the cheap fabric of your scrubs. Your feet were aching, your head too. Your hoodie lay discarded next to you on the wall. The ER itself was freezing cold, but the outside smoldering, and the waiting room was somehow even hotter.
ER waiting rooms often defied all laws of physics.
Yeah, when asked about your day, you always replied with shit.
The pay wasn’t enough for the backbreaking labour expected of you to keep the crumbling healthcare system afloat on your compassion and spite alone. The patients were ungrateful or so gut-wrenchingly tragic you couldn’t breathe. You woke in cold sweats most nights, remembering the faces of patients you’d lost years ago. The air conditioning unit might as well have come straight from hell with how it savoured torturing you. You were still paying off student loans and would continue to do so for many years just to have parents argue with you that vaccines were a hoax, their children lying in the next room as they slowly died from preventable diseases.
And yet, despite it all, you kept coming back. You came back every day. You picked up shifts when colleagues called out. You volunteered for holidays so those who actually had a family could spend the day with them. You stayed longer when the Pitt was swamped.
Perhaps you had some masochistic tendencies (you definitely had those).
Perhaps you were simply insane.
For some inexplicable reason, staying away from the hospital longer than two days in a row drove you mad with boredom. You stood in the front row of every mass casualty, swirling through the ER, past bloodied gurneys and screaming patients, blood pounding in your ears and feeling alive like never before amidst the death and devastation.
There was another perk to being an absolute, hopeless workaholic, and it was currently arriving for his shift.
Robby started riding his new motorcycle to work a few weeks back, and with the shock of PittFest still deep in everyone’s bones, it took a few days for people to even realise. It started with Dana pursing her lips. It ended with you somehow finding time to sneak away for your ‘lunch’ break every day at seven a.m. when Robby arrived for his shift.
He didn’t always notice you sitting on your wall with your packed lunch and ice-cold can of soda, no matter the weather. When he did, he shot you one of his strained, tight-lipped smiles or waved before heading inside to do handovers with Abbot.
You worked the midnight to noon shift, your time at the hospital overlapping with Abbot’s, Shen’s and Robby’s shift, a new system being tested by the hospital to provide greater continuity of care. The second-you worked from noon to midnight.
You didn’t mind.
You got to watch Robby arrive for work and wave him goodbye when you left to go home.
You looked forward to it. To these slammed eight hours you got to see him, be near him, work at his side, sometimes close enough to smell the scent of soap he used still clinging to his skin.
Robby never wore a helmet.
In front of Dana, he pretended he did. When you were around for one of their arguments on the matter, Robby always glanced over to you, sharing a private, conspiratorial smirk with you and winking.
Your knees went weak every single time.
It was pathetic really, how huge your crush on your much older attending had grown.
It started as fawning admiration for his skill and calm even amidst the shittiest, harshest shifts when you were nothing but a flustered med student who, no matter what she did, always stood in the way. When you were a resident, still overwhelmed that you actually got placed with your dream hospital, you worked tirelessly, making it your whole existence to prove to Dr Robby you could be trusted, that you were good, that you’d earned your spot here. That you soaked up everything he taught you. That you had not wasted the time he spent teaching you. You wanted to make him proud. You craved his approval and praise.
You were pathetic.
But when he’d been the first to congratulate you when you passed the boards, and he’d been the one to tell you your application for the attending position at PTMC’s ED had been accepted - those were your most cherished memories…
Robby parked in the same spot as always, close to the entrance of the ambulance bay. Sweat clung to his brow. The corners of his eyes were crinkled from a lifetime of smiling. You wondered when he stopped. What had sucked the joy and happiness out of him? Perhaps it was this job.
I’d make him happy again, that unhelpful, ridiculous little voice in your head whispered. You shoved it away roughly. What did you even have to offer a man at least twenty years your senior?
I’d suck him off so good he’d forget how to breathe.
“Oh my god.” You muttered to yourself, biting the inside of your cheek to fight off the heat creeping up your neck. When had you become such a fucking pervert? Lusting after some old man. Your former teacher. Your boss!
You were still watching Robby, like the unhinged little freak you’d become for him. He was checking his phone, still sitting on his bike. You watched him shove the phone back into the side pocket of his cargo pants and then, as if time had turned to molasses, you watched him shove his hand under the hem of his shirt and lift it up to wipe the sweat off his face and beard.
Your eyes glued themselves to the sight unfolding before you, to Robby’s soft, round stomach on full display, protruding over his belt like the most delicious fucking muffin you’d ever seen. You stared at his sweaty skin, the liberal dusting of coarse dark hair covering it, mouth quite literally watering at the sight.
Robby dropped his shirt again. It caught on his belly, leaving a delicious sliver uncovered, the same slivers you had stolen glances of every time he stretched his back in the ER, causing his scrubs to ride up.
Robby looked up and froze. Your eyes met across the ambulance bay. You couldn’t look away. What was wrong with you? Ogling his belly in public like some- some belly fetishist!
Heat suffused your face and neck, making even the scorching temperatures around you go green with envy.
Robby stared back at you. A slight pink tinge spread across his cheeks. He tugged on his shirt, even when it sat normally again and averted his eyes, twisting his head away with more force than necessary.
You were still staring at him.
You couldn’t stop.
Seeing his naked belly had broken something, fried some essential wiring in your brain, you were sure of it.
Robby didn’t look at you when he stalked past to disappear into the Pitt.
You stayed. Trapped between mortification at being caught ogling him and depraved delight at the sight that had burnt itself into your retinas.
This was not good.
This was not at all helpful with regards to your concerning, lecherous crush - though crush was far too tame a word to describe the absolutely filthy thoughts that came to haunt you every time you lay down in bed to catch some sleep between shifts.
You finished your soda, ate the last of your ‘lunch’ while desperately trying to remember how to act normal before heading back inside.
The scent of Robby’s aftershave, still fresh in the morning, still hung in the air. You felt yourself blush again. Oh god. You were fucked. You were so royally, monumentally FUCKED.
I want to fuck him.
“Oh my god, shut the fuck up.” You hissed to yourself.
Dana shot you an incredulous look over the edge of her glasses, one brow raised, no doubt seeing the blush still darkening your skin when you went to check the board. You forced yourself not to look for Robby before grabbing a tablet to throw yourself back into the ER madness - a mistake, you realised as you turned around and collided with another person.
A solid, soft, very good-smelling person.
“Dr- Dr Robby.” You muttered, backing away quickly. Could this day get any worse?
You looked up on reflex - it was impossible not to look at Robby, not to look for Robby, but all you could think about as you were peering up at your old mentor and object of all your desires was how you would ride your pillow tonight while thinking about the mouth-watering show he’d inadvertently put on for you this morning.
Your blush only darkened further.
Had you been any more sane in the moment, you’d have noticed Robby’s own flushed skin, or the fidgedy, uneasy energy surrounding him.
Dana looked from you to him and promptly decided she was not paid enough to deal with whatever was going on between the two attendings.
You were called away to one of your cases and quickly ducked around Robby to scurry away, taking all your perverted thoughts and shame with you.
Good thing mind-readers don’t exist. And in case they do, please don’t tell on me.
Your shift dragged on, tugging you along at the most infuriating, pointless pace ever. You liked your shift time slot. You liked that you got to spend one half with the nightshift crew and the second half with the dayshift. Nights were slower and somewhat calmer but also batshit crazy. Days were turbulent and demanding. You never wanted to go back to twelve uninterrupted hours of this shit ever again. Eight were more than enough.
You’d been avoiding Robby, and you’d almost made it to the end of your shift without interacting with him. You’d even voluntarily exiled yourself to chairs.
Just another hour to go before you could slink out, taking your shame with you and hopefully, hopefully Robby would have forgotten all about this by tomorrow. Or at least you could both pretend it had never happened.
You swirled around at the sound of your name being called - and cursed.
Robby made his way through the flow of staff and patients towards you.
“A word.” It was a question. He pushed the door to an empty exam room open and, hanging your head in defeat and embarrassment, you ducked under his arm and slipped into the room. Robby followed. The door fell shut. The chaos and noise of the ER faded away, leaving you alone with your stupid blush and stupid, feral thoughts and rapid heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Robby towered over you with his arms crossed, ridiculously tall and handsome and looking at you with that stern, sexy disappointed-teacher-look. You both shrunk under it and internally purred like a cat getting exactly what it wanted. He tilted his head and tipped it forward, looking down at you with those delicious dark puppy eyes-
“I expected more professionalism from you. If you have an issue, I thought you would have enough respect for me to bring it up with me personally, instead of doing this fucking charade of playing cat and mouse!”
Your eyes flicked down to his belly. Your severely unhelpful brain supplied pictures of you kneeling in front of him, feeling his belly against your forehead, choking on his cock while he berated you in exactly that tone.
Robby hissed your name. You flinched, head whipping up to meet his eyes again.
I’m no better than a man.
“I-” You mumbled unhelpfully, unsure of how to save yourself from the mess you were sinking into deeper and deeper the longer you were alone with him.
He was still going. Working himself up into a right frenzy while tearing into you in this new stress-fuelled way of his he never used to do before. You remember well how he knocked a former R4, who’d long since moved to another hospital after making attending, down a peg for shouting at you so hard after you made a harmless mistake you started crying and hyperventilating.
He was a very different man back then.
Not that you minded this new, rougher, meaner version of him.
“I know I am not the youngest man anymore-” An edge of insecurity slipped into his voice. “-but you are a doctor for Christ’s sake! I didn’t do anything inappropriate, so I don’t get what the fuck is going on with you that you can’t even do your fucking job today! Are you thinking about going to HR? Gloria? Is that it? Some snowflake shit about not being able to see some skin without getting offended?”
He was still going.
I want you to call me a filthy slut while I ride your sexy belly.
Silence.
No-
Oh god no-
“Did I say that-”
“Yep.”
You wanted to disappear. To stop existing. Better yet, for you to never have existed in the first place.
“I-” Your mouth went dry, so dry that every swallow felt like trying to force sand down your throat. “Fuck- I’m sorry-” You hid your face behind your hands and fought against the tears burning in your eyes.
Fuck.
Fucking stupid.
How could a decently smart person - and you had to at least be decently smart to have made it through med school and residency - be so fucking stupid?!
“Dr Robby, please- I-”
You bolted out of the room, leaving behind a stunned, slightly flushed Robby.
***
It was almost eight pm when a knock on your door tore you from your spiralling thoughts that shifted from berating yourself to considering resignation - because what else was there left to do at this point?
You’d stayed hidden in chairs until your shift was over and used the noon rush of people using their lunch break to see a doctor to slip out without bumping into Robby.
You barely slept, and you still had not decided whether you’d be showing up for your shift at midnight.
Peering through the peephole made your blood run cold.
Robby.
A dishevelled, sweaty, irritated-looking Robby. At your door.
You opened the door a crack, hiding behind it with only your head popping out. You felt Robby stare down at you, but you had no bravado left to face him. You didn’t have any bravado. You would have never said that to him, never confessed to your raunchy thoughts and fantasies. You still had no idea how the words slipped out.
“Can we talk?”
You nodded, still not looking up and stepped aside enough for him to slip into your apartment. You shut the door and slunk back down the hall and into the living room, where you sat down on your sofa, curling up into a tight ball with your knees to your chest and a pillow clutched in your arms.
Silence stretched between you, thick and loaded.
“Look…” Robby ran his hands through his hair and slumped down in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table with an audible sigh. “I don’t appreciate being ridiculed.”
Your head snapped up, brows dipping into a frown, lips parting as though to say something, but Robby lifted his hand, cutting you off.
“I made you uncomfortable, and instead of being a man about it and acknowledging it and apologising, I was a dick. That wasn’t right, but paying me back like that? That wasn’t cool either.”
“I- I didn’t-”
Robby snorted, a bitter, self-deprecating sound that sent a pang through your heart. “Right. Because I’m supposed to believe you meant that.”
“I did.” Your voice was a tiny, fragile little thing, bearing the evidence of the hours you’d spent panicking, thinking about what you were supposed to do to fix this, and no negligible amount of crying.
It was Robby’s turn to stare at you, opening and closing his mouth in a futile attempt to come up with something to say.
“I shouldn’t have- I never thought I’d say something like that to you, and that was so inappropriate, and I am sorry, but I won’t sit here and let you claim I was lying. Because I wasn’t.” Your cheeks burnt, but you forced yourself to hold eye contact even when your throat felt as though it was swelling shut.
“You- meant it?”
You nodded.
“You want to ride my belly?”
You looked away. Heat surrounded your face. “I think you look good. Really good.”
“Then you have very questionable taste, kid.”
You put the pillow down and got up, moving past your coffee table to stand in front of Robby. He watched you with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. You set your knee against the edge of the cushion, right between his spread legs.
“Do you have a problem with my taste?”
Robby whispered your name, a warning that was already hanging on by a thread, brittle, too weak to conceal his own yearning he’d been fighting to keep hidden from you.
You were too young, too pure for him to drag you down with his own messiness and inability to commit. He didn’t care about workplace relationships, he should as department chair and man who’d been frozen out by scorned nurses to the point Dana had to berate everyone involved into restoring some semblance of professionalism, but you- he didn’t want to mess you up, and everything he touched got messed up.
“Maybe it’s not my taste that’s the issue.” You placed your hand against his shoulders, curling the fingers of the other around his chin softly to force him to look at you. “Maybe it’s your perception.”
You bent down further. Robby bristled, taking a sudden, deep inhale. He looked like a man trapped between resisting and breaking, and a wicked, depraved part of you desperately wanted to see him snap.
You dropped to your knees. Robby groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying and failing to resist the temptation of looking at you, watching you huddled between his spread legs in your skimpy sleep shorts and loose shirt that did nothing to conceal the fact you weren’t wearing a bra.
You nuzzled the inside of his thigh with your head while dragging your hands down his chest, over his soft, warm belly-
You bit your lip to stifle a groan. You were too far gone to be embarrassed by how wet you already were for him, how needy and addled with pure, carnal lust that had been building for years, had grown to such devastating heights you apparently blurted it out in the middle of getting your ass handed to you - unfairly - by your attending.
You toyed with the hem of Robby’s scrub top.
“You’re crazy.”
“It would seem that way.” You murmured as you pushed his shirt up, eyes latching onto the delicious sight of soft, warm, hairy flesh. His body looked like the epitome of comfort. Lived-in, functional, not like those overly polished, eating disorder-driven fuck boys that clogged up your timeline on social media and flooded the dating apps, talking about discipline while eating unseasoned chicken with rice and making women feel shit about their very normal, very natural bodies. You could picture yourself curling up against Robby to leech off his warmth at night. Or resting your head on him while he ran his fingers through your hair.
“But since I already made a fucking spectacle of myself at work, I might as well do this.” You pressed your lips against his stomach and bit back a needy moan. Robby’s hand shot up to thread through your hair. He watched you mouth at his belly as if it was the hottest thing you’d ever seen, lavishing kisses and teasing kitten licks all over his squishy flesh.
He could not fathom how someone as pretty as you could ever be attracted to the worst part of him. Though perhaps these days the worst part of him was his steadily worsening temper… not that you seemed especially opposed to that too.
“Can I?” You looked up at him through your lashes.
“What?” Robby struggled to keep up with you, his mind preoccupied with trying to process how he’d ended up in your apartment with you kneeling between his legs and still somehow not to suck his cock.
“Ride your belly.” You painted languid patterns onto his exposed belly with your fingers, kempt nails scraping softly over his skin, making him shiver.
“Yeah.”
His reply came out breathless, without him really thinking about it. You emitted a squeaking noise of pure delight, and any inhibitions he might still have had melted away under it. You got to your feet, shimmying out of your shorts and panties before straddling him. You tugged and pulled impatiently on his shirt, but Robby needed a moment to get over the way your tits were in his face.
His shirt joined your shirts on the ground. Your fingers found their way into his hair and beard, toying with the coarse hair while rolling your hips against him. You stifled a moan against his temple, insides clenching violently around nothing as you dragged your soaked folds over his soft flesh. You applied more pressure, and his flesh gave way for you, allowing you more friction without it hurting or overstimulating your already swollen clit. You felt his hair against your inner thighs and heated flesh, a teasing tickle that sent prickling shivers of desire and need down your spine.
“Robby-” You moaned breathlessly. His face caught in your hands, you tipped his head back and slanted your lips over his. It was a messy kiss, uncoordinated and frankly, pathetically eager.
But was it your fault this sad old man underneath you was so fucking hot it burnt your neurons to just look at him?
After a stunned moment, Robby reciprocated. He cupped the back of your head with one hand while the other settled on the small of your back to pull you closer. He slipped down on the armchair a little, making it easier for you to grind against him.
“Fuck, sweetheart-” He muttered against your lips when you pulled back to gasp for air. “This what you wanted? You young people have some fucking issues…”
You shuddered above him.
Robby’s eyes lit up with mirth.
“Right… no, this is not all you wanted, is it? What was it you said? You want me to call you a filthy slut?”
You could only nod.
“Tell me, baby.” His hands fell to your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh as he pulled you down harder against him. “What is it your deranged mind pictured when you thought about this? Did you get yourself off to the thoughts of an old man’s floppy stomach?”
You nodded again.
“Words, sweetheart. Can’t help you if you don’t talk. Come on, be a big girl and use your words.”
You moaned.
Robby forcibly stilled the movement of your hips.
“I-” You couldn’t meet his eyes. Embarrassment burnt a path up your throat, and for some terrible, filthy reason it turned you on all the more. “You’re pulling my hair, holding my arms behind my back, and degrade me. Sometimes- sometimes you tell me to stroke your cock while I get myself off. To make myself useful.”
Robby inhaled a hissing breath through his teeth.
Slowly, he ran his hand up your spine, just to drag it back down and catch the hem of your shirt. You lift your arms to help him peel it off you. His eyes flicked down to your breasts immediately, mentally cataloguing the sight of you, saving it to his memory.
He threaded his fingers through your hair, palms flush against your scalp, just to curl his fingers, gripping your hair tightly at the root, and you thought you could have come right then, just from finding out Robby knew how to properly pull a girl’s hair.
He caught your wrist and twisted your arm behind your back, just enough to hurt but not so much he would dislocate your shoulder, dragging another stuttering moan from you.
“Go on then.” Robby purred, voice lower than before, eyes dark with hunger. “If you’re getting yourself off by rubbing your little cunt all over me like a fucking slut, you might as well make it worth my while.”
You could barely move. Between the silent threat of your arm twisted behind your back, forcing you to arch your back and lewdly present your breasts to Robby, and his hand in your hair, you were trapped.
It was so much better than you ever thought it would be.
Robby chuckled. “Fucking hell… and here I thought you were this innocent, well-behaved little thing.”
You finally managed to reach the waistband of his pants. It took you several attempts to manage to slip your hand under it, straining in Robby’s grasp and gasping when a movement had your shoulder aching. Robby, all the while, mocked you for struggling, for dripping all over him like a fucking whore, for getting so turned on by being man-handled.
“There you go… see, that wasn’t hard, was it? Pretending to be a useless, dumb bitch isn’t going to get you out of this, sweetheart. You put yourself in this situation, now be a big girl about it, hm-” Robby was cut off by a groan when you managed to close your fingers around his hard length. You tugged, forcing him out of the confines of his boxers. He felt big - long and heavy in your hand. Robby’s grip tightened around your wrist, dragging another stuttering moan from your lips.
You rolled your hips, rutting helplessly against his belly, immobilised by his strong arms around you, his cock throbbing against your palm-
“That’s all you can do? Hm? You get your hand around a cock, and suddenly that brain of yours doesn’t work anymore? Come on, sweetheart, put some effort in it. I thought you were going to make this worth my while? Why should I sit here and watch some whore get off?”
Pleasure pounded through your veins and rose to your head, wrapping your brain into a fuzzy blanket of bliss. Robby’s words made shame and embarrassment skyrocket in your chest. His hand around your wrist, twisting your arm behind your back, had sharp pain shooting through you, gasoline to the already raging storm of desire and need wreaking havoc over you.
“Robby- Robby, fuck- don’t stop-”
Tears clung to your lashes and rolled down your cheeks. Your chest rose and fell with each laboured breath you forced into your lungs. Your skin prickled as though you’d touched a live wire.
Robby’s dark eyes were glued to you, glinting with desire and wonder at the discovery of your own depravity. Never, never would he have expected the bubbly, sweet, innocent girl who’d been his med student all those years ago would get up to shit like this.
In all the years he’d spent pining after you, he never dared to think you would be this fucking perfect for him.
“Are you going to come? Are you seriously going to come from this? Fucking hell, sweetheart… such a disgusting, filthy fucking whore…”
“Y-yes-” You threw your head back, just for him to pull on your hair tighter, force your head back further until your toes were curling and your lips falling open around a suffocated moan. Your hand, already slick with pre-cum, tensed around his throbbing cock. “I’m a disgusting whore- your- your filthy whore- Robby- ah-”
“Oh, mine, are you? Am I to believe you won’t crawl to another man to have him throw you around the second I leave here?”
You tried to nod, but you could barely move your head.
“You can pretend to be a good girl all you want, baby, I don’t fucking believe you.”
“Daddy-”
A shudder tore through Robby, followed by a grin splitting across his face.
“Daddy? Oh ho ho, sweetheart.”
Your cheeks heated up under a fierce, bright red blush spreading across them.
“No no no, don’t you dare pretend you didn’t say that. Jesus, you’re such a fucking mess… no wonder you’re getting off to me tossing you around like you’re nothing but a used cum rag.”
“Robby-”
“No, baby.” Robby let go of your hair just to grab your chin. “No backpaddling now. Address me properly, pet.”
“D-daddy-”
“There you go. So there is some brain in that pretty head of yours after all.”
“Fuck me, daddy- please- ohmygod- I want to come on your dick-”
Robby was too far gone to question anything at this point. He was far too old to act like this, far too old to not waste a single thought of contraception or STIs or just the fact that he was your boss and you were far too young for him.
Robby let go of your arm. He had enough mental wherewithal about him still to ease it out of the uncomfortable position he held it in. He watched you for a second to make sure he’d not done any damage. You might be a little sore tomorrow, but from the way you moved it and rolled your shoulder to shake off the tension clinging to your muscles, he was sure you were fine.
You emitted a surprised squeal when Robby stood up with you in his arms, effortlessly, as though you weighed nothing. He turned you around and pushed you face-first onto the armchair. Your knees sank into the cushion. You clung to the backrest, just for Robby to grab your hair and push your face down. His fingers dug into your side, thumb pressing down on the small of your back viciously until you arched your back for him.
“Fuck- don’t even need any training, huh?”
You felt his blunt head rub through your soaked folds, heard the sharp intake of air he took in your ear as he bent over you, his front moulding to your back, belly pressed flush against your back-
“Keep that up and I might let you come.”
“Daddy-”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Can’t trust a stupid slut to do as she’s told.” Robby forced your head to the side. You met his eyes through tear-soaked lashes. His lips brushed harshly against your cheek, his beard scratching your skin deliciously. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Come on. Beg me. I know you want to.”
“I want you-” You moaned, bucking against him, desperately seeking some friction to ease the painful pressure between your legs. “I want you to fuck me, daddy- I’ve wanted you- ah- wanted you for so long-”
“Yeah? How long, baby? How long have you been thinking about my cock stretching out that slutty little cunt?”
“Years-” Your nails dug into the fabric of your armchair, the material straining beneath your desperate grip, tears tumbling down your cheeks and falling off your jaw. A desperate sob tore through your chest. “Robby, please-”
You were cut off by the overwhelming stretch of his cock breaching you, pushing forward in a single, devastating thrust that had you trembling and whimpering under Robby. He felt so good- so fucking good- The stretch of him forcing your body to open up to him was just short of too much. He filled you up so good, thick and hot and heavy, a solid, throbbing weight inside your quivering, sopping cunt you could not forget.
“Shut up.” Robby hissed in your ear, knowing his sharp tone would only drag more delicious, high-pitched whines from you. “You got yourself into this mess, now be a good girl and take what daddy gives you. I don’t want to fucking hear you complain, sweetheart. You didn’t have to act like a fucking whore, you chose to, and now you see what daddy does to pathetic sluts throwing themselves at him.”
He fucked you in quick, jostling thrusts that had the feet of the armchair scraping across your flood. A distant, very distant part of you worried about Robby knocking the whole thing over from how hard he was pounding into you, but it quickly shut up when he let go of your hair to hold onto your waist, face nuzzling into the back of your neck.
He was panting, breathing loud and heavily, only interrupted by low, deep, rumbling grunts. His hips slammed into you, slamming you into the worn cushions. His star of david necklace tapped against your shoulder blade on every thrust while he mouthed at your ear and the side of your face, beard scraping deliciously over your sweaty skin.
The feeling of your cunt clamped down around him like a vice had apparently melted away every nasty word he could have thrown at you for your own sick, twisted pleasure, replacing the severe, struggling man you’d grown used to interacting with with a much softer version.
He muttered sweet nothings and tender praise into your skin while clinging to your waist as if you were a life raft.
And fuck, you’d be his raft, life preserver and stress relief if only he kept fucking you like this.
A younger version of you made a vow what felt like lifetimes ago to not waste any more of your time on toxic, unstable men, but for Robby you might just throw every common sense out the window.
Robby’s big nose smushed into your cheek, he kissed the tears off your skin, telling you how good you were doing for him, how good you felt for him, while a ceaseless, barely comprehensible string of daddy and please tumbled off your lips and into the cushion he’d shoved your face into.
Within minutes - or had it been hours? You weren’t sure. You sure as hell couldn’t trust your mind in this situation - Robby had reduced you to a whimpering, drooling mess. Your own arousal mixed with his pre-cum ran down your thighs and slicked up every thrust, causing an obscene symphony of wet noises paired with the telltale slap slap slap of skin hitting skin to fill up your dim living room.
Robby pressed his face into the space between your shoulder blades. He reached around you, pressing two fingers to your swollen clit, rubbing the pads of his fingers over it at just the right rhythm to make you fall apart with a strangled scream, his name still on your lips.
He thrust into you once, twice more before following you, grunting against your skin and coming inside you. His hips kept moving, almost automatically, fucking his cum deeper inside you until it covered his whole length and dripped down his balls.
You’d turned to putty under him. Drooling, happy, satisfied putty. You let your body slide down the backrest, collapsing on the armchair that was no doubt traumatised now, covered in your own arousal, cum, tears and drool as it was now.
You rubbed a hand over your face, humming in contentment.
“Where’s your bedroom?”
Robby’s voice was soft, caring, the way it only got with injured, scared children and hearing him address you with it after he just wrecked you and called you a useless, disgusting slut had your insides turn all mushy and warm.
You gestured down the hall, unable to get enough of your bearing to talk. You didn’t expect him to stay. You certainly didn’t expect him to pick you up bridal style and carry you to your bedroom, or to fetch a warm washcloth from your bathroom and use it and his tongue to carefully but thoroughly clean you up.
He set you down on your unmade bed and dragged the warm cloth over your thighs before, almost as an afterthought, cleaning himself up. He settled himself between your legs, face smushed against your heated flesh and lapped at your cunt until every last drop of him was gone and you were clinging to his hair, whimpering his name sweetly.
And because Robby was apparently a depraved, wretched old man, he stayed there. He stayed there, kissing and licking and sucking at your skin until he’d dragged another orgasm from you and Jesus, you sounded so fucking sweet and tasted so fucking good- Robby couldn’t pull himself away. No matter how much he should. No matter how much guilt crashed down on him now that the lust and hunger had subsided.
You wanted it, but how could he talk to you like that? Use you like that? You were such a sweet, young thing… how could you even know whether this was something you truly wanted? Not something you were made to believe you should enjoy? Robby had seen it before, and he had never wanted to be a part of it.
Even when you smiled at him, fingers playing with his hair and beard absentmindedly, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d done something terrible to you.
“Stay.” You croaked, and Robby felt himself nod before he could really think about the request, but yeah… what else was he going to do? Leave you? Fuck no.
He tossed the washcloth into your hamper and fetched you a glass of water. You gulped it down greedily before settling down, curling up against his side and nuzzling your face into his chest, your hand resting on his belly, drawing lazy circles onto his skin and playing with his hair. Robby buried his nose in your hair, the exhaustion of his shift finally crushing down on him, eyes falling shut…
Your alarm dragged you out of the easy, content, warm nap you’d slipped into. Your body felt pleasantly loosened, limbs still tingling faintly. Your arm felt sore, and a sharp, but not entirely unpleasant sting between your legs tore through you when you shifted.
Robby had wrapped his arms around you tightly, and it took some effort to extract yourself from him without waking him.
You tried to be as silent as you could as you took a shower and gathered your things for work. You left a note on the bedside table, telling Robby to stay as long as he wanted, and off you were.
You had an extra pep to your step as you strolled into the ER at midnight, just in time for your shift, and Lena commented on it right away - of course she did - gifting you one of her warm grins and peering at you over the edge of her glasses.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
“A girl doesn’t kiss and tell.” You smirked and promptly slipped away to put your lunch in the fridge and your things into your locker before jumping into the nightly madness.
Your good mood stayed, and it did not go unnoticed by the rest of the Pitt either. Abbot shot you a questioning glance, a brow raised when your reply to his question came out a little more chirped than it should have. Ellis slapped you on the shoulder, grinning at you. Shen seemed a little intimidated, if not downright scared.
Seven a.m. rolled around, and you snuck away, grabbing your food and soda from the fridge, and made your way outside for your break you did not negotiate on. Seated on your wall by the entrance, you waited, perhaps with a little more anticipation than usual.
You watched Robby pull up on his motorcycle, the same motorcycle you saw parked outside your place when you left, a sight that put a grin onto your lips.
Whatever giddy, girlish delighted joy had carried you through the night, it withered the moment Robby got off his bike.
He didn’t look at you.
He didn’t acknowledge you.
He got off his bike, grabbed the helmet he never wore and marched right past you into the ER.
Tears stung in your eyes, and you didn’t know whether you hated yourself more for crying or for having had sex with him in the first place.
You knew he never committed to anyone. You knew his dating pool was basically limited to the hospital and the women who got into ill-advised affairs with him despite his reputation. You hadn’t even asked for anything. You had just had sex. Of course that didn’t have to mean anything you expected- you thought- that he’d at least look at you.
You chewed on your bottom lip, fingers trembling around your can of soda, trying not to let your thoughts spiral into self-loathing or self-deprecating versions of He is disgusted with you, of course he is. You are disgusting, playing on repeat in your head.
You finished your soda despite the nausea welling up inside your throat and dumped the rest of your lunch before heading back inside.
The change in your mood was felt viscerally by the whole ER, questioning looks following you on your way to your locker to deposit your lunch box. You didn’t notice Robby following you with his eyes, nor the concerned crease forming between his brows, but he was pulled away on an urgent case before he could make up his mind about whether to talk to you.
It was two hours into his shift when the silence between you became too much for him. The first chance he got, he slipped away, grabbed your wrist and tugged you with him into the family room.
You steeled yourself for another lecture.
It didn’t come.
“I-” Robby started, but stopped himself. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I was. Until you started ignoring me again.” You shrugged.
Robby winced. “Look- I shouldn’t have come to your place. We shouldn’t have- that-” He sighed. “It can’t happen again.”
“Why? Am I that disgusting to you?”
“Wh-what? No! How would you even come to that conclusion?!”
“Well, everything was fine last night, and now you’re back to being a dick. What else am I supposed to think? I’m sure most women don’t ask you to call them a slut while fucking them.”
“I don’t- Do you think most guys get off on calling the woman they’re with a slut?”
“Yeah, actually, they probably do.”
Robby hesitated. “Okay… point taken. Not that it was about calling you awful things for me. It was about you- about knowing I was making you feel good…”
You crossed your arms. “Then where’s the issue, Robby?”
He gestured vaguely at you. “You. All of you.”
“Wow. Thanks.” You deadpanned, glaring up at him.
“No! Not like that! Jesus. Look, you’re too young, yeah? And far too good to waste your time on someone like me. You deserve someone who’s kind and sweet and gentle. Not whatever the fuck I did to you last night.”
“You don’t get to tell me what’s good enough for me.” You sniffed. “You did what I asked you to do, you don’t think I deserve someone who does what I ask?”
“Come on, sweetheart, you don’t have to pretend with me. You didn’t actually enjoy that-”
“Why not? Oh, so you can be into BDSM but not me? Is that it? Leave me alone with that internalised sexism bullshit!”
“Woah, I’m not sexist.” Robby blinked at you.
You snorted.
“I’m not! I respect women.”
“Yeah, the thing with internalised things is you are not usually aware of them, but I’m not fucking getting into that with you now. Are you coming over tonight?”
Robby opened his mouth just to close it again. He had an odd resemblance to a fish in a moment, and you briefly wondered how it was fair for a man to be so handsome that even that didn’t turn you off.
“What?”
You rolled your eyes. “You need hearing aids or something? I asked if you’re coming over tonight.”
“Why?”
You shrugged and took a step forward, letting your hand trail over his protruding, soft belly. “I want to feel this against my forehead while I choke on you.”
Robby all but sputtered. He looked around frantically, as though to make extra sure the family room was empty, just to hiss your name under his breath.
You grinned.
Slowly, you lowered yourself to your knees. Robby didn’t stop you. You popped open the button of his cargo pants and dragged down the zipper, all the while looking up at Robby. He glanced from you to the door and back to you.
“I wanna suck you dick, daddy.” You purred. Robby cursed under his breath. He braced his hand against the door before slumping against it with his back when you curled your hand around his soft dick to pull it from his boxers.
“Jesus, kid-”
“Is that a yes?” You asked in a painfully fake, high-pitched, whiny tone.
“Yeah-”
You grinned to yourself as you parted your lips to take him into your mouth. He grew hard under your touch, under the insistent drag of your tongue over his velvety skin. You sucked on his tip until he was cursing, and giggled around him when he grabbed your hair to force you down, burying himself as deep in your throat as he could. He squished your nose into the coarse, dark curls at his base and your forehead into his soft belly.
You moaned around him, eyes fluttering shut.
It was so much better than you ever thought it would be.
A few minutes later, throat sore and hair more or less smoothed down, you emerged from the family room with a renewed pep in your step. Robby slunk out behind you a while later, once you’d cleared the hallway and hopefully nobody would put two and two together.
Dana shot him a withering, disapproving glare from central, Jack next to her merely raising his brow before shaking his head.
Robby blushed.
That night, after his shift, he found his way back to your apartment, and the night after that, and the night after… He was fucking addicted, and he didn’t even care when you sucked his cock like that or cried his name out so sweetly while coming around him - and especially not when you lay in bed next to him, playing with his stomach hair and smiling up at him so prettily…
a/n: Here’s my little “get well soon” gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!
☆ Here's part 2!
Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.
Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.
Word count: 9,2k
There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...
Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours.
Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.
Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer.
Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.
Then there was getting fucked…
There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight.
If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately.
If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count.
If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either.
Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.
Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.
For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down.
Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.
Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.
Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.
You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…
Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.
You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.
Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them.
People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.
The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.
You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.
“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.
You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.
You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.
“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”
He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.
You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”
Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”
You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.
“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.
“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.
Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.
“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.
He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.
“You seem awfully confident about that.”
“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”
Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.
“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”
“Need five minutes,” he muttered.
You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”
The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.
Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.
The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.
“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”
“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.
He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.
“Come open my door.”
“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.
“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”
Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.
You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.
Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people.
Brutally honest people usually were.
At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.
HR would’ve had a heart attack.
That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.
The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.
Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.
“What’s wrong with Scott?”
You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.
Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.
Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.
You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”
Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”
“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”
“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”
You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”
Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”
Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”
“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”
You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”
Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”
You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately.
The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.
“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.
Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.
The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.
Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.
By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.
You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.
“What’s your current issue?” you asked.
“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.
You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”
You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”
Scott snorted.
“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”
“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”
“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”
“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.
Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.
“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”
“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”
You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.
“Can we leave now?” you asked.
Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.
“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.
Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…
Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.
“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”
Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”
You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”
“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”
“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”
“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”
You barked out another incredulous laugh.
“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”
“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”
“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”
The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.
His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.
You drove home in complete silence.
No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.
This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment.
For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.
By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.
Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.
The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.
Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.
Scott followed behind you quietly.
You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.
The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.
Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.
The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.
Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.
The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him.
Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.
Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.
At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.
“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.
“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.
You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.
Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.
You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.
At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.
Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.
You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.
You stared at each other for a second too long.
You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.
One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.
You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.
You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.
You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.
"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.
"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness.
Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.
He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.
The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.
"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.
He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.
He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.
He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.
“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.
As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.
He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.
From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.
Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.
He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.
Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.
His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.
Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.
You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.
You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.
Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.
You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.
The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.
For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.
Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.
Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.
“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”
“You’re right.”
You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees.
“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.
“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”
Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”
Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”
You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”
His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”
Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”
“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”
“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.
“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”
Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.
The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.
“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.
NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.
It just wasn’t the truth.
You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically.
Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.
The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.
At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.
You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.
One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.
You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.
The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.
If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.
You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.
Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.
The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.
"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.
You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.
Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.
The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.
He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.
You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.
Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.
"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.
He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.
"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.
He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.
As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.
"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."
The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.
Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.
"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.
He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.
Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.
Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.
With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.
The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.
Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.
You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.
"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.
There was no going back after that day, not to abstinence, disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.
Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.
What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.
You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.
The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.
You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.
Off-season made it worse.
Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.
Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.
So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.
It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.
He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…
The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.
There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.
Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.
He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute.
The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.
He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.
"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.
It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.
Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.
"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.
You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.
You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.
The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.
As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.
In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.
"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.
The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.
He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.
A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.
Good sex stopped mattering.
Great sex became expected.
Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.
But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.
So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.
You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!
☆ Here's part 2!
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)
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