Summary: Melissa gets a little liquid courage to let the walls crumble around her.
Warnings: Drunk Mel
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2.2k
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You never keep your phone on, but you had been waiting for a call from your sister about whether she had made it to her conference on the West Coast safely so you fell asleep with it on full blast. Which is why when it rings loudly at three in the morning, you jump out of bed to answer it.
“Amy, did you make it safe?” You ask, not bothering to look at who is calling.
“Is Amy your girlfriend?” A familiar voice asks.
You pull the phone away to look at the caller ID. A picture of Melissa at the teacher v student basketball game greets you. Your heart begins to race because Melissa never calls you. She is an avid texter but was adamantly against phone calls unless someone was on their deathbed.
“Melissa, are you okay?” You ask when you put the phone back against your ear.
“Is Amy your girlfriend?” She asks, but this time there is a tremor in her voice.
You roll your eyes, flopping back against your bed. “Amy is my sister. The lawyer that you constantly ask if you can have a speed dial, remember?” There is a pause where Melissa grunts in vague recognition. “She was headed to California for a conference and was supposed to let me know she got there safely.”
You take a moment to actually look at your phone and realize that Amy had texted you a picture of her soaking up the sun at the beach hours after you had fallen asleep. You call her an asshole in a text before you put your attention back on the call with Melissa.
“Melissa, are you okay?” You ask again, punctuating each word.
There is silence on the line before a quiet sniffle. “Yeah, I just…been drinking.” Another sniffle before a soft sigh. “It has been making me sit in my head more than I want.”
“That’s why I stopped drinking,” you admit softly. “Want to talk about it?”
“I just want you,” Melissa says and you feel your heart stall in your chest.
“I’m here Mel,” you reassure her but you are met with muffled crying on the other line. It takes you so off guard that you don’t know what to say, you just let the silence expand around you uncomfortably.
It takes a couple moments before the older woman finally hiccups. “No, I want you here. Now. Not just on the phone.”
“Alright, where is here?” you ask climbing out of bed.
You put Melissa on speaker as you dig through your dresser to find a pair of sweatpants. You pull them over the shorts you were sleeping in and throw a hoodie over your tank top. By the time Melsisa gives you the bar she is currently holed up at you are in your shoes and heading towards the door with keys in hand.
“Are you really coming?” Melissa asks as she hears your car turn over.
“You said you needed me so I am on my way,” you tell her as you pull out of your driveway. “Do you want to stay on the phone with me while I drive?”
“Please don’t hang up,” Mel says in a rush with so much fear that your stomach twists.
You run a hand through your hair to relieve some of the nerves radiating through you. “I’m not hanging up Mel. I’ll stay with you the whole time.” You pause as you try to remember which road you are supposed to take. “How did you end up down at Johnny’s anyway? That bar isn’t anywhere by your house.”
“Robinson and I got in an argument,” Melissa mumbles. “We been arguing a lot lately and I needed some place to breathe for a little bit. Some place where no one knew who I was.” You can hear her start to cry, a little hitch in her breath before she can control it. “I should have called you. You are the only person I wanted to talk to.”
It takes only a second before the spiral begins. “I’m so stupid. Why didn’t I just call?Why did I come here? Why did I start drinking? What am I doing?”
“Hey, hey, hey,” you interject quickly. “Ain’t no point in beating yourself up about the past. I am on my way to you right now and that is all that matters.”
“But it is so late and you were sleeping and I…”
“Melissa,” you call out to stop her rambling. “I want you to try something okay. Just a little thing to help pass the time. What’s five things you can see right now?”
“I see,” Melissa starts pausing to take in her surroundings, “a neon bar sign, a street lamp, two people smoking on the corner, a red car passing by, and my black boots.”
“Good, now what are four things you can touch?” you encourage her.
The response comes quicker this time. “I can feel the stone that I sit on, the rain that is starting to fall, the necklace that you gave me for my birthday, and the cigarette in my hand.”
You can see it now Melissa sitting on the curb, her curls starting to go limp in the rain, twirling a cigarette in her fingers, with makeup slowly running down her face. It was a masterpiece and a heartbreak all in one breath.
“Alright, what are three things you hear?”
“Rain hitting the cars, shitty bar music, and your voice calming me down,” Melissa says and there is an ease to her words now.
You smile as you continue to close the distance between the two of you. “Two things you smell.”
Melissa chuckles at this. “Nothing good hun’, nothing good.”
You are used to the pet name by now but it still doesn’t stop a small fluttering in your stomach. “Last one, what is something you can taste?”
“Whatever cheap ass whiskey I was pounding back like I'm not old and going to have the worst headache ever in the morning,” Melissa says so casually that you can't help but burst into laughter.
“You know what I see Mel?” You ask not stopping before you continue. “A beautiful red head waiting on the curb for me.”
Melissa’s head pops up and she catches your eye immediately. You parked across the street and lean against your car casually with an easy smile to greet her. Logical sense escapes her as she takes in your messy hair, oversized hoodie, and baggy pants.
“You look beautiful,” she says before she can think better of it.
You laugh as you make your way across the street. You hold out your hand to help Melissa up. “That’s the beer goggles talking Mel. I look like shit.”
She goes to protest but the sudden height change has her head spinning. Melissa didn't realize how drunk she was and the fact pisses her off. She wasn't complimenting you because she was drunk. She was complimenting you because it was what she felt in her heart, what she thought about every time she saw you, what she was always too scared to tell you.
Your hand comes to wrap around her waist to help keep her upright and Melissa feels like your fingers may burn through her clothes.
“Let’s get you home Mel,” you say, helping her walk across the street. “You have everything you need?”
Mel nods and digs in the back pocket of her leather pants to hand you a house key. You take it before helping load her into the passenger seat. There is a lingering moment where you lean over her to buckle the seat belt and grab something from the center console. She takes this moment to get lost in a smell so distinctly you that it could never be replicated.
The moment is over too soon as you pull away and place a water bottle in her hands. “Drink this. Slowly.”
Melissa nods but when her fingers shake too much to open it you do it for her. There is no judgement in the movements, just soft understanding. Melissa has never had someone be so willing to take care of her that she doesn’t know how to react. She just murmurs a soft thank you as you shut the door.
If you catch her studying you while you drive to her house you don't bring it up. You simply navigate through the streets of Philly with practiced ease. You would have thought you had been to Melissa’s house a thousand times with the way you calmly climb into the driveway and park on the opposite side that Melissa’s car would have parked.
In reality you have only been to Melissa’s house three times. Three singular times that you entered her space and made the usual drab space full of light. Dozens of gatherings and people had occupied the same space in between those three times, but Melissa had carved out a special spot for those moments to stay safe. On bad days she pulls them out and reminds herself how to breathe.
“Mel?” You call out breaking her from a trance. “You ready to go in?”
Melissa nods too lost to say much else. You hold her up and she leans heavily against you as you walk up her steps. She doesn't need to tell you the trick to get her lock to unstick you just remember. She had taught you how to do it one night when you came over for game night and her arms had been full of last minute groceries.
You kick your shoes off the door before gently helping Melissa out of hers. She swears that even your lightest touches make her skin burn. She knows this is more than the alcohol pushing these feelings. This is a slow crumbling of the walls she has built around herself to keep her safe. Melissa isn't nervous though, this crumbling feels more like safety than a downfall.
When her shoes are placed in the hall closet you guide her back to her bedroom. You know where to go from a movie night where Sailor Barbara had been a little too into the booze and spilled wine all over your shirt. Melissa had loaned you a spare one which you returned two days later smelling like the laundry beads you used. She slept in it till the smell wore off.
You dig through the drawer Melissa tells you her pajamas are in pulling out an outfit for her. Your gaze turns away when she undresses but she desperately wishes it wouldn't. She wants you to look, to linger on her the same way she lingers on you, but you don't.
“Thank you for coming to get me,” Melissa says when she is finally dressed. “I owe you.”
“You don't owe me anything. You needed me and I came,” you shrug as if the choice was easy, as if you would always choose Melissa anytime she asks.
It gives her just the right amount of push to blurt it all out.
“I like you hun’. Like big grand fairytale dream feelings about you,” she paused trying to gauge your reaction as your eyes widen. “I look for you in a crowded room because you are the only person I want to see. I ask you about anything I can think of to merely hear your voice. I go out of the way to occupy the same place as you because being next to you is the only place I feel sane. I like you…and I really want to fucking kiss you.”
“Melissa,” you mumble but before you can continue she is pressing herself against you.
The kiss startles you but it only takes a moment for you to relax into it. Melissa’s heart is soaring at the feeling of your lips pressed against hers but your heart is shattering. You had dreamed of kissing Melissa for years, but not when she was still actively dating someone, and had only confessed her feelings because she was trashed.
You break the kiss placing your forehead against hers so that you don't have to look in her eyes. “Mel, we should get you in bed to get some sleep.”
“Stay with me,” Melissa begs her nails digging into your hips.”
You should say no. You should establish clear boundaries in the spaces that Melissa can't see, but you are so tired. You are tired of pretending that holding Melissa to fall asleep doesn't sound like a dream come true. So you promise to stay for the night.
Melissa is giddy as she crawls into bed and you slide in next to her. She only gives you a second to adjust before she curls around you. Her arm drapes around your waist pulling you tight against her. Her face comes to nuzzle against your neck and you brace for another kiss that never comes. Instead she lets out a sigh and promptly falls asleep.
You close your eyes willing back the tears you feel coming. She is with Captain Robinson. She is straight. She is your friend. She is drunk. The phrases play on repeat in your head until you finally drift off to sleep.
You’ll keep your promise and stay for tonight. Only tonight.
Good Boy - Michael "Robby" Robinavich x female reader
Summary: 3.1k Post-finale fic in which Robby comes homes from the Pitt in the aftermath of the mass casualty event. The events of the day hit him all at once until you find him in a full-blown panic attack in your bathroom.
Warnings: 18+ content. angst. panic attack. soft bdsm undertones. smut, explicit content. Hand jobs as therapy. color system. comfort.
a/n: I can't believe it took a 54 year old emotionally stunted white boy with a stethoscope to pull me from the depths of fic purgatory. But a'las....for the girlies. I missed writing for sad boys.
It's the short huffy breaths that let you into what's going on.
You heard the initial thrashing as he closed the bathroom door to put space between the two of you, but that could mean anything. Could mean Robby finally hit his limit or your often smart ass mouth for the evening. Could mean the exhaustion of the shift had caught up to him. Sometimes Robby would shuffle over the threshold with the weight of the world on his shoulders, slightly catatonic until morning. He'd come out of the bathroom with water stains on his shirt and toothpaste in his beard, missing his glasses with that let you see the depths of his eyes.
All of that would've been normal dealing with Robby. The two of you had been at this for 5 years and even still it sometimes got to be too much – just existing as humans in the world. You'd learned to listen to the signs even when you weren't asked. Let your body rest against the hallway arch closest to the bathroom for just a few minutes, just to check in. The gasping is what clued you in. You don't hesitate anymore. It's not your style. The need to be there overwhelms you every time.
He's still in his scrubs on account of he'd only gotten home from his shift a whopping 20 minutes ago. Long enough to pace around your kitchen while you got him a beer he couldn't slow down long enough to chug. The panic had been clear on his face after all. You'd should've seen it coming from a mile away.
His back presses against the wall, his head resting shakily between his knees. He keeps trying to force the air past his lips but the rhythm is off kilter. His hands are in fists against his shins. A west gasp echoes in the stillness of the moment and before you know it you're on your knees in front of him.
"Hey. Hey Robby it's me. I'm right here."
Your fingers slide through the thinner parts of his hair at the top spiking the strands roughly in your haste for contact. He pushes into the warmth of the touch and shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably, still not getting the air he needs.
"Robby. I need you to listen to me. Do you want me to take control right now? I need you to use your words."
His chest heaves, the hiss of his lips pulling at the air audible .
"Take it. Take it, please."
And just like that the dynamic of the two of you pulses like a static shift in the air. You cup the back of his neck and pull him in close so that your words can penetrate the sinking hole he's wading in.
"Slow it down for me. I know you're scared. But follow my breaths. You're hyperventilating."
Your free hand works to unfurl one of his fists and lies his palm at the base of your throat. You practice over exaggerating your breaths, letting the rhythm pass between you. He struggles to align himself with you. It’s one good breath for every three that are shaky.
"It's okay. You're doing so good for me. Such a good boy."
His breath hitches at the same language that typically has a much different effect on him. But now isn't the time for shenanigans, you just need him to fucking breathe.
And he does. Slowly between chapped lips and his hand pressed firm against your chest. He breathes out, already exhausted, and the blood pulses bright beneath his skin in unevens swatches alerting you to the extent of his panic.
Robby collapses into you and the gasp of his breath is quickly replaced with sobs that come spilling out one after the other. You work to gather him up in your arms, body shifting against porcelain as you both collapse in a heap.
" it's okay. Let it all out for me okay?"
There's a subtle tilt to your voice. One only Robby would ever notice. A bit of authority and grit - enough to say, “I'm in charge right now”. So when you voice a command it is just that. The man who still struggled to voice his opinion on restaurants was left compelled to voice his own pain. Assuming of course he had any capacity at all to stop this wall from crashing down around him. If nothing else it saves him a little embarrassment, protects his pride long enough to get him through this.
When it’s clear he’ll live to breathe another day, you reach immediately for the jacket shoved up the length of his arms, pushing at the sleeves to start to rid him of a few layers.
“Let’s get you into the shower. Get you warm, hmm?”
He doesn’t push nor voice enthusiasm but he does let you move his body like a rag doll. He lifts his arms over his head for you to pull at the scrub top and under shirt. There’s some creaking in his knees when he stands to let you at his bottoms and boxer briefs. You reach for his knuckles and kiss the skin there, dry from years of alcohol-based sanitizers, hand washing and chronic glove wearing. And finally he catches your eye for the first time since you walked into the room. Tears drip following the slanted slope of his nose, drifting down across curved frown lines from years of existential dread. They’re still present, collecting unevenly in the expanse of his beared as you press a kiss to his face.. Robby is tactile on his worst days. Right now, touch is the only thing keeping him from exploding all over your bathroom.
“I need to get the shower running okay? Just give me a few seconds. ‘Gonna take care of you, I promise.”
He sniffles and nods working his way through another gasp of air.
The sound of the water pelting the shower floor just slightly mutes the sounds of Robby cries, though he doesn’t let up in the time it takes to remove your own sweats from a night long forgotten. Not that it matters. You'd let him cry for hours if that’s what it took. His face has found refuge in his hands and you gently pry one off long enough to lead him into the steam of the shower.
You park him right in front of the heavy stream - letting the warm water do its magic. It gets you a soft grunt for your efforts. You reach for the scentless soap wishing more than ever you’d stuck to your feminine wiles on the use of lavender eucalyptus and lemon blossoms in the bath department. Instead you’d let the old man swap it for more sterile options that did nothing to alleviate the tension pooling in every body part. Also bathtime should be fun. Boo.
Armed with suds you aim first for his hips inching your arms around him from behind to touch at the softness of his belly. It has its intended effect, Robby arching bowed outward like a cat in need of a tummy rub. A man’s tummy is a sensitive place after all, and you wanted nothing more than to add another point of contact to the line up.
He hiccups another tear out and lets your hands sculpt across his form fingers tightening at dense muscle hardened by another day of trauma. His arm. His back. His shoulders. His body is clinging to every ounce of emotion but the dam has finally broken.
“You’re okay now.” you whisper between feather light kisses to his spine. “You’re with me. I only want to make you feel good.”
There’s a hidden understanding between you. You both do this thing where you let all the ugly and the pain fill you up, high functioning your way through life until it eventually chokes you (sometimes literally). It always becomes too much. It’s destined from the beginning in its failure and yet here you are. And what each of you really needs is just someone to stand there and weather through the storm beside you. To seep away a little of the humiliation of feeling things you don’t want to feel.
He can’t speak yet but lets his hand cover yours against his hip. Squeezes in thanks, alarm even. It’s bad this time. How’d it get this bad again?
“I love you, Michael.”
Anything to pull him back into his own body, back into the present with you. Even if it’s using his government name.
Again you earn a little eye contact as he turns his body just slightly towards you, back facing the water now. You reach for the shampoo he keeps in your shower for those nights he oversleeps and needs to make his shift with no time to stop back home. Your toes grip firmer at the tub as you arch up to busy yourself with washing his hair. The sweet nothings don’t stop. Anything to fill this space between the two of you. Try to replace it with something good.
“You’re perfect to me, you know that? Always do exactly as you're told.” You humm in approval. “I’m so proud of you. My good, sweet boy.”
His bottom teeth jut out in pleasure, disrupting some of the mask of his pain and his grief. It’s a start.
Robby lets you rinse the shampoo from his hair. Doesn’t even seem to mind when you scrub your fingers through his beard with that special shampoo you got him for his birthday this year. Typically the beard is sacred. Tonight, nothing is more sacred than your hands on him.
And when he’s all clean and you back him gently up against the corner out the way of the stream, your hands still sudsy with bubbles, all that’s on your mind is pleasure.
Your fingers brush against the length of him with more purpose than before. He jolts ever so slightly in your arms.
“We don’t have to. I can get you straight to bed. You’ll still be good to me.”
He shakes his head. Still doesn’t really have the words to share. But his hands loosen slightly at his sides and he presses the faintest of kisses against your shoulder blade. It’s the most you’ll get tonight.
You slide to your knees letting your lips first get at that jut of his hip where the water just barely mists the skin. Above you somewhere you hear a sigh, notice the broadening stance of his legs as he makes room for you. Your knees give a little creak of their own reminding you of the tenuous nature of shower blow jobs. You’d say a prayer or a hail mary but your attention is a bit diverted at the moment.
Robby thickens in your hand with each passing moment, the sensation alone enough to get him going tonight. Or maybe it’s the need to please you through submission. If only he could be a good boy for the night, then maybe everything else wouldn’t be so impossible in the morning. Breathing wouldn’t be so impossible in the morning. Being wouldn’t be so impossible.
When your mouth is on him it’s hard to argue the semantics of good vs. bad. Your hand is sprawled against the dip in his sternum as desperate to touch him as he is to be touched. The weight of him on your tongue. The leftover hint of soap. His thigh twitching where your shoulder rests to steady yourself. Before you can fully swallow him his hands are circling your wrists to pull you to a stop. So you do.
His voice comes out rough, hoarse from panic and tears.
“Can you just please come up here. I want – want to be close to you”
He helps you stand, opens his arms so you can step into them, and quickly rests his damp head against your shoulder. It’s certainly easier for your knees. And you’d never say no to the way his chest feels pressed against yours.
“It got bad . . . I got bad today.” He admits slowly. “I let people down.”
“I understand. It got to be too much. You got overwhelmed.”
He nodded gravely. “Fucked up. I’m a fuck up.”
You pause trying to parse through the last couple of minutes. Nothing with Robby is ever linear and sometimes you have to go backwards to piece it all together. His hard on pokes against the base of your belly and he shifts to put space between you. You let out a sigh of your own.
“Are you saying . . . that you aren’t worthy of this? You don’t want me to take care of you?”
It’s important not to put words in his mouth. You play back what you hear but you’ve gotta let him paint the picture.
“I’m saying . . . I don’t want you wasting your time on something that can’t be fixed.”
Great so full blown nihilism would be the flavor of tonight's festivities.
“Mhm. Color?”
Robby paused.
“I need to hear your color Robby.”
“...Green. It’s green.”
“Good. So tonight you’re not making decisions on how I spend my time. I am making the decisions. Is that still okay with you?”
He lowers his head but nods.
“Need to hear you.”
“It’s okay with me.”
“Good boy.”
You reach for the lube that also remains conveniently organized within your shower because the two of you are nothing if not organized. You lean back just enough to slide your hand in-between you and wrap your fingers around the head. The world gets a little quieter and his hands find their way to your hips, eyes scrunched closed.
“Look at me.”
His cheeks are blotchy which could be the shower or could be his body’s natural insistence on betraying him in times of anything remotely intimitate. You reach to cradle the swell of his balls massaging gently at the skin. His face lights up at the contact. Bodily reactions it is.
“I love you. I’ll love you tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. No matter what happens at work. Just let me show you that.”
The swollen head peaks out of your fist the more you work him over and Robby starts to make the kind of sounds you can get behind. Broken whimpers, shuddering breaths (the good kind), and your name whenever you get the combination of stroke and tug just right. The best part is when he digs his teeth into your shoulder to try and silence himself as if that’s an option.
“Uh uhh. I need to hear you. Please? I wanna listen to you come apart for me.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Not this time. Just lil’ ole me.” You grin.
Was there science to suggest an orgasm immediately after a panic attack was clinically proven to return one to homeostasis? Who knows, you were too busy making your boyfriend cum.
“Please, I–I’m close.”
You feel a puff of breath against your neck as he ruts his hips trying to get closer to your hand. You couldn’t help but notice how good pleasure looked on Robby. The smile lines tightening in the corner of his eyes. And the way his cheeks puff when he’s struggling to keep himself whole, when all you want is the opposite. Want to make him splinter in his release. It’s fucking gorgeous if you did say so yourself.
You let go of his balls and dipped backwards towards his perineum thankful to be with a man secure enough if his sexuality to make space for exploration. You place your thumb against the space there, rubbing with increasing pressure while you pump at the head. His arms shoot out to ground himself against the wall and you smile as you watch him tip delightfully over the edge.
His orgasm comes just as quickly, the last of the panic washing out of him finally until he’s sobbing for a new reason all together.
“Beautiful, you know that? You’re fucking beautiful to me.” You assure him
The water washes away the remnants of the session and it gives you the space to kiss him softly for the first time tonight. His breaths are finally even and his heartbeat calm. It’s all you really wanted since you walked through the door.
There’s fluffy towels on wet shoulder blades and forehead kisses in the hallway. You ease him back against your bed and he lets you take a moment to stare at him unabashedly at him boneless and sated against your sheets.
There’s much to say, hopefully some healing to do. But tonight this is enough. Just the two of you here together sharing in each other’s comfort.
“Thank you.” He mumbles against your chest all wrapped up tight in your arms.
It's both a protection thing in making him feel surrounded by warmth and affection and all things good. It's also a bit of reinforcements so you know he won't go padding around the house working himself up again. Not your first time at the rodeo.
“You’re welcome. Go to sleep. We can figure it out tomorrow. Together.”
