Side Effects
Erectile Dysfunction!Robby
Updates Account Robby Masterlist
Nausea, headaches, fatigue, insomnia, sweating… and sexual dysfunction. Robby knew the common side effects of Lexapro, what he didn’t expect when he started treatment was how much it could affect his relationship with you.
tags/warnings: smut, minors DNI, porn with a little plot, unprotected piv, erectile dysfunction, pussy eating, delayed orgasm, masturbation, multiple positions, creampie, multiple orgasms, mentions of depression, mental illnesses and antidepressants
Chop the tomatoes, the garlic next, mincing it fine so it almost melted. A generous drizzle of olive oil, the pan already warm. You stirred, watching the tomatoes soften and break down until the whole mess collapsed into a thick and red sauce.
Michael was late. In the first few weeks together you might have been surprised by how thoroughly the job claimed him. Twelve-hour shifts were only ever a polite suggestion, fifteen, sixteen hours were more common. You might’ve felt a flicker of resentment, the sting of coming second to the hospital. But you knew better now, Michael needed that place the way some people needed air. The work didn’t just take from him, it steered him, anchored him, and you’d stopped fighting it.
You heard the front door open just after 8:40, the scrape of his key followed by the thud of his bag against the wall. By now, the air of the kitchen smelled like garlic and the tomato sauce you kept simmering. You stayed at the stove for a few extra seconds, giving him the quiet he always needed so he could toe off his shoes, shrug off his jacket, and let out a long exhale once he finally arrived home after a long day.
When you finally turned, he was standing in the kitchen doorway looking like the day had taken pieces of him and refused to give them back. The shadows under his eyes were deeper than usual, and the set of his shoulders carried a fatigue that no amount of love had ever fully erased.
Ever since the two of you had become something official, he’d been better, quieter in the nights, less likely to disappear into the corners of his mind for hours. There’d been nights where he reached for you instead of spiraling alone, but you’d always told him the truth, even when it hurt: love was not a cure. Love could hold the door open, love could sit with him through the worst nights, and love could make the idea of staying here feel possible. But depression and the darker thoughts that sometimes still edged into his mind required more than your hands and your voice. They required professional help, medication, and consistency. The kind of structured support you could not give him no matter how hard you tried.
You had had the conversation more than once. One night, three months ago, he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark, with his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands. You’d woken to the sound of him breathing too carefully, the way he did when he was trying not to wake you and failing. You’d crossed the room, knelt in front of him, and taken his wrists gently so he would look at you.
“I can’t keep doing this to you,” he’d whispered. “I keep dragging you down in all of my shit.”
“You’re not doing anything to me,” you answered, lowering your voice a register so it came out softer, more soothing. “But you can’t keep doing this to yourself. I’m here when it gets bad, I’ll always be here. But I can’t be the only thing standing between you and the dark. You need more than me, you need someone trained for this. You need to stick to therapy, maybe meds, something that isn’t just love holding you together.”
He’d pressed his forehead to yours and stayed there for a long time before finally nodding.
He agreed with everything you’d said. He knew what he needed, saying the words had been the easy part. What wasn’t easy was taking the first step, sitting down every week and talking about how his mother had killed herself when he was eight. How that single act had warped something fundamental in him, left him with the bone-deep conviction that he’d never be enough for anyone. That the most natural, inevitable choice for the people he loved was to leave, the same way she had.
Or how watching people die, day after day, year after year, felt like pieces of his soul were being slowly peeled away until there was almost nothing left. Until his body was just a hollow vase, intact on the outside, empty where the person he used to be should have been.
There was this other occasion, about six weeks ago, after a particularly brutal shift. He’d come home and gone straight to the shower without speaking, wishing he could wipe away the blood that clung stubbornly to his hands and face, refusing to leave no matter how hard he scrubbed. The blood was the reminder of another person he hadn’t been able to save. For a while he remembered every one of them, their faces, the exact way their bodies went still. But there were so many that eventually the features began to blur and bleed into one another, until they became a single faceless thing that followed him home and settled behind his eyes.
You found him later sitting on the shower floor with the water still running, fully dressed, staring at nothing. The sight of him scared you, he was right there, alive and breathing, that was an undeniable fact. But something behind his eyes already looked dead. You sat beside him on the cold tile and waited until he could speak. When he finally did, his voice was cracked.
“I keep thinking it would be easier if I just…”
You didn’t let him finish, you already knew the rest. You’d heard the words before, quiet, almost conversational, like he was stating a simple fact instead of something that still had the power to hollow you out. Even if you hadn’t, it wouldn’t have taken a genius to finish the sentence for him.
It would have been easier if I just disappeared. It would be easier if I was dead. It would be easier if I wasn’t here anymore.
The first time he said it, it broke you completely. You’d cried against his chest, pressing your forehead to the soft cotton of his scrub top. Hearing the man you loved admit that he wanted to be gone was demolishing. It tore through you in a way few things ever had. What hurt even more was the truth that followed, no matter how hard you held him, no matter how fiercely you loved him, you couldn’t force him to want to stay. You could only stand there and feel the crushing weight of that limitation.
There was nothing you wanted more than to take the pain from him. You wanted to reach inside his chest and pull out every piece of grief and guilt and weariness until there was nothing left but the man who used to smile without effort. You wanted to make him see the good in ordinary things again, the morning light on the kitchen counter, the taste of good coffee that wasn’t from a vending machine, the simple fact of being alive in the same room as someone who loved him. You wanted to give him a reason that felt stronger than the pull toward nothing.
And you couldn’t, not the way you needed to. That knowledge sat in your throat like a frustration that never quite left.
You took his face in both hands and made him meet your eyes. “No. We don’t go there. Not alone, not ever again, Michael. Tomorrow you call Caleb, or I will, and if the thoughts come back tonight, you wake me. Every single time. But this… this is bigger than us. Love isn’t enough by itself. You know that, you’ve always known that.”
Those memories sat in the back of your mind as you looked at him now.
“I made dinner,” you said. Sometimes asking Michael how his day went felt pointless, he always gave the same answer “good” even when you could read the truth in the set of his shoulders and the way his eyes stayed a little too far away. You knew it was rarely goo, some days it was barely survivable.
But you also knew that what he needed most wasn’t another conversation about the shift. Sometimes he just needed the weight of it to lift for a while. A distraction, talking about something ordinary, something that belonged only to the two of you and had nothing to do with blood or loss or the people he couldn’t bring back.
He glanced at the pot, then at the set table, and something like guilt flickered across his face. “I’m not hungry.”
You wiped your hands on a dish towel, walked over to him, and took his face gently between your palms. His skin was cool, and his eyes were tired in a way that went deeper than sleep deprivation.
“Michael Robinavitch,” you said, keeping your tone firm but soft enough that he wouldn’t feel like you were mad at him, “sit down and eat. Your body needs fuel.”
Sometimes he needed a little of that tough love. The kind that came in a non-negotiable tone, sit down and eat, put on a sweater, we’re going to the park for some fresh air. No room for argument, no soft suggestion he could brush aside. Just the steady insistence that he take care of himself when he wouldn’t do it on his own. You knew, even if he never said it out loud, that some part of him was grateful for it. Grateful that someone was still willing to push when he had already given up on pushing himself.
He huffed a quiet, almost-laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. For a second he looked like he might argue, but then the fight left him. He let you guide him to the chair, and you served him first, pasta, sauce, a thick slice of the bread you’d warmed in the oven, and set a glass of water beside his plate. You sat across from him and began eating slowly, modeling the rhythm you wanted him to follow.
Robby ate the way he did when he was forcing himself, methodical, with small bites, chewing longer than necessary. You watched the line of his throat when he swallowed, noticing the way his free hand stayed fisted on the tablecloth until you reached over and covered it with yours.
Halfway through the plate, he set his fork down. “I talked to Caleb today,” he said. “After my shift was over.”
You kept your tone even, careful not to startle whatever fragile thing was forming in the space between you. There were only a handful of times Michael opened up about his feelings that didn’t involve a panic attack or some kind of crisis. And even fewer when he actually talked about what happened in the sporadic sessions he had with Caleb.
“How did it go?”
He looked at the food for a long moment, then lifted his eyes to yours. There was fear in his eyes, but also a mix of relief and a thread of hope all tangled together.
“I’m… I’m gonna start a Lexapro plan.”
The words were said quietly, but you felt the shift in the air, the acknowledgment of a door he’d finally decided to walk through instead of standing in front of it forever.
“Antidepressants?” you asked for confirmation, just making sure you heard him right.
“Yeah.” He nodded once. “We’re thinking of a low dose to start, see how I tolerate it. We’ll adjust if we need to. He wants me to check in weekly for the first month.”
You set your own fork down and reached across the table with both hands this time, taking his fully. His palms were still faintly cool from the hospital air-conditioning, and the calluses on his fingers were familiar under your thumbs.
“I’m so happy you decided to take that step,” you told him, and you meant every syllable. “I’m sure things are going to get better, i’s going to help. And I’m here, every single step of the way. You’re not doing this alone.”
His throat worked, he looked down at your joined hands, then back up, and the corner of his mouth lifted in the smallest, most exhausted smile you had ever seen on him. “I know,” he said. “That’s… part of why I finally said yes. Because you’re here, and because you kept telling me the truth even when I didn’t want to hear it.”
This was the first real step, him finally accepting that he needed help, and allowing himself to do something about it. You couldn’t have been happier. After everything, after all the nights spent watching him disappear a little more inside himself, you were finally getting to see the man you loved start fighting for his own life.
You sat there for another minute just holding on, letting the quiet settle around the two of you, then he pulled one hand free, reached into the pocket of his cargo pants, and took out a small orange pharmacy bottle. He tipped a single white tablet into his palm and stared at it for a long time.
You didn’t rush him, simply watched him as he brought it to his mouth. Robbt swallowed it with a sip of water, set the bottle down on the table between your plates, and met your eyes again. “Day one.”
You stood, walked around the table, and settled carefully into his lap the way you had done a hundred times before. He let out a long, shuddering breath against the side of your neck. His arms came around your waist and held you close, tighter than usual, like he was anchoring himself to your body.
You carded your fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck and pressed a kiss to his temple, then another to the corner of his eye. “Day one,” you echoed softly. “I’m proud of you, Michael. So fucking proud.”
Two weeks passed slowly enough that you almost missed the change until you looked back and realized the air in the house felt different. It started with the sleep, the first few nights after he took that first Lexapro, nothing dramatic happened. He still came home tired, still ate what you put in front of him, and still reached for you in the dark the way he always had.
But by the fourth or fifth night you noticed he didn’t wake at 2 a.m. the way he used to, the way he used to sit up carefully so the mattress wouldn’t shift and then stare at the ceiling like it owed him an explanation. He stayed under the sheets, breathing deep and evenly as he slept through the night.
By the end of the first week he didn’t even need the television anymore to fall asleep. It used to be the only thing that could quiet the noise in his head long enough for sleep to take him, but now he just turned toward you, tucked his face into the curve of your neck, and was out within minutes. You lay there listening to him, resting one hand on the plane of his back.
It was incredible to see him at peace with his own mind, to know the thoughts no longer haunted him all night long. Now he could sleep, the internal war that used to keep him awake had finally gone quiet.
He was the one who suggested the runs. It happened on a Tuesday morning. You were still in bed, half-asleep, the sheets warm around you, when you felt him shift. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at you with an expression you hadn’t seen in a long time, something almost playful, the corner of his mouth tilted like he was already amused by whatever he was about to say.
“Come run with me,” he said.
“What?” You blinked up at him. “Run? Since when are we the running in the morning kind of people?”
“In the park. Just a couple of miles. I used to do it before, when I was young. I think I want to try again.” He paused, brushing his thumb over your hip under the sheet. “With you.”
Even if you could think of a million things you’d rather do than go running at six in the morning, you still went. Because the simple joy of seeing him enthusiastic about something, willing to get out of the house, to move, to try, was more than enough.
So you went. The first morning he set an easy pace, the kind that let you talk if you wanted to and stay quiet if you didn’t. You watched the way his body moved, his shoulders loose, the soft give of his belly bouncing with each step. At one point he glanced over and caught you looking, the smile he gave you was small, almost startled, like he was surprised to find it on his own face.
By the second week the runs became routine. Some mornings you talked the whole time, some mornings you just moved side by side. He started making jokes again, little ones at first, dry observations about the overly enthusiastic joggers, then bigger ones, the kind that caught you off guard and made you laugh out loud in the middle of the path. The sound of his own laugh coming back at him seemed to surprise him every time. He never used to laugh like that, so unguarded, like all the worries just simply ceased to exist for a moment.
He smiled more too, and not the fakely professional half-smile he wore at work, the real one that softened the lines around his eyes and made him look younger. He smiled when you burned your toast while making breakfast, he smiled when you caught him watching you from across the kitchen, he smiled when he saw your hair after you woke up from a nap, calling him a bird nest, and he smiled when you pressed a kiss to the soft place just below his ear after a long day and murmured that you were glad he was home.
There were no panic attacks, no 3 a.m. spirals, no nights where he sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands and you had to carefully talk him back into his own body. The darkness was still there, but it sat farther away now, quieter, less immediate. Some evenings he even talked about it without flinching. “It’s still there,” he said one night while the two of you were doing the dishes. “But it doesn’t feel like it’s winning anymore.”
The sex, though. That part changed the most. Before the medication, sex had been almost nightly. He’d come home exhausted, and still want you. It never felt obligatory, it felt like something necessary, like the only way he knew how to come all the way back into his body after a long shift. He’d spoon up behind you in the dark, one arm around your waist, and you’d feel him harden against the curve of your ass without either of you saying a word. Sometimes he’d just rock into you like that, keeping his face buried in your hair, breathing like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside.
Other nights he’d roll onto his back and pull you over him, with his hands steady on your hips while you rode him, watching your face. He’d cum with a low sound against your throat and then hold you there afterward, still inside you, like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he let go too soon.
It’d been consistent, almost like a ritual. Even on the worst nights, and especially on the worst nights, he still reached for you. But the second week on Lexapro began to feel different, you noticed it gradually. On Monday he came home, ate, showered, and fell asleep with his face pressed to your shoulder before either of you could do more than kiss. Tuesday the same. Wednesday he got hard when you pressed back against him in bed, but when you reached back to stroke him he caught your wrist gently and murmured, “Just want to hold you tonight.” You didn’t push, just let him pull you closer and settle.
Thursday was the exception. You were on the couch after dinner, his legs were stretched out, and you were settled sideways across his lap- Robby was resting one of his hands loosely on your thigh, the other was playing absently with the hem of your shirt. You were talking about nothing important, some ridiculous patient story from his shift, and then somehow you weren’t talking anymore. You shifted, just a little, and felt the heat of him under you. You did it again, slower this time, a deliberate grind of your hips, and his breath caught.
He tightened his hand on your thigh. “Baby,” he said, already lower.
You kissed him instead of answering, and he kissed back like he had been waiting for permission. Within minutes you were both breathing harder, your clothes half-pushed aside, and he ended up fucking you right there on the couch, slow at first, then deeper, bracing one hand on the back cushion, holding your hip with the other while you moved with him. He came with his face pressed to your neck and your name in his mouth, and afterward he stayed inside you for a long time, just holding on.
That was the only time during his second week on Lexapro. Friday nothing happened, Saturday morning the two of you went for a longer run than usual, he was lighter somehow, joking about how your competitive streak was going to kill him one of these days, and when you got home he pulled you into the shower with him and washed your hair with careful fingers, but the touch stayed tender instead of turning heated like it used to. That night you curled up against his side in bed and felt the familiar shape of him, but he didn’t harden against you. He just stroked your back in absent circles until you both fell asleep.
You noticed, the absence of sex sat in the back of your mind like an unanswered question. It wasn’t that he seemed distant, if anything, he was more present than he had been in months. He looked at you more, he touched you more in the small and ordinary ways, a hand at the small of your back while you cooked, brushing his fingers against yours when he passed you a glass, the way he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear without thinking. The intimacy was still there, it just wasn’t landing in the same place.
You told yourself it was the medication, the side effects, the time his body took to adjust. You’d read enough when he first started his treatment to know that libido could take a temporary hit while the brain chemistry resettled. You knew it would even out, and that the fact that he was sleeping through the night and laughing at your terrible jokes and suggesting morning runs was worth more than the nightly sex you used to rely on as proof that he was still reaching for life.
On a quiet Wendsay during his third week on Lexapro, the two of you were on the couch again. His arm was around your shoulders, your legs were draped across his lap. At one point he turned his head and pressed a slow kiss to your temple, lingering there like he had all the time in the world.
You tilted your face up and caught his mouth with yours. The kiss was unhurried, you waited for the familiar shift, the way his body used to answer almost immediately, but it didn’t come. He kissed you deeper for a moment, then pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“You feel so good,” he murmured. “Just… this. Being here with you.”
You smiled against his mouth and let it be enough for now. If the sex had slowed for a while, you could live with that.
Friday night, finally his day off, after a punishing twelve-hour shift the day before. Robby was already in bed, propped against the pillows, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He was wearing an old soft t-shirt and dark sleep pants, one ankle crossed over the other, and a book held open in both hands.
You were in the walk-in closet with the overhead light on, surrounded by piles of clothes you’d selected to donate. Two cardboard boxes were already sitting half-full on the floor. You were methodically pulling things off hangers, old jeans that no longer fit the way they used to, a couple of tops that didn’t suit your style anymore, when your fingers brushed against the little black dress shoved toward the back.
You almost didn’t recognize it at first, it was the one from your college days. The one you used to wear to every party, every bar night, every time you wanted to feel pretty. You pulled it free and held it up, the fabric was still soft, and without thinking too hard about it, you stripped down to your underwear and stepped into it, tugging the zipper up the side.
It was tight, the dress clung to every curve like it was painted on your body. The neckline dipped lower than you remembered, the weight of your breasts was pushing against the fabric until the tops of them were nearly spilling over. The hem that used to sit mid-thigh now rode higher, barely covering the curve of your ass. You turned sideways in the full-length mirror and let out a surprised laugh.
From the bedroom you heard the soft sound of pages stopping. You stepped out of the closet and into the doorway, immediately, Robby’s eyes lifted from his book to you. He adjusted his glasses with one finger, and just looked at you for a long moment.
“Where did that dress come from? I’ve never seen you wear it.”
You glanced down at yourself, then back at the mirror propped against the closet wall. “College. I used to wear it to every single party.” You laughed again, softer this time, turning slightly so you could see the way the fabric pulled across your hips. “I guess I've put on some weight since then.”
He made a low sound in his throat, half grunt, half pure hunger. “It looks sexy.”
The words landed low in your stomach, you could feel the heat of his gaze traveling over you even from across the room, appreciating the way the dress stretched over your chest, the way the short hem rode up when you shifted your weight, the spill of skin at the neckline.
“Why don’t you model it a little for me?” he asked.
You laughed, a little self-conscious. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
So you did. You walked a few slow steps toward the bed, then turned, letting him see the way the fabric clung to the round of your ass, the way it rode up just enough when you moved. You caught your reflection in the mirror again and felt a strange mix of vulnerability and power. Your body had changed since college, softer in places, fuller, but the way he was looking at you made every inch of it feel wanted.
“Come over here,” he said. “Now.” The command was gentle, but it still sent a small thrill down your spine.
You giggled, actually giggled from excitement, and crossed the remaining distance to the bed. He set the book aside without looking at it, kept his glasses still on, and opened his arms. You climbed onto the mattress and settled astride his lap, with your knees bracketing his hips, making the short dress ride even higher.
His hands found you immediately. They slid up the backs of your thighs and settled on the curve of your ass, squeezing lightly through the tight fabric. You leaned in and kissed him. He tasted like the mint tea he had earlier. The kiss started slowly, just soft presses of lips, and the scrape of his beard, then it deepened when his tongue brushed yours. Roby moved one of his hands up your back, splaying his fingers between your shoulder blades, while the other stayed low, kneading the flesh of your hip.
“This ain’t a dress,” he murmured against your mouth, “it’s a suggestion, barely covers anything.”
You smiled into the next kiss. “I should probably donate it.”
“I think you should keep it,” he answered, “and wear it just for me.”
The words made something flutter in your belly, you shifted on his lap, rolling your hips in a slow grind, seeking the familiar hard line of him, and found only softness there.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, raising one eyebrow, a teasing little smile pulling at your mouth. “Someone’s still asleep, huh?”
His laugh was quiet and a little self-deprecating. He didn’t flinch or look away, just kept his hands on you, stroking slow circles over the tight fabric at your hips.
“Give it some time to wake up,” he said.
You leaned in again, brushing your nose against his, your lips hovering just short of another kiss. “I can be real patient,” you murmured, “when the prize is good.”
He smiled at thatm, and the expression made your chest tighten. You kissed him again, slower this time, letting the moment stretch. He kept moving his hands, one sliding up under the hem of the dress to cup the bare curve of your ass, the other traveling higher to skim the side of your breast through the straining fabric. You felt the soft give of your breasts against his palm, and it made you rock against him again. It was still soft.
“Take your time,” you whispered against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His hands tightened on you in answer, you kept kissing him, slow and deep, the kind of kisses that didn’t ask for anything yet, just the slide of your mouth against his, the wet sound of lips parting and meeting again. You moved your hips in a steady rhythm against his lap, the tight black dress riding higher with every grind until the hem barely covered the lower curve of your ass.
The fabric was already stretched thin across your chest, and every shift made the neckline dip lower, the top of your tits spilling over the edge until the cool air kissed the skin. His breath was starting to come a little shorter between kisses, he was cupping the curve of your breast through the strained fabric. His thumb found the stiff peak of your nipple and rubbed over it in lazy circles. Robby made a low sound against your mouth when you rolled your hips again, a little firmer this time, grinding your cunt against the still soft line of him, trying to coax him into responding the way he used to, into thickening, into pressing up against you the way he always had.
He pulled back just enough to speak, resting his forehead against yours, his glasses slightly fogged from the proximity. “I know,” he said. “I know you’ve noticed that we’re not… making love as much as before. And I know you’re too kind to mention it, you’ve been so careful not to make it a thing. But I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes when I just hold you instead of taking it further.”
“Michael…” you started, but he gently shushed you.
“Shh. Let me say this.” His eyes searched for yours behind the lenses. “I need you to hear it. It’s not that I want you less, and it's not that I don’t find you desirable… God, look at you. In this dress, sitting on my lap. The way your tits look in this, the way your ass feels under my hands. You’re… you’re everything I’ve ever dreamed of. I just… I haven’t been thinking about sex the way I used to, the urge isn’t there the way it was before. Sometimes it’s just… not there at all, like the part of my brain that used to reach for you the second we got into bed is still asleep.”
You kept your hands on him, one curled at the nape of his neck, your fingers in the soft salt-and-pepper hair there, the other resting over his heart. You could feel it beating steady under your palm, a little faster now. You nodded slowly, still moving your hips in that patient, grinding rhythm, rubbing your pussy against him through the thin barrier of your underwear and his sleep pants.
“I know,” you said. “I figured it was probably a side effect from the meds. I know Lexapro does that for a lot of people. It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with us.”
He let out a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I can talk to Caleb. Maybe we can switch to something else, or lower the dose. I don’t want this to become the new normal if it’s going to—”
“What? No.” You cut him off gently but firmly, shaking your head, the movement making your breasts shift against his chest. “No way. Michael, you’ve been improving so much. I’ve seen it, you’re sleeping through the night, you’re laughing again, you’re making jokes on our runs. You’re not waking up at two in the morning staring at the ceiling or disappearing into your head the way you used to. I’m not risking any of that, not for sex, no matter how good sex is.”
He dug his fingers into the flesh under the fabric of the dress. There was something almost painful in his expression, like guilt. “But I know sex has always been a big part of us,” he said. “It was how I came back to myself after hard days. It was how I showed you I was still here, still choosing this. How I got to feel you and know I was still capable of giving you something good. If you want it every night and I can’t give that to you right now… I don’t want it to become an issue. I don’t want it sitting between us like something I’m failing at. I don’t want it to slowly break something that matters this much to me.”
You framed his face with both hands, stroking over the skin just below the frames of his glasses. You made sure he was looking at you when you answered. “Michael, you’re insane if you think having less sex is going to break us.” Your voice was certain. “Do you hear me? Insane. I could give up sex forever if it meant you were happy, if it meant the nights where you think about dying stayed gone. If it meant I got to keep the version of you who smiles at me, suggests morning runs, and falls asleep without the television on. That version is worth more than any orgasm, that version is the one I’ve been fighting for right alongside you. I can touch myself if I need to, I can use a toy and get myself off. But I’m not trading your peace of mind for more fucking.”
“But I—” he started.
“No buts.” You leaned in and kissed him once to seal the words, then again, deeper, letting your tongue slide against his. “No buts, Michael. I don’t care if we have less sex for a while. I don’t care if it’s months. I’ll get myself a satisfyer if I need to take the edge off. I’ll handle it. What I’m not going to do is let you start second-guessing the meds that are clearly helping you. You’re going to keep taking them and we’re going to give the side effects time to settle. Bodies adjust, brains adjust, we just have to be patient with it.”
He was quiet for a long moment, searching your face like he was looking for any crack in the certainty. You didn’t give him one, you stayed right there, straddling his lap, still framing his face between your hands
Finally he let out a long breath and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. We’ll wait. We’ll give it time.” He slid his hands up your back, then down again, settling possessively on the curve of your ass, spreading his fingers to hold more of you. “But if time passes and the side effects don’t ease up… then I’ll talk to Caleb. I’m not giving up sex with my beautiful woman, not permanently. I still want you, I still want this… want to feel you wet around me, want to hear the sounds you make when I get deep, want to cum inside you and stay there. I just need my body to catch up to the rest of me.”
You smiled against his mouth, and resumed the gentle rhythm of your hips grinding against him. The friction was enough to keep the pulse of arousal alive between your legs.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured between kisses. “Sex every night or once a week or whenever your body is ready. I’m here. We’re good… we’re better than good.”
He made a grateful sound and pulled you closer. Seconds later, he broke the kiss just enough to speak. “Maybe it’ll take me some time to… get up. Why don’t you let me remind you how much I want you instead? Let me take care of you the way I’ve been wanting to”
You smiled against his mouth, nipping gently at his lower lip. “I like how that sounds,” you whispered. “I like it a lot.”
As he shifted, his strong hands guided you carefully onto your back against the pillows. The mattress dipped as he moved with you, settling between your thighs. Robby pushed your knees apart slowly, like he was opening a gift he’d been thinking about for days. The little black dress was already riding high, but then he gathered the fabric in both hands and bunched it up around your waist, exposing the skin of your belly and the damp cotton of your panties.
He went still for a moment, just looking. “Fuck,” he breathed, almost to himself, as he stroked the soft insides of your thighs. “Look at you, already so wet for me. These are soaked, baby. Fucking soaked through.”
He leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss right over the dampest part of the fabric. You felt the heat of his breath, the gentle pressure of his lips, and then the slow drag of his tongue as he licked along the seam of your panties, tasting the wetness that had already soaked through.
A helpless moan slipped out of you. Your hands found his shoulders, then slid up into his hair again. “Michael…” you whispered, your voice sounding already thinner than usual.
He hummed against you, and kept going, kissing, licking, mouthing at the wet fabric like he had no intention of rushing. He sucked lightly at the soaked cotton, drawing the taste of you through it, before finally hooking his fingers into the sides of your panties and drawing them down your legs. He took his time with that too, sliding the damp cotton over your thighs, your knees, your calves, until he could toss them aside.
Then he started at your feet. He lifted one ankle and pressed a slow kiss to the arch, then higher, along the inside of your calf. His mouth was warm as he moved up your leg in a series of soft and open kisses, with the occasional gentle scrape of teeth, working his way toward the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. By the time he reached the soft place just below where you needed him, you were already breathing harder, fisting one hand in the sheets, the other still buried in his hair.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured against your skin. “Open for me. Letting me take my time with you, letting me taste every inch before I even get to the best part.”
He turned his head and gave the other leg the same attention, foot, calf, the back of your knee, the flesh of your inner thigh, until both of your legs were trembling faintly and the air between your legs felt almost too charged to bear.
Only then did he settle fully between your thighs again. He spread you open with his thumbs, looked at your pussy for a long, hungry moment, and then leaned in.
The first slow lick over your clit was devastatingly gentle. You moaned, unrestrained. “Oh god… Michael, that feels so good already.”
He did it again, flatter, then circled the swollen little peak with the tip of his tongue. When he finally closed his lips around your clit and sucked, soft at first, then with more pressure, you arched your back off the bed.
“Fuck! Yes. Just like that. You’re so good at this, you’re so fucking amazing with your mouth.”
He settled in like he planned to stay between your lgs for a long time. Robby slid one of his hands up your body, finding the curve of your breast where it spilled over the tight neckline of the dress, and started massaging it, squeezing gently, brushing his thumb over your nipple. The other hand stayed low, holding your thigh open. Meanwhile, his mouth never stopped the long licks through your folds, and the suction on your clit.
He licked lower, pushing his tongue inside you in curling thrusts, tasting the wetness that kept gathering for him, then returned to your clit with renewed attention.
You couldn’t help the loud cries of pleasure that kept escaping your mouth. “That feels incredible… don’t stop, please don’t stop. Your tongue is perfect. God, the way you eat me. Michael! Fuck, the way you eat my pussy—”
He growled softly against you at the praise and redoubled his efforts. You felt him shift, sliding his palms under your thighs. Robby lifted your legs and draped them over his shoulders, then higher, until your calves were resting against the back of his neck and your thighs framed his face completely. The new angle let him bury himself deeper, and so he ate you like he was starving for it, sliding his tongue lower to fuck into you properly, then returning to your clit, sucking it hard enough that the wet sounds filled the quiet bedroom.
At the same time, his hand on your breast never stopped moving. He squeezed, kneaded, rolled your nipple between his fingers until the mixed sensation of his mouth between your legs and his hand on your chest had you moaning almost continuously.
“I’m getting close,” you warned him, barely capable of putting the words together. You tightened your fingers in his hair, pulling it just enough to make him hum in approval. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. I’m right there, fuck, Michael, you’re going to make me cum so hard—”
He didn’t stop, he went harder. You ground up against his mouth without shame, rolling your hips, chasing your climax.
Your legs tightened around his neck, and your free hand fisted in the sheets. “Yes—yes, just like that, don’t you dare stop… I’m cumming—”
The orgasm hit you hard, rolling through you in pulsing waves of pleasure. You cried out his name, clamping your thighs around his head, jerking against his mouth as he kept licking you through every last tremor, working you through the aftershocks until you were oversensitive and trembling. He didn’t pull away until the intensity finally softened, and even then he stayed close, pressing soft kisses to your oversensitive clit and your inner thighs.
“That’s it… you did great, baby. Let me have it. Fuck, you taste so sweet when you cum for me. You’re so fucking soaked, I wish you could see this mess.”
Your legs were still trembling when he carefully lowered them from his shoulders. He climbed back up your body, and settled over you. His glasses were slightly crooked, and his mouth and beard were wet and shiny with your juices.
You pulled him down into a deep kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, and held him there. “I love you,” you whispered against his mouth. “I love the way you take care of me.”
He rested his forehead against yours, breathing a little hard, and smiled. “I love you too.”
Pushing yourself up on your elbows, still flushed and breathless from the orgasm he’d just pulled out of you, you watched as Robby sat back on his heels in the middle of the bed. The soft give of his belly, the broad chest rising and falling a little faster than usual, the trail of salt-and-pepper hair disappearing beneath the waistband. And lower the fabric of his pants was tented, not fully rigid, but no longer soft either. It was slowly responding to the taste of you still on his tongue and the sight of you spread out in front of him, your cunt still glistening from his mouth.
“Well,” you said as a smile curved your mouth, “someone’s getting excited, huh?”
He glanced down at himself, then back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that self-aware way he had. He reached down and palmed the growing shape of his cock through the cotton, giving himself one slow squeeze, the thick outline was clear under his hand.
“Halfway there. Hard not to be when I’ve got the best pussy in the world right in front of me and I just got to eat it until you came on my tongue. You tasted so fucking good, baby.”
The honesty in his voice sent another pulse of want through you. You sat up fully and scooted closer until you were kneeling in front of him. Your hand replaced his, cupping the heavy length of him through the fabric, squeezing it gently, feeling the way he thickened under your palm almost immediately.
“Tell me,” you murmured, stroking him slowly through the pants, the heel of your palm pressing along the shaft, “how are you gonna fuck me once you’re hard? How do you want me?”
A soft moan slipped out of him. Robby tipped his head back for a second, his eyes were half-lidded behind the glasses that were still slightly crooked from earlier.
“Any way you want,” he said. “Fuck… I mean it. Any way. You could put me however you like and I’d be grateful. But if you want me to choose—” He broke off with another low sound when you squeezed him a little firmer, feeling him swell further under your hand. “I want you on top of me. I want to watch you, want to feel you take me the way you like, at your own pace. I want your hands on my chest and your eyes on me while you ride me. That’s what I keep thinking about, watching those tits move while you sink down on my cock.”
You leaned in and kissed the side of his throat, still stroking him through the fabric, feeling the pulse of him against your palm. “I wanna ride you so much,” you whispered against his skin. “I love feeling you fill me up while I move on you. Watching your face when I take you deep, feeling every inch stretching me open.”
As you kept your hand working him in deliberate strokes, pressing the heel of your palm along the thickening length, curling your fingers around the growing girth, you could feel every incremental change, the way he swelled, the way the fabric stretched tighter, the way his breath started to catch in his throat. You slipped your hand beneath the waistband at last, feeling him skin to skin now, and wrapped your fingers around the weight of him. He was almost fully hard now, thick and twitching in your grip, the head was already beginning to leak against your thumb.
“There you are,” you murmured, stroking him properly now, sweeping your fingerpad over the fat head on every upward pass, spreading the slickness to coat his shaft. “Getting so hard for me… feels so good in my hand, Michael. You’re so fucking thick… so big.”
He groaned, shifting his hips into your touch. “Keep doing that… just like that. Fuck, your hand feels so good. Keep stroking me, baby. Get me ready for that pretty pussy.”
You stroked him until he was fully hard, rigid, with his veins standing out under the skin. Only then did he reach down, push the boxers off his hips, and kick them away. Robby lay back against the pillows without being asked, with his reading glasses still on and his cock standing ready for you against the curve of his belly.
Climbing over him carefully, with your knees bracketing his hips and the dress still bunched at your waist, you reached down, wrapped your fingers around him again, and guided the blunt head to your entrance. You were still so wet from his mouth that the first press against your hole was easy. You sank down just enough to take the tip inside, feeling the stretch of him breaching you. Then, you paused, breathing through it.
“Michael…” you whispered, looking down at him.
He settled his hands on your thighs, stroking your skin there. “Take your time, baby. Take all of me whenever you’re ready. I want to feel every inch of you… want to feel that tight little pussy stretch around my cock.”
You sank lower, slow and steady, until he was fully seated inside you. A shared and shaky breath left both of you at the same time. Before beginning to move, you just rested there for a moment, bracing your hands on his chest, feeling him pulsing inside you, feeling the way your body adjusted around the weight of him, the way your walls fluttered and clenched around the intrusion.
After a minute, you started to move, rising up almost all the way, feeling every ridge and every vein gettind dragged along your sensitive walls, then sank back down in a rolling grind that made him tighten his hands on your thighs. The rhythm built naturally, it was a little unhurried at first, but deep enough that it let you feel everything.
“You feel so good,” you told him. “I feel so big inside me. I love riding you like this… I love watching you while I take you… Love the way you stretch me open.”
“Fuck—” Robby slid his hands up to your hips, not to move you or guide your pace, just holding on. “You look incredible. The way you move on me… God, baby. Keep going, use me however you need. Take this cock, It’s all yours.”
And you did. You rode him deeper, rolling your hips so that every downward stroke ground your clit against him. Robby couldn’t keep his hands still in just one place, he roamed them all over you, first under the bunched dress to squeeze your breasts, brushing his thumbs over your nipples, then down to grip your ass and help guide the rhythm when your thighs started to burn. You leaned forward a little, changing the angle, and the new depth pulled a low sound from his throat as the head of him pressed against that soft spot deep inside.
“That’s it,” he encouraged you to keep going. “It’s right fucking there, huh? Take what you need from me. I’m right here, I’m all yours. Fuck yourself on my cock, baby. Let me watch you do it.”
You kept moving, every bounce, every lift and drop of your hips was intentional, chasing the building climax while you watched his face, the way his mouth opened on quieter moans and whimpers, the way his eyes stayed locked on yours behind his glasses even when pleasure made them heavy. Your breasts kept moving with every rise and fall, and his hands never stopped touching you, squeezing, guiding, stroking.
“I’m so glad you’re hard for me,” you whispered down to him. “I’m so glad I get to feel you like this again. You feel perfect inside me, Michael. Nobody’s ever felt this fucking good.”
He answered with a heartfelt groan and lifted his hips to meet your next downward stroke, driving himself even deeper. The two of you moved together like that for a long time, you could feel every pulse of him inside you, every small twitch, the way your cunt clung to him on every upward stroke and swallowed him again on the way down.
Leaning up as much as the angle allowed, Robby took one nipple into his mouth, sucking wetly, circling his tongue over the peak while his hand kept kneading the other breast. You could feel him so deep it bordered on overwhelming, the blunt head of him pressing so far inside that every roll of your hips made you roll your eyes back, it felt almost as if he was reaching your stomach.
“Michael—fuck—you feel so deep,” you gasped, feeling your voice breaking as the words escaped your lips. “I can feel you all the way inside me. Don’t stop… your mouth—yes—suck harder—”
He switched to the other breast, sucking harder, thumbing your nipples while you rode him faster and faster. Your moans grew louder, your hips started snapping down with more urgency as the pressure coiled tighter and tighter.
“I’m close,” you warned him, digging your fingers into his chest, trying to hold on. “I’m so close! Don’t stop, please don’t stop. I’m going to cum all over you—”
He released your nipple with a wet sound and looked up at your face. “Come on me, baby. Let me feel it, cum all over this cock while I watch you. Let that pretty pussy squeeze me.”
The permission tipped you over. Your orgasm crashed through you as your walls clamped down around him in strong pulses. You cried out his name, shaking and grinding your hips through the waves. He felt every flutter, every tight squeeze, and a guttural sound left his throat as your pussy milked him through it.
Before the last tremors had even faded, he moved. Robby gripped your waist and guided you forward and off him. You landed on your hands and knees on the mattress, still trembling. He shifted behind you, kneeling between your spread legs. You felt the brush of his thighs against the backs of yours, and then his hands were on your ass, both of them, squeezing the soft flesh firmly to spread you open.
“You’ve got the best ass,” he said. “It’s soft and perfect and all fucking mine. Look at the way it moves when I do this—”
He spread you open with both hands, dipping his thumb into the cleft, holding you exposed for a long moment while he looked. You could feel his gaze like a physical touch, and the cool air against your wet and swollen folds. Then the slick head of his cock pressed against your entrance again. He pushed inside in one continuous stroke until he was buried to the hilt. The new angle, him behind you, let him sink even deeper than before.
“Fuck. You’re still so tight around me after cumming,” he groaned, gripping your hips hard under the weight of his palms. “You take me so well like this. Look at the way this pretty pussy swallows my cock.”
Robby started to move, the first few thrusts were deep and measured, letting you feel every inch dragging along your walls. Then the rhythm built, turning into powerful strokes that rocked you forward on your hands with every impact. His hands never left your ass, he squeezed, spread, and occasionally delivered a light, open-palmed spank that made you gasp and push back for more.
“That’s it,” he encouraged you. “Push back on me, take every inch. You feel incredible like this, bent over for me, with this perfect ass in my hands. Listen to how wet you are for me.”
You dropped to your forearms, arching your back deeper, Robby slid a hand up your spine to tangle in your hair and hold you steady while the other stayed locked on your hip. Every thrust drove him deep enough that you felt the impact low in your belly again. You were still so sensitive from the first orgasm that each stroke pulled broken sounds from your throat.
“Michael! Yes, just like that… Harder—”
And oh, he gave you harder. The bed creaked beneath the force of it, your breasts swayed with every powerful thrust. His breathing grew rougher behind you, interspersed with low curses that left his mouth.
“So fucking good,” he panted. “Best ass, best pussy, best fucking everything. Going to keep fucking you just like this until you cum again on my cock. Can you do that for me, baby? Can you cum for me again? Let me feel that pussy squeeze me one more time.”
You could only moan in answer, already feeling the second peak starting to build under the relentless pace he set. He gathered a bigger handful of your hair at the base of your skull and used it to guide you, arching your back a little deeper, tilting your head until your neck was stretched and your face was turned toward him. Robby leaned over your back, still buried to the hilt, and turned your face the rest of the way so he could catch your mouth in a messy and open kiss. You could taste the faint salt of your own earlier orgasm on his tongue.
The kiss was hungry and a little uncoordinated because of the angle, but neither of you cared. When he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was rough against your lips. “Keep your eyes on me,” he said. “Don’t look away. I want to watch you while I fuck you. I want to see every expression you make when I’m deep inside you.”
You obeyed, keeping your eyes locked on his even as he straightened again behind you, one hand still fisted lightly in your hair, and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. The eye contact was intense, it felt intimate in a way that only turned you on even more. You could see the flush high on his cheeks, the way his glasses were fogged, the way his mouth stayed slightly open.
“Touch yourself for me,” he told you. “Rub that pretty clit while I take you. I want to feel you cum around me again. Do it, baby. Let me watch you play with yourself while I fuck this pussy.”
You shifted your weight onto one forearm and slid your other hand down between your legs. Your fingers found your clit easily, it was swollen, slick, and hypersensitive from everything that had already happened. You started rubbing in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The sensation was almost too much, the deep drag of his cock and the bright sparks every time you passed your fingers over your clit.
The wetness coated your fingers, the slick sounds of your own touch were getting mixed with the slap of him fucking into you. You pushed back to meet him, taking him as deep as the angle allowed.
“That’s it,” he was watching your face the entire time. “Just like that, keep rubbing. You’re already getting tighter… I can feel it. You’re getting close again, aren’t you?”
“Yes—” The word came out shaky. “I’m close… Michael, I’m so close, don’t stop, please don’t stop, your cock feels so fucking good—”
He didn’t. He kept the same deep rhythm, using the hand in your hair to keep your back arched and your face turned toward him so he never lost the eye contact. You came with a helpless cry, your walls clamping down around him.
Robby kept fucking you through it, gripping your hips hard with both hands, pulling you back onto every thrust so you took him to the hilt again and again while the orgasm rolled through you.
Only when the intensity began to soften did he slow just enough for you to catch your breath. You were still trembling, still pulsing faintly around him, when you managed to speak. “Are you close?”
He answered after a beat, the words coming out strained. “…Right over there. Right fucking there. You feel too good, watching you cum on my cock again almost finished me.”
Before you could respond, he moved, flipping you carefully but quickly onto your back. He didn’t give you time to settle, Robby hooked his hands behind your knees and pushed your legs up and open, draping them over his broad shoulders. The new position folded you almost in half, opening you completely for him. You felt exposed and claimed all at once.
Robby lined himself up and pushed back inside in one stroke until he was buried as deep as the angle allowed. From this position he could lean over you, with his face close, and his eyes still locked on yours-
“There,” he breathed, starting to move again in measured thrusts that rocked you into the mattress. “Want to see your face when I cum. Want to watch you take every last bit of me, see those eyes when I fill you up.”
He settled into a steady, powerful rhythm, one hand braced beside your head, the other holding one of your legs firmly against his shoulder. Every stroke was deep and deliberate, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the quiet room. You reached up and cupped the side of his face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone, keeping your eyes on his exactly the way he asked.
“I’m right here,” you whispered. “I’ve got you. Come whenever you need to. I want to feel it. Want to feel you come deep inside me.”
The minutes stretched. Robby kept moving inside you, one of his hands left your leg and found your breast, squeezing the soft weight of it. When that wasn’t enough, he slid the same hand lower, between your bodies, and found your clit again, rubbing in quick strokes while he thrust. A little later, his palm pressed firmly against the soft lower curve of your belly, right above where you could feel him moving inside you, adding a heavy pressure that made every stroke feel even deeper.
Forty minutes had passed, maybe more. Your thighs were trembling from being held open so long, the sheets beneath you were damp with sweat and the earlier wetness of your body.
Robby was ramming into you like he wasn’t tired at all. Even as his breathing turned ragged and sweat slicked every inch of his skin, he kept going, thrusting hard, slamming deep, hammering his hips against yours with a force that made the bedframe creak. He fucked you like he was trying to bury himself permanently, driving his cock deeper and deeper on every stroke, chasing something that still refused to come.
But his orgasm never arrived. Your cunt felt raw and stretched open, a sharp little sting blooming with every wet slide of his cock in and out. The friction had gone past pleasure into something almost too much, yet he still didn’t stop. He just kept pounding into you, relentless, like the only thing that mattered was how deep he could get.
Your body had gone from hypersensitive to something flatter, the edge of pleasure had turned dulled by time and the repetitive motion of his hips, even as he kept working over you with single-minded determination.
You reached up and cupped the side of his face, making him look at you. “Michael…” Your voice was soft, a little hoarse from your moans. “Are you close?”
He swallowed hard. “I… almost there,” he managed to spit the words out. “Right there. I can feel it. Just a little more.”
You searched his eyes. “You said that ten minutes ago. And ten minutes ago before that”
He wanted to cum. He was exhausted, his muscles burning, his lungs working hard, but it still wouldn’t happen. The frustration built with every failed thrust, pushing him to move faster, pistoning his cock into you harder, rougher, almost punishing. Like if he just fucked you fast enough, deep enough, he could outrun whatever was holding him back and finally tip over the edge.
A frustrated breath left him. He didn’t stop moving, but the rhythm faltered for half a second. “I know. I know I did. I was there, I was right on the edge, and then it just… slipped away. But now I’m close again, I just need— just need five more minutes”
You shifted beneath him, the numbness between your legs was becoming harder to ignore. “It’s just… you’ve been going for like half an hour, maybe longer. I’ve lost almost all the sensitivity down there. I want this for you, I do, but my body is starting to check out a little.”
He froze, and then he pulled out carefully, the sudden emptiness making both of you flinch. He sat back on his heels between your spread legs. His chest was heaving, and his cock still hard and glistening with your wetness.
“Sorry, baby,” he said the words with genuine distress. “I’m sorry. I just… I’m trying. Every time I get close it disappears on me. I can feel it right there, and then it’s gone and I have to start over and I don’t—” He cut himself off. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want to cum so badly. I want to finish inside you. Want to fill this pussy up, but I can’t make it happen. It has to be the Lexapro, cause I don’t know what else could be wrong with me”
The frustration in his voice was raw, you could see the shame starting to creep in around the edges of it, the fear that his body was failing him in yet another way, that the medication that had given him so many good things was now taking this from him too.
You sat up carefully and reached for him before the spiral could take hold. “It’s okay,” you told him, soft but firm. “Hey, look at me. It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with you, Michael. Come here.”
You wrapped your fingers around his cock, still hard, and guided him forward again. He let you, and so you positioned the head at your entrance and looked up at him, feeling the blunt pressure against your folds.
“Get back inside me,” you said quietly. “Right now. We’re not overthinking this. Just feel me, okay?”
He pushed in with a shaky exhale, sinking deep in one slow stroke until his hips were flush against yours again. You kept your hand on his cheek so he couldn’t look away.
It felt sensitive when Robby slid back inside you, your cunt already raw and swollen from how long he’d been inside you, every inch of him dragging against oversensitive walls. The stretch burned a little, a sharp edge of too much that made your breath catch. But the ache to feel him cumming inside you ran deeper than the discomfort. You wanted it badly enough to bear the oversensitivity, to take every rough thrust if it meant finally getting your pussy filled with him, pulsing deep where you needed it most.
“Keep looking at me,” you murmured. “Right here. Eyes on mine. You’re getting so close, aren’t you? I can feel how hard you are. Keep feeling it, don’t think of anything else but my pussy.”
He nodded, it was a small and almost desperate movement. A quiet whimper slipped out of his throat when you rolled your hips up to meet his next thrust, taking him as deep as he could go.
“That’s it,” you continued, using the same tone you used when he was spiraling at three in the morning and needed something solid to hold onto. “Keep going, just like that. You’re going to cum for me, Michael. You’re going to fill me up. I want to feel it, I want every drop inside me. You’ve been so good, working so hard for me, making me feel so good. Let it happen, let this pussy take every bit of you.”
If you could just anchor him with your voice, keep him here, in this moment, in your body, then maybe he could finally reach his climax. Your voice cut through the frustration and the exhaustion, giving him something solid to hold onto while his hips kept slamming into you.
Another broken sound left him, and he nodded again, faster this time, starting to move his hips with more urgency. The control was gone, what was left was need and the visible effort of chasing something that kept slipping just out of reach.
“Let go for me when you can, Michael,” you whispered, stroking your thumbs over his cheekbones. “I’ve got you. Whenever it happens, I’ve got you. You’re safe, you can cum. Fill me up, I want to feel your load inside me.”
He kept thrusting a little less coordinated, until his arms started to tremble where he was braced over you. Then it hit, until his whole body went tight and a low moan tore out of him, louder than before.
“I’m there—” he gasped. “I’m gonna cum! Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna fill this pussy—”
He drove into you hard, once, twice, three times, and then he was shattering. An almost painful-sounding cry left his throat as he buried himself to the hilt and started pulsing deep inside you. You felt the hot spill of him, the way his cock twitched with every spurt, and the warmth of him flooding you. He kept cumming longer than usual, like his body was finally releasing everything it had been holding back for the last forty minutes. You could feel every hot jet of him deep inside as he filled you just like he told you he would.
When the last tremor faded, he collapsed carefully onto his forearms, still buried inside you, breathing hard against the side of your neck. You wrapped your arms around him and held on, stroking slowly up and down his sweat-damp back.
“There you are,” you whispered into his hair. “I’ve got you. You did it. You’re okay. You came so hard for me, filled me up so good.”
He made an exhausted sound and turned his face into your throat, still trembling faintly, still spilling the last lazy pulses inside you.
After a couple of minutes, he started laughing a little to himself, the sound breathless and almost disbelieving. “I came,” he said, like he still couldn’t quite believe it happened after all that time.
You smiled and stroked your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Mhm. You really did, I can feel it inside of me… all of it.”
A quiet sound left his throat at that. He shifted his hips in a few shallow thrusts, pushing the spill of himself even deeper, like he wanted to keep every drop exactly where it belonged.
Both of you stayed like that for a long while, him still inside you, softening gradually, with your legs still loosely draped over his shoulders until he carefully eases them down.
“Sorry if I traumatized your vagina,” he murmured, his attempt at humor sounded a little sheepish.
You laughed. “My vagina will be fine, Michael. It was just… a lot of friction. For forty consecutive minutes. She’s been through a journey tonight.”
He huffed a quiet laugh of his own, but his expression sobered quickly. He brushed a strand of hair away from your face with careful fingers. “I can kiss it better later,” he offered. “If you want. Make it up to her properly.”
A smile appeared in your mouth at that, and you leaned up to brush a slow kiss against his mouth. “I might take you up on that.”
Robby pulled out carefully, both of you wincing a little at the emptiness. He rolled onto his back with a long exhale, and you followed him immediately, settling against his side and then fully onto his chest, pressing your cheek over the thump of his heart. His arms come around you at once, one across your back, the other stroking slowly up and down your spine.
“I meant everything I said earlier,” you told him. “All of it. If less sex for a while is what needs to happen so you can keep getting better, so you can keep sleeping through the night and laughing on our runs and not having those dark hours, then I’m with you. Every single step. I need you to hear that and believe it. Your peace of mind, your stability, the version of you that feels better… that matters more to me than how often we end up like this. I’m not going anywhere because the frequency changes.”
He tightened his arms around you. You felt him press a slow kiss into your hair and left it there for a long moment. “Just… promise me something,” he said. “If you ever start to feel frustrated… sexually. If you ever feel like I’m not meeting your needs in bed, or like the gap is getting too wide, or like you’re starting to look for something outside of this… outside of us… you’ll tell me. You’ll come to me first.”
You lifted your head so you could look at him properly. “Michael, that’s insane,” you said, not unkindly, just firmly, with all the certainty you could put into the words. “Do you hear how that sounds? Wanting sex doesn’t mean I want it with just anyone. It means I want it with you, and only you. It’s your hands, your mouth, your body. It’s the way you look at me when you’re inside me. There’s no substitute for that. If we go through a stretch where your body needs time because of the meds, then I’ll wait. Or I’ll take care of myself, I’ll touch myself thinking about you. I’m not out here looking for replacements, I’m in this with you.”
His eyes stayed on yours for a long, searching moment. Something in his expression softened, like the last of the earlier frustration was easing into relief.
“I like how that sounds,” he moved one of his hands up to cup the back of your head. “Promise me you’ll be thinking of me, then. When you do that… when you touch yourself. Promise me it’s my name you’re saying in your head.”
You smiled and leaned in to kiss him. “I promise,” you whispered against his mouth. “It’s always you, and it’ll stay that way. We’re a team. Side effects, awkward forty-minute marathons, quiet weeks, all of it. I’m not going anywhere.”
A/N: Omg guys, I had a little draft of this sitting around since like April or May cause, as a girlie who’s been on antidepressants, I know all about the lower-libido struggles😭 And as an erectile dysfunction lover, I kept imagining what Robby would be like on antidepressants, and the combination of that old man struggling to get it up PLUS struggling to orgasm was just too good.
I know so many of you loved the ED!Robby fic, so I’m happy we’re all in this together. I hope you enjoy a now fully sexually dysfunctional Robby
dividers by: @cafekitsune
