" eating pussy " dispatch x gn! afab! reader because i disliked the use of gendered nicknames ( ◜‿◝ ) ♡ || robert, blonde blazer, invisigal, prism, coupe, royd x gn! afab! reader
cw: nsfw & 18+ content ahead, and obviously fem anatomy used! but no gendered petnames because i don't really like that myself ^_^. robert is implied to be older, warning somnophilia (in invisigal's part)
director's note. thank you for all the interaction <'33 you all are so sweet, yandere content coming soon... edit: sorry, i didn't know flambe was actually gay :')
wc: 4k ; not proofread, might be ooc!
robert was honestly such an educated man, as in he knew exactly what to do. he always talks like an old guy, but god his experience felt amazing—doing things to you that you weren't even aware could happen.
his calloused palms slowly spread your thighs apart, his fingertips were cold; leaving paperwork to the side as his arms placed you on the desk. his strength was extreme even with all that he's lost;
his digit felt cold ice while squeezing the fat of your thighs,
"fuck, sweetheart. you're as wet as a whore. tell me, have any of those college guys ever eat your pussy enough to make you squirt?" he had placing slow, small pecks across your thighs, waiting on your response.
you sighed a little, cheeks beclouding with darker shades than your face, "no, not once... i didn't... even think that stuff was real." you slumped your back against the wall, your legs still hanging off the desk. the brown haired man sat comfortably on the department chair, "mmm, really?"
"i guess um... i've had to fake orgasms, thought that's what everyone did."
and at that he smirked with sly look in his eyes, laying his cheek on your thigh, keeping his gaze locked with yours. "damn, i feel real bad for you, angel. an adorable thing like you... fuck,"
he sighs, warm breath brushing on your undeniably wet cunt, bouncing off your inner thighs as you close your eyes briefly from the way it already felt so good from mere exhalation;
"dripping, fucking wet, you are just... so fucking beautiful." he whispered, his fingers drag gently up your inner thigh so very slowly, his tongue leaving his mouth with a grin, pecking a soft kiss onto your clit. making your back arch; usually others always got into it as soon as they could... but it was as if he really wanted to please you, not himself.
indurated fingertips rubbed small circles on your skin; continuing to make out haltingly with your bud, you could feel his nose on the top of your heat.
"haahnn— wwha, r-rooobb, nnh.." you mutter you breath, sex hadn't felt as good at this, your hand flies to his brown locks—face currently burying itself into your pussy, he loved the way you tasted on his tongue. "mmmn, heard this is what people like- haah- nowadays..."
briefly removing his lips that sucked so dearly onto your clit like he was a starving man; licking long stripes up your pussy with languid, tongue dragging so slowly tracing upwards onto the tips of your folds.
your other hand felt an impulse to spread your folds a little wider, exposing how much wetter you had gotten from just him downing your sweet juices, fuck was it intoxicating.
moist and musk covered any other scent in the room, he felt the tent in his pants pitching, and aching. hearing your moans was hearing prayers whispered by cherubs, and seraphs. the air was thick with desire.
your pulse quickened every time he had chart his mouth up your precious sex, "nnnh- ahh... p—please, rob stop t—easingf me..." uttering under your breath with heavy heaves of your chest; "c'mon, n' beg me to, sweetheart."
blonde blazer loves lifting you up and onto her face, she wanted it so fucking bad, loves it so much if you let you literally plant all your weight on her. she wanted to kiss your... well, everything.
"m-man! ahhhn—ffuuckk, p-please..." you whined with your heart beating faster every second. your thighs unironically start to shake so badly, you felt so overstimulated in the kind of way that was enough to send cold shudders down your spine.
trickling her nose to bump into your clitoris more often, god she needed this as much as you did.
"fuck, let it all out on me—fucking ride my face, baby." she muttered as she let out a loud moan of euphoria into your cunt like no tomorrow, letting the vibrations that reverberated your very being; panting heavily as you instinctively thrusted your pussy forward, clit bumping into her nose whilst her tongue delved into your entrance.
her hand traveled to her own lower region, the place that sat between her soft thighs; fingers rubbing at her cunt through her underwear. eyes rolling back in unison with your own,
fingers buried in the messy blonde strands of her hair, grasping a large bunch as you continued to roll your hips onto her tongue, riding it in unison with rubbing your sweet spot in the very tip of her nose.
you felt salty water trickle in the edges of her irises, caused by the imminent pleasure, and unending arousal you received. causing your pussy to throb on her tongue as she shoved it back in and out of your gummy, velvet walls.
her own moans were getting more and more common as desire ignited, her own climax slowly starting to get even nearer; your pussy tightened around her tongue with deep desire, and need.
"nghh, fuck—man, i wan' m-more, please," you whimpered quietly, arching your back onto her tongue once more, fuck she was so good at this. cursing into your pussy, "mmn, good- f-uucking sl—slut, so fuckin' nasty f'me." her usually soft voice turned dominant tonight,
you nodded frantically, deep in intoxication and tantalized with breathy moans, "fuck—mmf, yes m-man! fuck me!" you cried out with ephemerality, panting heavily with a lusty plea, mandy's thighs close in on her own hand that fucked her pussy like how she did on yours.
her hand keeps strength with a palm on the fat of your hips, locking you onto her mouth "m-mmf-my slut, yes?"
cw: somnophilia, ignore that part if you still would like to read!
invisigal, aka courtney treated cunnilingus like her morning breakfast meal. not only because she does it to you after her shift at work twenty-four seven, three-sixty five days a year. morning sex is taken very literally, and genuinely with court, she doesn't play about that pussy!!!
you were dazed, you hadn't even rubbed your eyes enough in order to see who was in between your legs so early in the morning, and fuck was it bad you were so into it? you had given your girlfriend the thumbs up to do whatever she wanted as long as it wasn't super weird... but damn this aroused you like crazy.
"mmn, nnh―c.. court? what are... haah..." you closed your eyes briefly, the short-haired beauty between your thighs right now was busy making the sloppiest, dirtiest, nastiest sounds ever whilst going down on your pussy going in between soft and sensual to rough and a ready-to-fuck look in her eyes just as quick as her invisibility.
her head bobbed on and off your pussy like crazy, nose making often trips into your clitoris, getting off on the friction made you wanna cum into her mouth right now; you knew that was the goal anyways.
"c... nghh―fuckkk, court―s'good..." your hand lazily roams over to her messy bedhead, slowly shoving her face down onto the scent, and wetness of your heated sex. melting into her mouth like putty; god you wanted her so badly, and it was only five am in the morning.
your eyes being more prone to tearing up with the amounts of exhaustion made it almost hurt to move, but it definitely pained a lot less when you had your pretty girl eating away at your greedy cunt..
"mmmn, fuck- stay like that pretty baby, mmf..." brief words were spoken but she kept moaning so loud, and harshly into your pussy it almost hurt if you didn't take advantage of the delicious amounts of saliva mixed with your wetness on her tongue. "such a good―mmn―angel... nnh f'me, yes?" letting out a dark scowl,
"mmpfgh- y... nngh- yes, i'm y-your slut, ma'am." your eyes roll back into the very rear of your skull, your spine absolutely shook; warm grasp onto your waist, small crescents appear on your skin as she starts to kiss and suck on your clit faster. sneaking in another finger or two inside your entrance.
"my little m-mmf-morning angel, aren't you?"
oh god, alice, also known as prism online and offline, was so devastatingly into your pussy when she just gets off a stressful shift at work, i.e. when she just couldn't make a proper fuckin' song, or how everyone on team z wouldn't stop riding her ass about not doing enough.
so here she was, rapidly lapping at your aroused, tight and wet cunt; mixes of kisses and slurping between every moan she sent to echo all up into your body, starting from your pussy.
was it bad that you were so turned on by her visors fogging up while she had her hands stamped down onto your thighs to hold you down onto her face.
directly from work, she knew all she wanted to do was shove her face all up into your entrance with absolute greed and lust. you couldn't stop the whines that spilled from your mouth like a river of sorrowing whines; except for the fact that you cried of pleasure, not tears of sadness.
"f-uuhck! ali... alice―p-please, fast-faster i need it! i want it, p-please, need i―shit- need you s'bad..."
you kept riding her face with no remorse, just how she liked it. only getting to moan loudly into your vagina with her tongue. the metal bud on her tongue only made you want to thrust your pussy onto her face all the more.
"f-fuck! lo―love my slut so much, yeah? letting me eat you o―haah-out as soon as i come home..." immediately delving her tongue back inside you as you felt your eyes glossed up, she loved the angle she got as she gazed up at you like a wolf scanning her prey.
"y-your sl―uuut, mmf! all yours!" you screamed, leaning forward whilst planting your arms on the floor right above her head, suddenly arching your back and seeing the stars; squirting abruptly into her mouth. a loud moan emits from your girlfriend as well,
"god, you taste amazing, beautiful."
coupe, but to you, janelle was absolutely addicted to the way you rode her face, while holding onto her wings, but the only thing you didn't like about her...? the fact she wouldn't let go of a grudge until she got to take it out on your pussy.
she stroked at your clit for a good thirty minutes before revealing the reason behind her anger;
"g-god fuck, t―this was for... ignoring m-my text..." thrusting a new, cold finger into your pussy, arousal covering her digits; placing her lips back onto your clit, sucking and slurping, making sure you hear the disgustingly lewd sounds the juices of your cunt would make.
the loud squelches echoed across the hallway, busy sitting on your long-time girlfriend's face; your hair still stuck in a mess, yet hers was perfectly fine.
"haah, fuck―nnh―me, p-please- so good! mmf―" you cry out in bliss and gratification,
a pop comes out from her mouth once more, "mmf, this one―for f-forgetting to kiss me before―hah―work..." kissing and lapping lustily whilst adding a second digit into your entrance. "ahhn- fffuck, w-wait!! ja—ann... i can't t-take anymore.
"i'll make sure it fits, beautiful, no worries."
returning back to her double downing onto your pussy again with thirst, and god you didn't know when she would add the third. slowing down her pace with her tongue, but keeping it up at her fingers; licking hastily yet her fingers managed to circle right into your sweet spot.
"nnh- sshit, p―please... jus' s-shove it in me alrea―mmf!" you had your grip on her wing even tighter than before, breath hitching, finding it hard to exhale, but she really did fit it inside you carefully, "t-take it―hah―f'me yeah?"
royd had you spread out on your bed, light that lit the dimmed room, barely lighting your body up enough for your husband to see the outline of it all. "wow, y're beautiful."
dragging his tongue up down your thigh, the grip of his other hand placed itself on the right side of your hip, all while keeping you down onto the bed all while stuck in his grip.
his muscles definitely showed their purpose while having you all in his grasp in one swift movement, head slowly dipping into your thighs, slow kitten licks that contrasted with his eyes almost sparkling as you moan quietly, hand traveling over to his hair,
"nnh, roy..." your chest heaved slowly, up and down with relaxation; combing your hands through his locks as he slowly steps up his pace. "so... soso pretty." placing pecks on your thighs that led back onto your clit felt even better than any normal rough and fast sex could ever be.
you melted into his size, his tongue analyzed your cunt slowly, but surely, in love with the sounds of your long moans; he was en-fucking-chanted.
kissing up to give attention to your clit, and traveling back down to your entrance to lap at your juices, he didn't know what he wanted more―so why not both, yeah?
his thumb kept a consistent measure over your clitoris, you could get off on the friction alone the way he did it so slowly; keeping a medium level of speed stroked at your inane gummy walls.
"good, goodgoodgood, jus'―peck―stay like that, pretty."
warnings: MDNI, friends to lovers, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v, um multiple rounds so suspend your disbelief bro (aka idk when to stop), not a lot of plot, smut smut SO MUCH smut......... send a priest to my location
author's note: i don't know what to tell you... the demon came for me tonight, so here you go. this might actually be trash because it's well past my bedtime. <3 um also this is NOT proofread like i usually do so...
The first sign that Bucky wasn't alone was the sound of his bedroom's door creaking open. He didn't need to panic yet, from his place under the covers. He just had to listen for the other signs, the ones that would tell him exactly who was in the room.
There was the faintest shuffle of socked feet on the hardwood.
Then the slight dip of the bed, the rustle of sheets. He stayed still, breathing still even, facing the ceiling, until the intruder had made herself comfortable. Then— "Hey. Couldn't sleep?"
"Oh! Jesus, I thought you were out cold." You whispered, jolting in the bed beside him.
He chuckled, a quiet sound in the darkness. He knew you were laying on your stomach right now, both arms folded under the pillow, head turned towards him. He knew, because that was how you always started out when you snuck in here. You did it when you couldn't sleep. You had what you liked to call 'intermittent insomnia'. Most of the time, you were fine, but for about a week every month or so, you either couldn't fall asleep at all, or you'd wake up some time after midnight, unable to re-enter dreamland again, your access barred.
Bucky, who slept easier now than he used to, still had nights like that sometimes. He still remembered a lot of them as well. He'd only found out about your own problem when you'd had to share a room during a mission. Tiny twin beds, and you'd been tossing and turning in yours for hours. He was a light sleeper, especially during ops, so he'd noticed and asked, which had led to you spilling your guts.
It wasn't weird to him that you snuck in here at night. You were friends. You'd been his shoulder to lean on more times than he could count, and he was just returning the favour.
Well, maybe it had been weird the first time. Bucky had said that if you ever found yourself awake when you shouldn't be, you could bug him, pass the time. He hadn't meant, 'figure out my door's passcode and waltz in here', but you had. It felt a little like when he and Steve had been kids, allowed to have a sleepover. You'd talk about silly things, light things. Sometimes the job. Sometimes the team. But most of the time, you'd school him with movies you deemed 'classics' and pop culture moments that he 'just had to be there' for. He didn't mind. He liked the sound of your voice, hoarse from lack of sleep, soft like the colour of the dawn sky.
"You know that if you'd been a real intruder, I would have dropped you before you'd even gotten the door open halfway, right?" He said lightly.
You scoffed, and he imagined you were rolling your eyes. The room was pitch black, but he could see you in his mind's eye, clear as day. "Okay, Sarge. Sure. I'm wily. I could've gotten around you. Natasha's been showing me a couple tricks."
He just hummed, unwilling to question you. "Whatever you say."
He felt the light push of your hand, half-hearted, against his bicep, but you remained silent, contemplative.
"So, what's on the agenda tonight?" He prompted, waiting for your seemingly endless story time to start. You always had something to say.
"Hmm… I dunno. Didn't come prepared tonight. I really thought I was gonna be able to sleep." You mused.
He heard the shift of the sheets, your body. You were turned on your side to face him while you talked, he knew. Probably had your hands tucked under your cheek. Your foot poked lightly at his leg under the blankets. "Maybe I want you to talk, this time."
"Me?"
"Yeah, you." You snorted a laugh. "Hit me with that gravelly voice, Barnes. Maybe it'll lull me to sleep."
He cleared his throat, though he didn't really need to, but to signal that he was playing along, settling in. His arm brushed your elbow under the covers. Your foot still pressed lightly to his calf.
"Alright," he said, voice hushed like it might wake the memories he’d long since buried if he spoke too loud. "Let me think. You want war stories? Childhood tales? Something stupid that Sam did today?"
He was sure you were grinning beside him. "Dealer's choice. Surprise me."
So he began.
"Winter of '41," he murmured, eyes half-lidded, though he was still staring at the ceiling. "Real bastard of a winter. Snow was thick as a blanket, made the whole world seem quiet. Like the kind of quiet that makes you think God’s holdin’ His breath, waitin' for something."
He felt you shift closer, like you needed to in order to hear him better. It was easy to picture your fingers curled near your mouth, gaze fixed on him even if you couldn't see a thing, listening, paying attention.
"It was around Christmas, had a few days after that weren't busy. Mostly hangin' out with my family. Steve was flat on his back in the hospital with the flu, and I'd said I'd check in. It was worse than it had been, because he'd been helpin' people clear their walkways half the night, even though he could barely stand without puking."
You let out a breath of laughter. "Classic do-gooder."
"Right?" He huffed. "Idiot couldn't even hold a shovel without a struggle. But he had that spark, even back then. That kinda burn in his eyes that said he was gonna do something important, or die trying. He was like that with small stuff, too. Always lookin' out for everyone else."
You were quiet after that, and he let the silence linger for a moment, watching it settle between you like mist.
"…I stole the last slice of my ma's peach pie that day, to bring him." He could still picture it now, the white pie dish with the flowers painted on the side, the clear top of it. The way he'd had to be very careful not to slip on ice, to make sure that he didn't drop it and smash the whole thing to pieces.
Your voice was softer now, closer to a whisper as you prompted him forward, out of the memory. "What happened next?"
"Gave it to him, had to hide it from the nurses. Almost dropped it right before I handed it over. He said it tasted like sunshine." Bucky chuckled, low and throaty. "I told him to get his poetic ass back in bed before his lungs collapsed."
You made a quiet sound, too soft to be a real laugh, your fingers brushing his arm, the contact more deliberate.
Then came the whisper, hesitant. "You think about those days a lot? The before?"
His response was a beat late. "All the time."
Your thumb traced the curve of his bicep absently, your hand settling more firmly, with more purpose. "Even when though it hurts sometimes?"
"Especially when it hurts." His voice dropped, thick with something else now, the passage of time, of everything he'd experienced, coloring his tone. "Because I know it's all I have left from that time."
You turned then, the mattress creaking as you scooted closer, chest brushing his side. Your body heat radiated through his skin. His arm moved to allow it, lifting up, then settling tentatively around your waist. Your body fit against his like a second skin, warm through the fabric of your sleepwear.
"I'm glad you're here," you mumbled, nose brushing against his jaw.
Bucky made a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sigh. "You always say that when you're almost asleep."
You lifted your head just enough that your lips hovered near his ear. "That's because it's only safe to say when I'm half-asleep."
He didn't move. Didn't breathe, for a second.
Then he rolled, slow and easy, until you were under him, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, his forearms bracketing your head. It had been instinctual, before his brain could catch up with him. He suddenly couldn't remember if he'd been close to sleeping before you'd come in, or if he'd been waiting for you.
"I'm awake," he said, barely a rasp. "So say it now."
Your breath hitched, eyes wide in the dark as you stared up at him, his features a murky silhouette against the moonless void. "I'm glad you're here."
The silence stretched again, but this time it buzzed with something else, like static under skin. His fingers brushed your cheek, your jaw, his thumb sweeping over your lower lip like he was testing the shape of you, like he was making sure he remembered the composition of your face, even under the cover of darkness.
"Don't say that if you don't mean it."
"I do," you said, lips parting around the words. "I just didn't think I should say it. Not here, not like this."
"You're in my bed," he stated, voice like gravel and heat. "You figured out my passcode. You've been sneaking into my nights and my dreams for months."
You swallowed. He dipped closer, your noses brushing, your breath mingling.
"If I kiss you," he murmured, "it doesn't go back to how it was. It changes."
You reached up, fingers threading behind his neck, anchoring him. "Then don't stop at kissing. Change it for good."
He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it. You were in his bed, for God's sake. You fell asleep here. He had lost count of how many times you'd snuck in, quiet as a mouse, and slipped in beside him like you belonged there.
It had crossed his mind once or twice, the idea of rolling over, pulling you into him. He had been told once that it was called 'spooning'. He'd thought of doing more, too, but he'd never acted on it. You came here to sleep, and failing that, for company, for closeness, for the comfort of another person awake at the wrong time. Never for this. So he usually let those ideas flit across his mind like a shooting star before extinguishing them, dousing them in water, listening to the lilt of your voice instead.
But now…
Bucky could only just barely make out the outline of your face, and that was with his superior senses. You definitely couldn't see him at all. He wondered for a second, about turning on the lamp, but then worried it would ruin things. Maybe the darkness was what you needed. But he wondered exactly what your expression looked like, right now.
Your hands on the back of his neck were warm, a pleasant sensation. He cupped the side of your face, your skin so soft, so smooth, like porcelain. Don't stop at kissing, you had said. Well, he had to start somewhere.
His breath ghosted over your lips, and he felt yours in return, could smell the faintest bit of your toothpaste. He kissed the corner of your mouth first, a test, like checking to see if bath water was too hot before climbing in. You didn't turn away, just let the kiss land. He was sure your eyes would be blinking up at him, expectant. That was when he lowered his mouth to yours.
Your lips met his without hesitation, soft and warm and just the faintest bit parted. You'd been waiting, sure that he would act on it instead of pulling away, and you'd been right. Bucky kissed you slow, deliberate, searching, his mouth tilting just enough to deepen the contact, draw out that tiny hitch of breath you gave when his tongue brushed yours. It was clumsy in places, tentative, like he couldn't quite believe this was happening, but the way your fingers curled tighter behind his neck said it was real. You weren't pulling away. You were anchoring him to you, keeping him there.
He felt your legs shift apart, your body arching to meet his weight, and he let himself press down, bracing one elbow against the mattress. His other hand stayed at your face, thumb grazing the line of your jaw as he kissed you again. Fuller this time, hungrier. He allowed himself the luxury.
You tasted like mint, and something distinctly yours, something he knew he'd crave forever, now that he knew the flavour of you. Every movement of your mouth against his sent a sharp pulse down his spine. It wasn't just desire in the moment. It was everything that had been simmering beneath the surface of those nights you'd come to him, sleepless and tired but safe, because he made you feel safe. Made you feel like you could fall asleep and not be worried about whatever plagued you in the dark. And now you were kissing him like that safety had become something more, something charged and vulnerable and real.
His hand slid from your jaw and down your neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat where your pulse thudded a quick beat. He paused there, lips just barely brushing yours as he murmured, "Still with me?"
Your answer was immediate, a breathy "Yeah," followed by your mouth finding his again, firmer now. More sure, like you'd checked the waters and found that they weren't infested with sharks, but were safe to swim in.
He moved lower, lips trailing down your neck in open-mouthed kisses, pausing just long enough to nip lightly at your collarbone, exposed by the flimsiness of your shirt. You gasped, the sound catching in your throat, and your fingers flexed against his neck.
"You don't know what this is doing to me," he whispered, and it was true. Feeling you writhing so slightly under him, breath coming faster, completely present in the moment—it was almost overwhelming. You weren't afraid. You wanted this.
You wanted him.
"Then show me," you murmured, your voice like a beacon in the black.
He shifted to lie fully between your legs, grinding down just enough that the hard line of his cock met the cradle of your hips through your pajama clad bodies. Your body jerked under him, a sharp inhale escaping your lips.
"Fuck," he breathed, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel…"
Words couldn't really describe how you felt. The ones that did were foreign to him, at least.
You rolled your hips up into him. "Mhm."
His hands found the hem of your shirt, pushing it up slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. But your arms lifted, letting him pull it over your head and toss it somewhere off the bed. He stared down at you blindly. He couldn't see much, more than the faintest outline of you on the bed, but he could feel you. His hands skimmed down from your shoulders to your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.
"You good?" he asked, voice hoarse.
You nodded, but that wasn't enough for him. "Words."
"Yes. God, yes."
He palmed your breasts, thumbs teasing over your nipples until you arched into him again, letting out a soft gasp that made his cock twitch against you. He bent to take one into his mouth, sucking gently, feeling your fingers slide into his hair and tug. That sound you made was high and breathy, desperate, and it went south immediately. He rocked against you without thinking.
"Jesus, you're perfect," he muttered against your skin, voice fraying at the edges.
He moved down your body slowly, taking his time, kissing your stomach, your hips, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your stupid little shorts. "Off?"
"Please."
He tugged them down, along with your panties, measured and careful, exposing you inch by inch. His breath hitched when he settled between your thighs. He could smell you.
"Fuck…"
You squirmed, self-conscious under the intensity of his attention. It didn't matter that you couldn't see him—you could tell you were his sole focus. "Bucky—"
"Shh." His lips brushed your inner thigh. "Let me take care of you."
His tongue traced the seam of your folds, barely a taste, just enough to make you shiver. Then he dove in with more pressure, more precision, dragging his tongue up to your clit and circling it in slow, maddening spirals.
"F-fuck," you stammered, hips jerking. He held you steady, both hands anchoring your thighs, and he didn't let up. How could he? You were intoxicating.
He groaned into you, low and guttural, as if the act of eating you out gave him as much pleasure as it did you. He licked into you with certainty, though he was acting like he had all the time in the world. You were panting now, fingers digging into his scalp.
"Bucky—I'm gonna—"
He didn't stop. He latched onto your clit, sucking, his fingers sliding up to tease you. One pushed in, almost lazy in his action, and your whole body locked up. "Oh, God—" you cried out, thighs squeezing closed, trapping him there.
Your orgasm hit you hard, a wave crashing through you, and he kept his mouth on you the whole time, easing you through it, murmuring praise between licks. "That's it, sweetheart… fuck, you taste so good…"
When you finally went limp, chest heaving, he kissed your thigh one last time, then crawled back up your body, pressing his mouth to yours again. You tasted yourself on his tongue, and you moaned into it, the sound muffled.
"You okay?" he asked, cupping your cheek again.
You laughed breathlessly, pulling him down on top of you. "You're not stopping, are you?"
He nosed at your neck, cock grinding slow against your slick folds. "Not unless you want me to."
"Not done with you yet," you whispered against his mouth, biting his lower lip gently.
Bucky felt partially like his head was spinning. Well, both of them were. He felt dizzy with want. He almost couldn't believe it. All these nights you had been coming here, and you had neglected to tell him how delicious you tasted. Well, he couldn't blame you, he supposed. That wasn't exactly fair—he doubted you had known.
And the sounds you had made, God… The silence in the room was loud, and you sounded louder, like his own personal playlist, one he'd like to hear on repeat. And what was better, you wanted more. Satisfied by what he'd given you, yes, but you wanted to give him something, too. And he was grateful for that. You'd dampened the front of his pajama pants when he'd ground down on you, and now he freed himself somewhat clumsily in his haste. You giggled a little, and he had to laugh too, the sounds breathless.
He brushed his cock along your folds. He was panting, you were groaning, and he hadn't even gotten inside you yet. "Bucky…" You trailed off, like the thought had started and ended there, just his name in your head, and the heat of the moment, and nothing else.
"You want me inside?" He asked, dragging the head along your slick again, his head bowing to hit your shoulder. The sensation was already almost too much for him.
"Mhm…" You nodded your head, frantic. He could feel the movement. He was about to ask for words, but it seemed you'd remembered from before, because you mumbled, "Yes, please. Please."
"'Kay," he said into the skin of your neck. "Gonna stretch you open nice and slow, yeah?"
He nudged at your entrance, cock thick and heavy in his grip. The heat of your core pulsed, greedy for him, your thighs quivering as you tried not to roll your hips too hard. But God, you wanted to. He felt it, how ready you were, how desperate.
"Breathe, baby," he whispered against your throat, kissing along the skin just beneath your jaw. "I've got you. Gonna make it count."
He eased in, just the tip at first, and your body clenched in response, instant, immediate. Bucky gritted his teeth, hand tightening on your thigh. "Fuck, you're tight—"
You whined softly, head tilting back as your legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him in. "More…"
He gave you more, inch by inch, groaning, helpless as your cunt swallowed him, snug and wet, almost too much. His cock throbbed with the effort of holding back. He didn't want to hurt you. He wanted you to feel every stretch, every pulse, every inch of him fitting deep inside where no one else had. At least, not like this. Not with you clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you coherent. He wanted it to matter.
"S-shit, you feel—" he broke off with a strangled breath as your walls fluttered around him. He bottomed out with a trembling breath, forehead pressed to yours. "—like you were fucking made for me."
You were gasping now, arms tight around his shoulders, nails dragging lightly down his back through the fabric of his shirt. "Bucky…"
He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, kissing your cheek, your temple, your lips—all the places he could reach. His voice came out rough, like he'd forgotten how to use it. "Tell me when."
You did. "Now. Move. Please, can't take it—"
He started slow, just pulling out halfway and easing back in, watching your face even in the dark, listening to every breath you gave him. Your mouth parted with a broken moan, and he felt your legs tighten around his waist.
"Oh my god—" you whimpered.
Bucky groaned against your skin, hips rolling into you again and again, each thrust deeper, smoother, your body sucking him back in like you never wanted to let him go. He felt drunk off it. Off you. The way you squeezed around him, your heat, the slick glide, it was obscene and beautiful and everything he'd never dared to hope for.
"You feel so fuckin' good," he rasped, forehead to yours, his breath shaky. "Like heaven, baby. Like—shit—you're mine. Like you've always been mine."
Your fingers tangled in his hair, and he could feel your rhythm hitching, tightening, your little gasps getting sharper, needier. He slid one hand down between you, found your clit with deft fingers, and started circling in time with his thrusts.
"Ah—Bucky, I'm—" you broke off, voice catching.
He pushed harder, deeper. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Wanna feel you fall apart on me."
It was like he'd given you permission. Your whole body arched beneath him, your cries broken and needy as your climax tore through you again, inner walls spasming around his cock, milking him. He barely managed to hold himself together, fucking you through it, hips stuttering.
He wasn't going to last. Not with you like this, ruined and shaking, clinging to him like he'd keep you whole. Your nails dug into his shoulders as he fucked you a little harder, a little faster, chasing that edge.
"Fuck—gonna—baby, I can't—"
"Inside," you whispered, still breathless, a beg, a plea. "Want you to."
His control shattered. With a groan deep in his chest, Bucky slammed into you one last time, spilling inside you with a strangled groan. His whole body jerked with the release, cock twitching as he filled you, your bodies pressed together, slick with sweat.
Neither of you moved for a long time. Just the sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, your fingers brushing gently through the hair at the back of his neck. He kissed your shoulder, your cheek, then your lips, like he was chasing a constellation.
"You sleepy yet?" he murmured.
You smiled against his mouth. "No."
He pulled you tighter against him. "Good. Don't wanna dream if I've got you right here."
It wasn't like he could even imagine that this was a dream. Nothing, dream or not, could ever beat how good you felt clamped around him. He was surprised he even lasted as long as he did—as soon as he'd bottomed out, felt your tight, gummy walls clutching around him like you were trying to keep him there, he'd been a goner.
And to think, you'd darkened his doorstep, stayed in his bed, fell asleep beside him so many times. And he'd never dared, never even thought to dare. But here you were, underneath him, seemingly happy as a clam, though maybe a little fucked out.
Both of you breathed through it, coming down, relishing the feeling. You, of being so full. Him, of being held so tightly. He stroked the side of your face, the touch tender. "You want more?" He asked, whispering the question against your cheek.
"Mhm." You murmured, your breath hitching when he shifted. "Want this off, though. Not fair that I'm the only one naked." You were likely pouting as you tugged at his shirt.
He laughed, a low, throaty chuckle, and obeyed your command, sitting back and pulling out of you in the same moment, tugging off his shirt, then his pants. Then he touched the curve of your hip, gentle, grounding. "Turn over. Like you do when you normally come in here."
You complied, shifting onto your stomach, arms sliding under the pillow. He traced the line of your spine, felt you shiver at the touch. Then both of his hands trailed from your waist to your hips, smoothing over your ass, spreading you open. "You ready?" He asked, a formality, because he knew you were, as confirmed by your breathy, "yes." He just wanted to be sure, wanted you to want it as much as he did.
Then he lined himself up, one hand firm on the mattress to keep himself propped up over you.
He slid back inside with one slow, deep thrust, no teasing this time, no breathless hesitation. Just the unbroken glide of his cock pushing through your slick folds, into your soaked, dripping cunt. You gasped into the pillow, your back arching, ass lifting to meet him, like your body already knew exactly how it needed him.
"Fuck," he groaned, jaw tight, head bowing as he buried himself to the hilt. "You feel even tighter like this."
And you did. Lying flat, arms tucked beneath the pillow like you had so many nights before, you were almost too snug for him to move at first. He could feel every inch of himself hugged by your walls, your pussy clenching greedily around his cock. It was addictive. He'd barely started and already he was fighting the urge to come again.
He braced himself with one arm, the other planted on your lower back to keep you in place, and drew his hips back, just enough to let the thick ridge of his head catch at your entrance, then drove back in.
"God, Bucky," you whimpered, muffled against the pillow, your face buried in the feather-down. "So deep like this…"
"I know, sweetheart. Fuck. You're taking me so good. So good for me…"
He fell into rhythm, almost lazily at first, savoring the way you reacted under him. Your body jolting forward with each thrust. The little noises you couldn't hold back, the pillow no longer doing anything to keep you quiet. The way your legs flexed, your toes curling as he hit something deep inside you that made your whole body tremble.
He shifted, adjusting the angle, lifting your hips just a touch higher with a firm grip on your waist, and your moan cracked out of you, loud and helpless, like you were alerting anyone who would listen that that was it.
"There it is," he muttered, voice strained, lips grazing your spine as he leaned down over you. "That spot, right there, huh…?"
He pounded into you harder now, the slap of your bodies echoing in the room, raw and untethered, drowned only by the choked little cries you made with every stroke.
"F-fuck, Bucky—yes—right there—please—"
Your voice broke as he reached under you, slipping his fingers between your thighs again, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he thrust into you from behind. You were practically drooling into the pillow, hair a mess, body trembling under him, and you were so fucking wet, he could feel it dripping down your thighs, coating his cock, making everything filthy. The sheets would need to be changed first thing tomorrow.
"You gonna cum again for me?" he choked out, fucking you rougher now, chasing your sounds. "Want you to. Want you shaking around me, squeezing me tight."
Your hand shot back to grab blindly at his wrist, fingers clutching at him, your body tensing under him. He could feel you spiraling again, clenching harder, your thighs trembling. He whispered your name into your hair, and that was it.
You came again with a cry, body locking up as your pussy fluttered around him, drenching him even more. He hissed at the sensation, hips jerking erratically, chasing his own release.
"Fuck, baby, can't stop—"
He slammed in hard one last time and came with a broken groan, spilling inside you again. His hips stuttered as he fucked it into you, every twitch of your muscles squeezing more out of him, until he finally stopped, trying not to suffocate you when he collapsed against your back.
It was just the sound of your heavy breathing, followed by his, each inhale matched by an exhale, before you said, voice sounding like it came from far away, "This might just cure my insomnia…"
He let out a huff of laughter, still buried inside you, chest pressed to your back. "Glad I could help."
You wiggled your hips gently, enough to make him groan. "You wanna help again? One more time? Just to be sure."
It was impressive—that was the only thing Bucky could think. Again, you said. You wanted to go again, like he hadn't just brought you on multiple round trips to a higher plane. It was one thing for him to have the stamina, but you were surprising him with your… endurance. But if you could handle it, he'd give it to you. Whatever you asked, it was yours.
Bucky pulled back from you, delivering a light, affectionate slap to your ass when he did. Him pulling out made you sigh at the loss, like you hadn't just been stuffed full. He shifted to the side, stretching to pull the heavy curtains back. Just an inch or two, enough to let in the moonlight, enough to let the light spill onto you enough that he could finally see you, in all your soft, cockdrunk glory.
Then he sat back against the headboard. "Okay, c'mere."
You pushed to your hands and knees first. Despite your bravado, he knew fatigue was setting in. This would be the last one tonight, one to send you off to sleep, with a bang, quite literally. Then you were shuffling over until your knees dug into the mattress on either side of him. Now he could see the mess he'd made of you, cum dripping out of you, leaking down your thighs, glistening in the glow. You settled in his lap, your hands on his shoulders. "God, you're pretty like this." He said, honesty making his voice clear as a bell.
And you were, bathed in silver. He could finally see you, every curve, your smooth expanse of skin, your dazed but fond expression, your messy hair. He rubbed his hands over your thighs. "You gonna be able to handle this?"
You nodded, eager, though your eyes had taken on a little bit of a sleepy, half-lidded quality. "Okay, sweet girl." Bucky leaned forward, kissed you once, then helped you seat yourself fully on his cock.
You were moaning, mewling, your head thrown back as you sank down. It was insane, how tightly you still held him. Like it was the first time, all over again.
Bucky’s breath escaped from between clenched teeth, hands firm on your waist as you slid down his length, inch by perfect inch. "Fuck—yeah, that's it. Just like that. Good girl."
You whimpered, knees tightening on either side of his hips, your whole body trembling as you sank until your thighs were flush against his. He was buried to the hilt inside you, balls snug against your ass, your walls wrapped around him like a welcoming vice, still hot and wet and pulsing. He could feel how spent you were, your muscles fluttering around him like your body didn't know whether to beg for more or to collapse. But you wanted it. You were taking it. And fuck, you looked good doing it.
The moonlight made your skin glow, radiant in a silver outline, like you'd been lit from the inside. The arch of your body, the curve of your neck, the sheen of sweat and slick and cum gleaming between your thighs, all highlighted in a soft pewter shine. He stared up at you, completely entranced, hands roaming up your sides, tracing the softness of your stomach, the lines of your ribs, until he cupped your breasts in both hands and squeezed gently.
"You're unreal," he murmured, his thumbs brushing your nipples. "Look at you. So full of me, so perfect. Never seen anything better."
You whimpered at the praise, leaning into his touch, nails a light scratch against his shoulders. He could feel your thighs tremble again, and the way your cunt clenched down told him you were close already. After all of this, it wouldn't take you long to see stars.
"Bucky—" You breathed his name like it was the only word you remembered, eyes glazed and heavy-lidded as your hips started to rock.
"That's it, baby. Ride me, you got it." he urged, lifting his hips slightly to meet your movements. It was too much to ask you to do all the work. He'd get you there. "One more. Just one more, yeah? You can give me that."
You whined a yes, your body obeying even as exhaustion started to cling to your limbs. You moved slow at first, grinding down on him in smooth, small circles, letting him meet you halfway, again and again. The stretch was still just enough to make your eyes flutter, for your mouth drop open, moans spilling out in sweet, helpless little sounds.
You were reduced to gasping out his name and nothing else as he thrust up into you again, his cock thick and heavy, dragging against every sensitive part of you. Your hands clutched at his shoulders tighter. You pressed your forehead to his and gave a shaky little cry as he matched your cadence.
"Keep going, sweet girl, you're almost there," he murmured into your skin, pressing kisses to your jaw, your throat, your chest, an assault of the sweetest variety. "Want you to fall asleep with me still inside you, stuffed full."
You whimpered again, body shaking, your hands dragging through his hair as you bounced weakly in his lap. You weren't strong now—your muscles too tired, your mind too fogged—but he didn't care—he'd help you. He was holding you up, his arms wrapped around you, guiding you up and down on his cock, slow and steady.
Your walls started to flutter again, your voice breaking as you clung to him. "Bucky—Bucky, I can't—!"
"Yes, you can," he breathed softly, biting gently at your shoulder. "Cum for me, baby. You're so gorgeous when you break."
You came again with a long, silent cry, your jaw slack, hips seizing, walls clenching around him so tight he nearly lost it right there. Your whole body shook in his arms, and you were limp and gasping, your thighs trembling as you tried to ride it out. He didn't stop, just kept rocking into you, working you through it, peppering kisses wherever he could, telling you how good you were, how beautiful, how proud he was of you.
Then, with one more thrust, he was spilling inside you one last time, his head falling to your shoulder, a loud moan rattling from his chest.
You were shaking in his lap, both of you slick with sweat and cum, foreheads pressed together. He didn't pull out. He didn't want to. He just wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, your body slumping into him like it always belonged there.
"I've got you, baby. I've got you." Bucky kissed the top of your head. The moonlight still bathed your skin in that silver glow, but your breaths were slowing now, your muscles loosening.
He felt it, the exact moment your weight sagged fully against him, boneless and spent, your breathing even. You were asleep. Still full of him, exactly like he promised.
He shifted you both down slowly, careful not to wake you, though he thought you might sleep like the dead now, You were laying over his chest, a dead weight, but a welcome one. He pulled the blanket up over your bodies, kissing your forehead once more.
Bucky was drifting now himself, tumbling into sleep like Alice through the rabbit hole. The weight of you in his arms was comforting, better than any sleep aid he'd ever tried. Your head was tucked under his chin, your breath warm on his skin. You were totally knocked out, curled around him like a cat in its favourite sunspot.
It was a wonder how perfectly you fit there. How had he never noticed before, when he hugged you after holidays apart, when he shielded your body from blows during combat? And now you were here, fitting like a missing piece from a broken vase, smoothing out the cracks, making the ceramic one entity again.
His eyelids grew heavier by the minute, each blink having a longer pause than the last. He was still nestled deep inside you, and every time he shifted, you did too, like even unconscious, you wanted to make sure he stayed there. He would, for you.
He sank deeper into the mattress, deeper into sleep. Counting sheep wasn't necessary, not when he had you. He knew it then: he'd never be able to slumber peacefully again if you weren't nearby.
It was the last thought he had when the sand man finally took him under, captured by the same spell as you had been, snared in the grasp of dreams, arms wrapped tightly around you, like you'd always belonged there and he'd just been waiting for you to notice.
⟢ FEATURES: ashveil x gn!reader, fluff, domestic fluff, food as love language, indirect kiss (it’s not important to the fic but i just thought to add it anyway LOL), not proofread
⟢ WORD COUNT: 4,668
⟢ NOTE: this is my contribution for this month ueueueue ,,,, i haven’t done the 4.1 quest yet btw so if things don’t align with the canon, then oopsies! but i’ve seen ashveil’s in game messages (specifically the one where mr. n told the trailblazer about ashveil’s eating habits!) a lot on x so this inspired me to create this fic. enjoy!!
⟢ ALSO ON: ao3
“Can I help you?”
Ashveil stares down at the person on the other side of the door like he’s trying to decide if they’re real or just another thing his brain coughed up out of boredom.
The office is quiet in the way it only ever gets when everyone else has scattered off somewhere. The Furbos are gone, Mister N is gone, even the usual background noise feels like it’s packed up and left him behind. So when someone knocked, it echoed up until even his own agency—loud, annoying, and intrusive.
And here you are.
The first thing he notes is that you don’t look like trouble. Not that “not looking like trouble” has ever stopped trouble before, but still—you’re just standing there, holding a bag that smells—he sniffs, subtle—good. Really good.
“I—um, sorry,” you start, already sounding like you think you’ve made a mistake. “I was looking for someone. Is Nihilux—”
“No,” Ashveil cuts in, leaning his weight against the doorframe like he’s got nowhere to be. Which—really—he doesn’t. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”
You blink, as if you didn’t expect the answer to come that quickly or maybe at all.
“Oh,” you say, and then you start talking.
You ramble. The words spills out of you in uneven, apologetic waves—about Nihilux, about how she’d often forget to eat, how you’d bring her food because she’d get so caught up in her art that hours would pass and she wouldn’t notice, how you weren’t even sure if she’d still be here but you thought you’d check anyway because it’s been a while and—
Ashveil listens.
There’s something oddly nice about it. The way your words tumble over each other, the way you circle back and correct yourself, the way you keep glancing at him like you expect him to shut the door any second now.
He doesn’t. Instead, he hums once, low in his throat, just enough to let you know he’s still there.
“…and yeah,” you finish, a little breathless. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just… talk so much. You probably don’t even care.”
“Didn’t say that,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders.
Flustered, you look down at the bag in your hands.
“Well, since she’s not here…” you say, holding it out toward him, hesitant but decided all the same, “you can have this. I mean—only if you want. It was for her, but it’d be a waste otherwise. And I already bothered you, so…”
Ashveil blinks. “For me?” he echoes, like he needs to hear it again to make sure he didn’t misinterpret anything.
You nod quickly. “As an apology for talking your ears off.”
He takes it.
“Thank you,” he says, thumb hooking into the plastic as he lifts it slightly. It’s warm and fresh. His stomach reacts immediately—traitorous thing.
You smile, small and relieved. “Okay. I’ll go now,” you say, stepping back. “Sorry again.”
And just like that, you’re gone.
He doesn’t go back to his office right away. Instead, Ashveil lingers by the door, fingers resting loosely against the handle as he stares at the empty hallway like it might shift and give you back if he waits long enough. He almost expects the sound of hurried footsteps returning, like you might realize you changed your mind and went to retrieve the food you gave him.
You don’t.
He exhales through his nose and shuts the door.
When he turns back into the agency, it’s dim, cluttered, and quietly decaying in ways that have long since stopped bothering him. Bottles crowd every available surface—some empty, some not, and none of them particularly organized. Pills sit scattered where they were last left, and papers cover the walls and desk in uneven layers, their contents faded into irrelevance even to him. The computer hums steadily in the background, and the freezer in the corner hangs slightly open, leaking cold air into the room like it’s waiting for attention he won’t give.
He ignores all of it.
Instead, he clears a small space on the desk with a sweep of his arm, sending a few sheets of paper sliding to the door, and sets the bag down. There’s nowhere to sit, so he leans his weight against the edge of the desk, glancing at it for a moment longer before opening it.
The smell hits him immediately and—
Oh.
That’s… yeah. It smells good.
He reaches in, not bothering to look for utensils, and takes a bite.
The effect is immediate: he stills, jaw going slack for a second before he actually chews, like his brain needed a moment to catch up with what just happened.
It’s been a long time since food tasted like this—long enough that he’d stopped expecting it to. There’s no bitterness, no stale aftertaste, no underlying sense that he’s eating something just because it’s there. It’s warm, properly made, and unmistakably intentional in a way that most of what he consumes isn’t.
He swallows, then takes another bite.
And then another.
And another.
And another.
Somewhere along the way, the pace picks up without him noticing. His hand moves before he thinks about it, reaching back into the bag again and again, like something in him is trying to make up for something it’s been missing. And by the time he realizes it, he’s already halfway through and still reaching for more.
The door opens behind him.
Ashveil doesn’t turn around right away. He just takes another bite, slower this time, as if the interruption doesn’t quite register as urgent. He hears soft and light footsteps padding closer, and only glances over his shoulder after he swallows.
“…Mr. Ashveil,” Mister N calls. The Slumbernana Monkey stands in the hallway, small and still, holding a thin plastic bag filled with fruits that aren’t clearly bananas. His gaze shifts from Ashveil, to the food, and back to him again. “Where did you get the food?”
The detective hums softly, leaning his hip more firmly against the desk as he tilts his head back slightly to swallow. “Someone dropped by.”
“Someone did?”
“Mhm.” He taps the edge of the container with his fingers. “They were looking for the former president of Furbobo Weekly. Said they were a friend of hers and that they usually bring her food. I told them she doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Did you get their name?” Mister N asks.
Ashveil glances down at the half-finished meal. He shrugs. “I didn’t ask,” he says. “They left right after handing this over.”
His assistant’s eyes linger on him for a moment, his expression unreadable yet attentive. “And your stomach?” he asks after a beat.
Ashveil lets out a soft scoff. “It’s fine,” he says. There’s a slight pause before he adds, more honestly this time, “Better than fine actually.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” Ashveil says, glancing at Mister N with the faintest hint of dry amusement. “I haven’t died yet.”
A small silence settles between them.
After a moment, Ashveil lifts the container in a casual manner. “You want some?”
Mister N’s gaze lingers on the container, as if weighing the offer more seriously than expected. Then he gives a small, polite shake of his head.
“No,” he says. “You should finish it yourself.”
Ashveil studies him for a second, searching for any sign of hesitation or hidden interest, but finds none. Mister N simply steps further into the room and places the thin bag of fruit on top of the slightly open freezer.
“Suit yourself,” Ashveil mutters.
He shrugs it off easily and turns his attention back on the food. If anything, Mister N’s refusal seems to settle something in him—permission, maybe, to keep going without restraint.
So he does.
He digs in again. Bite after bite, steady and unthinking, until the world narrows down to taste and warmth and the simple act of eating. The room fades into the background—the clutter, the dim lighting, the hum of machinery—all of it blurring at the edges compared to what’s right in front of him.
Across the room, Mister N remains.
By the time the container is nearly empty, his pace finally begins to slow. He leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose as he looks down at what little remains.
He just stares at it briefly. Then, almost absently, he finishes the last bite. Ashveil rolls his shoulder, shifting his weight as he sets the empty container aside.
It’s not often that something lingers like this. Not just the taste—though that too—but the feeling of it. The care behind it. The fact that it hadn’t even been meant for him at all, and yet…
His gaze drifts, unfocused, toward the door.
You hadn’t stayed long. Had barely given him time to ask anything, really. No name, no details—just a bag of food and a hurried apology before disappearing down the hall like you were never there to begin with.
And still—
He wonders if he’ll get to see you again.
The thought comes easier than expected, settling somewhere in the back of his mind as he glances once more at the now-empty container and, briefly, to the side—at the bag of fruit resting untouched atop the freezer.
If he does…
Well—he’d have to say thank you. Properly, this time.
Since that day, Ashveil hasn’t seen you again. Not that he was looking—at least not in a way he’d willingly admit.
Days pass the same way they always do. Work comes and goes in irregular bursts, and the agency remains just as cluttered, just as dim, just as stagnant as ever. If anything changed, it’s subtle enough that he doesn’t bother naming it.
Still, every now and then, the memory resurfaces. A passing thought while he’s staring at nothing in particular. The faint recollection of warmth that doesn’t come from anything in the room. The taste of something that had no right being as good as it was.
It’s annoying, honestly, because it lingers.
It’s not enough to distract him—not enough to derail anything—but enough that, on occasion, he catches himself thinking that if did happen to run into you again, he’d say something. Just a quick acknowledgment, maybe. A simple thank you; tell you the food was good.
That’s all.
Which is probably why he wasn’t expecting for it to actually happen.
“Fresh air,” Mister N had said earlier. “It would be beneficial for your health.”
Ashveil had stared at him for a long while, unimpressed. Eventually, he left anyway.
Now he’s outside, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other rests loosely around the handle of his cane. His shoulders are slightly hunched, his stride unhurried, the cane more of an extension of habit than necessity as he walks with no real destination in mind.
The air feels different out here—less stale, less suffocating—but he wouldn’t go as far as to call it refreshing.
He follows the sidewalk without thinking too hard about it. People move around him in a steady flow—faces he doesn’t know, lives he doesn’t care about, all carrying on with a sense of purpose he doesn’t share.
And then, he slows.
And there you are.
Standing at the edge of the street, waiting for the stoplight to change. Grocery bags hang from both of your arms, the thin plastic stretched taut from the weight of whatever it is you bought. You shift slightly where you stand, attention fixed on the traffic passing by as you wait for your turn to cross.
Ashveil comes to stop a few steps behind you. For a moment, he just looks—like he’s confirming something.
You’re real. Not a trick of memory, not something his brain conjured out of boredom—you’re actually here, in the same space, close enough that if he wanted to, he could just walk up and—
…
He exhales softly through his nose. Right.
This is it then. The chance.
He straightens just a little, before finally closing the distance between you.
“Hello.” The word comes out casual, low, just enough to catch your attention without startling you. Your head turns at the sound of his voice.
Ashveil hadn’t really expected much—at most, a polite glance, maybe the brief confusion of someone trying to place a stranger. Instead, recognition settles in almost immediately, and he sees it happen. The slight widening of your eyes, the way your expression brightens like something just clicked into place—and then you’re looking at him properly.
It catches him off guard.
For a moment, he just stands there, his grip on the cane adjusting ever so slightly as the moment lands in a way he hadn’t prepared for. There’s a flicker of something in his chest—light and unexpected—and he can’t quite pin it down before it settles somewhere deeper.
Flattering, he realizes. Weirdly so.
He hadn’t thought he left much of an impression. Your interaction had been brief, barely anything worth remember on your end—or at least that’s what he assumed. People don’t usually hold onto things like that. And yet here you are, looking at him like you’re genuinely glad to have recognized him.
It does something to his stomach, an unfamiliar flutter that makes him shift.
He frowns faintly to himself, already dismissing it. Probably just hunger. It makes sense—you did give him food, after all. It’s only natural to associate you with that.
“Hello!” you greet him, voice warm despite the noise of the traffic. “It’s so nice to see you again.”
For the first time since he met you, Ashveil smiles. “Thank you for the food last time,” he says. “That was the first time in a while that I’ve had such good food.”
There’s a flicker of surprise across your face before it melts into something else, something almost shy, and then you laugh—light, a little flustered, like you don’t quite know what to do with the compliment. “I’m glad you enjoyed my cooking!”
Ashveil watches the way you react, the way your grip shifts on the plastic bags hanging from your arms, and his gaze briefly drops to them. The thin handles dig int your fingers slightly where the weight pulls down, and you adjust them again without really thinking about it. He frowns just a little.
He lifts a hand, pointing at the bags. “Do you need help carrying those around?”
You shake your head almost immediately. “Oh, there’s no need! I can handle just fine!”
There’s no hesitation in your voice, no sign that you’re struggling in a way you’d admit, but Ashveil doesn’t look convinced.
“I insist,” he replies. “Here—let me.”
Before you can properly protest, he steps out and reaches out, sliding the bags off your arms in one smooth motion with his free hand—the other still occupied with his cane. The shift in weight is immediate, the pressure gone before you can brace against it.
“Wait—” you start, a little startled, your hands hovering awkwardly. “You don’t really have to. I mean— I don’t want to trouble you.”
Ashveil adjusts his grip on the bags, barely sparing them a glance as he settles them comfortably at his side.
“You’re not troubling me,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “If anything, you can think of this as payment for the food last time.”
“But you don’t need to anything to return the favor,” you insist, brows knitting slightly as you look at him. “I gave it to you because I wanted to, not because I expected anything back.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m choosing to do it.”
You open your mouth like you’re about to protest again, but the words don’t quite come out this time. “…okay,” you relent, reluctant. “If you’re really sure.”
“I am.”
The stoplight changes from green to red, the steady stream of cars slowing to a halt, and once the moment it’s safe, the crowd begins to move, carrying you and Ashveil along with it as you step off the curb and into the crosswalk.
For a while, the two of you walk quietly, your pace naturally adjusting to match his, but it doesn’t take long before the silence gives way to something easier.
Ashveil glances at you. “Your friend,” he starts, casual. “Did you find out where she might’ve moved?”
There’s a small shift in your expression—something brighter. “I did, actually,” you say. “She apparently forgot to tell me about it. I’ve started bringing her food again like before, so… she’s eating properly now.”
Ashveil hums. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad you found her.”
You smile at that, and the conversation continues from there without much effort. He asks what you do, and when you tell him you’re a chef, he isn’t surprised.
“That explains a lot,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
You laugh lightly. When you turn the question back on him, he doesn’t hesitate.
“I’m a detective,” he says.
“Oh.” You blink, clearly intrigued. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
The details that follow are sparse, but it’s enough to keep the conversation going—small exchanges, bits of curiosity traded back and forth. By the time you reach your apartment building, it almost feels the walk passed quicker than it should have.
You lead him upstairs, the familiar surroundings closing in as your unlock the door and step inside, holding it open for him as he follows you in. The space is modest but lived-in.
“Just set them down in the kitchen counter, please,” you say.
Ashveil nods once and does exactly that, placing the bags down with care.
For a second, he just stands there. Then, as if remembering himself, he shifts his weight back, hand adjusting around the handle of his cane.
“I’ll take my leave now,” he starts, already turning slightly toward the door. “Thanks for—”
“Wait!”
He pauses, turning around.
You hesitate only briefly before continuing, fingers fidgeting together for a moment as you glance at him. “Would you… like to stay for lunch?”
Ashveil smiles. “You’re very kind,” he says. “But are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.”
You shake your head immediately.
“Oh, no, not at all!” you insist, words tumbling out before you can slow them down. “I really don’t mind, I promise! I actually like cooking for other people more than just for myself, and it’s not like I had anything else planned anyway, and you did help me carry all of those groceries—which you really didn’t have to, by the way—and you said you liked my food last time, so— so it’s kind of like I’m just, um, returning the favor? I think?”
He considers your words quietly, gaze lingering in a way that suggests he’s weighing more than just the offer itself.
“Alright,” he says, and your face brightens almost instantly, the shift in your expression so quick and genuine that it’s hard to miss.
“Really? Okay— great!” you say, already turning toward the kitchen with renewed energy. “You can just make yourself at home! I’ll, um— I’ll start on the food.”
Ashveil nods. He doesn’t wander far. Instead of taking a seat somewhere in the living room, he steps over the kitchen island and settles there, positioning himself just off to the side where he won’t be in your way.
From there, he watches.
You move about your kitchen, pulling ingredients from bags and cabinets and the refrigerator, setting things down with a familiarity that suggests you’ve done this a thousand times over.
You’re meticulous, he thinks. Your hands move with certainty as you wash, peel, and cut—your knife gliding through ingredients with practiced ease as if it already knows where it’s meant to go before it gets there. Nothing is rushed, but nothing is wasted either.
And you look comfortable—like this space was made specifically for you or maybe the other way around.
Ashveil admires it. The passion, the ease, the care you put into something as simple—but also not simple at all—as making a meal. It’s different from anything he’s used to, and he finds himself drawn to it in a way that doesn’t feel forced.
At one point, you lift a wooden spatula from the pan, bringing it up to your lips to taste. Your shifts almost immediately after—your eyes light up and a pleased smile forms like you’ve just confirmed something you were hoping for.
Ashveil watches that too.
And he assumes that’s all it is—that you’ll go back to cooking, or maybe take another taste for good measure. So when you repeat the motion, lifting the spatula again, he thinks nothing of it. At least not until you turn and extend it toward him.
He blinks, momentarily caught off guard, his gaze shifting from the spatula to your face, where you’re looking at him expectantly.
“…you want me to have a taste?” he asks, almost dumbly. You nod.
There’s a brief pause before he leans forward slightly, accepting the offer without further question.
The moment it hits his tongue, everything else falls away.
The flavor is immediate and overwhelming in the best possible way, rich and layered and warm in a way that feels almost surreal—like his senses weren’t prepared for something like this and are now scrambling to catch up.
It’s not just good. It’s— it’s—
Ashveil stills.
For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even fully process that fact that he’s already swallowed, because his mind is too busy trying to reconcile how something so simple can taste like this.
If there’s such a thing as paradise—he thinks distantly—then this must be it. Because wow.
“What do you think?” you ask, eyes bright with anticipation. “Do you like it?”
Like it? The thought echoes in his mind, almost incredulous. Like isn’t even enough of a word—not even close, not something that could possibly hold the weight of what he just tasted—because it feels like trying to contain something vast inside something far too small.
He loves it.
It’s almost absurd, really—how something can taste this good, how you’ve managed to take what he already thought was the best meal he’d had in years and somehow surpass it. The first time he tasted your cooking, it had already felt like a rare exception, a one-time thing he wasn’t expecting to experience again. And yet here you are, proving him wrong in the span of a single taste.
“I do,” he finally says, though even that feels like an understatement. There’s a brief pause before he exhales softly, something almost like disbelief slipping through.
“It’s…” he starts, then stops, brows furrowing slightly as if he’s searching for the right word and finding none that quite fit. “…better than the last one.”
Which, considering everything, says more than it should.
“Is that even possible…?” he mutters, more to himself than you.
You fluster almost immediately under the weight of his attention, the way his gaze lingers making you take a small step back, a shy laugh slipping past your lips.
“I’m so happy you like this one as well!” you say, a little breathless, a little embarrassed, but unmistakably pleased. “I can’t wait to finish cooking so you enjoy it in its full glory!”
Before Ashveil can respond, you’ve already turned back to the stove, slipping right back into your rhythm like nothing happened—like his reaction didn’t settle somewhere warm and lasting beneath your ribs.
His gaze drifts briefly to the pan, then back at you.
Me too, he muses.
He can’t wait to eat.
Ashveil doesn’t realize how much he’s eaten until there’s barely anything left.
The plate in front of him is nearly empty, reduced to scattered remnants that wouldn’t even qualify as a proper serving anymore. He leans back slightly, gaze lingering on what’s left.
…Right. He could finish it. Easily.
The thought comes without hesitation because there’s no doubt about it—if he wanted to, he could clear the plate in seconds. There’s no fullness weighing him down in any way, no real resistance from his body that would stop him. If anything, there’s still that lingering pull, that subtle urge to keep going, to chase the taste just a little longer. But—
His eyes flick up briefly, landing on you. You’re still eating, slower than he had been. He looks back at his plate.
He’s already had three servings. That’s… more than enough. Without much ceremony, he sets his utensil down and nudges the plate just a fraction away from himself. That’s where it ends.
He knows he wants more. He also knows he doesn’t need it. And—more importantly—he doesn’t want to look greedy.
The thought is faintly amusing, enough that the corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. It’s not something he usually concerns himself with—appearances, impressions, any of that—but here, now, sitting across from you with the aftertaste of something genuinely good still lingering on his tongue… It matters. A little.
Besides, you should eat too.
Eventually, the plates are cleared, the conversation—whatever remains of it—settles into something softer until it naturally reaches its end. Ashveil rises not long after, adjusting his grip on his cane as he prepares to leave.
“Thank you for the meal,” he says, voice low but genuine. “It was very good.”
That feels insufficient. It is insufficient. But for now, it’ll have to do.
He turns toward the door, already expecting that to be the end of it—the natural conclusion to something that, realistically, shouldn’t have extended this far to begin with.
“Wait—”
He pauses mid-step. There’s a brief beat before he turns back, brows lifting ever so slightly in quiet question.
You hesitate, just for a second, before speaking. “Do you want to take some food home?”
Ashveil blinks. “…home?” he echoes, like the concept needs a moment to settle.
You nod, already moving toward the kitchen. “There’s still plenty left,” you explain, voice a little quicker now, like you’re trying to justify it before he can refuse. “And you said you liked it, so I figured—”
“You don’t have to do that.”
You pause, glancing back at him.
“I’ve already had more than enough,” he continues. “Three servings is—” he huffs lightly, almost amused under his breath, “—generous, to say the least.”
“That’s fine,” you insist. “I made a lot on purpose.”
There’s no hesitation in your expression, no polite obligation dressed up as generosity—just something straightforward and sincere, offered without expectation. It makes refusing feel unnecessarily difficult
“…still,” he starts, though there’s less conviction behind it now, “I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not.”
You’ve already started packing the food before he can argue further, moving with that same easy decisiveness he’d noticed earlier, like this outcome had been decided the moment the thought crossed your mind.
“…alright,” he relents.
By the time you return, handing him the neatly packed container, he takes it without further protest, his fingers brushing briefly against yours in the exchange.
“…thank you,” he says.
You walk him to the door after that.
He adjusts the container in his hand, already calculating how long it’ll last, how best to portion it, how Mister N will probably—
“You can come back whenever, you know.”
Ashveil pauses.
“I don’t mind cooking for you.”
He stills, before turning his head slightly, just enough to look at you.
You don’t seem to think much of it. To you, it’s probably just a polite offer—something said out of kindness, out of habit, out of the same easy generosity that led you to hand him food in the first place. But to him, it doesn’t land lightly.
Come back whenever.
Ashveil’s grip tightens around the container in his hand. He could brush it off. Treat it like nothing. Let it pass the same way most things do. That would be the easier option.
end note: ashveil when he tasted mc’s cooking for the first time:
was aiming for this to be much longer but i kind of ??? lost my motivation writing halfway so ummmm yeah. sorry about that (?) !!!! my brain is on thesis mode and not fanfic writing mode rn unfortch 😔💔
If you’re up to some baby blurbs, maybe steve recently got a job promotion so he’s been working a little longer and it’s gotten you both a little tense from lack of talking and seeing each other, and when he’s working late one night he sees you calling you and when he picks up he hears you mumble “okay bub he answered, what do you want to say?” to a baby noah and steve hears noah mumble out a “miss you steve” in a little baby voice and it’s just like cute
—Steve’s misses his girlfriend and her sweetheart son. mom!reader, 1.3k
Steve’s pretty sure the radio station is gonna end his relationship. It’s day five (five!) of not seeing you, which is sick considering he doesn’t think there was a day he hadn’t seen you for a solid fortnight. It had unironically been the best two weeks of his life, and now this garbage.
It’s not like Robin needed him to start. Rockin’ Robin was fun, but she wasn’t a celebrity, and Steve wasn’t sure anyone was listening, hence the shitty chicken sound effects and his occasional on-air disapprovals. Then people started listening every day. They wanted Robin on the weekdays too. The Squawk bosses asked if she might consider hosting Saturday nights. It’s a really big deal, and suddenly Steve is more important than he pictured, and Noah is never going to forgive him.
Your barely-toddler is such a sweetheart. Steve blames it all on you. You can be dry, sarcastic and silly, but you’re also sweet. You’re kind. You tell Steve this whole mom thing is a flying blind situation you weren’t prepared for, but you’ve done a great job. That being said, not even the kindest little boy on earth should forgive Steve for cancelling their ‘family’ dinner date and postponing a trip to the kiddie rollerzone. Steve deserves to die.
He’s thinking so morosely, sitting outside the radio booth waiting for Robin to give her signal when the office phone starts to ring. He knows he shouldn’t leave —Steve’s better on the computer than Robin is despite her street smarts (and world smarts, and book smarts), and she might need help fixing something while they’re on air, but he has a funny feeling about it.
He picks up the phone. “Hi, this is The Squawk 94.5FM radio office, Steve speaking.”
“Bub, he answered!” you say, your voice muffled and hurried, “Remember, what did you want to say?” A noise. “Tell the phone.”
Steve starts to smile on automatic.
“Miss you, Steve,” Noah mumbles. “Um. For dinner– for dinner, you come. Mommy… uh.”
Your voice sounds in the background. Steve’s never heard Noah say so many words at once —he’s heartbroken.
“Miss you,” Noah says again. A pause. “Hello?”
“Buddy, I miss you so much,” Steve says. “Can you hear me okay? I miss you too. Noah?”
“Steve!”
“Noah, angel, hi,” he says, pushing the phone so hard against his ear he’s sure there’ll be indentations on his skull. “How are ya?”
“I miss you.”
“I know. I miss you too.”
He hadn’t been expecting his body to go through such a visceral reaction. Like, he really misses Noah, as much as he misses you, but he hadn’t known he was missed. He honestly figured you were pissed with him, but then the phone is creaking quietly and you’re saying, “Hi, Stevie. I’m real glad we caught you.”
“Hey,” he says, stopping short. He’s thinking, are we good?
You spare him his agony. “Hey. How are you doing, handsome?”
Steve tries not to blush like a fool, but he likes this side of you. Likes being taken care of by you. You always act like it’s something you were made to be doing. “I’m good, ‘sides missing you like crazy. Both of you.”
“Well, we saved you a plate. Noah insisted.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “You don’t have to come if you’re too busy. I know you’re busy.”
Steve hears a thread of insecurity in your voice he decides you should never have to harness and rides out the call. He promises Noah he’ll see him soon, lets you down gently on that saved plate, and says goodbye. Then he swoops back into the radio office to give Robin an apology she promptly throws back at him. It’s remarkably fast, and pen-shaped, hitting him like an arrow in the guts. “Jerk!” she says, pulling her headphones off with a finger over the mic’s button. “You can’t leave!”
“I’m trying to, like, get married?” he explains, frustrated. “I can’t not go!”
“Uh, yes you can! You’re leaving me totally at my own mercy!”
“But she misses me?”
Robin misses him too, narrowly, tossing the stuffed Squawk parrot towards his head at speed. Steve nearly loses his life, but finds himself intact enough to drive straight to your little house in the tight Hawkins suburb, too late for dinner and sorrier than he’s ever been.
He rushes from the Beemer to the front door and knocks out of politeness. If you’d seen each other recently, he might let himself in, but Steve’s not sure he’s fully welcome.
You’re confused as you open the door, then sheepish. “Steve?”
“Hey, am I too late?”
“You said you weren’t coming.”
“That was a fakeout. Surprise?”
He nearly passed out from delight when you step out of the house and onto the cold porch stone, arms going over his shoulders with an enthusiasm he’d bottle if he could. Shit, he thinks, burying his nose in your neck. Someone actually missed me.
“I threw your dinner in the garbage,” you mumble into his shoulder.
“Thought you saved me a plate?”
“Well, it made me mad when you said you couldn’t come, so. You’re lucky I didn’t cry.”
He strokes your shoulder lovingly. “Yeah, please don’t. I don’t wanna see that.”
You pull away to squint at him, but he’s a hundred percent serious, which you seem to like. “I won’t. Now come in and be nice to my boy, okay? He missed you so bad. I don’t think he even knows how badly he wants to see you, and all I’ve heard for days is ‘I miss Steve, when can we go Steve’s? Steve’s coming home?’’ Your imitation of your son is weirdly accurate.
“Don’t tell me that shit,” he pleads.
“Better get used to it, H.”
“I will.”
Noah’s sitting on the couch with a colouring book in his lap, a tray of ragtag crayons spilling on its side as he colours on, unaware, his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration. He looks up when he hears you and Steve come in, and he lights up like a Christmas tree, crayons upended and skittering across the wooden floor as he calls, “Ste!”
“Noah!” Steve greets, holding out his hands. Noah does the clumsiest manoeuvre possible, climbing up onto the back of the couch in his excitement and nearly falling to his peril. Luckily, Steve is there to grab him up.
“Gosh!” Noah says, pressing his face fully into the curve under Steve’s chin. “Steve!”
“Hi, bud. You said I could come over, right?”
“Gosh!” Noah says again, giggling as he rubs his cheek into Steve’s stubble.
Steve doesn’t need both arms to hold Noah, he’s so small, so he uses the other one as a brace and leans against the couch, tired, eyes slipping shut as Noah laughs his delight. It’s like a sudden balm for an ache Steve didn’t even know he had. Without looking, he beckons you into the arm he has left free, and you’re kind enough to walk into a hug.
“Ste…” Noah mumbles happily.
Jesus, I love him, Steve thinks, forgetting anything he isn’t touching. It’s a baleful bliss. He’ll never be happy without you guys again. “Hi. Good day?”
Noah garbles a bunch of baby nonsense and Steve lets out a sigh.
“That’s good,” he says.
You laugh right in his ear. “Great,” you say.
“Perfect,” Steve says, squeezing your waist until you snort a laugh, tickled.
He’s gotta quit his job at The Squawk. Urgently. Or get a better contract with better hours, ‘cos there’s no way in hell he’s willing to go five days without you both ever again. Steve presses a kiss into your temple.
Back at the radio station, Robin wrinkles her nose, sure that somewhere, somehow, her soulmate is making a fool of himself.
Chad turns his head to look at Robert, only to be met with his gaze locked in far out into the distance. His face is lightly flushed. Definitely not sober. A strange chill washes over Chad, Robert has always been good—maybe too good—at eye contact. But tonight, the firm stare Chad is so used to seeing is gone. Chad stays silent.
“I was around 16 or 15 when I inherited my dad’s suit. Opened it up for the first time since dad’s funeral, I can still remember so clearly. That smell-, it was so, so metallic—well I mean, obviously. But I couldn’t stop wondering, what if—did the suit smell like that cause of-”
Robert cuts himself off. He swallows almost forcefully, as if pushing down the metallic taste of the memory down his throat.
Chad shivers at the implication.
“I counted 17 days before It went away.”
Robert leans over the cold railing, knuckles turning even paler as his grip tightens. Chad shuffles closer, Robert doesn’t realize the sigh he lets from the warmth.
“That night my suit got destroyed, I sat in that cockpit, waiting. I think- I think I felt giddy. Or relieved, whichever makes more sense. All I could think about was that goddamn family tradition. That was the one thing I was going to get right. I was so excited too.”
Chad opens his mouth to say something, but Robert interrupts him before he gets the chance to.
“Yeah, yeah, fucked up, I know.”
Robert chuckles humorlessly. Something twists inside Chad’s chest as Robert’s already hunched posture worsens, He’s never looked smaller than now.
“You can should’ve seen how disappointed I was when I woke up.”
Robert turns, now fully facing Chad. Brown eyes finally meeting amber, they’re slightly glassy. Maybe the city lights were just remarkably bright that night. Chad nearly disregards it as such just as he catches a lip quiver, a little detail he definitely would’ve missed if he didn’t pay as much attention to Robert’s mouth than the amount a normal person probably should.
“I don’t think I’ve told anyone this but-”
He pauses and diverts his gaze, mindlessly focusing on the next uninteresting thing he can spot on the ground. He’s hesitating to spit out what he’s about to confess, although he’s practically stripped himself down naked and spilled his guts out in front of chad by now so fuck it. Might as well.
“The day after I got out my coma I signed a DNR.”
“What?”
Chad finally speaks up. The confession snaps him out from his uncharacteristic silence.
“Yes I know it’s stupid, yes I’m a cowardly bi-”
Robert lifts his gaze to meet Chad’s. Bright orange glow cutting through the dim night sky. They pierce straight into Robert, agitated and… frightened?
“Oh shit, um.”
He stammers.
“Fuck. Guess I’m drunker than I thought. Sorry for putting all of this on you, Chad. you didn’t need to know any of this. Real unprofessional of me.”
Chad steps forward, shrinking the distance between them. Robert shudders as warm hands firmly grip both side his face. Chad’s confidence falters for a moment at the sight of those doe eyes widening. What the actual fuck am I doing?
“Listen, Mecha di- Robert. Look at me. We need you here. Fucking ugh—I need you. The fuck are any of us gonna do without your flat ass?”
The gap is fully gone now. Before he can argue, Robert is pulled into a tight, comfortable embrace. It’s unreasonably pleasant. Like he’s wrapped into a very warm weighted blanket. Robert can’t help but melt into it and sigh.
“Bitch. You better not fucking leave us. Not with that old fart to be our only dispatcher.”
He’s met with stunned silence for a moment until Chad feels faint vibrations resonate through his chest as Robert softly giggles.
“Don’t think I’m only talking about you as a fucking dispatcher. You are so infuriatingly fucking good It pisses me off. You’re telling me you threw your scrawny ass into a bar fight to help us while you had a fucking DNR hanging over your head? Fuck, I almost killed you that night.”
The taller man leans down to lightly bury his face in a head of windswept auburn hair.
“It’s alright Flambae, really. Just water under the bridge-”
“Oh fuck off Bob bob, cut it out with that shit. It’s getting real fucking old.”
Chad tightens the hug a bit. Robert is still processing what’s happening right now, but the warmth in combination with the scent of smoke and firewood emanating from Chad is making it real hard to think. He’s pretty sure he can faintly smell some spices that he probably doesn’t know the names of.
“You- you need to tell us about this shit, yeah? Let me—let us help you for once.”
The pair stay still together in each other’s arms for the next several minutes, Chad’s thumb lightly tracing circles on Robert’s back.
“Don’t let it get to your head bitch.”
…
“We’re revoking that fucking DNR first thing in the morning, okay?”
𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 – 𝐦. 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 (𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | what a fucking delight it was to write this, as someone who has a big fat crush on this ^ man right here and as someone who is also a lifelong steeler fan. this one goes out to @ovaryacted (who pretty much beta-ed the first handful of pages for this), @heavenbarnes (who maybe might have been bitten by the robby bug?? no pressure to read babes), @jackabbotsfakeleg (who is the first fellow steelers fan i found on tumblr; this team is my doom but i love them!), plus all the robby fiends
warning(s) include language, inappropriate relations (?),age gap (reader is 25ish/2nd year med student, while robby is pushing 50), he fell first and harder, sexual tension, reader is a steelers fan and from pittsburgh, (american) football talk, baltimore ravens trashing, injury (mentioned), smut, penetrative sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), handjob, nipple play, bodily fluids, big dick/down bad!robby, special appearance at the end; she's thick, guys... sitting at 5.2k words!
Medical school lecture halls are just as chilly as Robby remembers.
The air feels a little less clean, a little more human, but still. There’s a nip to the air that takes him back to his Monday-Wednesday-Friday EMED 851 lecture. Part of him wishes he had worn one of his hoodies, though that would look a little weird with the button-up and slacks he has on. The light blue–cornflower, the tag reads–top and black bottoms feel odd, tugging at Robby’s skin in a way that his scrubs and cargos don’t.
There’s a wide array of students scattered across the seats of the room. To his surprise, most of them listen to him ramble about airways with attentive eyes and scribble down whatever they can catch. Good. That means that they’re maybe halfway serious about this shit, which earns them 2% of the qualification needed to work in emergency medicine.
Other than a lull of awkward silence at the very beginning plus a few verbal stumbles in the form of curses that cause the class to giggle while he apologizes and gathers himself, the doctor is pretty solid.
There’s only one other time he flounders, if he should even call it that. It was more of an unforeseen pause. Nothing more than the tick of a few seconds when his eyes lock with yours for the first time today.
You’re already staring in his direction, waiting for him to finish the word that collapses surprisingly easy on his lips at the sight of you. He blinks, a strange flush ricocheting across the skin of his face when you blink at him, even throwing in a little grin just as he snatches back his composure with a distracted um.
The shirt you’re wearing is nice. Simple and fitted. Cap sleeves stop right below your shoulder and reveal intricate lines of ink that swirl back under the fabric in loops that make Robby wonder more than he should. You’re wearing shorts, too. Huh. He’d have half a mind to question how your exposed legs bear the nippy air of the hall, but it doesn’t matter. You make it work–and well–the material cutting off just a little higher than he initially realized.
Zipping his eyes back up to yours, he warms at how you’re picking at your bottom lip; your other hand now using your pen to write down something you remember him saying a few moments earlier.
Covering his gulp with a fast wipe at his beard, Robby somehow finds a way to push out the words that have been stuck in his throat for what feels like longer than the brisk five seconds that have passed since he spoke last.
His head tilts, barely, and his lips twitch into a small smile, dragging his stare from you to the carpet beneath him so he can speak again. Robby plays off the mistake as him thinking–about the question itself and not how you are unmistakably the prettiest thing in this room.
Eleven. That’s how many times he glances at you between then and the end of his lecture. The first three times were a genuine accident, and boy, did they feel like one. Goosebumps flutter across the back of his neck, which he’s rubbed enough times that some of the students probably think there’s something wrong with the tendons there. Robby almost agrees, with the way they keep allowing him to swivel and study you.
The more it happens, the oops of peeking at you, the longer it takes for him to look away. By the end of his knowledge-packed but run-on sentence answers, Robby’s stare cements to you. You’re nodding, legs crossed, and unintentionally drawing patterns with the pad of your finger across the skin of your thigh. For some reason, he’s fairly confident in the fact that you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it.
“Any more questions for Dr. Robinavitch?”
Dr. Robinavitch. Professors, man.
Robby doesn’t try to stop himself from glimpsing in your vicinity. Not right at you but close, so his peripheral can catch any possible movement of your hand raising. His eyes burn with an unsettling eagerness while he waits for something to happen. What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with you for wearing shorts that fit that well even while you’re sitting?
Your hand stays where it is, arm propped against the side of your seat, fingers fiddling with the pen he can tell you’re trying not to click. The small pang of disappointment that rises inside him squashes away in seconds, and he prays that his ears don’t start to hue red after you hold his stare the longest you have for the entire class.
Looking at him through your lashes, you wait. And wait… and wait. A smirk barely ghosts across your mouth, and Robby rips away his stare. Throat bobbing while he swallows, blinking faster than he means to, he looks to the professor.
“Think they’re ready to kick me out, Dr. Hummel. I’ve probably rambled for long enough, yeah?” Robby shrugs. A sheepish smile warms his face when the room echoes with a healthy applause, and Robby almost recoils at the sound. There’s no way Hummel didn’t tell them to do that. And all he can do is stand and take it, hands tucked into his pockets, his thanks an awkward nod and embarrassed grimace-flavored grin.
Robby tries not to blush when he spots you clapping along with everyone else. He tucks his chin, feeling a little silly with how satisfying it feels to know he’s spoken well enough for you to show some appreciation. Or maybe you’re just doing it to be nice. Either way, you’re making the attending pinker than usual.
Class wraps in a daze.
Dr. Hummel leaves Robby lingering to the side, a wave of shuffling backpacks and zippers echoes throughout the hall. There’s a reminder announcement about a research paper due two weeks from today… or is it a presentation? Robby doesn’t listen hard enough to verify.
A sprinkle of pupils, glowing with a luster that only presents itself after their final class of the week concludes, come up to formally greet Robby. All with names he’ll try to remember but won’t. Bright-eyed and buzzing more than he thinks one would be after an hour and a half long lecture on airways, but hey. He appreciates the eagerness, even if it’s a little much.
Doing his best to be polite, Robby tries to seem as if he’s actively listening–nodding, humming, and throwing in a smile for good measure. He catches a few of the words being smattered his way, but he’s already forgotten them by the time the students leave him be. A sigh of relief sinks out of his nose when he turns his head to find you still in the room, only just now standing from your chair and sliding a thick notebook into your bag.
A line of spit gets caught in his throat when he sees you adjust your shorts, subtly tugging at where they’ve ridden up in between the warmth of your thighs–warmth of your thighs? Fuck, Michael, get it the hell together.
Robby coughs loudly into the crook of his elbow before pivoting to find you gliding his way. His heart jumps as you head right for the man, and his mind races to search for something to say. Hi? Nice to meet you? I really like those shorts?
His mouth opens to speak, though he quickly settles it into a kind grin as you scoot past him with a smile of your own.
“S’cuse me,” you pronounce gently, and Robby’s throat bobs.
“Of course,” he nods, voice huskier than he means for it to be as he takes a polite step to the side. You gift him one last breath-snatching smile before floating out of the hall without a second look. A long hum seeps from Robby, his fingers reaching to scrape at the nape of his neck.
Fuck, he needs to change out of these clothes… and maybe receive a beating of some kind for how long he let himself gawk at your ass just now.
Unfortunately, Robby doesn’t find the courage to ask anyone to smack him across the face the entire walk to his car. He does, however, have enough sense to unfasten the button that’s been digging into his skin since he threw on the shirt.
The man could cry happy tears when he pulls into the Panera Bread parking lot to find it close to empty. Surprising, considering that it’s the middle of the day on the UPMC campus but hey. He’s not complaining. The less college students in line between him and his overpriced iced green tea and tomato basil BLT, the better. In fact, he might splurge and go for a brownie, too… maybe that’ll clear the fog you’ve spelled him under.
His mind wandered for the whole ride over–swirling with blurry images of you and tingling with unanswered questions. Robby even stumbles through his order a few times, though the embarrassment over that is briskly wiped away when he turns his head to find you sitting at one of the tables.
Of course, you’re here.
Of course, you’re here and snacking on chocolate croissants and sipping coffee while reading off the screen of your laptop with the most delightful expression of intrigue he’s ever seen.
You aren’t real… you can’t be because only dreams are this coincidental.
Teeth grinding, Robby scans the area around you. Empty, other than an older man stirring his tomato soup and a mother and daughter sharing a frosted cookie with a pair of soft smiles. Robby’s eyes crinkle at the sight, shifting in his place at the counter in deep thought.
He guesses it’ll be a short wait for his food, as it always is. Then all he needs to do is fill his cup at the machine, wait for his number to be called and he’s home free… no matter how tempting it would be to tip over your way and say a quick hello. There’s a voice in the back of his head chanting for him to swallow the nerves and fucking do it, yet he still isn’t sure what’d he start with. What do you say to a young woman you’re certain will haunt you for the rest of you life–
“Dr. Robinavitch? Hi…”
It takes Robby a second to look at you. Even without, an odd feeling tightens Robby’s chest. He finally turns, swallowing through a tickle in his throat, just barely blinking away how his eyes try to water as you approach him carefully. Dear lord, someone please help him–your voice. All you’ve said is his name and a simple, normal hello yet he’s already turning into a puddle of nothing.
“Oh, please. Everyone just calls me Robby,” he holds his hand out for you to shake but regrets it immediately at the spark that ignites when your palms touch. Clenching his teeth at the feeling, Robby masks his tight jaw with a warm smile. “You were just in my lecture, if I remember correctly.”
Robby feels dumb when he tags on the question at the end. There’s no doubt surrounding whether he’s remembering correctly, as he’ll never forget you or those shorts even if he were to try.
“Yeah, for Hummel’s class. I’m actually glad I ran into you again. I really enjoyed you coming to talk to us today. And I’m sorry, I feel like I should’ve said something before leaving class but I couldn’t think of any cool questions to ask you afterwards but, uh, yeah. Having an actual attending from an ED come to talk to you about using a mac versus a miller is much more pleasing than reading about it in some textbook at three in the morning.”
A small chuckle lightens his face. “That’s very kind of you, ‘m glad you liked it. Is ED your main interest?”
“One-hundred percent. I mean, I won’t even start my rotations for another year but that’s definitely the end goal.”
“Well, good. That’s good, um… sorry, one sec,” Robby’s cut off by the calling of his number, but raises a gentle hand with a pleasant smile in hopes that you’ll stay put. He mumbles a small thank you to the worker that slides him his bag, turning back to you with a lick to his lips. “Like I was saying, that’s great. We could always use more people like you in the ED.”
Wait. Shit. People like you? The man hasn’t even known you for that long and has talked to you for even less. He finds himself lucky when you decide not to think about the statement as hard as he does, accepting the compliment with a small grin.
“I appreciate that, Robby. Hopefully at least one of my clinicals ends up being in The Pitt. I can’t even imagine all the things I’d learn as your MS considering that all it took was a class of you speaking for me to fill up two pages of notes.”
Is he as red as he feels?
“Ah, hearing that, I’m sure you’d fit right in wherever you end up. Secretly kinda hoping it is in my ED at some point, though.” And not just because you’re a knockout and a half. “Just over the short time I’ve talked to you, you seem stellar. Good listener, pretty, cares about the details.”
Wait. Shit, that second one is a slip and much too obvious to just glaze over like his last one. You’re blinking at him in a way that itches his insides, and he exhales a rough breath. Shaking his head, he dips his nose in an embarrassed hang of his head.
“‘M sorry,” he starts with a breathy laugh because it’s all he can do. “That wasn’t appropriate of me, I’m sorry. Your good looks have nothin’ to do with your abilities.”
Suddenly, it feels like karma is having its way with Robby. Was there a door he should’ve held but didn’t? A thank you he forgot to tell someone? There must be because he’s usually quicker to control himself around someone that’s piqued his interests as much as you have.
When he tilts his gaze back to you, there’s something in your face hinting at something he doesn’t let himself attempt to decrypt.
“Jeez, I’m really eatin’ it today, aren’t I,” Robby squirms with a sheepish smile. “And that feels like my cue to leave you to you’re studying before I am forced to have you gag me.”
“Oh, I’m not studying. I mean, I should be but your answer to that one question Jeremiah asked has me knee deep in an article about the history of clinical airway management. Also, I didn’t take you to be into that kinda stuff, but I’ll make sure to be gentle if you really want me to.”
Brow line raising in a flutter of rousing excitement, Robby allows himself a full grin. You match the toothy-smile, leaning with something that looks like anticipation with another wring of your hands.
What a well-dressed, witty, gorgeous geek you’re proving yourself to be.
“I, uh, I actually know of a few other studies you might be interested in,” Robby suggests, a wave of poise centering his thoughts and reprioritizing his intentions. “...if you've got the time?”
The next sixty-ish minutes pass devastatingly fast. A few more people have populated the Panera dining room but Robby’s too high on your presence and one and a half cups of iced green tea to care.
“You’re making this up, you gotta be.”
“I swear, Robby,” you hold up your hands. “I will admit, losing to the ratbirds–at home, in OT–does tend to cloud one's judegment, but enough to think they have the upperhand against a metal lightpost? All Dad saw was red and I ended up waiting in the ER with him while he waited to get his fingers re-set. We we’re at chairs for a while and then brought to the back, and the thing I remember the most was this hum hanging in the air the entire time. Even though I was only around five, that shit was… addicting. Not as electric as a Steelers home game but pretty close. The nurse and my dad kept having to tell me to stay behind the curtain but, of course, I didn’t. ‘Cause, you know. Children. But watching all those people come in broken just to have people like you give their everything to try and fix them… that’s when I knew I wanted to be an emergency physician.”
The corner of Robby’s lips quirks up as he watches you. You stare back at him with held breath before ripping your eyes away to the half-eaten piece of brownie he’d offered you. A little dry but completely worth it with how your hands brushed when he passed you the sweet.
“So basically what I’m hearing is that the Baltimore Ravens are the reason you were able to find your purpose in life so early on…” Robby eases out, rubbing a hand across his beard in anticipation of the response he’s fishing for. He gets it and more when your face wrinkles into a cute grimace and you flinch with a shudder.
“You put it that way, and it almost makes me think I should drop outta med school to move to Canada.”
Your words pull a deep chuckle from Robby, who’s feeling warm at how the two of you are leaning and talking. Bodies relaxed and bellies content with sandwiches and baked goods, the dance you’re both performing is becoming more difficult by the second.
He’s starting to feel less and less sorry about how the side of his shoe keeps knocking against yours, even doing it once on purpose as a thanks for when you notify him of a loose crumb in his beard. The tips of your fingers keep creeping towards each other but Robby blames that on the smaller scale of the table he’s joined you at. You got up, once, for napkins and the man had to take in a deep breath at the swing of your hips. He’s not sure he looked away fast enough either. At least, that’s what the smirk that dashes across your face reveals to him.
“So,” Robby starts after a comfortable lull in the conversation, pausing to clear his throat. “Are all of Hummel’s students this awesome or did I just get lucky runnin’ into you again?”
Flattery. The age old tactic and Robby makes sure not to lay it on too thick. In all of his bumbling and slip ups from earlier, he’s maganed to regain some of his bravado. It returns to him slowly but surely as he starts to unravel you. Not by much but enough to finger out what makes you tick; which jokes to draw out, what subjects (medical or otherwise) gets you going, which throw of his timbre embellishes the shine in your eyes.
“Mm, most of them are pretty cool. Some are also the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet but what’s any place without a few of those?”
“Heaven,” Robby answers with an unbothered shrug of his shoulders and you bob your head in agreement.
“Preach,” you grin, popping a corner of brownie into your mouth. “They were on their best behavior today with you being there but trust me, they’re incapable of going twenty four hours without creaming their pants over making other people feel like shit.”
Wow. “Oh, yeah?”
“For sure. Dr. Hummel should have you come around more often, though. Maybe next time you can snap a few egos in check.”
You’re into whatever this is, Robby can feel it. It’s in your eyes, that don’t notice their lingering on the hair that’s peeking out at the top of his exposed chest. In your voice, that’s lilting in a manner that’s ringing through the thick fog he entered the building with to guide his ship closer to your sweet taunt.
Robby’s quicker than the hesitation his words want to bite back on, tilting his head to give you a quick once over before flicking them away with a grin that’s smugger than he means for it to be.
“Oh, that’s definitely something I’d consider as long as you're still sittin’ front row.”
Your lips curl upwards and Robby is buzzing at the win. It makes his chest puff a little, too, and his head starts to feel a little funny when he catches you staring again.
“Hey, uh,” just do it, Rob, “why don’t we exhancge numbers? You know, in case you ever feel like conversing more over slightly-stale bread and the best passion papaya iced green tea on this side of the Mississippi.”
Taking a second to think, you sniff.
“While I have had better passion… papaya iced green tea–” you recite the words with a subtle unsureness, laughing a little at the nod Robby encourages you with.
“You got it,” he reassures you, voice rasping with obvious amusement before letting you continue.
“–I’d love to keep picking your brain. I will warn you, though, since the age of eleven, I have somehow managed to, uh, shift every conversation I’ve been a part of to the topic of the Pittsburgh Steelers at some point, so if that’s not your thing, then…”
Your words melt into a stronger laugh than you expected to leave you, and it wraps arround the high-pitched giggle trickles out of Robby.
“Oh, I’ve dealt with worse, sweetheart,” he winks, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and opening it before sliding it your way. He holds his breath the entire time you add your contact, eyes flicking to his screen where he sees your name along with a simple :). He huffs at the sight, plucking the device back into his grip. “Much, much worse.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
You add a smirk and tip of your head with the question. Robby’s soaring.
The following hours prove to be just as indelible as your shorts, and it’s all because of you.
You’re more than special, and Robby sits undisputed in that fact as he commences the third round of the night. The slide into you is just as good as the first and the second. You’re on top this time, your hands clutching his face to rub at the thick of his beard while you sink down onto him.
Robby holds your waist, hands light but still there as he splits you open. A noise breaks from his throat when you sit fully, and he rests his forehead against yours. While you take a second to adjust, Robby peeks down past the pudge of his belly to where the two of you meet, groaning at the sight of you stretcehed around him.
Eyes flicking to yours, Robby tightens the arm he has around your waist to tug you until your breasts are flush against his chest. You cling to him at the shift, hips barely lifting before collapsing back down onto him with a shuggering grunt.
Your body keeps the same languid speed, Robby helping you just barely with a hand splayed just above your ass.
“Fuck, you’re so deep,” you pant out against his mouth. “And fucking huge. I should’ve known considering how you walked into class earlier, though.”
“Shit,” Robby moans. “Really?”
You bob your head, hand reaching to grab at Robby’s shoulder. The muscle holds strong under your squeeze, you answer him during another rock of your hips.
“Mmhm. You just… oh, fuck, you walk like it’s big. Which it totally is, by the way.”
“So you’ve said,” Robby ribs, adding a few bucks of his hips that yanks a squeak out of you. “Actually screamed it a few times, too.”
“Well, can you blame me–”
You’re interrupted by Robby, who surprises you with a steep roll to the side. Now hanging over you, Robby pants through a groan. He’s gonna feel that tomorrow but the chance of a strained back isn’t gonna stop him from trying to get you to keep making those sounds that have him seeing stars.
He takes the miracle of his cock remaining inside you even after the change of position, hitching both of your legs back as far as they’ll let him and jerking you with a thrust. It’s deep and driving, intentional enough to make you feel every inch and vein of his swollen member. You wail out right next to his ear and he smiles against the tattoo on your shoulder in victory. He still doesn’t know what it is. You won’t tell him and he got tired of guessing.
“No, I can’t,” Robby throws back, hips falling into a pattern of sharp thrusts. You feel bottomless and it makes his stomach clench. “Eyes on me, baby. Right here, okay?
Robby meets your stare as soon as you crack open your lids. He tightens the snap of his hips, allowing himself to indulge. Call it a habit but he likes to look… observe the way your mouth parts as you puff out air every time your clit hits his pelvis… how your brows pinch together and eyes water as he pounds into the spot it only took him a total of seven thrusts to find… how your hands reach for his neck, squeezing when you hear him flutter your name out on a gruttal moan.
You especially like him loud, he’s found. Not bold enough to ask for it, Robby had the pleasure of figuring the phenomenon out on his own. It didn’t take long, thankfully, as he got embarrassingly close to blowing a vocal cord when you tongued at his nipples and skillfully jerked out his cum onto your stomach. Afterwards, his taste buds found your slit a sopping mess of slick and cream, which he slurped away at until you tugged him up by the hair and kissed your juices from his mouth.
The first time he’d fucked you, it was slow. A loitering exploration of every indent and ripple inside your hole, every mole and freckle of your skin. You’d already come once against his tongue after he’d convinced you that no, you were not going to die if he didn’t kiss you right then.
(‘What about her, hm?’ He’d asked with a finger ghosting across your clit. ‘Nothin’ wrong with being a little greedy but I gotta show her some love, too, alright? She’s much too pretty to ignore, even with you givin’ me those eyes…’)
However, it’s the first time you peak around him that the sky parts. Heaven calls, singing songs of eternal delights but Robby declines the offer. His soul finds the symphony of you falling apart much more satisfying. Ever more gratifying, as it’s his name flooding from your lips. Not God’s or some boy in one of your classes in those cold ass rooms–his.
The second time you’d come around him hits both of you like a train. He’d gotten you trapped on your side, leg hanging in the air helplessly. Neck stretching, you’d bit at his tongue a few times when he’d upped the speed of his hips, warning Robby that you were gonna come again. After you added on a whine that you did not want him pulling out when he came, he flipped you into a rough prone bone, pounding you until your pussy creamed with his cum and your ears heard nothing but dial tones.
This time–the third time–Robby lets himself get lost in it. Uses his mind and body for the sole purpose of calling forth and tying your euphoria to his. A perfect ache is throbbing a pulse through his cock, and the man can only plunge himself in and out of you with mindless, hoarse grunts.
Robby executes it flawlessly, the seaming of the end of your climax grazing just over the start of his. You cry out unintelligible words, grabbing at him like he’ll disappear if you don’t and trembling as he works to milk out your release for as long as he can.
“That’s my–fuck… yeah, that’s my sweet girl,” Robby pants, still rocking you as his thrusts melt into a sloppy chasing of his own end. His sweet girl. That’s exactly what you are now, regardless of what happens after this. “Gonna fill you up again. Make you nice and full’a me.”
The only warning Robby’s able to give is a long, choked swear before he starts to spasm, sack twitching as he surges out rope after rope of a plentiful load. He uses a few more thrusts to fuck the cum deeper before joining your lips in a tired kiss. When you run your hands up his back to rake your nails through his hair, Robby groans.
Hips still, his softening cock remains a welcome intrusion. His eyes flicker shut at your appreciated touch across his scalp, the man melts completely into you, hoping it takes a long while for your breaths to return.
Robby’s mind is completely still. Numb, even, and there are only figures of you. Clenching his eyes, he sighs before mumbling something so muffled that he has to repeat it.
“I said,” he begins with a kiss to your jaw, “the Ravens might be my new favorite team.”
Robby feels your inhale pause and lifts his head to look in your eyes. A short laugh wheezes out of him when he finds you already staring back, your face a cross of complete and utter confusion and a little bit of hurt.
“What on earth could have possibly compelled you to say that to me?”
Your question starts strong but falls apart with giggles at how Robby keeps laughing. The two of you shake with stupid giggles, and Robby has to take a second to remember where he was going with this.
“Only ‘cause they led you to me. No Ravens, no angry dad. No angry dad, no ER visit. No ER visit, no grand revelation of wanting to become a doctor in emergency medicine. It’s simple, I’m a little surprised I had to explain it.”
“...you think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“Oh, baby, I know I am.”
“Hello?”
Robby blinks, and wants to glower at the fingers Jack snaps in front of his face until he remembers he’s supposed to be answering something. A question. He’s supposed to be answering a question.
Which question?
Fuck if he knows.
Who asked it?
Fuck if he knows.
It takes every part of Robby’s being to not look to the right because that’s where you’re sitting with a wide smile just barely hidden beneath your palm. Eyes boring into him, you stretch your crossed legs and reposition.
“E-even though that might have looked like a stroke, guys, it was not… I don’t think,” Jack picks up for Robby with a pat to the later man’s shoulder. “It’s actually something we in our profession call getting old, but please don’t worry. I’m going through it, too. Apparently, not as fast as this guy, though.”
The rest of the room lightens with a chuckle so Robby’s laughs along with them. It’s fake and ugly but the pause gives him a chance to zip his eyes your way and back.
And, of course, Jack catches him. Hell, he knows Robby well enough to have already seen the way that his hand clenches into a fist every time you move so much as an inch.
As Dr. Hummel attempts to return order to the slightly distracted class, Jack gives Robby a silent not bad, Rob. At all, though a little more decorum wouldn’t hurt.
synopsis: with no friends and a wallet full of cash, you concoct one last idea to make your final semester one to remember. paying everyone's favorite pretty playboy to pretend to be your boyfriend to complete your college bucket list before you start the life your family is forcing you into. but you might be buying far more than you bargained for.
pairings: broke!Geto x rich!Reader x dropout!Sukuna
content: mdni, angst, college au, fake dating, pining, yearning, reader is an emotional mess, we all suffer here, discussions of arranged marriage, uncomfortable conversations, sukuna is a d1 hater, but he is NOT having this arranged marriage lmfao
art by @aransmind !!
"If you're mad at me, can we please fight later?"
You were too tired to deal with the fallout of fucking everything up with Sukuna.
He could call you whatever he wanted to call you later. Confess if he still cared enough to. Whatever was left to say, you'd bear it the best you could, just, um, another day.
One where you weren't still reeling with Suguru's words, weighed down by what he said and what it might mean.
"Are you fuckin' crying?" He grunted, grabbing your arm in his calloused hand, but you stepped back, pulling free from him as you slung your purse higher up on your shoulder and wiped your damp cheeks.
You weren't looking at him, but you heard the strangled sound from some deep part of him when he saw the ring on your finger.
"Jesus," he hissed, and you flinched back, loathing the slippery coils inside your core, deep discomfort you were desperate to escape.
"I really don't want to talk about it right now," you murmured, fingers trembling as you brushed past him, barely able to shove your key in the lock and push your door open.
"Well, I want to talk to you right now," Sukuna argued, following you in while you kicked off your shoes and slung your purse off on your couch.
You halfway wanted to hit him with it, even though you knew your anger was misplaced. You couldn't do anything with it except stuff it down to stop the simmering rage and wait for it to rot into depression.
Stuck in this infuriating cycle of just accepting whatever shit was thrown at you and scrounging for whatever gasps of freedom you could suck in, the only fresh air you'd receive when your family was waiting to shove your head back under the sand.
"I can't really care about what anyone else wants right now," you breathed, voice breaking as you continued towards your bedroom, unable to stop shaking as you started to reach for your zipper.
Sukuna touched your shoulder, making you stop without actually doing something, helping tug it down for you while you murmured a half-hearted thank you before stepping through the threshold and shutting the door before he could come in.
"Can you listen to me then?" He asked, and you wanted to say no. To tell him that he'd just need to find a new receptionist, that he didn't need to worry about you, that he should just act like you didn't exist.
Some fucked-up piece of you craving to toss a match and burn the bridge because you couldn't stand this awful in-between limbo of knowing he knew, that his perception of you had been permanently shattered and that he wouldn't see you the same again. That despite how much you did like him, all you were doing was dragging out the pain.
You hurt him. You hurt Suguru. You hurt your own fucking feelings by being dumb enough to think any of this was a good idea to start with.
It would've been so much easier if you'd just sucked it up and stayed alone.
At least, then you wouldn't be wrecked right now.
"Sukuna," you said his name, trying to find the courage to stop this here.
"I'm sorry for being such a dick earlier," he said, the door creaking like he was leaning his weight against it. "I shouldn't have said that shit when I don't know all the details."
Your mouth opened only to clamp back shut, breathing through your nose as he kept talking.
"I just felt like I finally fucking got you, and the idea of you being sold off to some asshole, it's just-" He growled, his voice cut off by a choking sound before he exhaled hard.
"I found out who it was," you murmured, not sure if you were trying to rub salt in the wound or self-sabotage. "I guess it's, like, official now."
He didn't say anything, a thick pause that you couldn't stop yourself from talking through.
"I don't know if you remember that white-haired guy that came in with Suguru, but-"
"Him?"
Hatred. Burning loathing that he didn't bother concealing or covering up. His voice loud, the sound of it lingering in your ears as you cringed, slipping off your dress and freezing at the first feeling of the cool air against your nipples before you walked over to your closet to grab the loosest hoodie you had.
"It could be worse," you softly replied. There were far worse men out there than him. Fates that were much crueler than the cushy one you were being promised.
How many times had you told yourself that you should be grateful? A few thousand? A million?
Repeating it until it cushioned the blow of being robbed of every choice.
"What do you need?" He grumbled as you shoved the hoodie over the head, his voice muffled through the wood. "A place to stay? A raise? Tell me and I'll-"
You stopped in the middle of pulling open a drawer and grabbing a pair of pajama pants out.
"You barely know me," you interrupted him. "I-"
"Stop acting like some sacrificial lamb when you don't have to be one," Sukuna scoffed. "I do know you, brat. How many hours have we spent together in the studio? You think I didn't watch you? That I don't care?"
"It's not-"
"Listen," he stopped you from arguing, your chest aching to contain your heart as you shut up. "I am not letting you marry that idiot."
Sukuna always acted like the world was black and white. That if he willed something hard enough, it would happen. Making his fate bend by brute force.
But you weren't like him, or Suguru, or even Satoru.
"Take a nap. Get some rest. I'll wait," he half-growled outside the door, and you couldn't reply. Your mouth felt too dry, throat stuffed with cotton as you listened to his footsteps echo down the hall. The slam of the front door shutting.
Would he wait?
You didn't know if you wanted him to.
But you crawled into bed anyway, buried your face under your pillow and shut your eyes as you scrambled to think of what to say to either men that had somehow crawled their way into your heart.
A dull ache settling into your heart, burying itself into your bones when you thought about Suguru, replayed your conversation in the car and wished that you had some other conclusion to come to. Snippets of the night you spent together floating back up, his face buried into your skin and his fingers roaming over your body, how he murmured your name like it was a promise he wanted to keep.
If you were being honest, you wanted it again. Wanted him again. Terrified to think he had been telling you the truth, scared that he'd actually see you for everything you were, all the good and bad, and then change his mind.
It was easy when you were able to convince yourself it was all fake.
But when it was real, raw, you wouldn't be able to shield yourself behind all the walls you'd been hastily shoving up.
And then there was Sukuna.
He made you forget. Let you act like you were someone else. Lie to yourself and try to fit into his life. Carve yourself a little niche in his world and cram yourself in there.
You liked him. Really liked him.
But you didn't know how much of it would matter - or where you would even stand with him in the future. What did he see you as?
A fling? A girlfriend? His employee that he also happened to be attracted to?
And what would he think when he got to know the rest of you that wasn't desperately struggling to be apart of his lifestyle? That would never fit nicely in?
You were surprised when you actually fell asleep somewhere between all the depressing thoughts, waking up to the sun still high outside.
Getting out of bed was hard, shuffling across the cold floor and rubbing your exhausted eyes as you walked out into a silent apartment. No Sukuna. No noises. You glanced at your purse, briefly considering checking your phone before you changed your mind.
You'd rather not know.
Instead, you went into your kitchen, pulling open the pantry to grab a couple cans of wet cat food before slipping on some shoes and deciding to check on the kittens.
At least they couldn't argue with you.
Wouldn't make you feel like shit even if they didn't mean to. Incapable of saying the wrong thing. Just offer cute meows and easy company.
Except, when you made it out to the woods, you weren't the only one out there.
Sukuna was sitting still, a kitten asleep in his lap while he pet its sibling, distracted you supposed, not noticing you until you accidentally stepped on a twig and the soft crack! of it breaking made him glance over his shoulder.
His tense face relaxed when he saw you standing there, shoulder slumping down as he tilted his head to the side like he wanted you to walk over.
"I guessed you'd come down here eventually," he grunted, mouth twitching as he talked. Like he didn't really know what to say to you anymore.
You swallowed hard, nervously approaching before you sat down next to him, careful not to get too close when you were already scared of making him more uncomfortable. You held out the two cans of wet food you'd brought down, offering him one to give to the kittens before starting to peel the lid to your own.
"Their mom hasn't shown up," he dryly said, and you just shrugged.
"I haven't seen her in a few days," you soberly muttered. The kittens still came when you called - but you were debating on just sneaking them back into your apartment if she didn't come back soon.
"Oh," he mumbled.
It was sorta impressive how awkward could be with a man you just had sex with yesterday. Who you woke up next to. That you let pierce one of the most intimate parts of your body.
But what else did you expect?
Everything came to an end.
"I'm supposed to go wedding dress shopping next week with Satoru's mother," you murmured, setting down the can and the discarded lid before pulling your knees to your chest. Staring off into the woods and pretending this was simply a casual conversation with a friend.
"You say his name like-"
"He's not bad," you defended him. "I mean, he was actually pretty understanding about everything. Said we could just keep seeing other people."
Sukuna made some disgusted sound of surprise, but you just shrugged, deciding against mentioning that Satoru had Suguru in mind when he said it.
"He said after a few years, once he has his dad's company, we could just get divorced and he'd-"
"Do you believe him?" Sukuna scoffed, as if you were spouting something insane.
"I trust him," you murmured, face flushing as you fiddled with your fingers. You had no reason not to. He was one of the few people that had never talked shit about you or laughed behind your back. Helped you out when he didn't have to.
If it was going to be anyone, you'd probably pick him.
He never expected anything out of you.
"So what? He won't care if I fuck you while you have his last name?"
You gaped at him, even though you knew you should've expected that. The kitten perked up off his lap, opening its mouth in a big yawn as it climbed off of him to start towards the open can just to get pawed back by the other one.
"I mean-"
"He won't care then if I do this?" He pressed, leaning in to cup your face, his nose brushing against yours as he shut his eyes to come in for a kiss. To claim you when he thought you belonged to someone else.
You kissed him back, out of habit, or maybe just to make some small part of yourself feel better.
But some tiny seed had been planted in your stomach, screaming at you that this might be a mistake too.
Because if you really didn't have any decisions to make, if you were meant to marry another man, how come it felt like you needed to choose between Suguru and Sukuna?
reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated <3
