Defensive Heat | RLN24
Pairing: Robin Le Normand x Physiotherapist!reader
Genre: oneshot
Warning: smut
Summary: She’s the physiotherapist who keeps Atlético Madrid running, hands steady and smile bright, especially for Roro, the teammate who’s been her rock from the start. But Robin Le Normand’s been watching, brooding, his quiet intensity simmering under the surface for months.
The physiotherapy room at Atlético Madrid’s training complex was my sanctuary, white walls, neatly stacked rolls of tape, the faint smell of antiseptic. I’d been part of the team for nearly a year, long enough to know the players’ quirks, their injuries, their banter. Rodrigo Riquelme or Roro, was my anchor from day one. He’d stroll in with that cheeky grin, tossing playful jabs about my “magic hands” while I patched him up after a rough tackle. We clicked instantly, a friendship that made the chaos of match days bearable. But there was someone else who’d been creeping into my thoughts lately, someone I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried, Robin Le Normand.
It started months ago, subtle at first. The way his hazel eyes lingered a beat too long when I’d stretch his calf after a game. The quiet “thanks” he’d mutter, his voice rougher than it needed to be, like he was holding something back. He wasn’t loud like Roro, didn’t fill the room with charm, he was all intensity, a wall of quiet strength that made my stomach flip whenever he was near. I’d catch myself noticing the way his broad shoulders filled out his kit, the flex of his forearms when he’d grip the table during a session. And he’d notice me noticing, his lips twitching into that rare, almost-smirk that felt like a secret between us. We never spoke about it, but the air had been humming with it for weeks, unspoken, electric, dangerous.
Today, the training ground was winding down, the late afternoon light slanting through the windows. I was tidying up when the door swung open, and there he was, Robin, still in his sweat-soaked kit, his dark hair a damp mess from the session. He moved like he always did, deliberate and powerful, his 6’2” frame dominating the space. He rubbed the back of his thigh, a faint wince crossing his sharp features.
“Hamstring’s acting up,” he said, his voice low, gravelly from shouting drills. “Can you take a look?”
I nodded, gesturing to the table. “Hop up. Let’s see what’s going on.” My tone was casual, professional, but my pulse betrayed me, ticking faster as he settled onto the padded surface. His kit clung to him, outlining the hard lines of his body, broad chest, tapered waist, thighs thick with muscle. I’d seen him like this dozens of times, but today it hit different, the tension we’d been dancing around coiling tighter.
I started with the basics, my hands gliding over his hamstring, pressing into the taut muscle to find the source of the stiffness. His skin was warm, radiating heat from the workout, and I could feel every subtle shift as he adjusted under my touch. He was quiet at first, just watching me, but his breathing changed, deeper, a little uneven, when my fingers worked higher, near the edge of his shorts. A low sound slipped from him, not quite a groan, and my eyes flicked up to meet his. He didn’t look away, and that steady, burning gaze made my throat go dry.
“Been feeling this for a while?” I asked, trying to keep it light, but my voice came out softer than I meant.
“On and off,” he said, his tone clipped, like he was distracted. “You’d know if you paid attention.” I paused, hands still on his leg, caught off guard. “I pay attention to everyone.”
“Not like you do with Roro,” he shot back, quieter now, but there was an edge to it, something raw that made my stomach twist. He shifted, propping himself up on his elbows, his eyes narrowing slightly. “He’s always in here, laughing with you. What’s that about?”
The air shifted, heavy with the weight of what he wasn’t saying. I straightened, brushing my hands on my pants, buying time. “Roro’s been there since I started. He’s easy to talk to, keeps things light. We’re friends.”
“Friends,” he echoed, the word sounding bitter on his tongue. He swung his legs off the table and stood, closing the distance between us in one fluid step. Up close, he was overwhelming, tall, solid, the scent of sweat and grass clinging to him. “I see how you are with him. The way you smile, the way you lean in when he talks. You don’t do that with me.”
My breath hitched, the accusation hanging there. “Robin, it’s nothi-”
“Don’t tell me it’s nothing,” he cut in, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. He was close now, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him, see the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. “I’ve been watching you for months. Every time I’m in here, I’m waiting for you to look at me like that, just once. And you don’t.”
I swallowed, my heart hammering. “You think I don’t see you?”
“I think you see him more,” he said, his jaw tight, his hands flexing at his sides like he was fighting to keep them still. “I’m out there busting my ass, taking hits, and all I can think about is whether you’re in here laughing with him. Do you know how that feels? To want,” he stopped, exhaling sharply, his eyes searching mine. “To want you to notice me the way I notice you?”
The confession hit me like a punch, stripping away the walls we’d both kept up. I stepped closer, drawn in despite myself, my voice barely steady. “I notice you, Robin. More than you think. You’re not Roro, you’re different. Quiet, intense. It’s hard to look away.”
His breath caught, and for a second, we just stood there, the space between us crackling. “Then why don’t you?” he asked, softer now, almost pleading. “Why don’t you let me in?”
“I didn’t know you wanted me to,” I admitted, my hands itching to reach for him. “You’re always so… controlled. I thought-”
“I’m not controlled around you,” he said, stepping in until his chest brushed mine, his voice rough with need. “Not anymore.” His hand hovered near my cheek, hesitating, then settled there, his thumb brushing my skin with a tenderness that didn’t match the fire in his eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t feel this.”
“I can’t,” I whispered, and that was it, the dam broke. His lips crashed into mine, not tentative or slow, but hungry, desperate, like he’d been holding back for too long. I grabbed his shoulders, fingers digging into the damp fabric of his kit as he pulled me against him, his hands sliding to my waist, gripping hard. The kiss was messy, all heat and teeth, his stubble scraping my skin as he tilted my head back, deepening it. He pressed me against the table, his body a solid wall of muscle, every inch of him trembling with want.
I tugged at his hair, earning a low groan that vibrated through me, and he retaliated by nipping my bottom lip, his hands roaming up my back, possessive and sure. The room spun, the sterile shelves, the hum of the air conditioning, all of it drowned out by the thud of his heartbeat against mine, the taste of salt and longing on his tongue. He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against mine, his voice a wrecked murmur. “You’re mine now, yeah? Not his." I chuckled "I was never his"
His mouth found mine again, fiercer this time, a hungry edge to every kiss as he pressed himself closer, the table digging into my hips. His hands slid under my shirt, rough palms grazing the bare skin of my waist, sending a jolt of heat straight through me. I arched into him, my nails scraping down his back over the damp kit, feeling the flex of muscle beneath. He groaned into my mouth, the sound raw and needy, and shifted his grip, lifting me just enough to perch me on the edge of the table.
“God, you drive me crazy,” he rasped, his lips trailing down my neck, hot and wet, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear. His hands roamed higher, thumbs brushing the underside of my ribs, teasing the line of my bra as he pressed his hips against mine, the hard length of him unmistakable through his shorts. I gasped, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him tighter, and he rewarded me with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that made my head tip back.
“Robin,” I breathed, barely coherent, my hands fisting in his hair as he sucked a mark into my collarbone, his stubble burning against my skin. He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and wild, his chest heaving.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice thick with want, one hand sliding down to grip my thigh, fingers digging in as he rocked against me once more, the friction dizzying. “Say my name.” His other hand yanked my shirt up higher, exposing my stomach, and he dipped his head, his tongue tracing a hot, wet line just above my waistband. I moaned, louder than I meant to, and he smirked against my skin, his teeth nipping at the edge before he straightened, pinning me with that feral stare.
“Robin,” I gasped, my voice breaking as he ground himself harder against me, the thin fabric of his shorts doing nothing to hide how much he wanted this—wanted me. His hand slipped under my thigh, hitching it higher, opening me up to him as he pressed himself flush, the pressure maddening. “Fuck, please-”
“That’s it,” he growled, cutting me off with a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, messy and desperate. He shoved my shirt up completely, tugging it over my head in one rough motion, and his hands were on me instantly—cupping, squeezing, thumbs brushing over the lace of my bra until I whimpered into his mouth. His hips snapped forward again, harder, and I could feel every inch of him, thick and insistent, the heat pooling low in my core as he murmured against my lips, “You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this".”
He dragged his mouth down my chest, kissing and biting a path over the swell of my breasts, his stubble leaving a delicious sting. One hand slid between us, fingers teasing the waistband of my pants, dipping just inside, testing, while the other pinned my hip to the table, keeping me exactly where he wanted me. “Tell me you want this,” he said, his voice a low rumble, his breath hot against my skin as he rocked into me again, slow and torturous. “Tell me, or I stop right now.”
"I want this".
