୨୧ pairings — clark kent x virgin!reader
୨୧ content — virginity loss, piv sex, size difference, soft dom clark
୨୧ wc — 841
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“s’not gonna fit, clark…” you whined as you laid on clark’s bed- the plush mattress cradling your naked body. you stared down at where clark kneeled between your legs- his cock in his hand.
he was a big man in every sense of the word- his broad shoulders that took up the elevator when you two rode it together, his large hands that seemed to envelope yours- and his cock.
his length was hard and heavy in his palm- you could barely fit your hand around the base, no way it would fit inside. his tip leaked as you stared at it. where he hid his eagerness in his expression, it showed in how his cock twitched as his eyes graze over your body.
“it’ll fit, sweetheart.” he assures, his free hand reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face. “made sure of it- got you all soaked n’ ready for me.” he coos, leaning over you now. his thumb presses against your bottom lip that had turned down in a pout- as if trying to wipe away the expression. “i’d never hurt you on purpose.” he promises.
you draw in a breath and nod, legs spreading a little wider to make room for him. he settles in between your legs, his eyes darting between your bodies and your face.
“just- tell me if anything feels wrong, okay? we can stop anytime okay honey?” he hums, his voice a soft comforting tone. you nod again, your heart thumping in your chest so hard you hear it in your ears.
you whimper when clark guides his tip in, the fat head disappearing into your weeping hole. clark kisses your lips gently. “jus' the head, baby- s'okay.” he says.
with one hand braced beside your head while the other grips his cock, he strokes his shaft a few times before he lines himself up with your weeping cunt.
"oh my-" he chokes out at the first brush of his tip against you—hot and slick and perfect. his hips jerk instinctively (can’t help it), dragging a broken whimper from you as he sinks in slow, muscles trembling with the effort not to just ruin you in one thrust.
the stretch is brutal- you could barely hear clark’s praises over the blood rushing in your ears and the intense sting of his cock splitting you open. your nails leave crescent shaped indents in his biceps. it was almost overwhelming- almost made you want to call it quits.
till you feel clark’s rough fingers circle your clit gently- a jolt of pleasure running up your spine. he kisses your lips a bit deeper now, swallowing every whine you let out. he pulls away to watch you, his dark eyes flickering with adoration. "breathe, pretty girl." he says when he realizes you were holding your breath. you let out a long shaky breath, head feeling hazy. "that's my girl." he praises.
you feel the head of his cock brush your cervix and you let out an extra loud whine, squirming slightly. “oh- ah- sorry, darling.” he murmurs, shuddering slightly. he looks down between you, panting slightly from the restraint.
“that’s as far as i can go.” he says softly, his cock pulsing slightly. “i’ll stay like this for a sec, yeah? tell me when to move. you’re doing so good.” he praises, stilling inside you so you could get used to the stretch. he peppers kisses over your face, so patient and so gentle.
he kisses the tip of your nose when you let out a strangled whimper. "i know baby, i know." he coos. "m'so proud of you, sweetheart- taking me so well." he praises, his large hand running up your side.
forehead dropping against yours, breath ragged: "you feel... gosh, ah—" his voice cracks, hips stuttering when you clench around him.
your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath and clark kisses away tears you didn’t even know you shed. “so perfect for me, sweetheart- takin’ me so good.” he hums, thumb brushing away the tears on your reddened cheeks.
you swallow thickly, feeling the stinging pain dissipate until all that’s left is the delicious fullness. you let out a soft breath- tongue darting out to wet my bottom lip. “y-you can move.” you nod.
his thrusts are slow and measured- like all he's focused on is making sure he doesn’t break you. his hips stutter slightly at one point, his head kissing your cervix again. you let out a ragged moan, eyes shut, lips parted.
"open your eyes, sweet thing." he hums. kissing your parted lips gently. when you do, you see a gentle smile on his face. this wasn't the smile he used for when he saves civilians from danger, or for strangers on the street, not even for his closest friends- this was for you. an expression of pure adoration and devotion.
that night, when you're fast asleep on his chest- clark just stares. if everything else fails, clark knows one thing for sure;
DESC: Joel takes you home from the bar and pops your cherry ♡
TAGS: No Outbreak, Sleazy!Joel, Innocent!Reader, Virgin!Reader, Virginity Loss, One-Night Stand, Age Gap (old!man Joel x young woman reader), smut obvi, pussy pronouns, oral sex (fem receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, accidental creampie, lil bit of fluff
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Joel was a sick man, he knew it.
It was hard to give a damn when his years of loneliness had him walking around half-crazed at the sight of any pretty little thing that walked by him. He had his occasional hookups, but work had him so busy and so bone-tired, it was a rarity that he actually got laid at all.
So when he had the seemingly one-in-a-lifetime to chase some tail, he took it. It was his night off, the first in what felt like a very long time. He went to his local dive bar, knowing he’d find exactly what he was looking for. The thick scent of tobacco smoke and late-night sleaze filled his lungs as he pushed through the door, breathing it in and sighing like it was fresh air.
He spotted you almost immediately, your petite form sat stiffly on a barstool. You looked out of place, your pretty eyes darting around the room, your fingers gripping your drink a little too tight. Clearly, you weren’t used to being in seedy places like this. Joel also couldn’t help but notice how the men around you were looking, their eyes fixed on the way your dress rode up to expose your creamy thighs, just like he was. In a place like this, you were like a little bunny among a den of wolves.
Despite being a particularly old and haggard wolf himself, he took it upon himself to be your protector, to shield you from these old perverts. It was the pot calling the kettle black. He sat down on the stool beside you, delighting in the way you almost flinched, looking over to him with wide eyes.
You never went into bars, not really. Maybe once or twice with friends, but it really wasn’t your scene. This night, however, prompted a change in scenery. You felt so frustrated, tired of living a monotonous life that consisted only of school, work, and home. You didn’t have many friends, and your dating life was non-existent. You craved adventure, something that reversed the numbness you always felt- something that made you feel alive.
You decided to go to the dive bar by your apartment, hoping maybe you’d find some adventure, maybe a little trouble- something new. Worst-case scenario- besides maybe being roofied or kidnapped or something- was you’d get wasted and call an uber home, which was only about seven or eight minutes away. Once you actually got inside and sat down for a drink, you began having second thoughts. Your determination had gotten you this far, but you were easily spooked. You knew you were being watched, the men across the room playing darts constantly eyeing you, some guys a few seats down at the bar were, too. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all- or so you’d thought.
But then that tall, dark, and handsome older man sat beside you, and you began to feel like maybe this night would turn out alright. If he wasn’t a serial killer, that is.
“Howdy,” his voice rumbled, hitting something just right inside you that made you almost visibly shiver. Your heartbeat raced, but no longer out of anxiety, but excitement. That vaguely familiar fluttery feeling you hadn’t felt in so long tickled at your insides. He was so hot, you could hardly believe he was real, sitting in front of you. He was wearing a worn flannel shirt, rolled up at the elbow to expose those veiny forearms dusted in hair, his hands big and rough and calloused. He wore a pair of Dickie’s jeans, the denim patchy, the knees faded from work. He was somewhere in his fifties, judging by his weathered skin and the crow’s feet. His eyes were sharp, though- a beautiful hazel with flecks of brown and green that reminded you of earth and soil and trees dappled with sunlight. His hair was dark and a bit unkempt, the wind having blown through it. His beard was scruffy, too, but it looked sexy, not messy.
“Hi,” you murmured awkwardly, your shyness getting the best of you, as usual. You wanted to kick yourself- you could hardly look him in the eye without wanting to blush. The way he smiled at you, relaxed and lopsided, made your stomach twist with something feral. “Name's Joel," he introduced himself, "what brings ya here, all alone?” He asked after you told him your name. “Don’t seem like yer used to this kinda establishment.”
“I’m not,” you admitted sheepishly, “is it that obvious?” Joel barked a laugh, a deep sound that came from his gut. “Sure is- you look scared as all hell, darlin’.” You actually blushed, your cheeks heating up with embarrassment. Sure, you weren’t going to bars every weekend, but you’d at least thought maybe it would look like you’ve been in one before. “I just wanted to let loose a little,” you said truthfully, “isn’t that what you’re here for?” He nodded. “I suppose it is.” The bartender slid him a glass of whiskey, to which Joel nodded his head in acknowledgement or gratitude- something between the two. He took a drink, his eyes never leaving you. Your leg crossed over the other, not minding the way his eye darted to the exposed skin. He set his glass down, fingers drumming on the counter.
“You lookin’ for anything else?” He asked, his eyes questioning. The fluttering in your tummy intensified. “Yes,” you answered, hating how girlish you sounded. You were a grown woman, for God’s sake- you were allowed to be a flirt, show a man what you wanted. Despite your very awkward demeanor and your lack of flirting skills, he looked just about ready to pounce. Maybe he liked the whole shy and innocent vibe, which made you feel a little more confident.
“Take me home?” The words left your mouth before you could really think them through, realizing maybe it was a little too forward. You weren’t sure how this worked- maybe you should’ve flirted more, danced around what you wanted, savored the anticipation, but you were feeling desperate. Your gaze had flicked down at the bulge in his jeans once, twice- maybe three times.
“A bit bold of ya, ain’t it?” He snorted. “You really want me to take you home, doll?” You nodded, eager and desperate and too needy to care. He finished his drink and took you by the arm, leading you out to the parking lot where his rickety old Ford truck was parked. He opened the passenger door for you, helping you inside, then got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. It was silent as you drove the backroads to his house, nothing but a few feet of road ahead of you visible, illuminated by his headlights.
You watched him as he drove, humming along to the country song playing on the radio. He was so handsome, the wind blowing through his hair, the profile of his nose highlighted by the pale moonlight. You wanted so desperately to kiss him in that moment, but you didn’t want to be a distraction for him, so you simply folded your hands in your lap, anticipating what was to come. You’d never actually slept with anyone before, only fantasized, only knew what you wanted in theory. But something about this man made the dam break within you, your need suddenly overwhelming.
When you got to his house, he quickly got out and went around to open your door, once again taking your hand in his to help you out of the truck. You blushed, unused to a man with manners. It was kind of sad, but a lot of men seemed to lack the whole gentleman vibe. You walked with him into his house, a two-story cabin with a well-trimmed lawn. It was almost picturesque- it made you feel at peace somehow as you stepped through the door. The inside was just as nice as the outside, looking like something out of a magazine- a lot less furnished, though, but you kind of liked it better that way. There were some mounts on the wall, a couple wood-carved figures and picture frames decorating the fireplace.
“You gonna keep snoopin’ around, or ya gonna come to the bedroom?” He asked with a smirk before turning and walking down the hall. You stood still, watching the way his ass moved in his jeans. Goddamn, you thought to yourself. You could tell he could feel your eyes on him because he started sauntering, giving you a show. You giggled and followed him- you were pretty sure you’d follow him anywhere at this point, walking the way he was. Your head was swimming with drink, just enough to loosen you up and lower your inhibitions. You felt bold, less timid than usual.
You walked into his bedroom, taking in the king bed in the center of the room and the scent of cedarwood and something uniquely Joel. You playfully jumped onto the bed, earning a chuckle from him as he followed suit, his weight making the mattress dip beneath him. You blushed as he crawled over you, the urge to hide your face behind your hands overwhelming. Now that you were in his bed with his hands pressed on either side of you, caging you in with his much larger body, the shyness that the alcohol suppressed came back in full force.
“Whas’wrong?” He asked teasingly, but his eyes softened with concern. He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, his calloused thumb tracing the gentle slope of your jaw. “Nothing… I guess it’s just setting in- that I’m really doing this.” You murmured softly.
“You don’t have to if you don’t wanna,” he murmured in response, his big palm cupping your cheek. He was so gentle, nurturing in a way you weren’t used to. It stirred up such conflicting feelings- it made you want to cry, but at the same time you felt that familiar pull between your legs that told you of your desires, that you truly wanted this, wanted him.
“I want to,” you urged, your small hands curling into the fabric of his flannel, “I’m just a little nervous. I’ve never…” you trail off, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. His eyes widened a fraction, perplexed by your confession. “Oh,” he said, and nothing else. You got worried after a few moments of silence passed. “Is that bad?” You asked, scared he’d back off, take you straight home and leave you unsatisfied.
“Naw, it ain’t bad- just… surprised me.” He said as he rubbed a hand over his face. “You sure you wanna do this with me? M’twice your age, darlin’- n’ I… I’ve been around.” You smile, amused by his insecurity. If only he knew he was exactly what you’d been looking for. “Good. Means you’ll know how to make me feel good.” He groaned at that, his hands coming to grasp at your waist. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’ sweetheart- you don’t want an old dog like me ta ruin ya.” But as he spoke, his hands were sliding down to squeeze your hips.
“Oh, but I do,” you hummed as your hands began to unbutton his flannel, wanting to see the weathered skin beneath. He let you, groaning as you slid it off his shoulders and down his arms before going back to greedily run your hands over his hairy, scarred chest. You thought he was the sexiest thing alive, practically drooling at the sight of his exposed flesh. He chuckled, low and gravelly, before kissing you breathless. He licked into your mouth, his hand firmly grasping your jaw and holding you in place. His other hand slid further down your hip to your thigh, squeezing the plush flesh. You mewled softly, the sound needy and impatient as you desperately wanted his touch to move just a few inches inward, to where you needed him most. He teased you, this thumb rubbing gentle circles on your thigh as he pressed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down to your neck.
“Joel,” you whimpered. He only growled in response, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath your earlobe. The hand that was gripping your jaw slid down to push down the strap of your dress, revealing the lacey bra you were wearing in anticipation of this very moment. Your tummy fluttered with excitement as you helped him push your dress down to your waist, his hand reaching behind your back to skillfully unclasp your bra. You were slightly irritated that it only got a mere second of appreciation before being tossed across the room, but it was quickly forgotten because the rough pads of his hands were on you, fondling your breasts and flicking your nipples in a way that made you gasp. You never understood the appeal of nipple play, given you hadn't experienced it with a partner- and doing it to yourself was unexciting, to say the least. But this was different.
You squirmed, arching your back, a soft gasp escaping your lips. “Like that, doll?” He chuckled as he looked at you with a satisfied smirk and those seductive lidded eyes, keeping eye contact as he brought his mouth to your left nipple, giving it a quick kiss before sucking it into his mouth. Your hands flew up to grasp at his hair, fingers tangling in his locks. He groaned when you curled your fingers and tugged. His other hand finally relented and slid right where you needed him, his thumb pressing right into your clit through the thin fabric of your panties.
“Mm, so wet f’me baby,” he purred as he rubbed circles into you, making you mewl. Your head was spinning with liquor and molten want, your pussy throbbing against his hand. He noticed, moving his attention from your breast down your belly, pressing little kisses until his lips hit the fabric of your dress bunched around your hips. “Lift f’me,” he spoke gently as he grasped at the fabric, pulling your dress down and off your legs. His fingers bit into the meat of your thighs as he spread you open, dipping his head between them. He licked a broad stripe up your pussy, further dampening the fabric of your panties. He moaned at your scent, the way your puffy lips looked in the lacy fabric. Hooking a finger in the crotch of your panties, he pulled them aside to expose your sex. He dove in, his tongue lapping at your folds with a hunger that left you gasping, your thighs clamping around his head.
“Thas’ it, babydoll, squeeze those thighs ‘round me.” He groaned against your folds, sucking your clit into his mouth. You gasped, a soft moan tumbling from your lips as you moved on pure instinct, your hips bucking into his mouth. His hands kept a death-like grip on your thighs, sliding to your ass to push you impossibly closer to his probing tongue. “Joel-” You whined, frantic with your oncoming orgasm.
“C’mon, you can do it- cum on my tongue, darlin’.” He urged, his voice desperate and ragged, like he needed it. That was all it took for you to snap, a sharp cry escaping you as your whole body seized up, thighs trembling as you came right where he wanted. He lapped up your arousal like a man dying of thirst, making your cheeks flush once you snapped out of your post-orgasm haze and realized what he was doing. “Stop, it’s dirty-!” You exclaimed.
“You taste divine,” Joel said as he looked up at you, a lopsided smirk on his face. The sight of him, smiling up at you from between your legs, his beard wet with your arousal, was nearly enough to make you cum again. It seemed like he noticed, because he went right back to laving attention on your clit, slipping a finger into your tight hole. “Gimme another, baby, c’mon- gotta stretch this lil’ pussy out real good ‘fore I fuck you.” He groaned. Your pussy fluttered around his finger, greedily sucking him deep inside. “Yeah, thas’ it- she’s so hungry, ain’t she?” He pressed another finger inside, barely circling around your entrance before slowly pushing in. He was slow and gentle, wanting to ease you into it- to not overwhelm you. So far, you seemed pretty damn enthusiastic- you were sucking his fingers in so greedily, arching your back and moaning so beautifully, he could hardly stand it. It took everything in him not to stuff his cock inside you, to feel how tight you’d be around him.
You choked out a moan as you helplessly came again, your breasts heaving with each labored breath, your legs twitching with the aftershocks. You didn’t expect him to start up again, curling his fingers to hit something inside you that made stars burst across your vision, slowly teasing a third digit in. “One more,” he begged, his voice a hoarse, desperate rasp, “can ya give me one more, baby?” You were shaking, your eyes stinging with tears as you drowned in the pleasure- it was too much. You must have said as much, because his hand came to soothingly massage your hip.
“Just one more, baby,” he pleaded, “just need one more.”
You couldn’t resist him, how utterly wrecked he sounded, how he seemed to need your release as much as you did. Your hands tugged roughly at his hair as a third orgasm rolled through you, your eyes rolling back as you cried out his name. You heard him growl, his teeth grazing at your clit, making you jolt helplessly. He licked you through your climax, groaning with pleasure and rutting his hips against the mattress. “So fuckin’ good for me,” he breathed, giving your pussy one last lick before he sat back on his heels.
“Can’t wait no more,” he panted as he frantically grasped at his belt. He fumbled with the buckle, cursing under his breath before he finally yanked it off, unzipping the fly of his jeans and reaching into his briefs to pull out his hard cock. You’d never seen a dick before- not this close, at least- inches from your face, pulsing and weeping with primal need. You’d seen sex scenes in movies, watched porn late in the night under the covers, but this was surreal. He was big, and he was girthy, and god was he hairy. You drank in the sight of the perfect trail of hair that led down to the nest surrounding the base of him, and you felt the very perverted urge to lean in and press your nose against it, taking a deep inhale of his musk.
“Like what ya see?” He teased, but something in his eyes flickered with uncertainty, like he was maybe worried you were overwhelmed, that this was too much for you. You hadn’t even heard him, staring like an idiot at his perfectly molded dick, watching the way it twitched with arousal. It was a very serious worry for you that you’d find your partner’s cock unattractive the first time you’d had sex- they just didn’t look very appealing dangling around from what you’d seen, but Joel’s was… beautiful. You nearly giggled at the thought, but you genuinely thought his dick was beautiful.
“What?” He asked, his expression giving away his worry now. He saw your mouth twitch, suppressing a smile, and he hadn’t the faintest clue whether that was a good sign or a bad one. You let yourself smile, a shy but genuine one, your cheeks flushing. “I like it,” you admitted rather stupidly, but at least it was the truth. He paused for a moment, his hazel eyes staring at your face- searching, before he barked out a laugh. “You like it?” You laughed with him, nodding your head.
“Mhm, I like it a lot.” You said, letting your desire seep into your voice. You weren’t sure if you sounded seductive, but you hoped you did. Either way, he seemed riled up by it, cursing softly to himself as he stroked himself. “Want you ta tell me if it hurts, okay baby?” He said as he positioned himself between your legs once again, his cock resting over your mound. He rubbed against you a few times, sighing in relief, before he was pulling aside the crotch of your panties once more. “You understand?” He asked, firmer this time. You nodded eagerly, watching with wide eyes as he swiped his tip through your folds, gently prodding at your entrance.
“Don’t feel like ya gotta put up with anythin’ f’me- you feel uncomfortable, we stop. Tell me you understand, babydoll.”
“I understand, Joel.” You whispered as you gently bit down on your lip. He eased himself inside you, gently spreading your thighs wider as he began to push in. A brief panic flooded through you, and he felt it- the way your body tensed, the way your chest began heaving again, but this time not with pleasure. “Breath f’me, sweetheart,” he cooed as he massaged your thigh, “relax as best you can.” You nodded, the sweetness in his voice easing your nerves a bit. He brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing slow circles that made you flutter around him as he pushed deeper.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His reaction spurred you on, your slick walls beginning to suck him inside. He was definitely a stretch, the pressure a little uncomfortable but not painful- you were thankful he took his time to pleasure you first, get you prepared for him. “Thas’ it, baby- suck me in just like that.” He murmured, the hand that was massaging your thigh now gripping tight, like he was trying to hold himself back. He wanted to move so badly, his hips twitched, the urge to buck into you nearly overwhelming. He stayed strong, moving slowly and gently until you were ready.
Once he’d pushed all the way in, his cock nestled deep inside you, he stopped. His eyes flicked up to your face, taking in your expression- and god, were you a sight. Your hair was spread out on his pillow, a few strands sticking to your face, your eyes wide, lips parted, tits moving slightly with each breath you took, your belly soft, legs spread, and your gorgeous cunt wet and puffy and stuffed full of his cock. He felt like he could cum just looking at you.
“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” He muttered, unable to resist the slight nudge of his hips. You mewled at the feeling, the tip of him hitting a spot deep inside you that had you clenching down around him. “Liked that, didn’t she?” He grinned, his voice gravelly and rough as he eased his hips back, giving another shallow little thrust. He relished in your gasp, the way you pulsed around him. He was in trouble, knew it the moment he laid eyes on you in that bar, knew it as soon as he got you in his bed, and he knew it now as he gently thrust into your sopping cunt- he was going to get addicted to this, to you.
His thumb pressed into your clit, the other holding your hip as he thrust again and again, short and shallow thrusts that eased you into the pleasure and sent heat licking up his spine. You were moaning now, soft little sounds that he couldn’t get enough of. “Sing f’me- lemme hear those lil’ sounds of yours.” He grunted as he quickened his pace, thrusting a little deeper. He surmised by the way your toes curled and your back arched that you liked it. “Like that, huh? S’little pussy’s eatin’ me up so well- greedy little thing she is,”
You moaned, more wanton this time. Joel didn’t seem like the talking type, but the way he was talking to you now, half-drunk on whiskey and the feeling of your pussy around him- it only made the pleasure more intense, knowing that it was you who was bringing this handsome man to this point. “So full,” you mewled softly, “I feel so full.” You didn’t know how to talk dirty, but in the haze of pleasure, you thought you could certainly try. He pushed his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you, leaning forward a bit to put his weight on you. “Yeah? You like being full of my cock?”
“Yes,” you moaned, your voice high and breathy, “I love it. Love your cock, Joel.” That seemed enough to get him going, his head dropping down so his hair hung in front of his face. “Shit, yeah baby- you love it? Love this cock? I’ll give you all you want, darlin’ don’t you worry.” His hands moved to plant themselves on either side of your head, his big arms caging you in as he started rolling his hips, thrusting slow and deep inside you. The both of you moaned at the same time, your head falling back against the pillow as he hit that sweet spot inside you again.
“Goddamn,” he hissed, picking his pace up again. Your hands flew to his shoulders, your nails digging in slightly. Your breasts bounced with each of his thrusts, which he seemed to like, as his mouth came down to suck at your right nipple. You gasped, moaning softly in response to the way he growled against your flesh, like a hungry animal. It was primal, desperate, and fucking hot.
“Joel,” you whined, a soft cry escaping you as he gently sank his teeth into the flesh around your nipple. He was thrusting faster now, desperately chasing his release. You clung to him, your nails clawing into his back as you rolled your hips up to meet his thrusts. His teeth moved to your neck, nipping at your skin before moving up to your jaw. “Fuck, baby, you feel so damn good-” he groaned, his hands moving to cup your cheeks. He was on his elbows now, furiously moving his hips. “Look at me,” he pleaded, lifting his head just enough to look down at your face, into your eyes- he looked so raw, so vulnerable, and so beautiful you could hardly stand it. Your hands pressed into his back, pulling him closer. All you could do was helplessly mewl his name, so desperate for him it nearly brought tears to your eyes. He noticed your eyes watering and wiped away the moisture with his thumb. “I got you baby,” he murmured as you cried out his name, your orgasm close, “I got you. Cum with me, c’mon sweetheart-”
You saw white as your orgasm tore through you, powerful and absolutely devastating. You screamed his name, your nails sinking deep into his flesh as you shook, your walls spasming around him. He cursed loudly, shouting your name before he buried his face in your neck, his own body trembling as he tensed up and buried himself as deep as he could, spurting rope after rope of cum inside you.
You held on to each other for a long time, panting and shivering through the aftershocks. He pressed gentle kisses on your neck and jaw, murmuring soft praises in your ear. “Did so good f’me baby- took me so well. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen- I mean it.” He doubled down after you protested, squeezing your hips possessively. Once the post-orgasm haze began to fade, you noticed the warmth of his spend inside you.
“Mm, so warm,” you hummed, too blissed-out for the implications to dawn on you. “What’s warm, darlin’?” He asked with a chuckle as he kissed your cheek. “Your cum inside me,” you giggled, pulling back to give him a mischievous and very dreamy smile. His eyes widened, his own dreamy expression wiped clean off his face as your words sobered him. “Shit,” he gasped as he pulled out of you, looking at how he dripped out of you. He quickly pushed aside the very strong masculine satisfaction he felt and got up to grab a rag from the adjoined bathroom, kneeling back on the mattress to gently clean you up. He held your leg open as he worked, his eyes laser-focused.
“We’ll go to the pharmacy first thing in the mornin’,” he said once he was done, discarding the rag and kicking off his jeans to join you in bed. He held you close, his arms wrapped around you as pulled you against him. “For now, get some rest.” You let out a sleepy little hum, snuggling into his chest. It wasn’t hard at all to fall asleep, to your pleasant surprise, and you slept a very blissful, dreamless sleep until morning, your heart full and satisfied- and you knew you’d become addicted to him, but you were more than okay with that.
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A/N: As feral as I am, I cannot write smut without giggling - It's just really funny trying to find hot ways to describe a pp LOL. Also ignore how sucky the title is I literally couldn't think of anything T-T.
Virgin hunter price hears that you, his favourite soldier, is a virgin and he loses his mind a little.
Makes his desire extremely obvious, at least to you. Leans over your shoulder, hand on your desk to cage you against it. Hes just here for some papers, but you know that's not whats on his mind when a hand lands on the back of your neck "thank you, sweetheart. Perfect for me, as always."
You know the type of man price is, and you know the kind of person hes hoping you are. All stripped down in his bed, soft and whimpering. You play along when he takes you to a bar. Fluster the right amount when a hand rests on your thigh, avoid eye contact when he asks about past partners. Its almost too easy, watching prices eyes darken as he asks "want me to show you the ropes, love? Make sure you know how a man should be treating you?"
He gets you into bed, warm bodies pressed against eachother. You have to physically restrain yourself from jumping prices bones when he takes off his shirt to reveal thick hair and a soft stomach. He chuckles at your hungry expression, mistakes it for shock when he shucks his pants off.
Hes...deliciously big. Not as big as some of your toys, but just around the size you go for when you want to be brainless for awhile. Price is cooing at you about getting properly stretched out, rubbing you but not dipping inside when you decide to strike.
Thick, muscle-strong legs wrap around his torso. With a twist of your abdomen in perfect form that would make ghost smile, you flip price onto his back and straddle his stomach. Hes looking up at you with wide eyes, groaning as you line your entrance up with his tip.
You grin, "I told you I was a virgin, not that I didnt have experience."
And God did you show off all those tricks youve learned. Riding price like you were trying to kill him. Hes used to fucking pretty things that are tuckered out after one or two rounds. But you? Youve been fantasizing about getting a man like john under you, and you wont be satisfied until hes begging you to stop.
You live up to those words. Mouth busy on prices chest, bites and hickeys all over, hes gasping and whining openly by now. It takes alot to break a man like him, but by the time your legs are feeling a bit sore hes grabbing your hips with teary eyes "wait- wait- stop. Let me- fuuuuck, just let me breathe for a moment okay love?"
Of course you oblige, slipping off of him and wishing you had a camera to capture the utterly sinful amount of cum that spills out.
Cleaning up is routine enough, even if the bathroom is unfamiliar. You grab price a cold water bottle from the fridge downstairs while your at it, snuggling against his chest while he chugs it.
hi!! can u pls do a steve harrington x virgin bimbo reader? 🎀
Ruining the aesthetic
Steve Harrington x virgin!bimbo!reader
Warnings : MNDI ! 18+, virginity loss, p in v, fingering, praise kink (?)
The vanity mirror in your bedroom was bordered by round, glowing bulbs, casting a bright, unforgiving light on your workspace. To anyone else, the array of products scattered across the glass surface, tubes of frosted pink lipstick, pots of glitter gel, three different cans of hairsprays, and an arsenal of brushes, might have looked like chaos. To you, it was an armory.
You were Hawkins High’s resident "doll." You were the girl who wore heels on tuesdays just because, the girl whose notes were color-coded in pastel gel pens, the girl who unironically loved horoscope columns and smelled permanently of vanilla cupcake batter and expensive perfume.
People made assumptions. They saw the bleached highlights, the short skirts, and the wide-eyed, gum-popping smile, and they assumed there wasn’t much going on upstairs. You didn't mind. Let them think you were just air and sugar. It was easier that way. Being a "bimbo", as the burnout kids sometimes muttered when you walked by, was a shield. It was a soft, pink, impenetrable armor against a town that was often grey and scary.
But there was one person who looked at you and didn't just see the aesthetic. He saw the person who curated it.
A horn honked outside. Three short bursts. Steve.
You grabbed your purse and took one last look in the mirror. You were wearing a baby pink fuzzy sweater that stopped just above your navel, and a white mini-skirt that left very little to the imagination. Your lips were glossed to a high-shine mirror finish.
Perfect.
You bounded down the stairs, shouted a quick goodbye to your parents who were watching TV in the den, and stepped out into the humid Indiana evening.
Steve Harrington was leaning against the hood of his car. He was wearing his signature grey member’s only jacket over a yellow polo, his hair coiffed to impossible heights. He looked tired, he always looked tired these days, shadows lingering under his hazel eyes, but when he saw you, the exhaustion evaporated.
His jaw actually dropped. It was a reaction you worked hard for, and it never got old.
“Hi Stevie,” you chirped, walking down the driveway, your white heels clicking on the pavement.
Steve pushed off the car, meeting you halfway. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. He smelled like Brut cologne, hairspray, and faintly of cigarette smoke. It was the best smell in the world.
“You look…” He shook his head, a lopsided grin taking over his face. “I mean, look at you. You look like a movie star. A really hot movie star.”
You giggled, smoothing the collar of his jacket. “And you look like a very handsome babysitter. Rough day with the nuggets?”
Steve groaned, rolling his eyes toward the sky. “Henderson tried to build a radio tower in my backyard. Again. I spent three hours hauling scrap metal. I need a break. I need you.”
“Well, you’ve got me,” you said, going up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek, careful not to get gloss on him. “All night. No kids allowed.”
Steve opened the passenger door for you. “Best news I’ve heard all week.”
Dinner was in a small fancy restaurant. You sat in a booth in the back, picking at a plate of pasta while Steve devoured a burger.
The conversation was easy. This was why it worked. You talked about the new fall collection at the mall. You talked about which shade of nail polish suited your skin tone best (Cotton Candy or Ballet Slipper?). You talked about the drama between two cheerleaders Steve barely knew.
And Steve? He listened. He listened with a rapt attention that melted your heart. He watched you talk, his eyes tracking the way your hands moved, the way you twirled your straw. He treated your interests with the same seriousness he treated his monster-hunting. To him, your world of glitter and gossip was a sanctuary. It was normal. It was safe.
But tonight, there was an undercurrent of something else.
Steve’s hand kept finding yours across the table. His thumb rubbed over your knuckles, tracing the rings on your fingers. His gaze was heavier, darker. It wasn't just adoration; it was hunger.
“You okay?” you asked, tilting your head. “You’re staring.”
Steve blinked, shaking his head slightly. “Sorry. I just… I can’t believe you’re mine, sometimes. You’re just so… much. In the best way.”
You flushed, a genuine heat rising to your cheeks that had nothing to do with blush. “You’re sweet.”
“I’m not sweet,” Steve said, his voice dropping, becoming rougher. “I’m a guy sitting across from the most beautiful girl in Hawkins, trying to figure out how fast we can finish dinner so I can take you home.”
Your breath hitched. The air between you suddenly felt thick.
“I’m finished,” you whispered, pushing your plate away.
Steve signaled for the check immediately.
The drive to the Harrington house was filled with the sounds of Madonna and the rushing wind. Steve’s hand rested on your thigh the entire time, his grip firm, possessive. The heat from his palm seeped through your stockings, making your heart race.
You knew where this was going. You had been dating for three months. Three months of heavy make-out sessions in his car, of hands roaming over clothes, of breathless stops at the front door before your curfew.
But you had never gone all the way.
It was the one secret you kept hidden under the layers of lip gloss and bravado. Everyone assumed things about you. They saw the tight skirts and the way you clung to Steve and assumed you were experienced. They assumed you were "easy."
The truth was, you were terrified. You were a virgin. A total, complete, technical virgin. And tonight felt like the night that was going to change.
When you pulled up to his massive, empty house, the lights were off. His parents were gone. Again.
Steve unlocked the front door and you stepped into the cool, silent foyer. He didn't even turn on the lights. He just kicked the door shut, dropped his keys in the bowl, and pulled you toward him.
The kiss was searing. It wasn't the sweet peck from the driveway. It was deep, wet, and urgent. Steve groaned into your mouth, his hands tangling in your hair, messing up the perfect volume you had spent twenty minutes on. You didn't care.
He walked you backward until you hit the wall. He pressed his body flush against yours, his thigh slotting between your legs. You could feel how much he wanted you, the hardness of him pressing against your stomach. It sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
“Let’s go upstairs.” he murmured against your neck, biting gently at the sensitive cord of muscle there.
You nodded, unable to speak.
He took your hand and led you up the stairs, his grip tight, as if he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
His bedroom was messy, piles of clothes, a half-read book, old mixtapes scattered on the dresser. It smelled like him. It was your favorite place in the world.
Steve sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you to stand between his knees. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and blown wide. He reached out, his hands resting on your waist, his thumbs stroking the soft fabric of your sweater.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “You know that?”
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your stomach through the sweater. Then, he looked up, a silent question in his eyes.
You took a deep breath. You reached down and grabbed the hem of your sweater. You pulled it over your head, tossing it onto the floor.
Underneath, you were wearing a sheer, baby pink lace bralette. It was flimsy, expensive, and made you look like a pin-up girl.
Steve let out a sharp hiss of breath. “Jesus… Y/N…”
He reached for the zipper of your skirt.
“Steve,” you said. Your voice came out small, shaky. A stark contrast to the confident girl who had walked into the restaurant.
Steve stopped immediately. His hands froze on your hips. He looked up, his expression instantly shifting from lust to concern. “What? What is it? Did I do something?”
“No,” you said quickly, placing your hands over his. “No, you’re perfect. It’s just…”
You looked down at him. The King of Hawkins. The guy who had dated Nancy Wheeler. The guy who presumably knew exactly what he was doing. And then there was you, all style, no substance, at least in this department.
“I have to tell you something,” you whispered. “And it’s… it’s kind of embarrassing. Because I know what I look like. I know what people say.”
Steve frowned, his brow furrowing. He stood up, towering over you, but he kept his distance, giving you space. “Hey. Who cares what people say? Talk to me.”
“I’ve never done this before,” you blurted out.
The silence in the room was deafening for a split second.
Steve blinked. “Done what?”
“This,” you gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Sex. Everything. I’m… I’m a virgin, Steve.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for him to laugh. Waiting for him to be disappointed that the "hot bimbo girlfriend" didn't come with the skills he probably expected.
Instead, you felt warm hands cup your face.
You opened your eyes. Steve was looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite place. It was tender. It was surprised, yes, but mostly… he looked awestruck.
“You’re a virgin?” he repeated softly.
You nodded, biting your lip. “I know. It’s stupid. I look like this, and I—”
“It’s not stupid,” Steve interrupted firmly. He ran his thumbs over your cheekbones. “It’s… wow. Okay. So, I’m the first?”
“You’re the first,” you confirmed. “If you… still want to.”
Steve let out a breathless laugh, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. “If I still want to? Baby, are you crazy? Of course I want to. I want you more than anything.”
He pulled back to look at you, his hazel eyes serious now. “But this changes things. We have to… I want to make sure you’re okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. We can stop. We can just make out.”
“I want to,” you said, reaching up to thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I really, really want to, Steve. I trust you.”
That broke him. You saw the moment his resolve crumbled into pure, molten affection.
“Okay,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss you gently, so much softer than before. “Okay. Then I’m going to take care of you. I promise. I’m going to be so good to you.”
The shift in dynamic was palpable. Before, it had been a race. Now, it was a slow, deliberate worship.
Steve undressed you like you were made of spun glass. He unzipped your skirt and helped you step out of it. He unclasped your bra, his fingers brushing against your skin with a reverence that made you shiver. When you were finally standing before him in nothing but your lacy pink panties and stockings, he just looked.
“You are perfect,” he murmured, his gaze traveling over every curve. “Like a doll. My perfect doll.”
He stripped off his own clothes quickly, the jacket, the polo, the jeans, revealing a body that was lean and scarred from battles you only half-knew about. He looked strong. He looked capable.
He picked you up, lifting you effortlessly, and laid you back against the pillows. The sheets were cool against your skin. Steve hovered over you, bracing his weight on his elbows so he wouldn't crush you.
“Tell me if anything feels bad,” he said, brushing hair out of your eyes. “Tell me if you want me to stop. I mean it, Y/N. Even if I’m… in the middle of it. You say stop, I stop.”
“I know,” you whispered. “Kiss me, Stevie.”
He kissed you. He kissed your mouth, slow and deep. He kissed your jaw. He kissed your neck, sucking a bruise there that you’d have to cover with makeup tomorrow. He moved down your body, kissing your collarbone, the slope of your breast, your stomach.
“You’re so soft,” he groaned against your skin. “You smell like frosting. I could eat you up.”
His hand slid down your stomach, slipping beneath the lace of your panties. You gasped, your hips bucking instinctively.
“Easy,” he soothed, his voice low and rumbling. “I’ve got you.”
He used his fingers first, prepping you, stretching you. He watched your face the entire time, gauging your reactions. Every time you moaned, a smirk played on his lips, a mix of male pride and genuine happiness that he was making you feel good.
“You like that?” he whispered, his thumb circling you.
“Yes,” you breathed, your hands gripping the sheets. “Steve, please.”
“You’re so wet,” he praised, leaning up to kiss you again. “You’re so ready for me. God, you’re so pretty when you’re like this. All flushed and messy.”
He removed your panties slowly, sliding them down your legs. Then, he reached over to the nightstand for a condom. He fumbled a bit, his hands were shaking, which somehow made you feel better. He was nervous too. The King of Hawkins was nervous because of you.
When he was protected, he settled between your legs. He nudged your knees apart wider, stepping into the cradle of your hips.
“Okay,” he breathed, his face hovering inches from yours. “I’m gonna come in now. It might hurt a little at first. Just breathe for me.”
You nodded, wrapping your legs around his waist. You felt the heavy, blunt pressure of him against your entrance.
Steve pushed forward slowly. He was agonizingly gentle. He entered you inch by inch, giving your body time to adjust to the intrusion. It burned, a sharp, stretching sensation that made you wince and dig your nails into his shoulders.
Steve stopped immediately. He held perfectly still, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding back. He kissed the sweat from your forehead.
“You okay?” he gritted out.
“Yeah,” you panted. “Just… give me a second.”
“Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
You took a few deep breaths, focusing on the weight of him, the heat of his chest against yours. The pain began to fade, replaced by a feeling of fullness. You looked into his eyes. They were wide, vulnerable, and full of love.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Keep going.”
Steve pushed deeper, sliding past the barrier until he was fully sheathed inside you. He let out a long, broken groan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder.
“Oh my god,” he mumbled. “You feel… you feel incredible.”
He stayed still for a moment, letting you get used to him. Then, slowly, he began to move.
It wasn't fast. It wasn't rough. It was a slow, rolling rhythm. He pulled almost all the way out and then glided back in, hitting deep.
“Steve,” you whimpered. The sensation was overwhelming. It was too much and not enough all at once.
“I know,” he whispered, peppering kisses over your face. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
He began to pick up the pace, just slightly. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to the mattress. You found yourself moving with him, your instincts taking over. You arched your back, meeting his thrusts.
“That’s it,” he praised, his voice rough. “Just like that. You’re doing so good. You’re taking it so good.”
Hearing him praise you flipped a switch in your brain. You wanted to be good for him. You wanted to be the best he’d ever had.
“Does it feel good?” you asked breathlessly.
“It feels like heaven,” Steve groaned. “You have no idea. Being the first one inside you… knowing no one else has touched you like this… it’s driving me crazy.”
He thrust harder, hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur. Pleasure coiled in your stomach, hot and tight.
“Steve!” you cried out.
“I’m here. Let go, baby. Come for me.”
He reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. That was the tipping point. The friction, the fullness, the smell of him, it all crashed together.
You fell apart. You cried out his name, your body clamping down around him as waves of pleasure washed over you.
Feeling you climax was too much for Steve. He groaned, a guttural sound deep in his chest. He drove into you hard, once, twice, three times, before burying himself deep and freezing there. His body shuddered against yours, his arms crushing you to him as he poured himself into you.
The room was quiet, save for the sound of harsh breathing and the whir of the ceiling fan.
Steve collapsed on top of you, his weight heavy and comforting. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing slowly returning to normal. You ran your hands up and down his sweaty back, tracing the line of his spine.
After a few minutes, he lifted his head. His hair was a disaster, a messy halo around his head. He looked exhausted and incredibly happy.
“You okay?” he asked, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of regret or pain. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you said softly. “It was… perfect. You were perfect.”
Steve let out a sigh of relief and rolled off you, pulling you into his side. He pulled the duvet up over both of you, cocooning you together.
He looked at you, taking in the smeared lip gloss, the messy hair, the flushed skin. The "bimbo" aesthetic was ruined, dismantled by his hands. And yet, he looked at you like you were even more beautiful now than you were when you walked out of the house.
“You’re a mess,” he teased gently, tracing your lower lip with his thumb.
You laughed, snuggling closer to his chest. “You did this.”
“Guilty,” he grinned. He kissed the top of your head. “Hey, Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” he said, his voice serious again. “For trusting me. For giving me… that. It means a lot. More than you know.”
You rested your hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat steady and strong beneath your palm. You knew people saw you as the airhead and him as the washed-up King. But in this bed, in the dark, you were just two people who had found a safe place to land.
“I love you, Steve,” you whispered.
Steve tightened his arm around you. “I love you too, doll. So much.”
He reached over and clicked off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
“Now,” he mumbled sleepily into your hair. “If you think you’re getting out of this bed anytime before noon tomorrow, you’re crazy.”
You smiled, closing your eyes, surrounded by the smell of Brut and the warmth of the only man who mattered. “Totally fine by me.”
Bucky dating a girl who’s a virgin and she begs him to let her suck his cock when they’re in the middle of a make out session and he’s surprised to see good she is at it
You’re on his lap before either of you remembers how it started—his big hands on your hips, your fingers in his hair, your mouth opening for every kiss he gives like you were made to. The movie you put on is long forgotten, the only glow in the room coming from the TV screen and the faint streetlight through the blinds.
Bucky groans into your mouth when you tug his hair a little, a deep, needy sound that vibrates all the way through you.
“Easy, doll,” he mutters, though he’s smiling against your lips. “You keep kissing me like that, I’m not gonna make it through the night.”
You try to answer, but you’re too busy grinding without meaning to—your body so desperate for him that your brain has stopped pretending otherwise. Heat floods you, your cheeks going warm, your breath shaky.
“Bucky…”
He cups your face instantly, gentle, like you’re precious. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
You swallow. Your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. You’ve been dating a while, you’ve talked about going slow, about virginity not being something he’d ever rush you through. You love that about him. You love him.
But right now?
Right now you want something else entirely.
“I want to…” You pause, cheeks burning. “I wanna put my mouth on you.”
Bucky stills.
His pupils blow wide, his throat working around a swallow as he tries to process what you just said—what you just asked for. His hands tighten on your waist, just slightly.
“Sweetheart,” he says quietly, “do you know what you’re asking?”
You nod, eager, breathless. “Please, Bucky. I want to taste you.”
A low curse escapes him. His eyes drag over your face, searching for hesitation, fear, uncertainty—anything. But all he finds is earnest desire, your lips a little swollen, your thighs squeezing around him like you’re starving.
He exhales shakily.
“You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You hardly get a second to giggle before he’s helping you off his lap, pulling you gently to your knees between his legs on the carpet. His touch is careful, reverent—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.
“You sure, baby?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “We don’t gotta do anything yet.”
“I’m sure,” you whisper. “I want this. I want you.”
That finally cracks him open. His jaw tightens, and he leans back on the couch, tugging his sweatpants down just far enough to free himself.
Your breath catches.
He’s big—long and thick and already leaking for you. The sight alone makes your thighs press together.
“See somethin’ you like?” he teases softly, voice roughened by arousal.
You nod again, heat curling low in your belly.
He pets your hair like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. “Then c’mere, doll. Lemme show you how to make me feel good.”
You lean in, licking your lips, but before you can do anything he stops you with a gentle hand.
“No pressure,” he reminds you, voice low. “You take what you can. I’ll tell you if something feels too good.”
Your body tingles at too good, but you don’t say anything. Instead, you bend forward and lick a slow stripe up the underside of him.
Bucky’s head knocks back against the couch with a quiet, broken, “Fuck…”
Emboldened, you wrap your hand around the base, tongue tracing him, tasting the salt and heat of him. You swirl it around the tip like instinct.
Bucky lets out a strangled groan.
“Baby—where the hell did you—” His breath shudders. “Jesus, you’re good at that.”
You take him deeper, cheeks hollowing a bit, and Bucky jerks involuntarily.
“Okay—okay, slow down,” he pants. “You’re gonna make me—god, sweetheart.”
His hands hover at your head, never pushing, never guiding—just trembling.
You hum around him, wanting to hear those sounds again, wanting to feel his thighs tense under your palms. So you do it again—take him deeper, use your tongue in ways you didn’t realize you knew how.
Bucky’s thighs jump. He swears again, lower this time.
“Where’d you learn how to—fuck, don’t answer that, don’t answer that—”
You pull off only long enough to say, breathless and proud, “Nowhere. Just you.”
The noise he makes is somewhere between a moan and a prayer.
He looks desperate now—hair messy, chest rising fast, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He’s trying so hard not to thrust into your mouth. You can tell.
“Baby, you’re killin’ me,” he groans. “You sure you’ve never done this? ’Cause you’re—god, you’re perfect.”
You smile against him, then take him again—slow, deliberate, letting him feel the soft warmth of your mouth, the careful pressure of your hand at the base.
He tries to warn you—tries to tell you he’s close—but it comes out as a helpless, “Sweetheart—oh god, doll, I’m not gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”
You keep going.
His whole body tenses, hips stuttering despite himself, and he spills with a broken groan of your name—raw, overwhelmed, undone. His hand finally cups the back of your head, not forcing, just grounding himself, holding onto you like he might fall apart otherwise.
When you pull back, you wipe your lips with the back of your hand, breath warm and uneven.
Bucky looks ruined.
Absolutely ruined.
Hair mussed, chest heaving, eyes blown wide with awe.
“Come here,” he whispers, tugging you gently into his lap again, kissing you slow and deep despite what you just did. “You’re unbelievable.”
You blush into the kiss, but he holds your jaw and makes you meet his eyes.
“No, really,” he murmurs. “I’m supposed to be taking things slow with you, and you’re over here on your knees being the sweetest, filthiest little angel I’ve ever seen.”
You hide your face in his neck, flushed, but he only laughs softly and hugs you tighter.
“You keep surprising me like that,” he murmurs into your hair, “and I’m never letting you go, doll.”
NOTES: based on this ask, I took some creative liberties with the background plot but I think you'll love it
TW: smut, reader is a virgin, definitely manipulative ben but it's in a very delicious way, younger!actress!reader (they're costars), oral + fingering (f receiving), spitting in mouth, fingers in mouth, unprotected sex, coming inside, ben being yucky but also dreamy and perfect
Masterlist
It starts as a studio thing.
A clean, patriotic, Vought film—hero meets heart, Soldier Boy resurrected alongside a fresh-faced darling half his age. The press eats it up. You’re the ingénue; he’s the legend. Every photo op is gold. He keeps his hand at your back, not your waist. He pulls out your chair. He gives the quotes they want.
“She’s a real class act,” he says with a warm smile. “Don’t see much of that anymore.”
He calls you “sweetheart” in interviews, like it’s endearing. Like he’s harmless.
Off-camera, somehow, he’s even better.
Ben doesn’t crudely flirt. He escorts. He walks on the street side of the sidewalk. Orders your dinner before you get the nerve to pick something yourself—but somehow, it’s always what you like. He keeps you close without ever crossing a line. No rumors. No tension. Just steady, quiet confidence that settles somewhere in your chest and stays there.
Sure, he can be a little rough around the edges, but he’s lived through so much—wars, real ones—and there’s something about that kind of survival that earns a little grit.
He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t push. Not once.
And you? You trust him completely and he’s never, not once, given you a reason to question that trust.
So when he invites you over after a late press run—low voice, light touch, “just dinner, sweetheart. just the two of us.”—you don’t hesitate.
Because it’s Ben. Because he’s been perfect. Because he’s made you feel safe in ways you didn’t know you needed.
And that’s exactly how he planned it.
When he opens the door, you smile—because of course you do.
He’s in a button down, sleeves rolled and collar loose, looking relaxed but sharp. Like someone who always knows where he’s going to end up by the end of the night. His hair’s neat. His smile’s warm. Everything about him says steady.
He greets you like it’s the most normal thing in the world. A hand at the small of your back. A kiss to your temple. The scent of something expensive still clinging to his skin.
Inside, the lights are low. Soft. The place smells like cologne and something expensive. There’s music—crackly, old-fashioned, just loud enough to feel intentional. There’s wine breathing on the counter. Plates already set out on the table. You’re so consumed by taking in the apartment that you hardly even notice that there’s not even food.
Ben doesn’t ask if you’re hungry. Doesn’t ask anything, really.
He just turns toward the hallway, slow and sure, and glances back at you with that same unshakable calm.
“Bedroom’s through here, sweetheart.”
Not a question. Not a command. Just something said with the kind of confidence that’s impossible to challenge.
And you follow—of course you do. He’s probably just giving me a tour, you reason, he wants me to know his space.
Because he’s been nothing but perfect. Because he’s never once made you feel unsafe. Because that voice of his could talk you into anything.
You don’t even realize until later that he never looked to see if you were behind him.
He already knew you would be.
The bedroom’s warm—dimly lit, quiet. Nothing about it feels overt or pornographic. Not yet. Just soft shadows, crisp sheets, and him standing by the bed like this is simply the next part of the evening.
He turns, slow and loose, and crooks two fingers at you with that same easy calm that’s lulled you from the start. “C’mere.”
You smile before you even move. A little laugh slips out of you—nervous, pleased—and you step closer.
He brushes your hair off your shoulder, trails the backs of his fingers down your arm like he’s smoothing out static.
“Y’know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I’ve really been enjoying all this time we’ve been spendin’ together.”
You duck your head, grinning. “Yeah?” you say, light and breathy. “Me too. It’s been… really nice.”
His mouth twitches like he knew you’d say that.
“You’re just—” he chuckles softly, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe his luck. “You’re a real rare thing. Classy. Sweet. Soft.”
You laugh again, quieter this time. “You make me sound like a collectible.”
He hums, amused, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles. “Hell, baby,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve met a girl like you in decades.”
Your chest warms at that. You preen without even meaning to, shoulders relaxing as you look up at him through your lashes.
“Well… I don’t know about that,” you say, smiling. “I’m not that special.”
His gaze sharpens—fond, intent.
“Yeah,” he says gently. “You are.”
He steps closer, crowding your space just enough to make your breath hitch. Taller. Broader. Older. But still careful, still gentle in that way that makes you feel precious instead of cornered.
“And when you told me you’d never been with anyone…” His mouth brushes your temple. “Well. That just about drove me insane.”
You laugh, flustered, cheeks heating. “Ben—” you start, embarrassed. “It’s not like it’s a big deal.”
You feel him smile against your skin.
“It is to me,” he says quietly.
You still just a little, heart fluttering, and he feels it immediately.
“Hey,” he murmurs, soothing. “Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”
His fingers skim the hem of your blouse, slow enough that it almost tickles. You suck in a breath, half‑laughing again.
“You’re making it sound so serious,” you say softly.
“It is,” he replies, just as soft. “Doesn’t mean it has to be scary.”
He kisses just below your ear, lingering.
“But if you’re gonna give it up to someone,” he adds, voice dropping, “oughta be someone who knows what the fuck he’s doin’, don’t you think?”
Your laugh comes out smaller this time. You nod without quite realizing you are. “I guess,” you murmur, shy but smiling. “You do seem… very confident.”
That does it. He smiles—slow, satisfied.
“That’s my girl.”
Then his fingers are unbuttoning your top, methodical and practiced, brushing every inch of skin he reveals with open reverence. You let him, body buzzing, head light, enjoying the attention too much to question it.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs again, mouth warm against your collarbone. “I’ll be real good to you.”
And somehow, that makes everything feel inevitable.
It’s not until he has you stripped naked on your hands and knees on the mattress—his own knee nudging your legs apart, his hands gripping your hips like a man who’s waited for this—that something shifts.
His mouth is on you before you can even process it—hot, messy, filthy—and you cry out, twisting in the sheets, your face already flushed and slick with sweat. He groans into you like he’s starved for it.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, “look at this sweet little pussy.”
You whimper. You’ve never heard him talk like that about you before. Not even close.
“So fucking wet for me,” he says, thumb spreading you open while he presses his mouth right back to you, licking deep like it’s his.
You try to speak—maybe a gasp of his name, maybe something uncertain—but the only thing that comes out is a moan, helpless and broken.
He hums against you, pleased. “Told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”
Then his fingers slide into your mouth—two of them, sudden and deep, pressing down on your tongue until you start to gag around them.
“Deep breaths, sweetheart,” he drawls, the thumb of his same hand stroking the skin of your jaw.
He doesn’t rush it. Just holds you there, feeling you accommodate him, until your breathing shakily around his fingers, eyes watering, and your lips tentatively begin to close around them
“There you go,” he murmurs, pleased. “Knew you’d figure it out.”
You make a small, helpless sound around his fingers and he laughs quietly, fond.
“Easy,” he coos. “You’re doin’ just fine.”
He pulls his fingers out slowly, slick with your saliva, and before you can even process the loss, his hand slides around your front to rest in between your breasts. He presses you up, his chest to your spine, mouth close to your ear.
His other hand comes around to your jaw, thumb settling at the hinge, tilting your face just enough.
“Open,” he says softly. Not a command—an expectation.
You do.
He spits into your mouth—unhurried, deliberate—watching it land like he’s savoring the moment. His thumb strokes your cheek, grounding, approving.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”
You gasp, overwhelmed, and he keeps his hand there, steady, making sure you don’t pull away.
“Swallow,” he adds gently. “C’mon now, be good, sweetheart.”
You do, because of course you do.
He smiles against your ear, satisfied.
“See?” he says quietly, guiding you back down to rest your weight on your palms. “Nothin’ to it. You just needed someone to show you.”
You don’t know why your thighs are shaking so hard. You don’t know when he started spanking you, either—sharp, rhythmic cracks to the side of your ass between long, indulgent licks of your pussy—but it’s blurring, all of it. His mouth, his fingers, his voice.
“Why…?” You ask breathlessly, your voice is soft and high pitched and whiny. You’re not even sure what you’re asking about at this point, everything that’s happened since your clothes came off has felt odd and overwhelming and other worldly in the weirdest, best way.
“Because this,” he says between licks, “is what people do when they love each other so very much.”
Another slap. You jolt, whine, clench around nothing.
“And you do love me, don’t cha? I’m so good to you, sweetheart.”
You’re nodding, babbling, your voice wrecked.
“Yes—yes, I love you—”
You don’t even know if you mean it. You think you do, you’ve thought about it an awful thought recently. Ben was like your dream guy–well, you thought he was. You’d even imagined this moment, but you don’t think your imagination ever could have come up with something so… dirty like this is. You thought your first time would be sweet and soft, maybe that it’d even hurt a little bit. There’s nothing sweet or soft about what’s happening right now.
His hand slides up your back, palm splayed between your shoulders, pinning you down.
“Yeah, you do,” he murmurs. “That’s why you’re lettin’ me do all this nasty shit to you.”
You should be humiliated. Heck, you should be alarmed—but you’re not.
Because this is still Ben.
Because his voice is still calm. His hands are still sure. And somewhere in the blur of praise and filth, you believe him.
“That’s my perfect girl,” he says, mouthing over the back of your neck like he’s claiming you. “Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in you. But fuck if you’re not made for this.”
You whine, gasping into the sheets.
“No wonder you never let anyone else get a taste,” he growls, lining himself up behind you now. “You’ve been waiting for me, huh? You knew I’d take such good care of you, no other limp dicked haircut could come close.”
And by the time he’s fucking into you—deep, rough, like he owns every inch of you—you’re so far gone you’d believe anything he tells you.
Even when he says:
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong about this, baby,” he murmurs, breathing heavy at your ear as he drives into you again, rougher now that he’s close. You can almost here the smirk in his voice when he speaks, “this is what true love looks like, afterall.”
Your whole body’s shaking, every nerve lit up and pulled tight. You’re gasping his name, fingers clawing at the sheets as the pressure coils and snaps all at once. It hits you hard—too much, too fast—and you cry out, hips jerking back against him as you come undone around his cock.
“That’s it, baby” he groans, feeling you clamp down, losing whatever control he had left. “Fuck—just like that.”
He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t slow down. Just fucks you through it, chasing his own end with short, brutal thrusts until his breath stutters and breaks.
“Fuckin’ christ—” he growls, voice wrecked as he spills inside you, pressing deep and staying there, holding you open while it hits him in waves.
For a second, neither of you moves. Just heat and weight and the sound of both of you trying to breathe.
Eventually, he pulls out slow, deliberately, and groans like he’s never felt anything better.
You’re practically limp beneath him, face-down and trembling, your thighs still twitching, breath all hiccupy and uneven. There’s slick everywhere—your inner thighs, the sheets, his lower stomach and dick and thighs—and he just watches his cum drip out of you like it’s the best part of his night.
“Fuckin’ look at that,” he murmurs, dragging two fingers through the mess, rubbing it in with a low whistle. “You made such a pretty mess for me, sweetheart.”
You whimper into the comforter.
Ben laughs—soft, pleased, wrecked in the best way—and slaps your ass once, light, just to feel the bounce.
“Goddamn,” he mutters again, sitting back on his heels. “Didn’t think you’d let me take it that far, to be honest.”
You shift onto your side, stunned, your cheek hot against the cool comforter. “What the hell just happened…?” you breath softly, but your voice is raspy and cracks at the end.
“Hey,” he says, suddenly closer. His palm lands warm against your face, thumb at your jaw, turning your head so he can see you fully. “You alright?”
You blink up at him, wide-eyed, a little slack-jawed. You nod, but it’s faint—a dazed little gesture that barely gets halfway.
Ben coos. Actually coos.
“Aw, there she is. Still in there.”
His thumb strokes over your cheek, his hand big and solid under your chin, holding your face like it’s something delicate.
“You did so good, baby” he says, voice dropping low. “Y’ didn’t cry. Didn’t have to ask me to stop. Just laid there like a good girl and let me take care of you.”
He leans down and kisses your forehead—slow and heavy, like he means it—before flopping back on the bed beside you with a satisfied groan. His cigarettes are already waiting on the nightstand. He lights it in one motion, takes a drag, and exhales toward the ceiling, totally at ease.
“You want one?” he asks, holding it out to you.
You blink again. “I… I don’t smoke.”
“You didn’t fuck either, ‘til tonight,” he says easily, sliding the cigarette back between his lips. “You’re on a roll, why stop now?”
You’re quiet for a while until something crosses your mind and you can’t help but ask, “… is it always like that? Like, for everyone?” You muse absentmindedly, your eyes soft and unfocused
“Yeah, if you’re lucky and find someone who knows shit about sex.” He shrugs, giving your cheek a playful tap. “And you, sweetheart, are the luckiest girl in the fucking world for finding me. You should start buying lotto tickets.”
You laugh—sort of—but it’s more breath than sound. Your whole body still feels like it’s floating. Heavy and light at the same time. He watches you like he knows exactly what you’re feeling.
Then he reaches for the drawer in the nightstand and grabs a small orange pill bottle, rattling it with one hand.
“You need something to help take the edge off?”
Your head lifts, barely. “Something to take the edge off what?” You narrow your eyes at him in confusion.
“Klonopin,” he says slow, clearly amused. “Takes the edge off the comedown. Smoothes it all out, makes everything feel like glitter.”
You blink at him, still trying to catch up. “I don’t do drugs.”
“I know you don’t, sweetheart, but that’s what everyone says at first,” he says, all grin and no shame. “Doesn’t mean you won’t.”
He tosses the bottle back onto the nightstand and picks up a glass of whiskey you hadn’t even noticed was there before—not that you’d exactly had a lot of time to take in his end table decor.
“Last offer,” he winked, “you want a drink?”
You sigh—this you could do—and reach for it, but your hand’s wobbly, so he guides it to your lips and watches while you take two slow sips. Then he pulls it away and downs the rest himself, smirking as he wipes his mouth.
“Atta girl, baby”
He leans back, one arm behind his head, the other reaching out to tug you into his chest like it’s automatic. You go without resistance. You’re too loose and warm and entirely out of your depth.
“You know,” he drawls, bringing his cigarette back to his lips, “I’ve been on my best fuckin’ behavior for you,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he speaks. “Since day one.”
You hum, dizzy and relaxed, letting your fingers trace lightly along the edge of his ribs.
“Didn’t lay a hand on you,” he continues. “Barely even let myself flirt. Made myself real fuckin’ tolerable.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your neck.
“You think that was easy for me?”
You don’t answer, and you don’t need to. You’re curled into him, pliant and trusting, and he knows he’s got you.
“Worth it, though,” he mutters against your skin. “You’re so much better than I thought you’d be.”
“Thanks? I think?” You say confused, even more so when he just laughs.
His hand slides down to your hip, not to start anything—just to touch. To feel the body he just wrecked.
He’s still stroking your hip when he shifts, rolls you closer like he’s just getting comfortable. His voice, when he speaks, is soft again—warm and low and perfect, like all that filth never happened.
“Y’know,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, “we look fuckin’ great together.”
You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted like you’re still trying to remember how to breathe.
“Can’t wait to show you off,” he adds, smiling like he means it. “Red carpets. Cameras. America’s fuckin’ sweetheart and her soldier.”
Your cheeks heat, even now. You laugh, breathless and a little shy. “You’re ridiculous.”
He grins. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”
There’s a pause. His thumb brushes the swell of your cheekbone.
“So what do you say, sweetheart?” His voice is warm again—sweet, almost bashful, like he didn’t just fuck you into the mattress. “You wanna be my girl? Officially?”
Your lashes flutter. It sounds so simple when he says it. So earnest.
Like you didn’t give him everything already.
You nod slowly, lips parted on a dazed little smile. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”
Ben grins—beams, really—like he just won the goddamn lottery. His hand squeezes your hip, thumb brushing the dip of your waist like he’s grounding himself in the moment.
“That's perfect, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Knew you would.”
He lets the silence stretch a beat, just long enough for your pulse to settle, your breath to come back, for the ache in your thighs to really bloom.
Then, all easy charm and casual affection, he cuddles you even closer and asks—
“You still hungry?”
You blink, slowly. He’s already reaching for another cigarette from the nightstand like this is totally normal. Like this is just a regular Tuesday.
“Figured we could go out instead, maybe get some steaks,” he says, like it’s nothing. “There’s this little place up the block—old-school joint, real butter-heavy, they know me. You’ll love it.”
You can’t even process it. You’re still leaking him onto his sheets, still raw and sticky and half-drunk on the sound of his voice.
But his tone is light.
"After all, I did ask my girl over for dinner," he winks, "can't let you starve. 'Specially not after how brave you were for me tonight, sweetheart."
His smile is easy. And the way he’s looking at you—like you’re already his everything, like this is routine—makes your stomach flip in that dangerous, fluttery way.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Smut (p in v, fingering, oral f receiving), angst, loss of virginity, light fluff, feelings :(, real bad self-image issues
Summary/Warnings: You're a virgin, and it's really not a big deal. Everyone was a virgin once. You're just a virgin longer. Maybe forever, because nobody really seems to be willing to solve that problem for you.
You've never told Sam and Dean, and you don't have any intention to. Ever. But when a hunt goes wrong, Dean finds out. And he might have been keeping something from you as well.
Author's Note: This might be the horniest thing I've ever written. Enjoy <3!
Title from Red Wine Supernova by Chappell Roan
Word Count: 8.9k
You haven’t slept in three days, and it’s starting to be a problem. But you can’t afford to sleep. You can only drink staler and staler coffee, sit at the motel table, and pretend this is a case that, somehow, you’re going to solve. That Dean isn’t grumpier than usual, and Sam doesn’t constantly look like he’s going to kill the next person that dares to have an incorrect idea. It’s why you volunteered for the next round of interviews. You don’t want to be there when one of them snaps and kills the other, and while you wouldn’t love to return to the room and find it covered in blood, at least then you’d have an excuse to call it.
You wouldn’t call it. You’d work the case until it was done, because that’s what you do. And Sam and Dean won’t kill each other, because they’re Sam and Dean. That said, you are expecting a pouting Dean to pacing back and forth outside the room as he waits for you to return, and a grumble about how Sammy said he was being annoying and needed to walk it off. You’re more than prepared to give him a sympathetic smile and ask him if he was being annoying. And he’ll probably protest that he wasn’t, and you’ll raise your brows, and he’ll admit he mighta been drumming really loud while eating the chips.
It’s not an unreasonable expectation. None of you have slept, because this thing is insane. There’s no obvious pattern to the victims, no connections, nothing in line with everything you’ve ever seen. It’s men and woman, a wide age range, no previous coflicts or knowledge of each other in life. There are holes through theirs chests that could be bullet wounds, but obviously aren’t, because Bullets don’t remove the heart from the body. But it’s not werewolves, because werewolves aren’t clean killers like this and every fucking person in this stupid town has passed the silver test. There’s a new kill every night, and a new body every morning, and another reason for you, Sam, and Dean to start screaming every day. Every hour makes you all wired, because it’s closer and closer to another evening where you won’t have caught this asshole and another person will die.
And it’s become really easy to get on each other’s nerves. Sam was mad at Dean because he’d purposefully gotten you all burgers instead of Sam’s rabbit food, you’re mad at Sam because he said you were bad at poker—and you are, but what the fuck—and Dean’s mad at you because-
Dean’s not mad at you. You and Dean don’t really get mad at each other. You understand each other, better than you’ve ever understood anyone else, and it’s the perfect amount of alike that you’ll lend him grace you wouldn’t lend anyone else—including yourself—but you don’t see enough of your own twisting, molding innards to hate him. You mostly see something better. A man that has all the same rotting parts, but has made something out of them while you just waste away in toxins.
And you think Dean sees something similar in you. It’s why you’d been obnoxiously chewing potato chips, right in his ear, and he hadn’t punched you or snatched the bag away from your hands. He’d just rolled his eyes, grabbed one of his own, and started chewing in Sam’s ear.
So you hadn’t really volunteered for interviews so much as been aggressively told by Sam you were doing interviews. And it was only fair Dean met the same fate.
But he hadn’t. And when you opened the door to the room, they both looked happy.
Dean practically shouts your name when he sees you, wildly gesturing for you to join them at the table. “Sammy found it!” He grins at you almost manically, and it’s a little adorable. “We can finally fucking leave.”
“I might have found it,” Sam corrects, his smile a little more tentative, but still real. “And we can’t leave yet. Not until we actually get the thing-“
“Obviously, dude, but that’ll be soon, instead of in a million years.” Dean looks to you for agreement. “I mean, c’mon. You guys can’t really wanna stay in hicktown Ohio forever?”
You shrug. “I dunno. Good coffee.”
Dean glares at you. “The coffee tastes like ass and you freakin’ know it-“
“Dean.” You give him a flat look. “Do I actually get to know what the monster is?”
Sam sighs. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“I already don’t love it, it’s a monster that’s killed like, ten people-“
“Worse than that.” Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “It’s sorta like a dragon.”
You, very suddenly, don’t feel really well. Everything is hotter than it had been a second ago, and the walls seem to be closing in as your skin begins to prickle and ache. “Like a dragon?” You ask, forcing your voice to remain steady. “Or a dragon?”
“Like a dragon. Tell her, Sammy.”
Sam shoots Dean a glare—not happy being thrown under the bus—and mutters, “It’s a unicorn.”
You stare at him for a long minute, then shake your head. “It’s a what.”
“Unicorn.” Sam mumbles. “They’re, uh, looks like they’re real.”
“But not Pinky Pie and Disney.” Dean adds, turning Sam’s laptop for you to read. “Real fucking assholes.”
“They hunt virgins.” Sam explains. “To bond with. And it’ll kill anyone who falsely lures it.”
“Stab the poor son of a bitch right through the heart, then pull that sucker right out.” Dean adds, spreading his legs and propping his elbows on his knees. “And it looks like it’ll go after chicks and dudes, any age, so that’s why there’s no pattern. You’re able to fuck, you’re fair game.”
“Oh, cool.” You mutter, a lump starting to form in your throat. “I’m always looking for equal opportunity murderers in the monsters I hunt.”
“Yeah, well, it’s gonna make it a little harder to find the thing.” Sam grabs his laptop back, frowning at the screen. “It’ll take a human form, then look for a virgin. And it won’t be able to tell until it gets the person’s heartbeat up, so it might be a guy or a girl, depending on who it’s hunting tonight.”
“But,” you glance at Dean, who’s grinning as you start to put it together. “It is hunting tonight.”
“Hunts every night.” Dean says, rubbing his hands together. “And we don’t know where, but we can take some guesses. Split up and look at all the bars in town ’till one of us finds something, then gank this douchebag and get the hell out of here.”
“Split up?” You whisper, something wired and flailing coiling around your guts. “That’s, um, shouldn’t we stick together? If it’ll go after anyone?”
“Not everyone.” Same shrugs. “Low, uh, body counts. I guess. Low enough that it can’t tell immediately.”
“So we just need a bunch of whores?"
Dean snorts. “Well tonight,” he spreads his arms, shooting you a wink that really isn’t helpful right now. “We’re the whores, Sweetheart. We’re safe, and we’re going to kick some unicorn ass.”
It’s a cheesy, stupid thing to say, and usually you’d laugh and crack a joke back. Something about unicorn ass and whores that you can’t really think of right now, because there’s bile in your throat and something heavy fogging over your brain.
“How do we, uh,” your tongue is numb in your mouth, and every word is dragged out of your throat. “How do we kick a unicorn’s ass.”
“Well, we’re looking for electrical malfunctions, golden eyes when it gets, uh, excited, and a refusal to drink anything but water.” Sam frowns at the screen, looking up at you with a half-shrug. “Anything amoral seems to knock it down, so just, uh, swear? Then shoot it with iron. Iron kills it.”
“And, um,” you swallow, tugging at the fabric of your sleeves. “What’s gonna to the virgin? If the unicorn finds it?”
Sam sighs. “They, uh, they seem to use them.”
Dean frowns, leaning around to try and read the screen. “Use them-“
“Their purity. Use their purity.” Sam raises his brows, and you can see the exact moment it clicks in Dean’s head.
“That’s...” Dean trails off, running a hand over his face. “Shit.”
Sam mutters an agreement, and your mouth feels like sandpaper, your heart beating like it’s trying to escape your chest.
“And after?” You whisper, a little unsure you want to actually ask the question, or know the answer. “After they’re used?”
“Well, they’re not ‘pure’ anymore.” Sam puts an air quote around pure, and you feel a little sick. “So, uh, stab.”
“Oh.” You nod slowly. You might need to lie down. “Stab.”
Dean looks over you with a drawn brow, his voice low and cautious as he says your name. “Are feelin’ okay-“
“I’m fine.” You remember how to smile, and hope it looks real. Not like your teeth are starting to feel out of place in your mouth, and you can’t seem to find enough spit to choke on. “Let’s get the unicorn ass.”
Dean doesn’t look convinced. Hell, Sam doesn’t look convinced. But they both let it go for now, and you can breathe just a little easier knowing you’re not barreling towards a fight.
But only a little easier.
Because you’re fucked.
Virginity is a funny thing. It’s just a social construct, but it’s a social construct some monsters seem to take as scripture, making it a hazardous thing to still have in your line of work.
And you hadn’t meant to be a hazard. It just kind of happened. Because it started as something that was a given to have, then turned into something that you just were a little too busy to lose, before becoming an awkward conversation you’re not willing to have. Something that hangs, silent and sharp, over your head and around your throat. Something that’s now a question of why? Why is it never you? You’re not ugly. You’re even pretty enough that, if you tell someone, they won’t believe you and it’ll all feel worse. You’re even pretty enough that you’ve seen people size you up at bars, but none of them ever approach you.
So it might just be you. You might just have something on your face that gives away that you’re more trouble than you’re worth, a little too rough to touch and not have it sting, telling people stay away.
And Sam and Dean will never know. You’re already a little younger, a little worse of a hunter, a small problem when they’re obviously trying to take someone to their bed but the girl sees you and makes quick and inaccurate assumptions. Sam is better at brushing them off—She’s like my little sister—but Dean gets red and awkward and suddenly loses all his well-practiced charm. He sulks back to the table, and won’t look you in the eyes for an hour or walk with you back to the bar. You’re honestly shocked neither of them have thrown you to the curb by now, an you’re not going to give them another reason to. Another reason for Sam to make a sad, puppy-eyed pity face and Dean to stare at you like he’s not sure you’re real. Like there’s no way someone could’ve possibility survived as a hunter like this.
And a small, well-contained part of you wishes Dean would look at you the way he looks at other women. Like they still have beautiful, horrible secrets that he’d love to uncover with only his hands and mouth.
You’ve got secrets. Dean can’t have them—because they’re a liability and you’re not looking to lose him forever—but you really wish he’d just look at you. Once, really look at you, and not see you. See something so much better, that you think he’s always a little close to finding, that nobody else ever seems willing to try and look for.
You’re a little grateful they left you alone in this backwater dive bar. It would hurt to watch Dean flirt right now, when everything feels raw and wired in your body, and every time someone drops next to you at the bar you feel more and more sick. There are quick, polite conversations with random strangers who sound like they’d rather be anywhere than here, with you, and by the time you’ve repeated your cover story for the eighth time your lungs are wrapped iron and your nails feel like a burden on your fingers.
It’ll be over by tonight. All three of you know what you’re looking for, so the unicorn will be dead before sunrise, and you won’t have to do any explanations about why you’ve been quiet and tense since Dean said like a dragon. Nobody will look at you with pity or confusion, nobody will get hurt, and you won’t end up with a hole in your heart as the only people that have ever seen you to be worth something realize just how wrong they were. That you’re really just a small, useless burden that even a literal monster wouldn’t be able to stomach the presence of-
“You here all by yourself?”
Something sparks in your gut at the voice, coming from off to the side, because for a second you really think it’s Dean. It’s deep, moves through your whole body, and knocks loose something in your lower gut that always makes you feel hungry, but it’s not Dean. When you turn, the man next to you looks like someone ran Dean through a printer too many times and he came out faded. A little too short, not quite as broad, all the pretty scars that make Dean Dean seemingly vanished, and a gleam in his eyes that Dean’s never had. It’s a little more feral, without any playfulness or glowing shadows. Too much yellow instead of green, the cocky smirk just a little off, none of it right. None of it Dean.
“I’m, um,” you frown, because this man even smells like Dean. “I’m waiting for a friend. He’s running late.”
Not-Dean clicks his tongue. “Shame, leaving a pretty girl like you all alone. You want some company until your boyfriend shows up?”
You shake your head, turning your glass around in your hand. “Not my boyfriend. And I’m actually…” You trail off, your eyes falling on the man’s own glass. The clear liquid inside. “You drinking vodka?”
“Am I- Oh, sure.” The man chuckles, raising his drink for you to click. “Here’s to not-boyfriends-“
“Can I have some?”
You watch the man carefully as he looks between you and the glass. “Nah, sweetie, you don’t want this, it’s some strong stuff-“
Sweetie. Not sweetheart. Not Dean, not right, not safe. And something is starting to crawl over your skin and shoot up your spine, making you sit a little taller as your heart pounds louder and louder.
As Not-Dean licks his lips, and scans over you with yellow eyes that might be shining.
Fuck.
“I, um, I’m gonna go call my friend.” You start to shift off your seat, pulling your phone slowly out of your pocket. “He should’ve been here a few minutes ago, and I’m worried-“
“C’mon, you haven’t even told me your name.” Not-Dean wiggles his brows, and it looks wrong on his face. “Bet I can guess, if you give me a hint-“
“No, it’s fine, my name is, uh…” you look down at your phone, the screen completely black. You’d charged it before you left.
“Your name?” Not-Dean prompts, grabbing your arm. Holding you near him, at the bar. “I’d really love to learn it. I could teach you a few things in exchange-“
“I was never given a name!” Your voice is a frantic shout, Not-Dean’s eyes narrow, and you do the only thing you can think of. Punch Not-Dean square in the face, yank your arm from his grip, and run. Fucking sprint out of the bar and not allow yourself to falter as you hear a roar that’s a little hoarse and off pitched. Like a horse keen. Like a wounded animal.
Like a monster.
Splitting up had been a terrible fucking idea. Now you’re alone, you don’t have even an idea where Sam and Dean are, and you can’t afford to stop and jack a car because you can hear it in the distance. Hooves, clapping against the pavement, getting closer and closer as you begin to run out of breath. You can’t hide, it can hear you, and you can’t go faster because you already feel faint and everything is beginning to collapse in your body. Muscles tightening and skin crawling and eyes pushing out of your skull, every breath too shallow and every step too short.
You fall to your knees behind a truck, wrapping a hand around your own throat and trying to force your heartbeat back down. Slow, even breathes that come out in choked gasps, nails digging into your skin as the hooves slow, and you hear a low sputtering sound from somewhere behind you.
And it’s too quiet. You can’t hear anything but your blood in your ears, and all you can see in the night is the flickering yellow light of a streetlamp in the distance. You squeeze your eyes shut and swallow every breath, hoping you can force yourself out before the unicorn finds you. You don’t want to be used. You don’t want to be alone. You just want Dean, where’s Dean, why the fuck did you let him leave you alone, why didn’t you tell him the truth, why can’t you think of anything else but Dean, where’s Dean-
There’s something hot on your neck, and a large presence at your side. Something like spit is being splattered on your neck, and you can’t contain the vomit when a too-rough hand trails up your arm-
“Get the fuck back, you son of a bitch!”
A loud bang cuts through the air—making you jump out of your skin as a heavy body slumps onto yours—and it sounds like church bells and music. It sounds like Dean. That’s his voice shouting your name, his arms wrapping around your body and carrying you away from the unicorn, his breath fanning over your face as he sits you on the curb and starts to turn your face in his hands.
“Fuck, never should’ve left you, but I didn’t-“ Dean cuts himself off with a huff, and you think he’s talking to himself more than you. “Did the asshole touch you anywhere I can’t see?”
You shake your head, keeping your eye glued shut as you curl your hands in Dean’s shirt. Maybe Dean’s shirt. Not-Dean had been wearing plaid too, and you don’t have the nerve or will to open your eyes and seen if it’s your Dean, or the cheap unicorn knockoff.
“Shit, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me. Sam’s on his way, but we gotta get you out of here-“
“Didn’t touch me.” You whisper, fighting every urge into your body to curl forwards and start sobbing weak and pointless apologies. “I’m okay.”
“You’re okay? You think, fuck-“ Dean’s arm—bigger, warmer, maybe actual Dean—loops around your waist, his voice a little closer to your ear. “Need you to hold onto me, got it? We’re goin’ back to the car, and you gotta, fuck, can you open your damn eyes?”
They fly open, almost on command, and it’s Dean. The smell of whiskey is stronger, more authentic, and his face is sharp in all the right places, and it’s really Dean.
And he looks pissed. His touch on your body is careful, and his eyes are attentive and sparked with worry, but his jaw is clenched, and his every word is suddenly pushed through his teeth.
“You’re gonna hold onto me.” He orders, holding your wide-eyed gaze with a glower. “I’ll take a better look at you when we get back to the room-“
“Dean, I’m fine-“
“And,” Dean barrels on, as if he didn’t even hear you. “We’re going to have a chat. You’re, I can’t-” he shakes his head scooping you fully into his arms. “Just hold on.”
He sounds pissed. Dean’s rigid and silent the whole ride back to the hotel, his grip white-knuckled and tight on the wheel, and you feel even worse than before. This is it. He had to save you, and he’s going to learn why he had to save you, and he might not kick you out but he won’t look at you the same again. No more ease or awe or comfort or understanding, because Dean’s rotten in places where the mold can be burned away with every good part of him, but you’re just rotten. Just a hideous thing that roars in your chest, just angry and cowardlyand revolting and wrong. You’re just wrong.
All the panic and paralyzing adrenaline had left your body, so you push yourself out of the Impala on unsteady feet. Dean mutters something about Sam dealing with all the cleanup as he opens to motel room door, watching you shuffle inside with clenched fists and an unreadable expression. You flop onto the bed with a small whine, your body beginning to drown in exhaustion, your gaze locked on the peeling paint of the ceiling as Dean moves around the room out of your view.
“Why’d you come back?” You ask, your voice hoarse and weak, and Dean lets out a long, low exhale from somewhere off to the side.
“You were actin’ really weird.” He grunts. “Didn’t sound like yourself. Weren’t laughing at my jokes, or making fun of Sam. Looked sick every time one of us said stab.”
“I could’ve just been-“
“Don’t.” He snaps, and you crane your neck to see him at the foot of the bed, arms crossed and looking at you. Dean seems to be really looking at you, all of you, and you suddenly really wish he would stop. You’re complete exposed below him, under his glare, and he’s going to see something he hates. Something you don’t have a name for that you’ve never wanted him to see, never wanted him to find. The thing that makes everyone else look away.
But Dean’s attention is like a drug, and you need him to stop before you lose him, but you also never want him to stop watching you. It’s confusing and raw and makes you feel like a live wire, one word or touch or stare away from snapping and bursting into a million sparks.
And Dean’s still looking at you.
“I didn’t,” you swallow, his eyes like a magnet on yours. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry-“
“Don’t.” He repeats, his voice lower. Harsher. “You’re not injured.”
You shake your head.
“Good. We need to talk.”
“Dean, I-“
“I’m asking the questions.” Dean leers over you slightly, and you nod again. “Why the fuck did that unicorn seem like it was hunting you.”
He knows the answer. His whole face is already painted in anger, and you know he knows. He just wants to hear you say it.
“Because it was hunting me.”
“Unicorns only hunt virgins.” Dean grunts your name, still not looking away. “You’re not-“
“I am.” You mumble, folding your arms over your own body as you drop back down onto the mattress. “Sorry.”
“Why would you say, fuck- Why in goddamn hell wouldn’t you tell me and Sam-“
“Tell you and Sam what?” You scowl at the ceiling. “That I’m untouched? Pure? Boring-“
“That you’d be in danger!” Dean all but roars, and you don’t flinch, but you do cringe. All the mold in your body feels as if it’s spreading like cancer, because Dean would never hurt you with his hands, but he might be about to curb stomp your heart with only his mouth. “I don’t give a shit about the virgin thing, I care that you were so fucking stupid to go off alone, that you didn’t trust me enough-“
“It’s not about trust, Dean,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut again. “And it’s not like you tell me everything-“
“I do! I’ve told you about all the shit in my past, and my fear of flying, and Rhonda Hurley, and that weird freaking dream I had with the mice in top hats-“
“That’s not the same!” You’re pushing back up on your palms, raising your voice to match Dean’s. You just need him to stop yelling at you, to rip the band-aid off and finally give up on you so you can rest. “This isn’t your business-“
“It’s my business if it’s gonna get you fucking killed, Sweetheart. And I coulda helped you-“
“Helped me?” You scoff. “I don’t need your help with this, Winchester, I’ve come to terms with it-“
There was a brief moment where Dean had looked like you’d kicked him, but it vanishes in a second as he gapes at you in disbelief. “To terms with virginity?”
“Yeah,” you shrug, holding his suddenly slack expression with your own glare. “Nobody wants me, it’s not a big deal-“
Dean snorts. “There’s no damn way you’re that stupid-“
“I am not stupid-“
“Yeah? Cause you’re a fucking idiot if you think nobody wants you.”
It’s your turn to gape at him. Your heart stumbles slightly in your chest, your fingers curling into bedsheets, and the world begins to spin as you try and understand his words. “What?”
“You,” Dean takes a firm step forward, drawing your name. “Are a fucking idiot if you think that there’s not one damn person on the planet who wants you.”
“But-“
“Nah. No freakin’ buts.” He’s closer now, his knees bumping yours as he glowers down at you. “I’ve watched too many hair-gelled losers at bars size you up like they wanna take a bite for you to have buts. Hell, I’ve-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “Shit, there’s just, there’s no way-“
Your face twists back into a scowl. “Fuck off, Dean. It doesn’t matter if you believe me-“
“Oh, I believe you, Sweetheart.” Dean’s eyes flash, nostrils flaring as a low groan leaves his chest, rolling through the air and settling between your legs in an aching heat. “And I finally fucking get it. You just, you have no idea. I thought you just didn’t want it, but you’re just- Shit-“
“Dean,” your voice is soft, a little breathless, and can’t help but rub your thighs together as his hands start to flex at his sides. “I don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“I know,” he mutters, scanning over your body with an almost predatory expression. “I’m not, I just gotta,” his gaze flies back to yours, his voice suddenly stern. “Sam tell you how the unicorn choses its form?”
You blink. “Wha-“
“It takes the form that will be most appealing to the target. To help the asshole get attention quickly. That unicorn,” his voice drop, deeper than you’ve ever heard it, and it takes all the will you have to not start fall back into in the sheets. “Looked kinda like me.”
“I, um, I don’t-“
“Do you want me?” Dean grunts your name, and you make the mistake of dropping your gaze down, to his pants. To where an impressive outline is straining against his jeans.
“I’d, I mean, I’m not-“ You swallow, everything a dizzying haze of Dean. “Yeah, I think, but you’re not-“
“I’m not what?” He growls, kneeling down to your eye level, trailing a slow hand up your thigh. “Not interested?”
“Yeah?”
“Wrong.” Dean’s hand moves higher, trailing closer and closer to your center before running back down to your knee. “So incredibly wrong, Sweetheart. I’ve wanted you since, fuck, since I first saw ya’. But you didn’t seem to want me, so I backed off, but if you just didn’t-“ He pauses, his brilliant green eyes suddenly tearing into your soul, unraveling you before he’s even touched bare skin. “Do you? Want me?”
“I already said-“
“You said yeah.” He mutters, rubbing his hand is a slow pattern on your knee. “Need you to say the full thing, before I do anything else.”
Dean’s face is suddenly softer, with something that aches and tugs on your own heart shining through his eyes, and you couldn’t lie to him if you tried. You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to Dean. It feels cruel, and wrong, and as if you’d be denying yourself something so good and rare it will never be replicated if you walk away now.
“I want you,” you whisper. “I’ve wanted you. But I’m not, it’s not going to be good for you. I mean, I know how to take care of that,” you point to the bulge in his pants, pressed slightly against your calf as he crouches before you, and Dean frowns. “But I’ve never, um, you know-“
“You’re not takin’ care of anything.” He says, scanning over your open face with drawn brows. “We’re doing this, it’s gonna be about you.”
“Oh.” There’s a little drool falling out of your mouth, Dean reaches up to swipe it away with his thumb, and your voice becomes a squeak. “Okay.”
“If you really wanna,” his mouth curves into a smirk, and you need it on yours now. “Next time, I’ll let you go to town on Little Dean.”
You can’t stop the small giggle escaping your lips, and it turns into a full laugh as Dean’s own grin grows, and nothing really feels that bad anymore. “Little Dean?”
“Compared to the rest of me, yeah.” Dean does a loose gesture at his broad, strong body, his grin growing cocky. Hungry. Starved. “But trust me, gorgeous. Ain’t nothing little about him.”
Your eyes widen, your thighs rubbing together as the need for him becomes almost unbearable, and Dean lets out a deep, low chuckle.
“You want me, babygirl?”
You nod, and Dean’s eyes narrow as he squeezes his hand on your leg.
“Need you to say it-“
“Yeah.” You whisper. “Yes, please.”
A grin splits over Dean’s handsome face, and his hand drifts to your stomach, his eyes never leaving yours as he drawls your name. “I’m gonna need to get you ready, so just,” he pushes you slightly, and you fall flat on your back, moving your own hands to hold his against you. “Stay there, look pretty, and let me work.”
You nod, your vision already a little blurred with desire as you stare at the ceiling. Dean draws back, shuffling around at the edge of the bed, and you look up to see his shirt gone. It’s all warm, slightly golden and freckled skin, strong and soft in all the right places. His muscles flex as he takes a long, deep breath, and big, calloused hands lowering to trace over your midriff, his eyes never leaving yours.
“What’d I say about stayin’ there-“
“I, um,” you gasp a little as his hand slips under your shirt, bunching the material and starting to slowly pull it over your chest. “I’ve done other stuff. Just so you know. And I’ve done things to myself-“
“I bet you have,” Dean mutters, wrapping an arm around your waist, holding you carefully against him as he helps you out of your clothing. “Shit, Sweetheart, you’re so damn beautiful. Can’t wait to taste you, touch you, fucking ruin you-“
You let out a high, needy moan, burying your face in his neck and mumbling against his skin. “Please, Dean, just-“
You cut yourself off with a gasp as his free hand slips into your pants, cupping your pussy over the fabric of your underwear and rubbing back and forth so torturously slow you might fly out of your skin.
“So wet for me already,” he grunts, tugging on your hair until you lean back, meeting his gaze. “Ready?”
You’re not sure what you need to be ready for, but as long as it’s Dean doing it, you’re good. You nod, wrapping your arm around his neck in silent affirmation, and Dean pulls back to pop open the button of your jeans with a single hand, offering himself easier access.
Two broad fingers toy with the hem of your panties, Dean’s eyes almost glittering as his attention falls to where he’s touching you. Watching your body shiver when he glides his thumb over your clothed slit, your hips jerk when he presses down on your clit, your legs stretch as wide as they can when he starts to rub small circles against you.
“Dean,” you whine, your free hand moving to cup his jaw, trying to move his gaze back to yours. “Please, shit-“
“That feel good, babygirl?” Dean starts to quicken his movements, adding small, teasing flicks and pinches that make your eyes roll back in your head. “You like me teasin’ you? Playin’ this pretty fuckin’ pussy until you’re soaked- Fuck-“
You start to grind on Dean’s hand, trying to chase relief while showing him that he didn’t need to play with or tease you. He has you, unraveled on his fingers and desperate for more of him, all of him, whatever he can offer you that will feel like this-
“Shit, you’re dripping.” Dean’s movement on your clit still as he drags his thumb down, resting right over your aching, already sensitive cunt, and pressing into you just enough to make you whimper. “I gotta taste you, Sweetheart, c’mon.”
His gaze shoots back to yours, something a little animalistic in his low, hoarse voice that almost makes you cum on the spot. “Need you hold on, pretty girl, we’re gonna get you out’a these.”
You nod, letting Dean lay you back down on the mattress, lifting your hips as he drags your jeans off your body, taking your underwear with them. Leaving to totally, completely naked on the bed. Vulnerable, entirely at his mercy, with not another place you’d wish to be in the world.
Dean crawls slightly over you, one of his hands tracing up your stomach, palming at your breasts, then rolling your nipple between two, rough, expert fingers. You gasp, arching slightly off the bed, and a low, deep groan rolls from Dean’s chest.
“Holy fuck, Sweetheart. You’re,” Dean cuts himself off, dropping his mouth to your other breast and latching plump, slightly chapped lips around your nipple. Your vision starts to line with light that might be angels coming to take you away, because this has to be heaven. This is better than heaven. Heaven wouldn’t allow such sinful things as Dean groaning against your skin, his boner pressing into your thigh, or his hand kneading at your ass. Someone shouldn’t be allowed to feel this good. This feels like everything, and blissfully nothing, and mostly just Dean.
You must have moaned his name, because he crashes up, fisting a hand in your hair as he pulls you into a sloppy kiss. All teeth and spit and burning need. Dean tastes like coffee and whiskey and syrup and fruit when he shoves his tongue down your throat, and he smells like gunpowder and leather as his weight hold you easily down, and his lips are so soft but so demanding as he practically devours you, and you’re high. He’s not even inside you yet and you’ll never have enough. This isn’t more than what you’ve done before, but Dean’s ruined you with just teasing touches and wet, starved kisses, and you’re starting to worry you might ascend when he actually fucks you.
He starts to kiss and suck a line over your jaw, down your neck, and between your breasts. It’s heavy and wanting, but still so carefully coordinated. Every move Dean makes seems to be calculated, because he nips at your collarbone right as he tugs on your hair, and the sound that leaves you is high and undignified and exactly what he wanted. His chuckle rumbles in his chest—now pressed against your stomach—and all you can do is moan as he continues his perfect torture. Licking one nipple as he pinches the other, dragging two fingers through your folds as he kisses down the plane of your stomach, stopping right at the apex of your thighs with glittering eyes and firm hands, slowly guiding your legs open.
“Shit.” He mutters, warm breath right over your pussy, making your hips jerk slightly. “Goddamn, baby, you’re responsive.“ A wide, smug grin overtakes Dean’s face as he pushes one finger into your pussy, and you squeak. “I’ve been waiting for this.” He growls your name, and starts to pump that finger in and out, the pace so slow and almost painfully good. “God, you have fucking idea how long- How bad-“ Dean groans as you squeeze around him, and adds another finger. “You’re making such pretty sounds, babygirl, better than I ever imagined. Shit, you’re sexier than a fucking dream.”
His eyes drift back to yours, and shiver goes up your spine from how Dean’s looking at you. Really looking at you. Watching your writhe in the sheets and plead for him in weak gasps, watching you at your most vulnerable state, and grinning like he loves what he sees. Like he’s never seen anything better.
“Dean,” you gasp as his fingers pick up speed, starting to scissor inside your dripping cunt, bumping against a tender spot inside of you that seems to sing under his touch. “Oh my god, Dean, please-“
“Such pretty sounds,” Dean grins at you, crooking his fingers against that same spot to rub. “Let’s see if we can make some more.”
Without further warning Dean drops back down, latches his lips onto your clit, and sucks it right into his mouth like candy. It’s almost immediate, how he pulls you from warm pleasure to raw, almost feral desperation. You’re right on the edge, grinding on his face as his stubble burns your inner thighs in the best was possible, his tongue flicking over that pulsing bundle of nerves, his fingers reaching a demanding and brutal pace-
“Fuck, I’m-“ You let out a loud moan as Dean growls against you, pulling at his short, soft hair to try and both move him away as you dangle over the drop, and urge him on to let him catch you when you fall. “Close, Dean, I’m close, please-“
He pulls away, and you almost scream from the loss. You even force yourself up to glare at him, but you’ve barely gotten a steady balance when a high, needy breath escapes you at the sight of him.
Dean’s towering over you, his pants discarded into another corners of the room, stroking his massive, fully-erect cock in one hand as he scans over your sweaty, flushed body.
“I wanna fuck you dumb, babygirl.” He grunts, and you can’t really hear him your own Dean-addled brain, so you just gape and moan, and he chuckles. “Shit, looks like we’re already halfway there. You got any words for me-“
“Dean, please.” The words start to fall out of your mouth with the slight drool on your chin, almost as if he’d commanded them. “Please, I need you, need you so bad-“
You spread your legs in offering, and Dean groans. “Fuck, Sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He closes his eyes, running a hand over his face, and there’s a moment before he speaks again where you worry you’ve ruined it. That you’d shown too much, or Dean saw too much, but no matter what this is over before you can even get that huge, glorious cock inside of you-
“I’m sorry-“
Dean frowns, his brow drawn as he looks down at you. “What the hell are you sorry for.”
“I dunno, I’m just not-“ You swallow. “I’m not good at this, I don’t know what to say-“
He grunts your name, prowling over your body under your trapped between his strong body and the bed, unable to escape his intense, searing gaze. Looking at you, examining you, and not flinching or moving away. “You,” he says, tracing one gentle hand over your cheekbones. “Are fuckin’ amazing at this.”
You can only gape at him, so he keeps going.
“I’m the one that might fuck this up, Sweetheart. You’re so,” he makes a loose gesture to your body, and you really wish he’d use words, but the look of sheer awe in his eyes will be enough for now. “And I get to do this for you, and I’m not trying to blow my load before you even cum once.”
“I almost came.” You offer him a small smile, your fingers tracing over the sharp line of his jaw. “But you stopped me.”
He lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, well, I’m plannin’ to make that up to you. If you still-“
“I want it.” You cut him off quickly, rolling your hips up, right against his cock. “Please, Dean, I really want it.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, dropping a little further down. “Are you-“
“I’m sure.” You guide Dean’s lips back to yours in a soft, almost sweet kiss, and say the words you really hope will snap whatever leash he’s put on himself. “I want you.”
It works. Something flashes in Dean’s eyes, and his hand snakes between your bodies, finding your clit and rolling it in slow circles as he growls in your ear.
“Wanna feel you, babygirl. Fuck you raw. I’m clean, but if you want me to grab a rubber you’re gonna need to keep yourself going while I-“
“No!” You almost yelp, wrapping your arms around him in a desperate attempt to keep him above you. “I mean, I’m clean too, obviously, and I take birth control just for like, lady stuff-“
Dean raises his brows at you. “Lady stuff?”
“It kinda helps with period cramps and-“ You cut yourself off with a moan as Dean flicks your clit, tossing your head back you start to squirm, trying to catch him into you. “Fuck, Dean, please just fuck me-“
“You mean like this?” Dean guides the head of his cock inside you, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream. “Fuck ya’ like this, baby?”
You grind on him, scratching at his back as you plead. “Shit, that’s, Dean that’s good, more-“
“More, baby? You need more already?” His grin is shit-eating, and you’d hit him if the dark look of lust in his eyes, the baritone of his voice being several octaves lower than you’ve ever heard it, and the throbbing ache of him starting to split you open wasn’t rending your limbs only putty in his arms.
“Dean, please-“
You might stop breathing as Dean guides himself fully into you, settling his face in your neck as he bottoms out. There’s a long moment where it’s only Dean’s warmth over and inside you as he gives you time to adjust, groaning against your skin as you squeeze around him.
“Shit, Sweetheart, you’re so tight.” He kisses right behind your ear. “Feel, fuck, feel so good around my cock, so fuckin’ good-“ He emphasizes his words with one, short thrust that pushes him right against that one spot and makes you whine. “You ready, baby? Ready for me to pound this tight little pussy until you cum all over my cock-“
You almost yank him back down into a desperate, borderline feral kiss, because if he kept talking you might have cum from just the sound of his low, rough voice growling in your ear and rumbling in your chest.
Dean takes a long, ragged breath when he pulls away, and you roll your hips only once. Just enough for him to groans and fall back over you, kissing and sucking on your skin like he thinks you’ll vanish if he doesn’t mark you with his touch.
Then he starts to move, and you were right. This is heaven. Dean’s moving so slow, pulling almost all the way out before driving back inside, until you’re fully impaled on him—his cock pressed fully against that one spot, making your whole body feel warm and alight, and your head feel a little dizzy—then repeating the movement again. And again. Over and over, so fucking slow, still leaving softer, slightly uneven kisses along your collarbone and grunts against your skin but-
“Dean,” you gasp his name, your nails digging into the muscles of his broad back as he continues to move on you. “Fuck, Dean, go faster, please-“
He rises up to meet your eyes, an unreadable expression on his face that’s made entirely hunger and want, but edged with something a little stronger you don’t understand. “You sure-“
“Yes.” You’re practically whining, scratching at Dean’s skin as you squirm under him, desperate him to really, properly fuck you. “Please, Dean, feels so good, need more, need you-“
He shakes his head slightly. “Don’t wanna hurt you-“
“Not gonna-” you let out a breathy moan as Dean pushes back into you, the movement a little harsher than before, and so fucking good. “You won’t hurt me, please, Dean, fuck-“
“I’m-“
“You said,” you force your eyes to stay on Dean’s, even as he sits deep into you, cock throbbing against that soft spot and making you see stars. “You said you wanted to fuck me, Dean.” You raise your chin, grinding up into his torso until his throat bobs. “Fuck me.”
A low, primal noise leaves Dean’s mouth, and he fully snaps. You might have screamed his name when he began to move again—ramming into you at an unforgiving pace, creaking the bed and bruising your hips as he grabbed at your skin, molding you perfectly into his touch and body—but he swallows the noise with a deep kiss that makes your eyes go unfocused, your whole body slack and only for Dean to play with as he drags you higher. Slamming against that spot, balls slapping onto your ass, one free hand squeezing at your tits before dragging down your side and finding your clit-
“So fucking good, babygirl.” Dean groans into your mouth, and you think you might be floating or falling or flying, but it doesn’t matter because Dean grunting in your east and slamming into your dripping cunt, and that’s the whole world. “Look so good, all ruined and whiny, such a good fucking girl, taking this cock so well, made to be fucked so fucking pretty-“ He pinches your clit, and you whimper his name. “Wanna cum, baby? Wanna fucking soak this cock-“
“Yes,” you gasp, scratching at his back, muscles rippling as he drills into you. Something in you hopes it leaves a mark. That Dean feels you on his back a little forever, just like you know you’re going to feel him in your pussy and on your neck for the rest of your life. “Feels so good, Dean, feels so fucking good, wanna cum so bad-“
“Beg-“
Dean barely grunts your name before you bite on his upper lip, almost screaming into his mouth. “Please, Dean, please, need to cum, wanna cum so bad-“
“Shit, baby, you’re-“ Dean groans, his pace becoming uneven and thrusts slightly staggered, cock twitching deep inside you as he ruts into your aching, clenching pussy-
Dean flicks your clit once, sending your hips almost flying off the bed, and starts to rub you at a frantic, savage pace.
“Cum with me.” He growls your name, lips ghosting over yours and you stare at him under, cockdrunk, lidded eyes. “C’mon, baby, cum-“
Your scream is hoarse as your orgasm slams into you like a freight train—pure, drug-like bliss washing over your whole body, a soft haze of Dean settling behind your eyes and over your skin—and Dean roars as he slams open, warmth coating inside you and dripping between your thighs, down your ass, and onto the bed.
Dean rolls over, taking you with him, and remains carefully sheathed inside you as your cunt grows sensitive and your breathing slows back down. It helps that he keeps your ear pressed to his bare chest, where you can hear his heart beating. Calm and steady and strong, just as certain and constant as the man it’s inside.
As the man had been.
You’re not sure what he’s going to be now.
“That, ah,” Dean breaks the silence, his voice low and almost soft. “That do it?”
You smile against him. “If you mean take my virginity, then yeah, I think you did it-“
“No, I mean was it,” He groans, his arm shifting slightly around as his voice drops. “Was it good. For you.”
“Oh.” You nod slowly, trying not to hum like a needy fucking when Dean starts to run his fingers through your hair. “Yeah. Really good.” You stifle a moan as he twitches inside you. “It was awesome. Good, uh, good job?”
“Thanks, Sweetheart.” You can hear to smug grin in his voice, his free hand starting to rub soothingly on your back. “You were pretty fucking awesome yourself.”
There it is. You were pretty awesome. And he’s still inside you. And you need to know if you were awesome enough for something, anything to stick.
“You said, um,” you swallow, staring at his tattoo because you can’t bear to look at his face right now. “You said I could give you a blowjob next time. Did-“
“Did I mean it?”
You nod nervously, and Dean’s whole chest rumbles with his low laugh, rolling right through your body. He grunts your name, and—when you still don’t look at him—hooks a finger under your chin to guide your gaze to his.
“Look.” He sighs, and this is it. He did you a favor, and that’s it. He won’t stay, nobody stays, why would Dean Winchester be the one to stay-
“I get it,” you mumble, and wish you would find the will to make your body roll away from his. “You don’t need to explain-“
Dean’s grip on you remains firm, and his voice is a deep, amused drawl. It feels a little cruel in your gut, because you’d have really liked more. More would have been the best. You didn’t even need all of Dean, you’d just have really like more.
“You get it.” He raises his brows, and you nod again. “Sweetheart, you might want to actually hear the explainin’ part before you say anything.”
“I, um-“
“See, I’m a firm believer that all ladies should ride more than one dick in life. Too much of a good thing, ya know?” He winks at you, thrusting slightly up into you, and you flush. “But, if you’re taking applicants for long-term dicks, I’d have to be dumb not to apply. I’m never gonna complain if I get you all to myself.”
You stare at him, your voice barely a whisper. “So, um, you mean-“
“If you’ll have me,” he mutters. “I’ll take you up on that blowjob offer soon. And any other offers you’ve got.”
“Offers,” you swallow. “For long-term dicks?”
He shrugs—tracing a finger over your arm and refusing to meet your eyes—and it might be your turn to make the move.
“Dean.” You whisper, crawling up his chest just enough for his eyes to easily find yours. “I’d really like you being my long-term dick.”
He frowns. “Sounds stupid when you say it like that-“
You drop down to press a soft, tentative kiss against his lips, and he tenses for only a second before overtaking you. Deepening the kiss with his tongue pushing on your lower lip, groaning when you open for him without a moment’s hesitation, pinning you onto his chest with big, strong arms as you fall fully into him.
Dean pulls back for only a second, searching over your open expression—all affection and need for him, swollen lips and shallow breaths—until he finds what he’s looking for, and his face splits into a wide grin.
“If you’re lettin’ me,” he says, tucking a little bit of hair behind your ears. “I think I’ll stay your long-term dick for while, Sweetheart.”
“I’m letting you.” You whisper, a small smile pulling on your own lips. “But we need to come up with a better name than long-term dick.”
“Boyfriend?”
You stare at him for a second, unsure if this is real, because Dean just said that word like it was obvious. Not something he’s adamantly refused to be for anyone, ever, for the entire time you’ve known him. He said it like he was waiting to say it. And, looking at him—unfamiliar hope haunting the very deepest part of those perfect eyes, his grin so genuine but filled with nerves—you think he might have been. And all the money and glory and pleasure in the world couldn’t make you tell him no.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Boyfriend’s good.”
Dean’s grin becomes almost boyish, and this last kiss is sweet. It’s a kiss in the rain, or under bleachers, or on a rooftop with nothing but time and peace around you.
And you and Dean have never had either of those things.
But you’d really like to and find them. And if it’s with Dean, you really think you could.
End Note: Look at Dean. Being Emotional. I'm so proud of him (I made him do that)
If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
tags/warnings; mentions of canon type injuries/gore/violence, fem!reader, virgin!reader, resident/attending power dynamics, age-gap, slow-burn, drinking
Author; @lucis-dove
a/n: IT IS HERE PEOPLE AND WE ARE STARTING OF WITH A BANG (if any of you think you'll receive chapters below 3k for this series, you're gravely mistaken)
"Ouch."
You refrain from rolling your eyes at the man. Not because of his injury, no. Riding a bike and being hit by a car isn't the best way to start your morning. Even if he got lucky with no internal damage and no fractures, only scrapes along his legs and hands, and a suit torn to shreds.
But he can't feel it, not right now.
It will without a doubt throb in pain later, but you'd given him enough lidocaine to properly numb the irritated skin for you to clean the wound and wrap it up.
"I'm sorry," you apologise, softening your tone to ease the frustrated furrow he stares at his leg with, even if you wanted to call out his hissy-fit.
His attention switches to you. Thankfully, the annoyance melts from his body as he sighs.
"Yeah, thanks, I guess… for the patchwork." He waves aimlessly with his bandaged hand. You decide to only smile and nod as you stand from your rolling seat.
As you step towards the trash can, you dispose of the sterilisation pad and your gloves. The typical blue rubber tinted, more so smudged, somewhat red. It's considerably less than what you're used to.
"You did well, so my work was easy," you smile at the man as you walk over to the computer in the corner. You notice how his back straightens after your comment.
It was surprising how much a little compliment could do with some patients. However, it wasn't surprising that it worked wonders in stroking that man's ego, considering he'd complained more about his newly tailored suit than his health when he first arrived.
"I've prescribed you an antibiotic ointment to help against infection," you inform him, typing in some extra notes in his journal before looking at him. "You'll have to change the dressing once a day after dabbing it clean with some water and applying the cream."
His face twists. "Every day?"
There's almost a petulant whine to his question, one you brush off with a cock of your head, smile still on your face. Although you're starting to struggle to make it appear genuine.
"It may ruin your tanning abilities, but at least it will help the healing process and minimise scarring."
"Whatever, then," he huffs.
"In case you get unsure, just read the instructions I sent with you as you collect your meds. Any other questions?" He shrugs, and you take that as a no.
You log out of the computer, turning to face him fully.
"I suggest you call your workplace and say you'll be unavailable today and for the next three days. If you think they need it, head to the nurse station outside before you go home and collect a doctor's note. Other than that, you're free to leave."
He mutters a thank you, and you nod before slipping out of the room.
The second you step into the hallway, your smile drops. If the door hadn't been open behind you and there was a risk he would hear you, you might just have sighed. Now, you simply head straight to the nurse station with a clenched jaw to hold off your annoyance. Which did little to fend off what felt like a growing headache.
Your elbow finds the flat surface of the chest-high counter, as you reach for an iPad beside you. With the same hand you lean on, you massage your temple, adding the final details to the patient's chart to close the case.
"Guy in Exam 6 not treating you well?" You glance sideways at the voice, watching as Robby stops to join you. He eyes you for a second, attention soon moving to the patience board overhead. The entertained smile on his face tells you he knew what must have transpired.
"Can't say a man-baby is my choice of poison." Robby rocks on his feet, huffing out a laugh without his eyes falling from the screen.
"How about beer, then?"
You almost groan. "God, I could definitely have one right about now." In your periphery, you see how Robby glances at you when you abandon the tablet on the counter and use both hands to massage your temples.
"We're going to the park after, don't think I have to invite you for you to come."
You look at him, keeping the pressure against your temples with your index fingers, but without any movement now. "Are you sure we can't go now?"
Brown eyes meet yours, his mouth tugging at the edges. It looks like he wants to say something, but rather than answer, Robby steps towards you.
Two big hands plant themselves on your upper arms, curving to gently grip your biceps. With a slight tug, he turns your body around, your hands falling alongside your body as he does. You feel his smugness radiate behind you as he forces you to walk once he steps forward himself.
"I was charting," you protest as Robby leads you away from central, but make no move to actually shrug out of his grip.
"You were complaining." His voice is light, brushing on entertained, not stern as when he actually stepped into his attending role to lecture you. "You've got time to see at least three more patients before your shift ends."
You throw a look back and up over your shoulder, met with the upwards tug of his mouth and his eyebrows arched as he looks down at you. "You love torturing me."
"That's my job as an attending and for residents to endure."
"Can't wait until I'm not a resident any longer, hopefully you'll be retired then."
Robby cocks his head sideways, grimacing for effect. "Mm, don't think so, probably still be chief attending by then," he makes a sound with the edge of his mouth like saying 'tough luck'. "So you'll not escape me."
You roll your eyes, muttering. "Lucky me."
"Lucky you indeed, because you're here to help Dr. Mohan." You face forwards again, seeing how Samira turns upon catching her name.
Her eyes find yours, then they flicker up above you together with a quick rise of her eyebrows, only to lock with yours again.
"You'll be in good hands," Robby pats your shoulders after you both come to a stop in front of Samira, quickly turning on his heel to be on his way.
"Always so eloquent with his residents," she mutters. You chuckle in agreement while turning to glance back at his retreating figure, catching the thumbs-up he shot over his shoulder as if he knew you would look.
When you turn back to face Samira, she's already watching you with an entertained look. "I take it he's in one of his moods, since I didn't see him lecturing you."
You release a soft scoff, "Yeah, whatever you can call that mood, he's in it." She shakes her head before taking a clipboard with her.
"At least you're getting a good educational opportunity," she nods sideways to urge you along. While you walk side-by-side, she continues, "We got a finger fracture, possibly an open avulsion. If that's the case, what do we have to do?"
"Even if it's an open fracture, we could always treat it like a closed one if the bone fragment is small enough and not significantly displaced. A conservative RICE treatment, together with a splint or cast, could be enough in that case?"
Samira nods. "And if not?"
"If the bone is misaligned and needs internal stabilisation to heal properly, we probably need to call Ortho for on ORIF?"
"Good diagnostic hypotheses, let's see if either is correct," she says with a smile before pushing the door to the exam room open.
***
It's late. Much later than when Robby found you by the nurse station a few hours ago. Hours you've filled with meeting patience and reaching that quota your attending had dangled before you like a carrot, not the revenue maximisation Gloria kept reminding him about.
The man with a finger fracture you'd helped Samira with ended up being a case for ortho. You didn't manage to follow more than a few minutes of the meticulous work of hand surgery before you were pulled into one of the two trauma rooms to aid in a sternal fracture case due to blunt force trauma. Then it was an elderly woman's failed pacemaker. After that, a teenage boy who attempted some stupid TikTok trend and blacked out.
In other words, you'd been busy. Like always. Only finding time to scarf down a protein bar in between cases, one bite between each.
While the snack did little to replenish your long-term energy reserves, it was enough to stave off hunger and the headache you'd been fighting since midday. Unfortunately, you felt it creeping right back the longer you stared at the screen in front of you.
Since... you don't know how long, but it's been a long time in ER standards, you've been stuck at your station, finalising your charting of the patients you've seen over the last few hours.
All but one are done; the final journal is open and waiting in front of you. But you find yourself unable to finish it, simply staring at the blinking marker in the blank square you were supposed to fill out.
You close your eyes, running your hands over your face as you slump forward.
A stinging sensation rises behind your eyelids; your eyes dry after sitting in front of a screen for too long. In an attempt to rub away the burn, you press the heels of your palms against your eye-sockets. It does little to actually relieve you from it, even if it feels good to block out the fluorescent lights.
With a soft groan, you open your eyes once more, blinking away the tears that have gathered beneath your lids.
A shift in your upper vision prompts you to crane your neck, your attention moving upwards with a flicker of your gaze once it has focused.
Robby is standing on the other side of the desk, his backpack slung over his right shoulder. Ah, you really lost track of time, it seems.
"Call it a day," he says, settling his elbows on the countertop behind your computer, clasping his hands together.
"I'll finish this because I'd rather not have Gloria on my ass, thank you."
"You know it's me who's going to be on your ass for that and not her."
Your brows raise, head cocking as you give Robby a look. He mirrors it right back at you, which makes you lean back in your chair, arms crossing.
"You pushed me to see my daily quota of patients, which also means finishing their charts, as far as I'm concerned." You say, not really able to hold off on letting a smile tug at your lips. "So I didn't think you'd complain?"
"It's me who has to deal with you in the mornings and-" he tips his head in that emphasising fashion of his as his brows scrunched together, eyes narrowing as he watches you, "-throughout the day when you mope around, complaining about your coffee not helping because you couldn't sleep."
Robby was probably right. Scratch that. He is right. You always felt like caffeine did jack shit if you hadn't slept at least a few hours.
"I'll be fine," you huff out amusedly because Robby had clocked that character trait of yours, going back to watch your screen. "Worry about yourself instead."
In the upper part of your periphery, you see his mouth drop open as an oh preceded his question, "Calling me old?"
"Only one of us doesn't wake up with a back-pain because they slept badly." Your eyes flicker to him momentarily, meeting his as he looks down at you.
Robby huffs lightly, doing that minimal side-ways jerk of his head as he stands straight, tapping his palms against the flat surface he previously rested his weight on.
"Don't forget beers," he reminds you, pointing a finger in your direction as he pushes away from the desk. "We won't save one for you if you run too late!"
"What you don't know is that I've bribed Donny to!" You don't see Robby's reaction, eyes focused on the screen as you begin writing, but you catch his chuckle.
You smile. the kind that is slow to grow and remains far longer than it should. One of those you would never admit to having if someone pointed it out, and certainly never would let slip if face-to-face with Robby.
It's complicated, your relationship with Robby. Or, really, it isn't. He's your attending, has always been, even if your title has changed.
You met him during your final rotation in med-school. Back then, emergency medicine had already called your name.
The fast pace and adrenaline rush were something that equally excited and intimidated you. Not because you were afraid of the work itself, but because you were aware of the importance of knowledge and experience. Both of which you knew only got greater with time.
Choosing a speciality-focused rotation when it was offered by your school was therefore a no-brainer. That's why, when your fellow med-students continued their rotations, you stayed for a whole year in the ER.
During those twelve months, you grew comfortable with the work you'd previously only read about in course literature and medical journals. Likewise with those you worked with. The nurses, residents and, of course, your attendings.
You met both Robby and Jack —still Dr. Robinavitch and Dr. Abbot back then— within your first two months. Doing one whole rotation with the day and night shifts to familiarise yourself with the ER as soon as possible.
With Jack and the other night-shifters, you experienced the versatility of the injuries the department had to handle and the severity of some of them. You learned to stay calm, push yourself despite the discomfort of being thrown out of your natural circadian rhythm.
Despite Jack's stoic and straightforward approach to teaching, you found that you performed even better under Robby's supervision when you switched to the day-shift. Not because he didn't share some traits with his fellow attending. He didn't hesitate to give you a stern look and equally clipped comments if you made an entirely avoidable mistake. But he was... friendlier, felt more approachable than the retired combat medic.
Even if you now know Jack wasn't as hard-shelled or unapproachable as he seemed, actually opting for more positive reinforcement than his fellow attending. Robby always took the time to share his experiences with you, most often on the go, as you briefly joined him during his usual rounds between patients and residents. He'd answered your questions with anecdotes and recommendations of journals, all of which you soaked up like a sponge.
Robby made it easy for the med-student you'd been to feel like you weren't simply in the way, but a doctor in training. And it was during the day-shift that you grew the most, learning how to put your knowledge to use.
When looking back at it, the most memorable parts of your rotation were instances when Robby's knowledge impressed you. When he presented different pictures of a case because he thought that something had been forgotten or overlooked. Always with the sort of understated confidence that only came after decades of experience.
God, you remember the first time he supervised a case you participated in.
You'd presented your preliminary hypothesis, your eyes, which had been fixed on the patient up until then, switching to him, waiting for some sort of confirmation from your attending. You'd been correct, yet listened avidly as he elaborated on possibilities you still should consider.
But that memory was only second to when you'd witnessed Robby in action for the first time. When he was the one dictating the room and not solely surveyed someone else doing it.
If not for the rush and focus on following orders as he calls out only lateral sounds upon inspecting the lungs, you would've marvelled at Robby. He didn't hesitate even though the chest X-ray and CT scan hadn't returned to confirm his suspicion of tension pneumothorax. The low blood pressure, high BPM, and mediastinal shift were enough to confirm his call and rule out hemopneumothorax simultaneously.
You probably fucking did watch him with wide, glittering eyes if the smile he broke into was anything to go by once he looked at you after the chest tube was in place. He'd offered his fist for you to bump, making you laugh with his comment of 'Your first chest tube', to which you replied 'I think you should say that when I actually did it myself.'
The line between the work and the man had been clear in the beginning. Although as time passed, you realised that the more you worked with the man, the more you looked up to Robby. Not only as a doctor, but as a person.
You knew it wasn't unheard of. Med-students gravitating towards their attendings, that was. They were someone reliable, steady, in an unfamiliar surrounding.
You'd thought nothing of it, as it made itself known so late into your rotation. But it was a whole different story when you returned for your residency.
After your time at PTMC during med-school and your school's connection to the hospital —and that you worked your ass off to get it— you were granted a spot in their residency program.
You'd thought some of the people you'd gotten to know would be happy to see you again, but hadn't quite expected Dana to meet you with a hug, Samira beeline to you rather than the lockers when she arrived, Donny to clap you on the shoulders from nowhere with a big grin, or Princess and Perlah smiling and waving from where they stood huddled together.
You'd certainly not expected Robby to halt in the middle of a step and move towards you with a smile as you hung out by the nurse station, waiting for the same man's welcome-to-your-first-day huddle you'd already experienced once. He'd welcomed you back personally and spoken to you for a few minutes before he patted your shoulder and excused himself to dump his stuff in his locker.
No, you hadn't anticipated receiving such a warm welcome back. Nonetheless, it had made you carry a big smile throughout your whole first day as a student-doctor and reignited… whatever it was you'd felt as a medical student towards Robby.
It had been both exhilarating and infuriating. You'd strived just the tiniest bit harder to earn his praise, compared to the 'good jobs' or 'great calls' from senior residents or other attendings. It shouldn't mean more, but the back-straightening excitement which ran down your spine had argued it did. In fact, you'd preened inside if he sent you a thumbs-up and a smile, or you caught one of his low hums and nods to agree with your examination.
Your childhood dream of becoming a doctor, a good one, was equal parts blessing and a curse.
You had the work ethic; you wouldn't have even made it into med-school otherwise. But because you focused so much on always doing better —for yourself and your career, mainly, but also a teeny-tiny part for him— Robby had noticed. And when he'd noticed, he'd kept you closer by, followed your progress with attentive eyes, no matter if you performed an incision, stitch-up or IV, or aided a senior resident or him with an emergency.
You didn't get distracted by it in the moment, remaining single-mindedly focused on stabilising the patient, regardless of the injury's severity. But after your twelve hours were up and you returned home, you had a hard time forgetting the things that happened. Mind lingering on your shift for more reasons than the patients you'd succeeded or failed to help.
The way Robby moved past you, big hands settling on your back or hips to alert you of his presence so you didn't stumble into him in the hectic Trauma rooms.
When he gestures for you to take over from him, your fingers brushing as he provides you with the tools, offering instructions in a direct, step-by-step manner. Of course, he stayed to supervise you, always doing so from behind and over your shoulder to not be in your way but also able to step in quickly if things went awry.
Then, of course, there's that one time that you still couldn't help but think back on today.
It was almost a hilarious repeat of fate, the déjà vu heavy from your med-school rotation. Low blood pressure, high BPM, and mediastinal shift: a tension pneumothorax. Only this time, Robby turns to you with the chest tub, leaving you to perform the insertion. He'd reassured you he would guide you, and you'd nodded.
That's how Robby ended up behind you, crouched to get closer to your level and hands on yours as he coached you through your —actual— first chest tube. You remember how close his face hovered beside yours as the two of you watched the screen, following the white tube slip down the patient's throat. Low-spoken pointers were given here and there, brushing over the shell off your ear, until it was properly in place.
It was a wonder Robby hadn't felt your hands shake in his that day.
You can't pinpoint the day and time, but whatever it was that made your heart beat faster when you spotted Robby slowly faded as you progressed through your first year of residency. Without a breakdown. Just quietly. Probably because Robby never seemed phased by your proximity and never really did things that could be considered more than friendly-colleague-ish, even to your overthinking mind. And, like most things that never progressed, they fizzle out.
Entering your second year of residency, the once starry-eyed picture of Robby you had as a medical student shifted into something more anchored in respect. Respect for how he kept himself afloat after every gruesome thing he'd seen, or handled family situations you would've found yourself stumbling for words to manage.
Now, you considered Robby... friends were a stretch, but colleagues were too little, just like with everyone else in the Pitt. Most of you didn't see each other outside of work, but with he shit you experience each day, you weren't just coworkers either.
Then it was the fact that you and Robby just seemed to levitate towards each other more than you did with others.
Whatever you shared was something to keep the spirits up in a place that otherwise could swallow you. Trading quips by the nurse station and supporting each other during an emergency. It was easy to be around him and work with him. Too easy, sometimes.
Fine, you had to rationalise yourself into accepting what Robby should be to you rather than entirely abandoning the fantasy where you wished for something more.
That's why, in the same breath as you could admit he's handsome and that you had definitely thought about him in more than friendly ways, he is still your attending and old enough... anything between the two of you outside of work would have people doing a double take.
You would never admit to any of it, because it would be such a disgusting cliché thing. And, you guess you've hidden it well enough as you never caught a whisper going around or felt the curious glances from the nurses, who you knew were always the first to know about these things.
But if Robby didn't unknowingly do it damn hard sometimes, like the way he now cranes his neck backwards as your shoes hit the gravelly path after crossing the road to the park.
His glance was quick, only to confirm it was you. But there's a quirk in his lips as he holds up a beer bottle.
He'd pinched the neck between his index and middle fingers, keeping it steady with his thumb as he held the unopened bottle upside down. Even so, you recognised the label of your favourite beer.
"Thought you wouldn't spare me one?" You hum as you pluck the bottle from his grip.
You feel Robby following you with his eyes as you walk around the bench he's sitting on. Meanwhile, you send a smile in greeting to Donny and Perlah on the opposite side, as they'd also noticed your added presence.
"You looked too miserable earlier, so I took pity on you."
You turn to face Robby as you plop down beside him, sliding your backpack from your shoulder as you do. "Remind me to use that line on you in the future."
The sides of his mouth jerk upwards as he huffs a laugh through his nose right before raising his beer can to his lip. You hide your own smile by turning to your bag, beer wedged between your thighs.
Your last meal had been that sad excuse of a sandwich in the afternoon, and though your stomach hadn't audibly grumbled, you could feel it churning. Knowing you wouldn't enjoy your drink on a near-empty stomach, you rummaged through the side pocket of your bag to fish out a protein bar.
An exhale that bordered on a snort came from beside you. You glance at Robby, who observes you as he sips his beer. While sitting up straight, you rip open the wrapper with your teeth, stretching the snack towards him.
Even if he doesn't object, Robby scrunches his face in a mock expression of disgust. It makes you scoff, but still, you hold the protein bar steady as he grabs the end and starts ripping off an uneven half.
He wiggles the piece to break it off from the remaining one in your grip, a thin web of caramel connecting them, until it breaks and covers mainly your fingers.
"Smooth," you remark. Robby only chuckles with a shrug.
You lick the sweetness from your fingers before you, much like the man beside you, dig into the snack.
It's not the first time you've shared your food with Robby, nor the first time he's gotten a drink for you. While it may not always be an even trade of half a protein bar for a bottle of beer, similar exchanges have happened before.
You've earned a reputation for always carrying around some sort of snack. It wasn't your fault that people who'd worked longer in the Pitt still had shitty abilities to plan ahead, whereas you knew how convenient it was to order a box of protein bars or some other on-the-go snack each month to keep in your locker, especially with how sparse the time for actual meals was during your shift.
Your attending had certainly not been the first to ask if you had anything to spare. Of course, he'd know about it; it was his department. He'd even witnessed firsthand how someone sidled up to you in the middle of a conversation between you, only for you to not miss a beat answering his question whilst retrieving whatever this month's snack of choice was to hand it to them. The first time, his head had cocked, and his brows jumped. Now he was used to it.
But Robby had never asked, still didn't. It was you who handed him a protein bar, or dropped a pocket-sized candy bag on the screen of the iPad he held. Always square in sight and when he couldn't object.
To see your attending take a pause, have something other than a coffee, or an occasional sip of water, was rare.
You'd noticed those traits of his as early on. However, it wasn't really until becoming a resident that you spared enough attention to learn other people's habits and remember them as well. And that's kinda how it all started.
On a random day, you'd asked Robby if he'd eaten anything. You already knew the answer, so when he shrugged, you hadn't been surprised. Without hesitation, you held out the protein bar you'd specifically brought to give to him.
Robby, being Robby, tried to reject it. Eat it, you. But you informed him you'd already eaten and slipped it into the pocket of his hoodie, walking away before he could give it back.
A satisfied kind of giddiness coursed through your body when you later found him snacking on it while talking to Dana in one of those few lulls during the day.
You know Robby is a grown man; he's older than you by double digits. He could take care of himself, had for this long, and you weren't aiming to force a change in his habits. But that didn't mean you enjoyed the appreciative glances and comments he directed at you when you seemed to read his mind, or mood, and gave him something to eat.
Not long after the little habit began, you noticed Robby started returning the favour. Getting you a coffee if he got one, or filling your water bottle.
You'd commented on it once, but he'd only cocked his brows, head tilting, as his attention moved from the patient board to you. If I didn't, a bill would probably end up in my mail at the end of the month, I know the salary residents live on.
Despite barely visible through his beard, you caught a hint of a smile. You only rolled your eyes and amusedly shook your head before sipping the coffee, having grown pleasantly surprised when you realised it was made just as you liked it.
"Don't choke yourself."
Your eyes flicker to Robby as you push the remaining part of the protein bar into your mouth. His gaze is already set on you as he wipes his finger unceremoniously on his pants, trying to get rid of the sticky residue of melted chocolate.
You chew and swallow before you reply, "Sorry, not all of us have mastered the art of starving ourselves."
He hums as his mouth kicks up into a smile. "You'll learn."
Shaking your head, you finally undo the screw cap of your beer and take a swig, washing down the residual bits around your teeth, simultaneously tucking the now-empty wrapper into your bag.
"Hey Doc-" you can't believe how that nickname actually stuck, yet your head automatically turns towards Mateo who's looking at you "-you playing along?"
The usual suspects on these nights have formed a kind of semi-circle around him. Javadi, like always, tagged along, even if she sipped the beer given to her sparsely. Samira, who'd begun joining more frequently, was to her left. Santos and Whitaker both sat on Mateo's other side.
All of their eyes now trained on you.
"What game are we playing?"
"Never have I ever," Mateo says with a broad smile, shaking the beer in his hand, implying it's not the sober kind.
"I'll pass this time, thank you very much," you laugh in return.
"Don't let the elders make you into a bore," he chuckles in return.
As you notice Robby's head turning the same way as yours in the corner of your eyes, the nurse earns a hasty, panicked look from Javadi.
"Oh, I'm racking up my karma points by being a Good Samaritan, taking care of the senior citizens and all that, you know?" You feel Robby's eyes shift to you; that's precisely why you turn to him with a smile edging on too sweet and a tilt of your head. "Ain't that right?"
He cocks his brows as he scoffs. "Yeah, sure, tell yourself that."
You look back at the group of people, noticing the expressions ranging from stunned to amused. When your gaze catches Samira's, who's shaking her head in disbelief, you send her a wink. Countless times, she has remarked how she could only dream of escaping a verbal sparring with Robby unscathed if she ever attempted one.
Knowing you wouldn't participate in their drinking game, the group of people returned to talk amongst themselves as they began.
With an entertained smile pressed into the rim of your bottle, you turn forward, tuning in on the conversation between Donny and Perlah, the same one Robby was a part of. But much like him, you enjoy the setting without contributing much to the discussion. Laughing along, making a comment here or there.
Sitting down and taking a moment to reflect on the shift was sometimes needed to decompress and feel like it's alright to let it go before heading home. Today hadn't been a tough shift, but the week had been more stressful than usual. Nothing major, just the sheer amount of emergencies that had rolled through your doors and the growing queue in the waiting room.
You don't know if it's because you've forced yourself to focus for so many days straight, that your attention now strayed so easily from the conversation you'd mainly been a part of to the huddled group to your right.
Despite that your eyes remain locked forward, you listened with one ear to the hushed voices and bursts of laughter.
The 'Never Have I Ever' game mechanic had seemingly been dropped along the game's progression. Now, it mainly consists of random statements they drink to or not, with elaborations coming when pleased rather than when you were the odd one out.
When you can't help but lowly chuckle at the chorus of whoops and comments after Santos admitted to having made out with a girl while drunk, Robby's head angles towards you. It had been low enough only he caught it, yet enough for him to understand you no longer were invested in the same conversation.
"Changed your mind about playing along?" He asks, voice close to a whisper.
You shrug and look at him, your smile shielded by how close you kept the beer bottle to your lips. "Want to join me in my secret participation?"
He huffs amusedly, the shake of his head minimal. "Do I have to get on drunk-duty?"
"Loosen up, Robby, they say being around young people also makes you feel young." You tease him, jutting your elbow gently into his arm.
"I don't think that's how the saying goes," he says sceptically, but with brows humorously narrowed.
"I have never found a patient hot!"
You glance towards the group —not taking note of who drinks or not— before your eyes move back to Robby.
With arched brows, you drink, daring him to play along. A smile pulls hard at the corners of your lips at his disgruntled noise, which is followed by him raising his beer to drink.
"My first kiss was bad."
"What are these questions?" Robby mutters as he rubs the side of his face, brows pulled together for an entirely different reason now.
You quell your chuckle. "Didn't think they would ask what's better between treating obstructed bowels or sanitising the trauma rooms, did you?" Robby sends you a look, but you meet it with an inquisitively raised brow. "So, bad first kiss?"
He sucks the inside of his cheek against his teeth, lips rolling as he winces slightly. Robby jerks his head, even if it's more a twitch of his chin, before he drinks. His expression makes you snicker because you know he must have thought back to it.
Unable to resist, you teasingly ask, "Do you even remember your first kiss?"
"I do, and it wasn't good." Your smile widens, and you have to force your laugh through your nose so it isn't too loud.
His brown eyes fall —you guess at the way you tap the bottle against your lip rhythmically, but don't tip it to drink— before they meet your gaze.
"No need to lie if they don't even know you're participating," he comments.
You tip your bottle to the side, flashing him a grin. "Some of us are just born with it."
He rolls his eyes and looks away again, humming a non-committal, highly doubtful 'mhm'.
Despite having questioned the topics, Robby doesn't opt out as the two of you secretly play along while pretending to still follow the conversation between the nurses opposite you.
On most of the questions, your and Robby's answers are the same. Been close to fainting during a trauma? Neither of you drank. Skinny-dipped? Yes. Made a fool of yourself when drunk? Yes, and you made a mental note to ask him about it at a later date because you had never seen him drink more than a few beers, so that intrigued you.
On others, you disagreed. Drunk dialled an ex? You had, not Robby. Have a patient ever given you their number? You took a sip, shooting Robby a surprised look when he didn't.
Then, Whitaker throws out a question you scrunch your nose at.
I've never slept with anyone.
If you don't imagine it, a somewhat awkward silence briefly settles over the group, until Santos questions why on earth Dennis would ask the question if he hadn't done it himself. That breaks the ice, and most of them chuckle and move on without delving into the topic of who has or hasn't any further. But you don't catch what the next question is, as a bump to your shoulder redirects your attention to Robby.
"In case you missed the question, drink." You'd seen him drink. Hadn't expected anything else, really. What you also noticed was how he'd glanced at you through the corner of his eyes as he dropped his beer, like he was waiting for you to do the same.
"Oh, I heard it."
The edge of his mouth jumps upwards, his head rolling to look at you better, apparently taking your hesitation for something other than what it was.
"Was your first time so bad you don't even want to think about it?" He reuses your previous remark. It makes you huff, head dropping into a shake.
You should probably deflect, drink to drop the topic and move on. But you find yourself unable to raise your bottle, leaving it to create a watery ring against your scrub pants.
You don't say anything, only shoot Robby a smile that probably looks as half-assed as it feels, following with a kind of defeated rather than nonchalant shrug if you continue the same trend.
Even if your eyes fall to watch yourself trace the rim of the bottle with your index finger, then the group who continues with their game, you don't miss the way Robby's eyebrows shot up as he registers what you said without saying a goddamn word.
His eyes are heavy enough that you feel them on you. It makes it difficult for you to concentrate on what Samira is saying, eventually forcing you to turn back and face him.
When you find Robby with his brows furrowed, enhancing his eleven lines and the wrinkles on his forehead, you question him with a "What?"
He blinks, head tilting questioningly. "Are you saying...?"
You would've let out a bark of laughter if it hadn't pulled everyone's attention. Instead, you settle for leaning slightly towards him. "I'm flattered that you give me the benefit of the doubt."
Brown eyes stare at you unwaveringly, remaining silent for a moment as he studies you. Then he drops his chin slightly. "Really, a virgin?"
Nothing points to it, but Robby must be tipsy because there's no way he would ask you to spell it out for him otherwise.
"Yes, I am. Any more questions, or can I wait until my gyno appointment?"
But he won't drop it, you realise when he shuffles closer, passing it off as putting down his beer on the ground rather than closing the gap between you.
Although a foot shrinks to a few inches, he keeps his voice just as low as before, his question sounding more like a sound caught in his chest than spoken words, "Why?"
You should've just drunk and escaped this conversation entirely. Now, your heart is rushing, and you resist the urge to squirm in your seat. You could've skipped this conversation by simply drinking, saving yourself from disclosing your sex life to him, Robby, your attending. But no, of course, you didn't think that far ahead. Didn't consider that he was just as down-bad for gossip as anyone else in his department.
You take a slow sip of your beer, but that distraction only lasts so long before you sigh, slumping against the backrest of the bench.
You can't dig your grave any deeper, and Robby is a friend, anyway.
Your arms wrap over your stomach and you tap the bottle against your elbow as you try to mentally ratify your decision to actually indulge him with an answer.
"It's not that I haven't wanted to, I do, but no one has ever been interesting enough in the end... I guess," you mumble. Hopefully, Robby catches it because over your body buried six feet deep, will anyone else hear a word of what you say. Samira is the only exception as she already knows.
Robby crosses his arms over his chest, watching you with a tilt of his head, eyes slightly narrowed. It's similar to how he watches you —anyone, really— when you present a case, fully present and giving you his undivided attention. You have no problem holding it usually, but now, you find your eyes falling to the ground as you nudge a pebble with your shoe.
"So, how come no one passed then?"
Your eyes widen, your eyebrows shooting up, unable to wipe the disbelief from your face as you snap to watch him. "My sex life so intriguing to you?"
"Rather the lack thereof." He sends you a smile, but even despite the teasing air of his comment, the look in his eyes remains overall gentle.
"Having this conversation with you, Jesus-" you scoff out on a low chuckle, yet you find yourself continuing, "Anything to light a sexual spark? Tried to take it further than kissing with some, but... ugh." Your nose scrunches, thinking back to those guys you'd hoped would finally be good enough to take the label off of you.
It wasn't a burden, per se. Nor did you carry it as a badge of dishonour. You've talked about it openly with your friends before. Not shy that you held off for the sole reason that you simply hadn't found anyone it felt right with in the moment, no one that excited you enough to look forward to it changing.
But having this conversation with Robby? Your attending? The man you, without a doubt, had fantasised would soothe the desperate ache only someone else's touch could quell? Yeah, that definitely wasn't like talking to anyone in your closet circle about it.
"The market that bad nowadays?"
"You don't know half of it." You earn a chuckle from Robby as he shakes his head, bending down to grab his beer again.
"A cheers in hopes of you finding someone". He holds his can sideways, letting it hang in the air between you. Enough so you can clink your bottle against it.
"Cheers to that."
Whereas you neck the drink, Robby waits a few seconds, the drink stalling close to his lips as he watches you. Your head jerked in a compulsive side-to-side movement, eyes shutting tightly as your brows knitted together in reaction to drinking too much carbonated liquid in one sweep.
He's swift to take a mouthful of his own drink so you don't catch how he'd observed you. But Robby only needed those seconds to know what urges you to set down your bottle with a sharp clink on the gravel beneath the bench and subsequent heavy exhale that follows as you sit up straight again to focus on Perlah and Danny's gossiping.
Frustration.
***
You should've known better. That's the first thing you realise when you wake up with a pounding head.
You hadn't had much to drink yesterday, stopped at two beers and headed home before nine. You hadn't been drunk, barely able to call yourself tipsy. But, being poorly hydrated combined with your scarce food intake helped fuck all to battle the alcohol you consumed, no matter the amount.
You weren't hungover, no nausea clinging to the back of your throat or flare of disgust at the idea of food. The headache from yesterday had simply intensified into a rhythmic thump in your temples. Your neck felt even stiffer and didn't ease up no matter how much you stretched it.
Groaning, you sit up in bed, head in your hands. There's a dull pulsing across your frontal lobe and the top of your skull. Your whole head, if you're honest. You really fucking hope an Advil or two could ease the pain so you didn't have to power through an entire shift like this.
What it can't do is make you forget yesterday. Your conversation with Robby.
Okay, maybe you were tipsy. You almost fucking wish you had been drunk so you could blame the alcohol for having entertained the discussion and wake up with no memory of it. But you hadn't. And, you remember every detail from it with vivid clarity.
The groan you let out this time was louder.
You could only pray Robby took pity on you and didn't mention it. Despite the many times you'd fantasised about all the hot scenarios this very discussion could arise between the two of you before you fell asleep, you'd never believed it would actually happen. And certainly not as casually as it did.
Your second alarm blears out of nowhere, doing nothing to help the tension behind your eyes as you scramble to shut it off and drag yourself out of bed.
Before you leave for work, you manage to cook a sizable breakfast, complete with painkillers as dessert, and prepare an extra-large thermos of coffee. Gods know you need it.
This early in the morning, the traffic has barely started up. So you arrive at your typical time at the hospital, which is usually about twenty minutes until Robby's usual huddle.
To no surprise, the man himself is already there when you walk through the doors into the Pitt, seemingly just finishing the handover with Jack, the latter heading towards the locker with a parting pat on the fellow attendant's shoulder.
Yet what does surprise you is the sudden but low through-the-teeth whistle.
Halting in the middle of your step, you look sideways, finding Robby already looking at you over the edge of his glasses, holding a paper cup in the air. It's not from the cafeteria, but one of those small, corner coffee shops.
The cup's bottom is tilted slightly toward you, which makes your eyes jump upwards again. Robby is now looking at you with an entertained smile that tugs the line of his beard upwards enough to enhance his crow's feet. He beckons you towards him with a second show that the drink is for you.
"Thought you might need it," he says when you finally reach the other side of the counter he's standing behind, his own coffee on the desk and iPad in hand. You take it from him with a slight scoff at his amusement, which only grows when he speaks again. "Don't forget to hydrate as well, can't live off of coffee."
"That's bold coming from you," you retort, turning on your heel to put your stuff away before your shift begins. And just maybe to minimise the chance of Robby mentioning yesterday.
Even though you catch his chuckle, he doesn't say anything else. Thank god.
When you arrive at the lockers, Jack's just closing his. He looks towards you as soon as he hears you coming.
"Morning," you greet him with as you walk past him to your locker. Jack responds with a nod.
After putting in the code and depositing your stuff, you pull out a strip of pills, popping one into your hand.
"You know we have to report if anything goes missing from the storage." You look at him as you wash down the Advil with the coffee Robby gave you. His eyes momentarily fall to the mug before they return to you.
"Yeah, sure, I'll tell you if I see anything suspicious," you reply with a smile.
He huffs out his chuckle. "Last night took hard on you?"
You keep yourself from giving anything away as flashes from yesterday play on your frontal lobe. With a shrug as you close your locker, you say, "Not as seasoned as you to drink beer on an empty stomach."
When you turn, now with only your thermos and the coffee cup Robby gave you, you see there's a shadow of entertainment in the corner of Jack's eyes.
"Stuff running you that hard into the ground?"
Like always with him, the check-in is wrapped into a quip, but no less probing. Which only has you chuckling as you head out from the corridor, Jack going with you. "Not just yet."
"Good." He says with a nod, which also serves as a goodbye, as he turns right while you continue forward to join the other day-shifters gathered around Robby, not without throwing him a wave in return.
Throughout the rest of the day, you pop Advil like candy each acceptable set of hours after the last one. Doing everything to stay focused throughout your shift.
Considering your first cup of coffee runs out while you'd listened to Robby's brief summary of the night shift, you also follow your attending's suggestion of drinking water. The thermos you brought from home conveniently saved for when that early-afternoon crash hit.
Thankfully, you slept enough to feel the effects of the caffeine as needed, rather than feeling jittery and sluggish simultaneously. Leaving Robby without a chance to remark on your pouting if the opposite had been the case. Not that you gave him many chances to talk about anything. Especially that particular thing.
You didn't actively avoid him. You just occupied yourself every second of your shift, moving from one task to the next. Going from charting to checking up on a patient. From the exam room to the trauma bay.
That didn't mean you… enjoyed wasn't the right word, but at least felt the tiniest bit of relief that your and Robby's interactions were kept to a minimum today out of all days. But there was no escaping the set of heavy eyes following you throughout your shift.
You know it's Robby. Somehow, you've grown familiar with the particular weight of his attention. Can't say how, but you just know, like a sixth sense. Today you're particularly sure, concerning he's the only one who has any reason to stare at you like that.
But he doesn't pull you aside, no eyes locked and finger swiping sideways to silently inform he wants to talk to you, nor join you by the nurse station and excusing you from the conversation you're having with Dana to do the same.
And you think you've survived when you find yourself by the lockers twelve hours later.
There's only a thirty-minute drive home until your three days off start. You're planning to sleep through one of them. The other two, you'll probably do whatever you'd put off during the past few days of work. Clean your apartment. Wash all the dirty clothes in the hamper. Go grocery shopping.
You're leaning against your locker, letting out a sigh as you stare at the contents inside, zoning out for a second.
What snaps you out of it is when you hear it. Footsteps.
The locker door blocks your vision down the corridor leading to central, but you know who it is. The pace, the distribution of gait, all those small details registering despite the sudden noise of your heartbeat in your ears.
Only when there's a deep chuckle from beside you and a very familiar pair of New Balance's enter the corner of your vision below the locker, do you deflate, the last glimmer of hope you had crushed.
Your head thuds against the locker beside your own with a groan, the door still shielding you from the man at the other side. "I thought I escaped this conversation."
"So you have been avoiding me?" Robby says it with a borderline laugh in his voice.
"No," you mutter, moving to stand straight as you move the locker enough to see him. Robby's watching you with a cocked head, slight smile on his lips.
"We've barely spoken more than a few sentences today."
You cringe a little, knowing he's right. Outside of the Trauma bays or Exam rooms, you've barely spoken more than this morning.
"I have not been actively avoiding you."
His brows raise as he gives you a single nod, humming a 'mhm'. He eyes you, seemingly waiting to see if you'll say something. When you don't, he crosses his arms over his chest.
"Alright, so if I ask why you didn't just lie and drink yesterday-"
"God," you shut your eyes hard as you cut him off with a groan. When you open your eyes, you look at Robby with something close to a plea. "I don't know, I just… didn't drink, okay? Unfortunately, I can't blame the alcohol, and I let you know I would've if it were possible. I could always bullshit the excuse of being tired, which I was, but there's no use lying now. So I- just… forget I told you anything."
"Not avoiding me, you say?" Robby rolls on the soles of his feet as he chuckles, nodding towards you as he muses, "And really? You had a whole speech planned?"
You send him a glare, but it only makes him chuckle again, offering you a smile you pointedly don't return as you drop your head against a closed locker again. This time, he sees you do it. And you see him watching you, which makes your eyes close to block his entertained expression.
"You kinda got time for that when you lament it for a whole day." You mutter into the wood right against your face.
"So… you regret it?" That makes your brows furrow and look at him again.
"What?"
"Telling me about… it?" Thank god that he doesn't spell it out in case anyone heard.
You shrug defeatedly. "Let's just settle on that I should've known better than vent to you about my problems when I could've just gone to Samira like usual."
His eyebrows pinch together. "Samira knows?"
"It shouldn't be that hard to believe, compared to us, I actually see her outside of work."
"We could change that?"
You blink. "What?"
Robby is silent for a second, working his jaw before momentarily glancing sideways. "Maybe-" he begins, arms unwinding from over his chest to use a hand to articulate the word further in an aimless fashion before his eyes seek yours again. "-we could-"
"Start having wine nights and sleepovers?" You ask with a short laugh, turning back to grab your backpack from your locker and sling it over your shoulder. You're burning up from he inside and need to get out of here. You're sure Robby gets over it during his days off, too, and you'll be back on Tuesday with no need to mention it ever again.
But fate seems to be cruel today, because the moment you take your car keys and thermos, you catch it, almost missing the words from how the two metal things clink together.
Majorly, the second part.
Your head whips towards Robby.
He's now standing with both hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, head bent, not looking at you but the linoleum floor, which has grown awfully interesting.
"Sorry?" He glances up at you, something present in his gaze you didn't often see.
It's enough for you to do anything but stare at him.
There's a thumping in your ears, much more prominent than before. It must be your headache returning. But it's not a steady, pulsing sensation that curls around your skull. It's a rush of blood as your heart suddenly skips in your chest, enough to make you inhale sharply to get rid of it. Even so, the vibration remains in the hollow of your throat, a quiver throughout your body.
You couldn't have heard Robby right, could you?
You're smacking your locker closed harsher than you intend, only because you're already moving towards Robby, who hasn't said another word.
For a man as big as him, he's surprisingly easy to navigate when you grip his arm and tug him along with you further down the corridor, using your ID card to enter the closest door with a lock, which so happens to be one of the on-call rooms.
As you step over the threshold, you let go of Robby. He doesn't bolt the second you do, simply follows a step behind and closes the door.
"Can you repeat what you said?" You spin around to face him. The bottle and keys in your hand rattled jarringly together in your haste to do so.
It's a first, feeling the power dynamic between you shift. Usually it's Robby who pins you with his stare, waiting for you to answer him. Now you are watching him intensely while he rubs his neck and bows his head, gaze not meeting yours.
"I-"
"Robby," you cut him off, making his gaze snap to yours from where it wandered sideways. "Please just tell me if I heard you right, because I can hear my headache at this point and I think I'm growing delirious."
He exhales harshly, scratching the back of his head with both hands before they drag down the side of his face, only to bury them in his pockets.
"Yes, you heard right," he admits through his teeth.
"So you did ask, proposed to…" You trail off, mouth staying open as you seemingly can't form the words. But they hung in the air all the same.
He notches his head sideways as he grimaces. "Yeah."
"Oh", you nod once, then again, until you're repeating the movement as you find words, more sounds to be honest, to reply with, "Yeah, alright, uhm..."
"Fuck," he mutters, eyes shutting tightly as his face angles to the roof, only dropping once he continues. "That- that was really fucking out of line, and I should never have said it, so just forget it."
"Robby, wait-" you latch onto his arm before he can take more than a step, halting his action to reach for the door. Surprised, he looks at you, brows pinned high on his forehead.
You swallow, letting go of him, only to rub your palm along the side of your thigh as you break away from his gaze.
"I guess-" you clear your throat, forcing your hand to clutch the strap of your backpack when your eyes trail back to him again. "I guess you caught me off guard."
This time, Robby averts his eyes, one hand running through his hair, only to scratch at his neck. He pushes the air harshly from his lungs. "I get why."
"I feel like I'm entitled to ask this considering things-" you wave your hand aimlessly, "-but why… did you suggest it?"
"I... Jesus-" he jerks his head with a disbelieving chuckle, "-we should not be having this conversation."
"Too fucking late for that," you mumble. Brown eyes lock with yours again.
"If you wanna file an HR-complaint, I totally understand."
"What? No, Robby," you shake your head. "Why would I do that?"
He cocks his brow, pinching his fingers together and using his hands to further accentuate what he's saying, "I'm your attending and I just suggested..."
"It's not forbidden," you interject.
Robby scoffs, his hands dropping. "Doesn't make it less of a potential HR nightmare."
"So, why did you suggest it if it's such a terrible idea?" You disregard the way it feels like your heart deflates a little with the question.
He gives a short laugh, tongue pushing against his cheek as he looks away while shaking his head. You decide not to say anything, observing what is probably an internal battle equal to yours, as you try to grasp how the situation has spiralled like this.
"Whatever you think, just know it isn't to stroke my ego." He heaves out a sigh before glancing at you. "And I'm not pitying you."
"Good, because if you were, I would fail an HR complaint," you scoff. That's enough to make Robby's shoulders drop an inch, not all the way, and not to make him look relaxed, but they aren't as drawn tight anymore. "But, the question still stands, Robby."
"I don't know." He says it slowly, with a slight pause after 'don't,' inhaling before he exhales the 'know'. "I've just been thinking about what you said."
You exhale slowly to wrap your head around the situation, around what he just told you. That he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. What did that even mean? That he couldn't believe it? That it bothered him enough to propose this?
God knows how much you would've paid for him to admit that a year ago, to suggest this. Who are you lying to? Amid the confusion, there's excitement, something chanting 'yes, finally' right now.
But the situation is ... a mess? Fucked? You don't know what to call it other than fuel for your headache that's flared right up again.
"Can we… talk about this more tomorrow, maybe, when I've slept away my headache?" That's present for multiple reasons now.
"Yeah, sure, of course." Robby breathes out.
"I… uh, write to you tomorrow, I guess?"
"You decide if you want to." He says, giving you an out.
With the pounding in your temples, you really can't give him anything but a tight-lipped smile in appreciation because it's just such a Robby thing to do. One that he answers with something similar, if not more strained.
Stepping out of the room did little to slow your thundering heart that triggered your headache even further. If you had caught someone lurking in the corridor, you might just have dropped dead.
Because how could you explain the muffled conversation they would definitely have heard through the walls?
With the way your thoughts were running a mile a minute, it would've been a shit-show to string together a good lie. And if they saw Robby exit the on-call room after you —which you're thankful he doesn't even if no-one is here to catch the two of you coming out of the same room, you visibly flustered and Robby something that wasn't his usual self— you would've scrambled to get a single coherent word out.
Because, what the fuck was that?
Robby offered to- yeah, he offered to take your virginity. Your attending was offering to take your, his resident's, virginity. The very man you've harboured a crush on —because let's face it, that's what it's been no matter what you named it— just suggested he could be your first.
