Summary: Your boyfriend seems to hiding something from you. It might be time for you to take matters into your own hands. Robby edition.
WC: 1.5k
Tags/content: borderline crack fic, implied smut, use of pet names, werewolf!Robby is his own warning, not proof read, gn!reader, if I missed any please let me know!
This is the werewolf version of Logistics of Dating a Vampire
Masterlist
Robby was an avoidant person. There was no argument there. Throughout your relationship, you have learned to work around it. He had been a very loving boyfriend for the better part of seven months…well except for once a month.
It was like he turned into a new person right around the full moon. He wasn’t necessarily a hairy man, but it was like he sprouted more body hair once a month.
You found him in your shared bathroom one morning combing through his beard one morning.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he smiled, grabbing the bottle of beard oil you had bought him for his birthday. Had it gotten fuller? You swear he had used the guard last night. Not that you were complaining! You craved to pull it.
“Hey, baby,” you say, hopping up on the counter. Immediately, he is moving his thick body between your legs and situating his face into your neck. He takes a deep pull of your scent.
“Mm, missed you baby,” he hums as he traces his lips up the column of your neck to your pulse point. His teeth nipping there. It pulls a gasp from you.
His nose drags slowly along your throat again, nuzzling hard enough it pushes you into the bathroom mirror. His thick beard scratches your skin in a delicious way. A large hand holds the back of your head keeping you in place against him.
“Mikey,” you laugh softly, threading your fingers through the seemingly thicker curls of his hair. “You’re being weird.”
“Nuh-uh,” he murmurs against your skin, though neither of you believes it for a second.
His hands settle on your hips, large and warm, holding you steady on the bathroom counter while he crowds impossibly closer. You glance over at your phone where you had installed a moon tracker app on your lockscreen. Yep, right on schedule.
“You smell too good,” he admits quietly.
The words sound ridiculous. Instead, they make a heat curl low in your stomach.
His teeth graze your pulse again-not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath catch.
“MIkey.”
His eyes flick up to yours instantly. Almost black. Focused.
“Tell me to back off,” he purrs, voice rough around the edges.
And why would you do that? He was always a giver in bed, but he was ravenous when he was like this.
It’s when you are picking up the scattered laundry after he has gone to work that you see the shedding on your shirt. Strange.
The sound of Robby’s bare feet pacing on the deck outside woke you up the next night. He had just pulled a sixteen hour shift, he should be dead to the world now. If the pacing wasn’t enough to concern you, the sound of bark being ripped from the tree in the back yard was.
“Mikey, come back to bed,” you call as you pull his robe tighter around you. It was getting colder out, but the cold didn’t seem to affect your boyfriend who was currently butt ass naked raking his fingers through your tree. Concerningly, claw marks scattered the base of the tree. Robby always kept his nails short due to the nature of his job. How was he doing this?
His shoulders were tense beneath the moonlight, broad back flexing every time his blunt nails dug into the bark. Waxing Gibbous… the phase right before the full moon.
“Mikey,” you call again, softer this time.
His head snaps towards you too fast.
Not angry.
Alert.
His eyes glowing, like the eyeshine of a dog. Too bright. Too reflective. His teeth seemed longer as he bares his teeth.
“Mikey?”
“Go inside,” he growls.
“Why not?”
He looks genuinely conflicted by the questions. He knows the answer, but can’t quite explain it himself.
“Need to… do stuff.”
You stare at him.
“You’re naked attacking a tree at two a.m.”
He doesn’t respond. Right. Doing stuff. You don’t think too hard about it as you pull your robe tighter and turn on your heels to head back to bed.
“Carry on.”
The third sign was when you woke up the next morning to discover three hoodies, two couch cushions, and the dirty laundry pulled from the washer in a circle in the laundry room with your boyfriend tucked comfortably between it. If you looked too hard, you’d notice your tennis shoe under his head with a little nibble out of it. Your work bag clutched tight against his chest.
Your weighted blanket-the one he always claimed was “too hot”- had been wrapped almost completely around him.
Oh my god.
Slowly, cautiously, you crouch beside the mound.
“Mikey?”
He immediately makes a low sound in his throat and curls tighter into the blankets.
Your eyes narrow.
“Did you build a nest?”
Two arms are suddenly tugging you down into said nest and tucking you in close to his chest.
“Go to sleep.” That’s not an answer. But you let out a laugh and kiss his chin. He practically vibrates from the contact.
“Mikey, there are six blankets in here.”
“Cold.”
“You run hot enough to qualify as a space heater.”
Another grumble.
Slowly, you reach out to tug your hoodie from under his pile.
His eyes snap open, a warning growl rumbles from his chest.
You freeze.
He freezes.
The silence feels heavy in the room.
Slowly, Robby backs down.
“...sorry.”
You stare at him for a very long moment.
“Michael.”
“Yeah?” he asks sheepishly. His head lowers in a cower. His metaphorical tail tucked between his legs.
“You wanna share something with me?”
His exhausted expression somehow gets even more tired as a blush creeps up his neck.
“Baby,” he signs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s six in the morning.”
That was enough to start your deep dive into the dark side of the internet. Pictures of wolf like men and legends of half wolf and half man span across your screen. There was very little doubt in your mind of what your boyfriend was. This just confirmed it.
The next night, you put your plan into action. You cover your hands, wrist, and neck in your finest silver jewelry. Robby was out back having a beer on the back deck.
The screen door creaks as it shuts behind you.
Robby glances over his shoulder lazily before immediately narrowing his eyes.
“Why are you jingling?”
“What?”
“You’re jingling suspiciously.”
“Am not?”
He takes a step back when you advance on him. You reach to rest your hand on his chest only for him to side step your touch.
“Mikey…” you watch him carefully. “I just want a kiss.”
There was a war waging behind his eyes at that. He badly wanted to kiss you, but also silver. He leans over, sticking his butt out in a comical fashion as he presses a quick kiss to your lips. Careful not to touch any of your jewelry.
“You’ve been acting weird lately, you okay?” you ask as he slunks back over to his beer. He gives you a grunt. Fine, don’t talk.
You tug the dog whistle on the silver chain out from beneath your shirt. When his back is fully to you, you give it a light blow. If you needed further evidence, you have it by the way he collapses to his knees groaning and covering his ears.
“I know what you are, baby.” You smile proud of yourself.
“I’m a doctor.” He tries lamely, knowing he has been caught.
“Michael.” You slowly hold up a tennis ball.
His eyes narrow.
“Oh now you’re just fucking with me.”
With that you bounce it once then twice.. You watch as his head snaps to it.
His entire body goes rigid. He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s physically fighting for his life.
The tennis ball hits the fence with a soft thunk
He lasts a full three seconds.
“Fuck you,” he barks over his shoulder.
You stare at your six-foot-something boyfriend as he sprints across the yard barefoot at alarming speed, snatching the tennis ball out of the grass with both hands like a man possessed.
Ha, cute like a rescued husky.
Slowly, he turns back towards you.
“Mikey.”
“I can explain.”
“You a werewolf?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then looks down at the tennis ball.
“In my defense,” he says carefully, “you threw it weird.”
You burst out laughing. Robby groans as he stomps back towards the deck.
“Sweetheart, please don’t make this a thing.”
“You want to go for a walk?” you cackle as he seems to perk up before he corrects himself.
By the time he reaches the deck, you’re still laughing hard enough your stomach hurts.
Robby points the tennis ball at you accusingly.
“You’re enjoying this entirely too much.”
“My boyfriend is a werewolf,” you snort.
“Lower your voice,” he winces.
“MY BOYFRIEND IS A WEREWOLF.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, already reaching for you.
The second you step into his space, his whole expression softens. Like it always does around you. Big hands settle on your hips.
“You’re not freaked out?” he asks quietly.
“...I mean, I have some questions.”
He huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping against yours.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” you smile. “First of all, you gonna fetch that if I throw it again?”
CW: 18+ Putting all of this under the cut because it's raunchy. P in v sex, cum play, size kink, breeding kink if you squint, dirty talk, fingering (male on female), fluff at the end.
⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚
Robby could feel the last shreds of his self-control fraying as he knelt between your thighs. Two versions of the same man were in the bed—the doctor who wanted to make sure every centimeter of ground he gained in your body was gentle, and the beast that wanted to pound you into the mattress until you clawed bloody welts down his back. That it was happening, that you were finally in his bed, mollified the animal inside; the wolf prowled its cage, snapping its jaws, collared to a hunger that could never be satisfied.
The medicine kept him sane, but it was metabolizing, and that single, inescapable fact set a clock ticking in his mind. Within hours, the last soothing vestiges would be gone.
How would he ever trust himself with you, when even chemically restrained, it took all of his willpower to go slow? Robby knew what he was doing, retreating to his mind to take himself out of the moment. You deserved all of him. He risked glancing up toward your face, watching you watch him, a little notch between your brows as you waited for him to keep going. You deserved all of him. He let the sensations back in, the press of your fingers against his neck, your eager nipples hard against his chest, and your cunt… His vision whited out, then returned, half-mercy, half-punishment. So fucking wet. So fucking tight. It was like his fingers hadn’t done anything at all, your body gripping him like a vice, pliant, slick velvet that parted when he shifted forward, settled more of his weight onto you, his hips beginning to ache from the position. Not that it mattered. He’d break one and get it replaced if it meant getting to do this again, make you moan and buck every time his dick pressed a little further, found your limits, and let the lust in your eyes be the guide for when to continue.
What a screwed-up way to live. Some combination of chemicals and emotions conspired to determine his perfect mate. It could have been anyone, but it was you.
The stakes felt impossible. Robby trembled again, suppressing a groan.
“More,” you kept saying.
“Honey, I don’t want to hurt you.”
If this went wrong, you’d never want him to fuck you again. Everything hinged on his execution. Maybe you didn’t know it, but he did. One of you had to be invested in self-preservation, and it fell to Robby. He believed you, that you wanted it bad, now, all at once, but you couldn’t feel it from his angle, how your body tensed with each micro thrust, how your walls clenched and then gradually released.
“There,” he said. “There.” Each step. Each press. Each time your body relented and another sweet, validating gush of slick flooded around his dick. “Is that good for you?”
“Yes. Fuck. Yes.”
Your mouth slackened and fell open; Robby groaned and shoved his head into the crook of your neck, shaking. You were taking him beautifully, there was no need to rush, he just had to be patient. He rolled his hips into you, gradually at first, then with more insistence.
Fuck her. Claim her. Bite her. Breed her.
He had to fight the urge. Had to.
"Good, baby, breathe, you can take all of me, I know you can."
“Feels incredible,” you murmured, gripping his hair, snapping your own hips. “Feels—oh.”
It was like a rusted release valve cracking, breaking, releasing. Maybe it was the angle or maybe you were just that wet and ready and your combined patience had paid off. You helped him travel that final distance until he was completely enveloped in your sweet, rippling heat. Slowly back out, slowly back in. You were warming to him, fucked out enough to make the next few thrusts easy. Not frictionless, never that, just perfect. You huffed out his name in whispers each time he slid home, lifting your hips to help him rub the spot you wanted.
“Just like that?” he asked through clenched teeth. Your pleasure came first, but fuck if he didn’t already want to pop.
“Yes.”
You were somewhere else, head thrown back, lost, not just gripping his hair anymore but pulling, urging him faster. On his elbows and knees, he sawed back and forth, panting, driving at the thing you both wanted. He didn’t want it to end, but he couldn’t hold on, not when you were saying his name like that, making his scalp burn under your fingers, grinding on him, all the pain and tension gone from your face, your cunt clenching, milking him for everything he was worth…
“I’m close.”
Magic words. Priceless. Robby grinned into your neck, then found your ear and bit down. “Use my dick, baby, come on it.”
“Robby, fuck, it’s so big—”
“I know, baby, and it’s all yours. Use it however you want. Like this? Is this how you like it?” He put a bit more snap into his hips, surging upward, holding briefly every time he bottomed out. You couldn’t answer, you were winding up, shivering and bucking, totally oblivious to how gorgeous you looked in the throes of getting split open and fucked. But he knew and he saw and he committed it to memory. His thumb traveled up your shoulder, your neck, tucking inside your open mouth.
You moaned and closed your teeth around it, sucking as he pumped it in and out of your lips, matching the rhythm of your bodies.
“Good girl, good girl, fuck I’m close, too—”
Close wasn’t the word. Spinning down. Plummeting. Falling into smooth-brained oblivion. Yanked, without warning or care, over a sharp and perilous edge. Your smell was everywhere, your taste still on his lips, your sweat drenching his chest hair, your spit still shining on his mouth…
“Please. Cum inside. I want to feel it—”
That was your undoing, your own words, but his undoing, too. Robby squeezed his eyes shut, destroyed, slamming his face into the pillow beside your head as your cries came out in fits and starts, your nails screaming down his back, the pain only enhancing the searing hot pressure that rocked from his heels to his groin. Drawing up, drawing up, a flash of agony before he couldn’t hold on and let go. You were riding your own wave, bringing him along in part with the quick pulses of your cunt. He could sob, it was so good to finally put his fist through that window, let the air come rushing in, breathe, breathe, groan, pumping you full of himself, life and seed and his heat spread between you. The feel of it seemed to take you by surprise, your eyes bursting open as his cock unloaded, your orgasm rippling through you again, a thrilling little aftershock.
He sank down on top of you, struggling to catch his breath, face still buried in the now damp pillow. Your hands went up and down his back until you had nothing left and you stilled beneath him.
Robby rolled to the side and off of you with a sigh. You didn’t move except to put your hands on your stomach while you gulped down air. Then, you laughed and whistled.
“That was worth the wait,” you whispered. “Geez.”
Robby shifted onto his side so he could look at you, not even bothering to hide his proud, borderline smug grin. There was nothing more beautiful than a freshly fucked woman. Well, I’m addicted to this. You looked blissful, somehow both peaceful and alert. He leaned down to kiss you, softly, restore a bit of equilibrium. Your tongue speared into his mouth. She’s already hungry again. Mine. Mine.
His hand gripped your chin, then explored down your breasts to your stomach, lower, two big fingers hooking into your overclocked pussy, fucking his cum back inside. You arched into the kiss, then gasped and broke away, staring at him. Your hand closed over his wrist, but you didn’t try to stop him. Robby’s fingers slowed, the haze fading enough for him to realize how insane he must have looked.
Mine.
“Whoa,” he muttered, flushing. “Sorry. I…I don’t know what came over me.”
He started to withdraw his fingers, but you anchored him there, staring until he was forced to turn his guilty gaze back to your face. Maybe his skin would just crackle and peel away… Robby cleared his throat, studying your expressions, wary of every twitch of your lips and color shift in your eyes. The silence was nauseating. He clenched his teeth. The need to explain a physical pain growing behind his tongue.
“Is it…Is that okay? I just, uh, I like the idea of it being inside of you.” He swallowed noisily. “Staying inside of you. Christ, it is not getting better the more I talk…”
You squished around playfully on his fingers; on his thigh, his dick twitched, aching.
“It’s just new,” you said. “I think I get it. It’s…yeah, I can see how that’s hot.”
“You can?”
“Mmhm.”
Robby brushed a kiss across your lips. “You’re a goddess. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Not anyone I wanted to hear it from.” You propped your hands on his chest, eyelashes long and dark as you lowered them. He couldn’t tell if you were being genuinely bashful. “Until now.”
He laughed. “Even goddesses need their rest. Let’s get you cleaned up and ready for bed.”
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Robby was still there in the morning. You didn’t know why it shocked you, but it did. He had started snoring at one point in the night until you wedged your shoulder against him and carefully turned him onto his side. He didn’t even wake up, just resettled with a murmur. Normally it was difficult to fall asleep in someone else’s bed, but you had been so exhausted that almost the minute you crawled under the blanket with him, you were out.
Thank God the bed was as big as it was, because it wasn’t unlike sleeping beside a hibernating bear. The ambient temperature in the house was chilly enough that you were grateful for his steady, humid heat. He slept closer to the wall, a mountain rising out of the bedding, such a deep, hard sleeper that you had wondered if he had rolled over and died. But then he would mumble something in his sleep, kick his leg, and banish the thought.
The old school alarm clock on the bedside table read: 6:02 AM.
A crack in the heavy-duty blackout curtains allowed in just enough buttery light to see by. There was a weighted eye mask next to the alarm clock, a case for a molded mouthguard, and a bookmarked book. As I Lay Dying by Faulkner. Your towels were hanging over the open door. The tawny wood flooring was partially obscured by an antique rug. There was an armchair piled with clothes, a full laundry basket, and a closet that ran the length of the wall opposite the bed. A handful of framed certificates and awards were hung on the wall beside the window, along with a tryptic of colorful, modern photographs--city life captured by someone who understood its fragility and its brutality and its necessity.
You could’ve slept eighteen more hours, judging by the weight of your limbs and the pleasant but unmistakable throb between your thighs. But you were trying to make sense of a man. He was a collection of contradictions. You had seen him at work—longsuffering, dedicated, determined, equal parts stoic and empathetic, and you had seen a darker anti-light pouring from the cracks when he stalked toward you in the club. You almost reached out to touch his back but stopped yourself. What was he? A crackling void wallpapered over with medical degrees and distinctions.
Sitting up, you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and swung your legs off the side of the bed. You noticed two ibuprofen and a glass of water were next to the half-read book on the nightstand.
“Those are for you.”
You startled, swinging back around and tucking your thigh up onto the mattress to find Robby sitting up, perhaps observing you as keenly as you had been considering him.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
I’ll never get tired of hearing that, you thought.
“Hey handsome.”
From his boyish smile, it was apparent he was thinking something similar.
“Feeling all right?” he asked, shoving his fist against his mouth as he yawned.
“Yeah.”
“Take them anyway,” he said, and nodded at the pills. “We, uh, got pretty rowdy last night.”
You shrugged and downed the ibuprofen, sipping the water until it was half-gone. “We could be rowdier.”
Robby cleared his throat, scooting closer. A strong, warm arm slithered around your waist, anchoring there. His beard tickled the back of your left shoulder. "Is that right? Duly noted. I didn’t want to assume anything, especially given our, uh, size discrepancies."
“I liked it,” you whispered, not trying to hide your blushing or the mischief in your eyes. “It felt like…” You shook your head, too shy to go through with it. It would scare him off. Men didn’t want to be told intense, lovey-dovey shit after one—admittedly brain-rewiring—fuck. “I liked it.”
“No.” Robby’s tone, firm, directly from the ER, ignited your blood. His teeth outlined the ridge of your shoulder. “What did you actually want to say?”
Fuck. Caught. You reminded yourself that he had driven you home and walked you to your door for weeks without asking for so much as a hand job, so maybe this was the type of romance and connection that could withstand sentimental post-coital disclosures.
“It feels like you’re made for me,” you said. It came out in a single flustered rush. You closed your eyes, waiting for him to stiffen up and withdraw.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Robby pulled you back against him, leaning in to rest his face alongside yours, over your shoulder. “I felt it, too.”
You let out a shuddering breath. “Even your weird cum thing.”
“Okay. Mean.” He chuckled and pinched your ribs. “Get out of my bed, you harridan.”
“Uh-huh.” You escaped his tickling, throwing yourself out of bed, letting that single wedge of light fall over you, illuminating your body in early-morning sunlight. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
“Five seconds, by my count. Come back. Please.” He slumped forward into a worship posture, snorting into the mattress. “My goddess has forsaken me,” he mumbled, voice muted.
“Your goddess is starving,” you teased, wandering back to the edge of the bed. Robby perked up, feeling your thighs graze the tops of his hands. He groaned, wrapping you up, planting his hands on your ass as he kissed his way lazily from your pubic line to your navel.
“Will the goddess humbly accept an offering of DoorDash? Her servant cannot cook for shit.”
You combed your fingers through his hair, laughing. You shook your head, and in doing so, your gaze fell haphazardly on the lower shelf of the nightstand. There was another book there, weathered, beat up, the title so absurd it couldn’t help but capture your attention.
The Book of Werewolves: Being an Account of a Terrible Superstition.
Robby dipped his tongue into your belly button, and your hands stilled on his head. You were trying to make sense of a man; you gazed down at his sweet, sad eyes, wondering if you were making any progress at all.
I’m genuinely imagining Jack and Robby fighting like schoolgirls, tugging hair and scratching and name calling as they fight over whether to turn reader into a vampire or a werewolf so they can be together forever (idk the logistics of werewolf aging so bear with me)
oh i think they would have a lot of fights in that relationship lmaooo
first thing's first, robby is hairy. it gets everywhere. the shower is so disgusting. it's actually a problem you don't have to deal with, though. you see, robby is a night showerer, jack is a morning showerer, and you always shower after jack. by the time you hop in, all the hair is gone! so, honestly, you don't really understand why jack is complaining so much.
they fight over raw meat, too. weird. gross. and it happens way too often for your comfort. as someone quite literally made of raw meat who lives with two men who have unfortunately tasted your blood on multiple occasions because they liked it, you try to keep your distance during these discussions.
jack also needs the blinds closed during the day. even if he's asleep. somehow, the second one of you leaves the blinds open, jack suddenly decides that today's the day he's going to wake up early. you like the mood lighting of all the lamps. robby does not.
no italian food is a big one. the risk of garlic kisses giving jack a mouth rash (and thus, no kisses for a few days) is simply too high. bad for robby, who could eat his weight in spaghetti aglio e olio.
oh! and robby just starts pissing on things. that's one that you actually have to put your foot down for. apparently scents are a big thing for werewolves. which is cool, so long as that doesn't mean that robby's fucking pissing on your clothes.
you settle on him pissing outside the house. no objects, too.
Summary: you and Robby had another falling out. Robby is pretty sure “till death do us part” means you’re stuck with him.
WC: 1.3k
Tags/Content: MDNI!!, werewolf Robby, manipulation, toxic ex behavior, reader has an infected wound, not proof read, Robby calls reader baby. Let me know if I missed any!
Masterlist
He really should be here now. He promised to be here ten minutes after eight. It was a quarter till nine now.
Fuck, he really was going to bail out again.
Leave the boxes filled with his things in your living room just so he could have another excuse to stop by the marital home. Fucking ridiculous.
You were stood in front of your bathroom mirror. The fresh bite mark on your neck was oozy and infected. None of the others had become inflamed like this one. You really shouldn’t have let him back into your bed. So, what if he was in rut? He wasn’t your problem anymore. If he didn’t want to be in this marriage fully then he won’t be in it at all.
Robby and you had been going through a “separation” for the better part of half a year now. Robby didn’t agree though. Which is why you were covered in bite marks from head to toe. It was inevitable really. You’d tell him to go screw himself and he would disappear for a few weeks, then the full moon would come around, and he would flash those sad eyes at you. God, you needed a backbone.
You were shoving more of his shit in boxes when the doorbell rang. Robby stood on the porch step; his hands tucked into his pockets and his lips already dropping into a pout. Not this time Robinavitch.
You open the door without any flair, a box full of his medical textbooks on your hip.
“You’re late.”
“What am I late to?” he asks, flashing you those sad puppy dog eyes. “Just coming home to my wife.”
He stepped through the door pausing to take in all of the half full boxes. To him it seemed like this was only a half assed attempt to egg him on. Afterall, you did always like to raise his blood pressure.
“I’m not your wife.” You roll your eyes as you begin taking the boxes outside and to his truck. Maybe it would send a better message for him to get his shit out of your house if you forcibly remove it.
“Um,” he flashes his gold wedding band at you. “This is news to me.”
Maybe he liked raising your blood pressure too.
You round on him in the small living room. “This is not news. I sent you the divorce papers. You refuse to sign them.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, making it appear impossibly larger. “Why would I sign papers that would take you from me?”
That makes a growl claw its way up your throat as you slam the box into the bed of the truck. “I’m not yours, Michael.”
“The bite on your neck says otherwise… so do the ones on your thighs.”
“They were just a lapse in judgement.”
“If that’s what you want to call fucking your husband.”
“Ex-husband.”
He smiles that charming wolfish smile, “No, I’m not. Well, not yet.”
No, he wasn’t going to weasel his way into your life this time. He wasn’t going to say all the right things only to disappear into his work the next day. Not again.
“Listen baby-”
“Try again.”
He murmurs your name. You can feel his eyes trace your backside and the goosebumps they leave in their wake. You lift another box into his trunk to distract yourself. You might be going through a divorce, but that doesn’t stop your body from reacting.
Michael Robinavitch might have his charms, but he would make a better ex-husband. Just as you’re moving around the couch to grab a box, a hand reaches out wrapping around the back of your neck.
“You didn’t tell me you were hurt, baby.” he coos as he spins you around and tilts your head to get a better view of your neck. You could feel his breath on the side of your neck. “You could’ve come to me. You know your husband is a doctor.”
“Ex-husband.”
He tuts at that. “No, I don’t think so.”
This was an oddly familiar position. His hand cradling the side of your neck while his head tilts like he was going to take a bite out of you. He might. Did you want him to? Fuck, you hated that all you had to do was get close to you, invading your senses with his smell, and your knees would turn to Jello. It really wasn’t fair being an omega sometimes.
“Let me take care of you, hm?”
You let him lead you to the shared bathroom off of the main hallway. He lifts you up onto the countertop, caging you between his arms. Instinctively, you tilt your head for him to look before checking yourself. He tilts your head for you with a soft growl. The fight leaves your body. Robby digs out the first aid kit from under the sink. Of course, you hadn’t moved it. It was right where he left it. You hiss as he dabs the bite mark with alcohol and a clean rag. Robby’s fingers hold your jaw still as he works.
“You know, this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn't kicked me out.” he mutters, his eyes focused on the wound. “I could have been here to fix this.”
“This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t let you inside my house.”
“Difference of opinion.”
He places a band aid over the bite mark and steps back to seemingly give you your space. It’s not long before he’s back in the living room digging through the boxes. He starts with his clothes, carrying an arm full of his shirts and placing them in the closet. You trail after him, close on his heels.
“What do you think you’re doing?” you hiss.
“Putting my things away.”
“No, you’re not.” But you hadn’t filled his side of the closet yet. In fact, you hadn’t done anything but put his things in boxes. Empty spaces were everywhere, waiting for his things to go back in their rightful spot.
“We’re done, Michael.”
He laughs, a deep warm sound. “You say that every time.”
He hangs his shirts next to yours. Color coded. Just how he knew you liked the closet organized.
“You know, I don’t really even know why we were fighting.” He shrugs, blowing the screaming match you had had off. “Tell me you want me to move back home, baby, and I will.”
Oh, fuck him.
“Screw you, Robinavitch.”
“You have. Multiple times. Last week actually.”
You have half a mind to chuck a lamp at his head. It wouldn’t hurt him. Stupid werewolf healing and all that. Was he always this aggravating or was it just close to the full moon?
“What’s for dinner? I’m starving.” Then he is shoving past you and heading for the kitchen. Your kitchen. You’re storming after him just as he throws the fridge door open.
“You’re not staying for dinner. You’re leaving.” You grab his arm and attempt to drag him out of the kitchen. He only plants his feet, forcing you to lose your balance and fall into him.
“Leaving? You don’t really want that.” He reaches up to stroke your cheek. And damnmit, you lean into it. It’s hard not to when you can feel his heat. It's all you can do not to purr at his touch. “You want me to move back in full time, don’t you baby?”
No, you didn’t. Not really. A couple of kind words and playing house with you wasn’t going to fix the issues in your marriage. But why did his touch feel so good then?
“Maybe not full time.” You mutter. “Maybe just on the weekends?”
“Just the weekends.” he nods, pressing a kiss to your lips. He pulls away looking at the clock on the wall. Then he shakes his head with a sigh. “Too bad it's a Tuesday.”
He’s pulling away before you can make a grab for him. Robby doesn’t grab a box; doesn’t even act like he’s going to. Just grabs his keys off of the hook by the door and closes it behind him. Leaving you standing in the kitchen of your marital home, gaping at what just happened. Your eyes catch on the closet down the hallway, his shirts hanging beside yours again like he had never left at all. The band aid on your neck pulls when you swallow. His handiwork. Hiding his mark. Goddammit. Then your gaze lands on the open fridge. He’d already moved the orange juice back to the shelf he liked.
CW: usual warnings for adult language and suggestive content apply, small amount of drinking, flirting, banter, dirty texts and dirty photos. some discussion of body image and muscle/weight gain. another bridge to SMUT TOWN. (18+)
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Robby was still picking leaves and twigs out of his hair when he started home from the cabin. In the warmer months he would take his bike, but with the roads icy and unpredictable, it was more practical to take the car. He had invited Jack up a few times to escape the city in summer. It was the brotherly thing to do, but he also wanted someone to know about the property. Because if Robby disappeared, just didn’t show up to work one day and couldn’t be found, it was likely because something had gone wrong in the woods. He didn’t like the idea of his coworkers worrying on his behalf. Suffering.
Otherwise, he kept these trips a solo endeavor, but with two hours of road ahead of him, it was hard not to wonder what it would be like to bring you along sometime, show you the spot on the dock where he liked to sit and watch the sunset. The air there was different. The property was so remote, you didn’t have to try hard to imagine the world beyond the trees just didn’t exist. The solitude could be dangerous for him, but with someone to share it with, maybe it would just be peaceful.
Fantasy. Delusion. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. The bags under his eyes could carry bricks. Even after the transformation had let go and he had stumbled back into the cabin to sleep on a real bed, the guilt wouldn’t let him rest. The guilt was eating him alive. He didn’t know how much longer he could just lie and lie and lie. He had fucked up, let you in and let you stick around long enough to become load bearing in his life. Even if you weren’t made for him, and you were, he had stopped questioning that weeks ago, he wasn’t convinced he had the fortitude to end things.
Sometimes, when you glanced at him with those huge, smitten eyes, he could feel his heart breaking and remaking itself. The lie would cease to exist. He would allow himself to think that he was the man you thought he was. And it felt so good. So right.
Terrifying.
But each time Robby picked up his phone to invite you over for The Talk (in weaker moments to say you needed to slow down, in flashes of moral clarity to confess his secret) he faltered.
Coward.
“Hey honey,” he muttered to himself, glaring at the cars ahead. “I’m a werewolf. That’s no big deal, right? We’re good? Christ.”
But what was the alternative? You were capable. Smart. It was only a matter of time before you started fitting the pieces together. He had only completed one cycle off of the meds, but the physical changes were undeniable to anyone with rudimentary observation skills. He had stopped at a big box store on the way up to the cabin to buy a pack of XL shirts. Large wasn’t cutting it at this point, not through the back and shoulders. Maybe you could inherit his favorite band tees that wouldn’t fit anymore. Maybe that was a harmless way to soft launch the conversation—
“And maybe we’ll go tapdancing on mars.”
Robby pulled off the interstate to gas up. He turned his phone back on, having killed it to make sure he didn’t text you anything insane while he was in the liminal space between man and wolf. A few texts from you came through—some pictures of dogs at the shelter, all of which poked mercilessly at his piningly domestic side, a message wishing him a smooth time with the plumbers, a joke about something finally being too wet for him, and a mirror selfie with your new bag. You looked gorgeous, dolled up but not over the top.
Grabbing dinner with Cassie. How does it look?
You had sent it the night before. If he didn’t have to disappear every full moon, he could’ve been there, taken you out, showed you off. Every tiny courtesy and gesture seemed to blow your mind wide open. He had never really thought much about spoiling someone, but the way you seemed genuinely flustered by it made it immensely enjoyable. At least you hadn’t stayed home alone. He didn’t like leaving you behind; the idea that Blake was somewhere, scheming, hunting, was never far from his thoughts. If something happened to you while he was gone…
Robby squeezed the bridge of his nose. Just got service back, he messaged. You looked beautiful last night, baby, wish I could’ve been there. Can you be ready by noon today?
Shit. That morning, he had just grabbed his bag and jumped in the car. If he was going to head straight to pick you up, then he would have to do something about his…state. There were things under his nails he couldn’t identify, dirt caked into his beard, last night’s sweat drifting up from his pits. He bought a few toiletries in the mart attached to the gas station and paid fifteen bucks to use the truck stop shower. The room smelled like a public beach bathroom; he supposed it could be worse. He had the place to himself. Jeans on, shirt still in his hand, Robby went to the mirror to check how badly he needed a shave.
It wasn’t a stranger staring back at him, but the signs of a recent transformation were hard to miss—the longer, snarling tangle of his beard, the scratches from branches and stones crisscrossing his forearms, a lingering swollen quality to his shoulder muscles. The image was less repulsive than he expected. He even wondered if you would like it. And, he thought with a shy smirk, he still owed you after that particularly memorable bathroom selfie you sent. He took his revenge, flopping his shirt over one shoulder, sticking his free hand just into the waistband of his jeans, sucking in, and taking a picture.
This is so stupid.
A truck stop bathroom! How romantic! What next, a blurry dick pic? He sent it before he could overthink it, then regretted it. But he was already dressed and headed back toward his car, and he wasn’t about to rush back into the bathroom to try again. Immediate doubt washed over him as he sat in the driver’s seat and watched your little text dots pop up. Shit. How would he explain the scratches if you noticed them? The more he looked at the picture, the more evidence of his condition jumped to the fore—the hungry tilt to his eyes, the thicker swirls of hair over his chest and belly. At least he had scrubbed the dirt out from under his fingernails.
He ordered himself not to start the car until you responded, otherwise he would be driving distracted.
You were taking forever to message back.
I shouldn’t have sent that, he hastily typed out, his thumb over the send icon when your response finally came through.
Thank God I’m still in bed.
Robby swallowed, parsing through the stream of responses that swamped his mind, eyes sweeping the gas pumps before reaching down to adjust his abruptly tight pants.
Sleeping in?
I’m wide awake now.
It was juvenile, but your interest did give his ego a bump.
I’ll be home soon, baby.
Not soon enough.
Pack an overnight bag and we can go in together tomorrow.
Robby smiled to himself and started the drive. He had two full hours to consider how he might leverage that picture against you, to your mutual benefit, of course. He could get you into bed immediately, which was tempting, but maybe it would be more fun to watch you squirm. That was the wolf talking, and he was becoming more and more vocal. The wolf wanted you to show him, over and over again, how much you wanted him.
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For a number of reasons, you couldn’t stop staring at the photo Robby had sent.
Reason one: Hot.
Reason two: Fuck.
Reason three: You were a medical professional.
Something wasn’t adding up. Robby had demonstrated remarkable dedication to his new diet and exercise program, and you didn’t want to take anything away from him, but the muscle he had packed on in just over two weeks defied your understanding of…everything. A man in his fifties would be experiencing decreased testosterone and, if anything, struggle to show much progress even after months of steady training. But this was a man, thank God, that you had seen naked from many angles. You had felt the geography of his back and shoulders with your own hands, measured the span of his chest with those same fingers, and you were pretty sure you would remember if he was that big.
He looked fuzzier, too, not that you were complaining. None of this was about complaining, just…confusion. Curiosity. Robby himself would probably be fascinated by the rapid changes. He understood the human body, too.
You waited for Robby on the sidewalk, overnight bag resting on your feet, phone in hand and eyes on phone. Eyes on picture. That was how good he looked, you had been reduced to simple syllables, three-word sentences. A few explanations percolated to the surface. That he was using some kind of enhancement. That he was lying about his age. That he was preternaturally athletic despite turning in a mediocre performance at the last PTMC dodgeball tournament. That he… You couldn’t think of many other reasons, but then, your brain wasn’t functioning properly with his hairy chest and feral eyes glowing up at you from the screen.
In fact, you were so locked in on his hot fucking bod, you didn’t notice him rolling up and waiting. The passenger window went down, and his voice shook you out of your horny revery.
“Going my way?”
God, he was so corny, and you loved every second of it. You guiltily stuffed your phone back in your jacket pocket, picked up your bag, and took your time sauntering to the car. You leaned down, biting on your lip, sweeping your gaze across the leather interior, then him. Your lizard brain told you to stuff yourself through the window and crawl into his lap, but you managed to quiet that impulse, at least for now.
“Sorry, stranger. I’m taken.”
Robby slung one arm over the headrest of the passenger side and scoffed. “Must be a lucky guy.” He pushed his lips to one side. “You sure I can’t just give you a lift?”
You climbed in beside him, dropping your bag between your feet. “Hm. All right. Just don’t tell my boyfriend.”
Nodding, he lowered his head toward you for a kiss, and you sank into him with relief, twisting to get a better angle and tangle your fists in his shirt. “Our little secret,” he murmured, gently rubbing his nose against yours.
“Your place?” you asked.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Robby grunted and settled back in his seat, started the engine, checked the side mirror and pulled out onto the street. “Thought we could have a quick date. Catch up.”
You placed your hands on your thighs, trying to ignore the heat thrumming through your pants. Your entire body was still blazing from that picture. “After what you sent me? Are you crazy?”
Robby smirked, ruffling his own hair shyly. “Come on, baby. Won’t take long.”
“You’re torturing me, this is torture.”
“Women have called dates with me that in the past, yes…”
You pinched his ribs, feeling the extra meat in the wing of his lat muscle. Freezing, you stared at where your hand had touched him. Robby didn’t notice for a second, his attention on the road, but at a red light, he saw the vaguely concerned expression on your face.
“Everything okay? We can skip the brewery if you—”
“No, it’s fine.” You looked out the window, trying to collect your thoughts. Body stuff was sensitive for everyone, and you didn’t want your questions to come across as an interrogation. Maybe it could wait. You scrambled for a way to smooth over the sudden tension; you really were glad he was back in town, and you were extra glad he had sent that picture. “I just missed you. Is that silly?”
Robby’s hand molded over your thigh, his warmth, his presence, banishing the flicker of apprehension that lingered in your mind. “I missed you, too, baby. It’s not silly. I know I’ve been scarce the last few weeks.”
You gathered the courage to glance at him again. His eyes were glossy, filled with affection as he hazarded looks at you while he drove. “I just want to take my girl out.”
“Mm.” You lifted both brows. “Absolutely no ulterior motive.”
“Not trying to get me to break or anything. Beg for you to take me back to your place? Nothing like that?”
His eyes went black hot as he stared out the windshield, one hand darting down to his crotch to relieve whatever pressure was building there as he shifted his hips back and forth. You could see your words absorbing into him, changing his posture, and you became aware again of how much bigger he suddenly seemed. Had he always looked so cramped in his own car? You’re being paranoid.
“Is that something you want?” Robby asked, in a rough, unpolished growl that called back to mind the picture of him brooding into a dirty bathroom mirror, his hand dipping into his own waistband like he couldn’t even make a two-hour drive without indulging in filthy thoughts, like he wanted you so badly, so urgently, he just had to prove it there and then. “To beg me…”
It was hard for him to get the words out. Your hand closed over his where it rested on your thigh, sweat collecting under his palm and seeping through your jeans. “Dr. Robinavitch, I do believe you’re blushing.”
His eyes flicked to you, back to the road. “I’m usually a straightforward kind of guy with bedroom stuff.” It was adorable, watching him trip over his own words when you knew from firsthand experience that he could be very interesting in the bedroom. Possessive. Dark. Intense. “But you…” Robby blew out a tense breath, wrinkling his nose. “You make me feel crazy.”
“Crazy good? Crazy bad?”
He chuckled. “Good,” he said. His hand tightened on your leg, thumb stroking along the inside, higher, just enough to tease out his meaning as he murmured, “And bad.”
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Robby regretted his decision to stop for a date before the car was even fully parked. He wasn’t thinking straight, not when you kept pushing his buttons, flirting, talking about fucking begging him, and in the midst of trying to keep the car on the road and at a speed that wouldn’t get you both thrown in jail, he had gone on autopilot. There was a newish brewery he had meant to drive you to on the river, but he had accidentally driven right on by, stupid in his lust haze, and instead wound up taking you to an old standby.
The Pagan Moon.
Yes, brilliant, Robinavitch, take your girlfriend to the wolf-themed bar. Why don’t you start howling and scratching your ear to really drive home the irony?
But it was too late now. It would be more obvious and more suspicious to cut and run when the brewery façade was mere steps away and you were already getting out of the car, shielding your eyes from the late winter sun to admire the towering wolf mural painted on the brick warehouse. Robby pinched his nose and forced himself to join you, replaying conversations he had memorized with himself, the ones about confirmation bias, the ones about how insane it was to assume anyone would put together that he was bitten.
There was a small seating area hemmed in by metal railings in front of the building. Large brewing barrels were scattered around as makeshift tables. The taps and merch store were recessed under a garage-style door. Mobile heaters had been dragged out to make outdoor seating usable in the cold. There had been a thaw, but it was still February, and the real chill of winter wouldn’t leave until at least March. And Robby knew better than to ask you to sit outside when there were a few open tables tucked away inside the garage.
You went hand in hand to the table. Robby volunteered to grab the first round, and you picked out something from the list on the chalkboard by the taps. There was tube TV there playing a movie with the sound off, a staff member’s laptop hooked up to it. Whenever his eyes wandered back to you, which was constantly, by the way, a little jolt of fear prickled at the base of his neck. You were giving him strange looks, not just interested or amused or flirty, none of the usual catalog of faces he had grown to recognize and cherish, but something more penetrating. And each time, you seemed to catch yourself doing it, smiling it off. When he turned back to grab your drinks, paid, then swiveled toward the table, he saw your eyes cut specifically from his face to the TV over his shoulder and back again.
Robby delivered the goods, taking the chair next to yours. He wanted, quite suddenly, to be close. Of course, you had picked a vantage that let you stare at whatever inane bullshit was on the television.
“Sweetheart? Everything okay?” he asked, brow furrowing.
You gave him another placating grin, clinked your glass against his and drank. “Yeah. Yeah.”
Your hand reached for his cheek, then settled a piece of hair that had probably been sticking straight up. It was a sweet, intimate gesture, and it soothed him right away. Robby dodged into your touch, closing his eyes. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you look different.”
Robby stilled. Fuck.
He tried to play it off, smirking down into his beer, wiping the foam off of his mustache with the back of his hand after a bracing gulp. “I’ll tell Ivan you said so.”
“Ivan?”
“My new trainer,” Robby said, laughing. That suspicious glint in your eye had faded. He would beat this drum, he decided, until it drowned out the voices screaming in his head. “Drill sergeant, really. He’s like a kettlebell with legs. So, so mean, I’m probably burning calories from being in fight or flight.”
You laughed, humoring him. “How long are those sessions?”
Robby deflected with another joke, hunching as your attention drifted back to the screen. “I have no idea; I’m in a blackout the entire time.” He followed your line of sight with a sigh. “What movie is this anyway?”
Your eyes widened, a pretty laugh falling out as you nudged him with your elbow. “You’re telling me you don’t recognize the iconic baseball scene from Twilight?”
Robby shook his head, snorting. “Isn’t that vampire stuff?”
“Vampires and werewolves, yeah.”
He watched your mouth say the word. Memorized it. Tried to judge just how natural it sounded wrapped in your lips. How often would you say it to him? When would you know? The world softened and blurred at the edges this way it did when he was on the medicine. He allowed himself to imagine, just for one moment, that this was all normal, that you knew him to the marrow, that his secrets were yours and yours his. And you noticed, drawn to the dreamy, dark quality of his eyes as he dissolved into a reality that didn’t and couldn’t exist. But fuck if it wasn’t beautiful.
“I’m afraid I’ve never seen it,” Robby said, yanking himself back to this slightly less lovely reality. You made it bearable, at least.
“We should watch it sometime, it’s insane, look at the wigs! Look at them playing baseball, of all fucking things.” You took another sip of your drink, your hand finding his on the table, fingers threading. You seemed at ease again, like maybe the story about Ivan had thrown you off the scent. Then you grinned and ducked behind your glass again and said in the most casual possible way: “Team Werewolf all the way, baby.”
Robby blinked. And blinked.
“I thought all the girls were crazy for the vampire kid,” he choked out, remembering his beer, remembering to look at least somewhat human in front of you. I knew you were a woman of taste.
“I mean, I’m not interested in either of these dweebs specifically,” you said, gesturing. “But I’ve never gotten the vampire thing. Who wouldn’t want a big, cozy boyfriend? It’s only a pain in the ass at a full moon. Drinking blood? Gag. No thank you. Cold corpse skin? Creepy. And anyway, you know I’m a dog person…”
You kept going. Nobody had said the L-word yet, but Robby felt himself sliding toward it, out of control, like a man careening down Everest. He squeezed your hand tighter on the table, then abandoned it to wrap his fingers around your upper thigh. He couldn’t help it. Every word made him run hotter, stranger, the thought of you wanting him that way, finding it, of all things, sexy…
You wrapped up your pro-werewolf speech with a quick shrug and finished your drink. “I can get us another round,” you volunteered.
Robby shook his head. Fuck no. He leaned into you, brushing a kiss against your temple and then your ear. He liked the way your breath hitched, how you immediately swung toward him, aching for more.
“I didn’t know werewolf talk got you so hot and bothered. Noted.”
He was glad you couldn’t see his eyes, how the beast, so close to the surface now, appeared in a flash. “I’m just trying to figure you out,” Robby whispered, knowing how you liked his breath to hit your neck, your ear. You didn’t bother trying to hide your shiver of excitement. His fingertips sank into the tempting flesh of your upper thigh. “What makes you think a monster like that could control himself around you?”
He felt very smug until you turned your head toward him, bringing you eye to eye. Your pupils were huge, swallowing everything. There was no mistaking the hunger there. “What makes you think I’d want him to?”
Robby tried not to groan as he swallowed, holding your gaze. Maybe this was the path forward. Maybe if he could prepare you, ease you in… The truth was in his eyes, he just wished you could see it. “Is that right? he asked, low, graveled. “You want to be rougher tonight? Wilder?”
“I told you we could get rowdier. You know, fantasy stuff? Or whatever.”
He didn’t remember bussing the empty glasses or the drive back to his place. He didn’t remember how he had gotten from one place to the next. In a blink, you were following him down the hall to his bedroom, fingers skipping up his arm playfully, a hundred sinful promises in your eyes. One moment you were holding hands at the brewery, the next he was tearing your soft, worn tee shirt in half across your breasts.
“Robby.”
“I’ll buy you a replacement.”
“Jesus…”
Robby caught himself right on the edge, dangling precariously. He brought his shaking hands to your shoulders, watching your chest rise and fall as you made sense of what he had just done. “You said—”
“I know. Fuck. I just…” Your eyes changed, as dark as his own as they traveled up his chest to his face. “I’m sending Ivan an edible arrangement tomorrow.”
Robby smiled, laughed softly. “If you can walk.”
Your cheeks hollowed as your hands reached for the lip of his own shirt, pulling it over his head. He absorbed your mental tally as you took in the new muscles swelling above his shoulders, the denser hair, all the while having no idea those muscles weren’t new but ancient. Something in him was waking up, and you were spurring it along. He leaned down to capture your lips in a brutal kiss, claiming. He reached behind you, unclasped your bra, exposing your sensitive skin to the cold air of his bedroom.
“Safe word,” he whispered, teeth dragging against your lip. “Lycanthropy.”
You giggled but nodded anyway, tilting your head a bit shyly. “Okay. Safe word. What now?”
“Get on the bed.” Robby hardly recognized his own voice. It wasn’t just husky but shot through with a faint reverberation, vestiges of the monster that had come out to play in the woods just the night before. He wanted to come back. He yearned to take over. The cage was splintering. His fingers pushed your fly open then tore the jeans down your legs along with your panties. You stumbled forward, catching his shoulders as he slowly stood, staring down at you in the chilled gloom. “On the bed,” he repeated, touching your face once, his hand large enough to cup the entire right side. “All fours.”
You shivered, biting your lip in that way that made him crazy. “Like a beast?”
Robby didn’t blink. Blood rushed through him in a burning roar. “Like my mate.”
