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hey babe!! do you think u could pls do smut for dean winchester x reader where she’s really tough and mean, she’s a hunter, but when she’s in bed with him she’s all shy and whiny?? :3
hiii !! of course, hope u like it:))
ALL BARK, NO BITE
wordcount: 2623
summary: Out there? You’re stubborn, mouthy and unapologetic– the moment Dean gets his hands on you? It all melts away.
warnings: fem!reader x dean winchester, established relationship, mild arguing, cursing, dean being a smug little shit, brat-ish? Reader, smut (dry humping, groping, grinding, fingering) think that’s all for now!!
“You’re unbelievable” you snapped, slamming the motel bathroom door hard enough that Sam probably heard it from his own room. To be fair, the shitty walls were thin, but still. Meanwhile, Dean chuckled while plopping down onto the bed– low, smug, entirely too entertained for someone who’d just spent the last hour being yelled at for something he didn’t even remember. Something about him not taking your hunting knowledge seriously, was it? Never mind, it’s not like it was a huge deal– you were just more… opinionated than others.
“Gonna hold this grudge forever, sweetheart?” He drawls, lazy enough that you can almost feel the stupid little smirk that was definitely on his face.
“Yes”
Dean huffs with dismissive amusement, more than used to dealing with your temper. “Cute”
You yanked your jacket off your body with enough annoyance to nearly dislocate your shoulder. “You are the most annoying person I have ever met”
“And yet–” Dean drawled from the bed, “ –you keep me around?” He adds, adding a sarcastic tilt to his voice to fake innocent curiosity. Asshole.
Heat flared instantly up your neck. Half from frustration, half from that ridiculously attractive gravel in his voice. God, you hated when he did that. That stupid voice– that same stupid grin from before you could feel without even seeing it. You opened the bathroom door just enough to glare at him. The Winchester looked entirely too comfortable sprawled against the headboard, green eyes bright with amusement, one arm behind his head like he didn’t have a single care in the world despite his girlfriend currently berating him.
“You’re insufferable”
“Mhm” Dismissive. Smug. Amused.
“You’re cocky” You continue, listing off all the different reasons Dean had pissed you off tonight.
He tilts his head to the side, a teasing glint to his eyes– further testing your patience. “Usually means I’m right”
“As if” A scoff escapes your lips as you plop down onto the mattress beside him– craving his closeness even while technically arguing with him. You were stubbornly looking at the other side of the room, away from his preying gaze, so you didn’t see the slow smile pulling at his mouth when all of your attitude disappeared the second his hand slid over your waist. Because suddenly, the same girl who’d spent all evening mouthing off at him was melting against his chest over one touch. And Dean noticed. Of course he did.
“Oh” he murmured quietly. No matter how many times y’all did this little dance, the back and forth– he’d always act as if it was new to him, feigning surprise just to get a rise out of you.
Smug bastard.
“Shut up” You huff out, shifting away from him once more– though your voice lacked some of the earlier bite.
Dean’s hand tightened slightly against your waist before dragging you back against him with embarrassing ease. (Stupid Winchester genes and their ridiculously large men, built like fucking tanks made for hunting and surviving on the road)
“There she is” He murmured, nose nudging against the top of your head.
You rolled your eyes instantly, even as your body betrayed you by sinking into his warmth– your back melting into his broad chest. “Don’t start”
“Start what?” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice dipping lower on purpose. “Pointin’ out how mouthy you always are until I touch you?”
Heat slowly creeped out your neck and towards your cheeks– not that you’d ever admit that, or let him see. “You’re so annoying”
“Mhm” Dean sounded entirely too pleased with himself. “Y’ve said that already, sweetheart” Before you could retort with another protest, his hand slid under your shirt– rough, warm palm splaying against your stomach, making your breath catch in your throat before you could stop it. And that– that was exactly the problem– because Winchester’s always noticed everything. Especially smug Dean Winchesters, looking for another thing to tease their girlfriends about. He pressed the proud grin you’d been avoiding all night against your shoulder, letting out a quiet chuckle. “Wow”
“God” you groaned, already annoyed and flustered, shifting even more away from him– back still flush against his chest, only now your face was practically buried into the pillows.
“No, sweetheart, c’mon” His fingers spread slowly against your skin, almost innocent, but you knew him better than that. He never did anything out of pure innocence, not when it came to getting under your skin. “You were just yellin’ at me five seconds ago”
“Still am” Your voice is muffled into the fabric of the bed.
“Sure y’are” You hated how weak you’d sounded compared to earlier. Hated it even more when his hand drifted higher– teasing the space between your breast and making your thighs pressed together automatically.
Dean went quiet for half a second, absorbing his quiet victory.
“There it is” He coos– voice soft, low and gravely as he murmurs against your skin, his face burrowing into the crook of your neck. Your face burned even more, hating how smug he was inevitably about to get.
“Shut up” Your boyfriend just laughed quietly against your neck, the sound warm enough to make your stomach tighten.
“Nah” He murmured. “Think m’ finally startin’ to understand something”
You groaned into the pillow once more. “If you say one more smug thing, m’ leaving”
“That so?” His hand slid higher beneath your shirt, fingers spreading slowly over your breast– squeezing it between his long fingers– until your breath caught again. “Then why’re you still here?”
You opened your mouth with a comeback already prepared– something sharp, mean and satisfying– but it was forgotten the moment his teeth grazed the spot under your ear. The noise that escaped you was humiliatingly soft. Dean went still for exactly half a second before you felt him grin against your skin.
“Oh, sweetheart” He said, low and rough. “You are not helpin’ your case here”
“Dean” You warned– but it came out ridiculously weak compared to all the earlier words you had to throw at him..
There was no bite left in it– you knew it and Dean definitely knew it.
His hand tightened on your waist, dragging you fully into his lap with ease. “Where’d all that attitude go, huh?” He teased softly against your skin. “Thought you were gonna keep yellin’ at me”
“I can multitask”
That actually made him laugh. A real laugh this time– not the teasing chuckle– a sudden, fond sound that wrecked any chance you had at staying irritated. (Whatever once of annoyance was left inside of you)
“Cute” He mumbled, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your jaw.
“You’re still annoying”
“Mhm” His lips brushed the sensitive spot caught between your jaw and neck, stubble scratching your skin. “But now you’re whinin’ about it”
“Am not” You retorted– flushed and embarrassed by how easily he could always get you to shut up and melt into his arms. Dean only hummed, entirely too pleased with himself, before tilting your chin up just enough to make you look at him. God that was a mistake. Because Dean Winchester looking at you like that– lazy and heavy-lidded and smug underneath you– was enough to make every coherent thought in your head disappear.
“There’s my girl” He said under his breath, proud like he’d won something.
You hated how your body brayed your stubbornness– reacting to his gravelly tone. One look, one touch, one stupid soft spoken sentence from Dean and suddenly all that sharp attitude melted into something embarrassingly soft. His thumb brushed slowly along your jaw, eyes fixed on your face like he was watching your walls break down, brick by brick.
“Look at you…” He murmured quietly. “Can barely mouth off anymore”
“I can too” You argue weakly– was it childish? Totally. But you needed to grasp onto whatever ounce of dignity that remained inside of you.
“Yeah?” His eyebrows lifted slightly in a quiet challenge. “Then do it” The dare should’ve been easy– it usually was– you’d moth off at him all day, any day. Usually you’d have ten insults locked and ready before he even finished speaking. But his other hand slid down your back, gripping your ass hard enough into his lap to pull a breathy moan from your throat. A slow, proud grin spread across his face, leaning in close enough for his lips to brush yours when he spoke.
“That’s what I thought” Then he kissed you– that slow, lazy movement of his mouth he always did after getting what he wanted– working you up just by being his unbelievably asshole-ish self. Your hands instinctively pressed to his broad chest, hands tightening on the fabric there to anchor yourself to him.
Dean groaned quietly at the touch. “Jesus Christ” He murmured against your lips. “You get this needy from a little attention?” Heat surged straight through you, flooding at your core.
“Shut up–” Repetitive much?
The words broke apart into a gasp when his free hand joined the other one on your ass, kneading the flesh there while dragging you more firmly against him– making the hard bulge of him press into your core through the fabric of y’all’s pants. A broken, needy moan escapes your lips– shame gone the moment his cock strained through his jeans and into you. He actually smirked at that. As affected he was himself, he still needed to relish in your embarrassment a little more. “What?” Dean asked innocently, despite the way his hips thrusted up to meet yours. “Thought you were still mad at me” He batted his unfairly long eyelashes up at you.
“It’s complicated” You huff softly.
“Bet it is” He replies with faux sympathy– his mouth moving down your throat slowly, deliberately slowly over the spot that always made you lean further into his touch. Your head tipped back before you could stop it. Dean (of course) noticed how your body followed his touch, his hips now shamelessly grinding up against you. A quiet chuckle brushed against your hair when you buried your face into his shoulder, clearly trying to hide even while still meeting his thrusts halfway. “Oh c’mon” he teased softly. “Now you’re shy?” He asks, hands slowly pulling your shirt over your head.
“No” Defensive, sharp– but weak.
“That sounded real convincing, sweetheart” He hums dismissively, turning his attention towards your newly exposed breasts, large hands cupping and kneading the flesh while peppering soft kisses over your collarbone. You made a noise somewhere between a groan and a complaint, which only seemed to amuse him more. (Even if you were struggling not to moan pornographically at his touch) “There’s that attitude again–” Dean murmured approvingly, his breath brushing your neck. “Missed it for a hot second”
“You’re so full of yourself”
“Mhm” One of his hands slid down to the small of your up your back before flipping you down into the bed below him. “You’re about to be too” The proud little smirk on his face when saying that– he thought he was so slick.
The moment you’re under him, your whole face changes– morphing from that barely restrained frustration into a doe eyed mess, already breathing heavy for him. God that fed right into his ego. His sharp, mouthy, hunter girlfriend all soft and pliable beneath him. Out there? In the real world, on the field? You stood your own. Here? Beneath closed doors? Dean could make whatever the Hell he wanted out of you. His inner dialogue is cut by the feeling of your gentle hands trailing under his shirt, pulling it up– demanding without words. He huffs out a soft, quiet breath of amusement, sitting back on his heels before pulling the fabric over his head and tossing it somewhere onto the floor. “Better?” He hums knowingly, hovering over you, forearms braced on the bed and mouth latching onto your bare chest.
You make a barely there sound of agreement as you nod, hand cupping the back of his head as his lips seal around your nipple, fingers threading through his dirty blonde hair while your back arches off the bed and into his warmth.
“Bet you’re all nice and wet for me aren’t you sweetheart?” He murmurs against your skin, green eyes flicking up to meet your dazed expression. Instead of answering (you were too gone for words) you simply lift your hips off the bed, grinding up into the hardness of his jeans. “Take that as a yes” Dean hums to himself as he traces his hands down your sides, hooking his thumbs into the elastic of your sleeping pants (You’d changed into them while raging at him from inside the bathroom) and slowly peeling them off your legs, leaving you completely bare under him. “Such a smart girl all drippin’ for an asshole like me?” He continues talking to himself, smug admiration in his voice as he trails the kisses lower and lower until they reach the sensitive patch of skin under your navel.
“Shut up n’ fuck me” You protest, trying to sound firm despite the breathiness of your words.
“Yes ma’am” Dean hums against your skin, placing one more kiss for good measure before pulling back. He sits back on his heels, rough hands working fast to unbuckle his belt and push his jeans off– leaving him in his boxers, already stained with a patch of precome. Despite how cocky he was acting, he clearly had been getting affected himself. “Sure you’re ready for me, baby?” You hear him talk, but you’re too distracted by the feeling of his fingers suddenly stretching you out. His fingers are big– like pretty much everything about him– thick and impossibly deep inside your pussy. The movement is meant to check if you’re stretched out enough for his cock, but he also simply enjoys seeing how you squirm, pushing down into his fingers whenever he curls them just enough inside you.
It was supposed to be a quick check– a push of his fingers before pulling them out. Instead, he starts thrusting them into your pussy, deep, slow pushes that reach spots you could never touch by yourself. You try to protest, say something snappy about how he’s an asshole for teasing but all that comes out of your mouth is soft moans and pleas.
“I know, I know, sweetheart but you can take it” He coos, voice low and gravelly with need of his own, even when fully focused on taking care of you. “Wanna see you cum on my fingers first, then I’ll fuck you real good, ‘kay?” He says it with such softness that it almost makes you forget he’s currently pounding your walls, his fingertips relentlessly pressing into your g spot. Dean knows your body better than you do– he’s spent countless hours focused both on the outside and inside– he knows what buttons to press and how hard to press them to get you undone.
Just when you think it can get any more intense, his thumb joins into the movements, pressing sharp circles on your clit. A sharp cry of his name escapes your lips, hips arching up from the bed– though you’re not sure if it’s trying to escape or follow the feeling. “Mhm” He hums, smug with dismissal as he keeps working you closer and closer to the edge. “There she goes, come on sweetheart let go for me”
That’s all it takes before you’re cumming all over his fingers, thighs clamping around his arm as embarrassingly loud moans escape your lips– completely opposite from the tough, mouthy girl from just an hour ago. His name falls on repeat from your lips, quiet and breathy.Fucking Dean Winchester and his ability to make you crumble.
featuring: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x fem! reader
warnings: Talks of casual sex, implied sex (not with Robby...yet...expect it in part two), reader wears heels and a dress like Carrie usually does, i kept a lot vague so you could imagine names for your friend and fling, alcohol, injury (sprained ankle), medical setting, emotional vulnerability, fear of intimacy, commitment issues, brief mention of unhealthy relationship patterns, secondhand embarrassment (go with me here please), slow-burn like super slow burn (literally don't meet until halfway through the fic), and of course, my horrific excuse of medical talk
wc: 5.0k
synopsis: You attempt to embrace casual sex for the sake of your column, only to find yourself drawn to a stranger you never thought you'd see again.
masterlist link: the pitt
an: Guess who's rewatching SATC for the fourth time this year? I thought Robby was the best fit for the role of Mr. Big when I was considering writing this AU. Hope you all enjoy it!! Yes, this is SUPER slow-burning with lots of background stuff, but basing this on the first episode of SATC and part two will have more Robby and reader!! I seriously need a beta reader, gotta convince my friend :p
part two (coming soon)
You had always believed in love.
Not the quiet, practical kind. The kind that folded itself neatly into Sunday routines and split rent payments, that lived in the mundane spaces between toothbrushes and takeout menus. Not the kind that felt safe in a way that bordered on forgettable.
You believed in the kind that lingered.
The kind that stayed on your skin long after someone had already left the room. The kind that turned ordinary places into landmarks—that street corner, that bar, that stupid crosswalk where something almost happened, or maybe everything did. You believed in love that made you irrational, a little unhinged, beautifully undone in ways you’d later try to romanticize in a column.
Because if it didn’t ruin you a little, was it even worth writing about?
Which was exactly why your editor’s voice looped through your head like a bad chorus as you stared at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen.
“Write something honest and modern.”
Honest.
The word sat heavy in your chest, like it knew exactly where to hurt.
You shifted in your chair, tucking one leg beneath you, the other dangling just enough to brush the hardwood floor. You exhaled slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard like they were waiting for permission you weren’t sure you’d ever given. Honest writing meant admitting things you’d usually dress up in clever phrasing. Honest meant writing about the text you reread three times before deciding not to respond. About the dates that felt more like interviews. About the almosts, the ones that never quite became something, but never fully disappeared either.
You began typing.
“In a city full of options, where love is fleeting, and attention spans are shorter than a text message, I couldn’t help but wonder…have we given up on romance in favor of something simpler?”
God, you hated that word.
Simpler.
Simple was what people said when they were too tired to try. When vulnerability felt like too much effort, detachment felt like power. Simpler was casual. Undefined. No expectations, no disappointments at least, that’s what everyone likes to pretend. But you knew better. Simpler didn’t mean easier. It just meant lonelier.
Your fingers hovered again, your reflection faintly visible on the screen. A woman who had spent years believing in grand gestures and electric connections, not stuck dissecting situationships like they were case studies. You tilted your head slightly.
You thought about the last person who made your chest ache at two in the morning. The way your phone had felt heavier in your hand, the way silence somehow said more than words ever could. You thought about how quickly something meaningful could be reduced to nothing, all because no one wanted to risk wanting more.
When did love become something people managed instead of felt?
Maybe that was the real problem. Not that love had disappeared. But that everyone was too afraid to admit they still believed in it.
~
Across from you, your best friend leaned against your kitchen counter like she had been permanently stationed there for the sole purpose of interrupting your worst impulses. Arms folded, one hip propped against the edge, she watched you with the kind of calm certainty that only came from knowing you too well and having been proven right too many times to find it surprising. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched your fingers hover over the keyboards like you were about to either write something brilliant or implode emotionally.
“Let me guess,” she said finally, tilting her head just enough to make her point before she even finished the sentence. “You’re about to emotionally spiral in 800 words and call it a column.”
You scoffed immediately, like the accusation itself was personally offensive.
“I don’t spiral,” you said, glancing up at her with exaggerated offense, as if your reputation depended on it.
She didn’t even hesitate.
“You absolutely spiral.”
“I reflect,” you corrected quickly, softer now, like saying it more gently might make it true.
A sharp snort cut through the kitchen.
“You romanticize your bad decisions and then act surprised when they hurt.”
You pointed at her with your pen, squinting. “That is a gross oversimplification of my entire emotional process.”
“It’s accurate,” she shot back. “And also, what is this one even about?”
You hesitated. Just a beat too long. Your pen hovered near your lips as you chewed on the end of it, a habit you’d tried to quit during at least three different phases of your life.
“...Simple sex.”
The woman blinked, “You,” She said, drawing the word out like she was testing it for irony, “are writing about simple sex?”
You bristled instantly, sitting up straighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she said, already moving now, pushing off the counter and walking toward you like she couldn’t help herself, “you once cried because a guy didn’t kiss you goodnight after your third date.”
“He didn’t look back when he left,” you shot back immediately, as if that detail alone carried emotional courtroom weight. “That means something.”
“It means he was trying to be a gentleman and not get into your pants after three dates.”
“It means he lacked emotional depth,” you insisted, completely convinced.
She stopped in front of you now, just watching you for a moment like she was trying to decide whether you were serious or just committed to the bit of your own life. Then she sighed.
“I can do casual,” you said, though it sounded more like you were convincing yourself than her.
“Mm-hm,” she hummed skeptically.
You ignored her tone because you always did.
There was someone in mind, anyway.
You didn’t say it right away, but she saw it in your face–that subtle shift, that familiar look of someone already halfway into a situation that hadn’t even started yet.
“...I mean,” you added causally, too casually, “there is someone.”
Her eyebrows shot up instantly.
“Oh, my God.”
“It’s just—” you gestured vaguely at the air like the explanation existed somewhere outside your body, “someone I could try this with.”
“Try this,” she repeated flatly. “You sound like you’re talking about assembling IKEA furniture, not emotionally detonating your life.”
You clicked your pen twice. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I am being preventative,” she corrected. “Who is it?”
You hesitated again. That alone was answer enough.
Her eyes narrowed. “No.”
You blinked. “No, what?”
“No to whoever you’re thinking of.”
“It’s not a big deal,” you insisted.
“That’s exactly what you said the last time you slept with him,” she said immediately, pointing at you like she had evidence. “And then you spent two weeks analyzing whether his tone in a text meant he was lying about being busy.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because, unfortunately, she was correct.
She stepped closer now, lowering her voice like she was trying to reason with a very elegant disaster.
“Please,” she said. “For the love of your own emotional stability, do not hook up with him again.”
You already knew you were going to ignore her.
Still, you leaned back in your chair, folding your arms like you were considering it.
“I won’t,” you said.
She studied your face for a second, then exhaled like she had just watched a slow-motion crash and didn’t have the energy to stop it this time.
“You absolutely will.”
You smiled sweetly, innocent in a way that fooled no one.
“Have a little faith in me.”
“That’s what scares me,” she muttered.
You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering again, the cursor still blinking like it was waiting for you to admit something real. And then, quieter now, almost like a confession you weren’t fully ready to own, you started typing again.
~
You had expected to feel something.
That was the catch, wasn’t it? Every time before this, every late night, every tangled set of sheets, you had gone into it thinking maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time it would mean something. The dates leading up to the first time you sleep together would get you to that end point everyone wanted. Maybe this time you wouldn't lie there afterward, staring at the ceiling, trying to stitch together a feeling that refused to come.
But tonight?
Tonight was different on purpose.
About five days after your wine and gossip night with your best friend, you stood in the bedroom of your ex-fling’s, slipping your dress back on, smoothing the fabric down over your hips like you were resetting yourself, like you could press whatever had just happened neatly back into place. The room still smells faintly like cologne and sweat, yet none of it clung to you the way it used to. There was no emotional residue, no lingering ache—just nothing.
He was watching you from the bed, propped up on one elbow, slightly disheveled, that satisfied smile already settling into place as it belonged to him. “So,” he said, voice low, casual, “that was…not bad.”
You huffed a small laugh, reaching for your heels. “Not bad?” you echoed, glancing over your shoulder at him with a raised brow. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Okay,” he amended, grin widening. “Good. Definitely good.”
You slipped your heels on, straightening, grabbing your purse from the chair. “It was good,” you agreed, like you were discussing a restaurant instead of what you’d just done. And maybe that was the point.
He watched you for a moment longer, like he was trying to read something in your expression and coming up just short. “We should do it again sometime,” he said, a little more carefully now, like he wasn’t entirely sure what category you fell into.
You paused at the bedroom door, fingers brushing over the strap of your purse. For a second, you considered it, the version of you that used to say yes without hesitation, the one that mistook repetition for connection. But instead, you just offered him a small, almost charming smile.
“Maybe.”
It was noncommittal in the most deliberate way. Not a no, not a yes, just enough to keep things floating, undefined. The kind of answer you used to hate receiving. The kind you’d written about, dissected, and complained about in your columns. Now it felt empowering.
You stepped out into the hallway before he could say anything else, the door clicking softly shut behind you, and for a moment, you just stood there. Waiting. But nothing. No sudden drop in your chest. No creeping sense of regret. Zero urge to turn back, to chase something that wasn’t there. And then, slowly, something else took its place.
Excitement.
It bubbled up unexpectedly, light and giddy, settling under your skin as you made your way down the stairs and out into the night. Because you had done it. You had actually done it. You had sex without assigning it meaning, without letting it root itself somewhere deeper than it needed to. You had written about this version of yourself before, this woman who could separate body from heart, who could experience without attaching, who could walk away clean. You had admired her. Wondered if she was real or just something you invented to make sense of a world that kept shifting under your feet.
And now, you were her.
The city greeted you like it always did, electric, humming with possibility. Cars rolled past in steady streams of light, laughter spilled out from crowded bars, and music pulsed faintly through the pavement beneath your feet. It felt like the entire world was in motion, and for once, you weren’t lagging behind it, trying to catch up.
You stepped off the curb, barely glancing up, already half-lost in your thoughts as sentences began to form in your mind. You could see it already. The column, the angle, the way you’d frame it. Something about detachment. About whether intimacy had become just another experience to consume rather than something to hold onto.
You adjusted your purse on your shoulder absentmindedly, your fingers brushing against the familiar contents inside: your wallet, your lip gloss, and the condoms. You almost laughed to yourself. Because really, when did that happen? When had you become the kind of woman who carried them around like it was nothing? Somehow, they felt significant. Like proof.
Proof that you were trying. That you were evolving. That you were stepping into something new, even if you weren’t entirely sure what that something was supposed to look like yet. You were so caught up in it that you didn’t see him until it was too late.
The impact was immediate, knocking the breath slightly from your lungs as you collided with someone hard enough to send your balance tipping. Your purse slipped from your shoulder, hitting the pavement with a dull thud, its contents spilling out onto the sidewalk in a chaotic scatter.
“Shit. I’m sorry,” you blurted instantly, dropping down to your knees without thinking, your hands already reaching for your things. “I wasn’t—”
“I should’ve been watching where I was going.”
The voice cuts through yours, steady in a way that makes you pause.
You looked up.
He wasn’t what you usually notice. Not in the immediate surface-level way. There was no effortless charm radiating off him, no easy grin, no sense that he was performing for your attention. If anything, he seemed almost grounded. He was older than you, or maybe he just looked older with his beard. His gaze flickered down to the items scattered between you, and without hesitation, he crouched as well, reaching for your lip gloss, handing it back. Then he stopped, because in his hand was the condom.
Time seemed to stretch in the smallest, most excruciating way as your eyes locked onto it, your entire body going still.
He looked at it. Then as you. One eyebrow lifted. You held your breath, despite being a writer who often talked about your own sexual encounters for the whole city to read, to have someone know you were ready to go like this felt ten times different compared to having strangers read about it every other Friday.
“You dropped this,” he said simply, holding it out to you. He didn’t seem to be judgmental about it, a little teasing, but nothing that made you think he’d preach about how slutty this was of you or ask if you were a hooker.
Heat rushed to your face instantly, blooming across your skin as you reached for it a little too quickly. There went the confidence, your fingers brushing against his for half a second longer than necessary. “Right,” you said, your voice was too fast. “Thank you. That’s very nice of you.”
“You always carry those around?” he asked, his tone even, rather than teasing.
You straightened slowly, brushing your hands off against your dress, trying to gather what was left of your composure. “Research,” you said, lifting your chin slightly, standing by your own actions.
His head tilted, just a fraction. “Research.”
“I’m a writer,” you added quickly, like that should explain everything. “It’s for a column.”
“And the column requires you to be prepared?” he asked, glancing briefly at the wrapper still in your hand.
You crossed your arms, leaning into the defense a little more now. “It requires me to be informed.”
“Fair enough,” he said. There was a beat of silence between you.
He stood, brushing off his hands lightly, his attention already shifting away like the moment had served its purpose.
“Try not to get hit by traffic,” he added, glancing toward the street before looking back at you once more.
You blinked, caught slightly off guard by the unexpected practicality of it. “Thanks.”
And then, he walked away. No second glance. Just gone.
You stayed there for a second longer than you should have, the noise of the city rushing back in around you as you watched him disappear into it, blending seamlessly into the movement, into the night. Something in your chest tugged. You shook it off quickly, exhaling under your breath as you adjusted your purse on your shoulder. It didn’t matter now. He was just a stranger you’d probably never see again.
~
You didn’t see him again for a week.
And honestly, you almost forgot about him, or at least, you tried to. You buried the memory under late-night writing sessions, overpriced coffee, and the kind of internal monologue that made everything feel more intentional than it probably was. You told yourself he had just been a moment, a blip in the narrative you were constructing about yourself. A man on the sidewalk, a raised eyebrow, a quiet kind of confidence that didn’t beg for your attention. You’d met dozens of men like that before. Or at least, you should have. So why did he linger just enough to be inconvenient?
“Okay, I’m still stuck on the fact you went back to him,” your friend said as she dragged you through the crowded dance floor, her grip firm around your wrist to keep you from getting lost in the crowd. Ever since you had let it slip that you slept with he who must not be named again, she was interrogating you like she was personally responsible for your life choices. “Like all people. Him?”
You winced, but there was a smile tugging at your lips, because you knew how exactly this sounded. “It wasn’t a ‘go back’ situation,” you argued, brushing your hair off your shoulder as neon lights flickered across your skin. “It was a revisiting. For research purposes.”
She stopped walking just long enough to stare at you, unimpressed but curious in equal measure. “You had sex with that jerk for journalistic integrity?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds crazy,” you admitted, laughing as she groaned dramatically, throwing her head back.
“It is crazy,” she shot back, though her expression softened almost immediately after, her curiosity winning out. “Okay, wait, no, I’m not mad at you, but I also need to know. How was it?”
You bit back a grin, leaning in slightly like you were about to confess something scandalous. “It was…good,” you said, drawing the word out just enough to make her eyes widen.
“Of course it was,” she muttered, shaking her head as she started pulling you along again, deeper into the crowd. “That’s the problem. If it had been bad, this would’ve been a completely different conversation.”
“I know,” you said, laughing, the sound getting lost in the music as you stumbled slightly in your heels before catching yourself. “That’s what makes it worse. It was easy. Too easy. No weird emotional aftermath, no—” you gestured vaguely between you, searching for the right word. “-lingering.”
She glanced at you sideways, her expression shifting into something more thoughtful now. “And that’s what you wanted, right?” she asked.
You nudged her shoulder with yours. “Exactly. That’s the brand now.”
“Your brand is concerning,” she said, but there was a smile in her voice as she spun you lightly, pulling you into the rhythm of the music.
For a while, the conversation melted into movement. The music pulsed through your body, lights flashing in bursts of color that made everything feel a little surreal, a little untethered. You let yourself get lost in it, in the way your friend laughed too loudly at nothing. Somewhere between the many cosmos, she grabbed your hands and pulled you into a dramatic spin, nearly sending you crashing into someone else, and you both dissolved into laughter, clinging to each other as you steadied yourselves.
“This is your version of being simple?” she teased, breathless.
“Yes,” you shot back, equally breathless, “and I think I’m doing a great job.”
“Okay, maybe you are,” she said, her arm looping through yours. “Just maybe don’t go back to emotionally questionable men to prove a point next time.”
“No promises.”
She groaned, but there was no real frustration behind it this time. “Fine,” she said after a second, brightening again as she tugged you forward. “Then at least commit to the bit tonight.”
And for a brief, fleeting stretch of time. You did.
You danced. You laughed. You let the night carry you instead of trying to control it, and it felt good. Like maybe you were finally figuring something out. And then, your foot twisted.
It was sudden, your heel catching at the wrong angle as you shifted your weight, and before you could correct it, pain shot up your leg, sharp and immediate, stealing the breath from your lungs.
“Shit!” You gasped, your hand flying out to grab onto your friend’s arm as your balance faltered.
Your friend reacted instantly, her grip tightening around you as her expression shifted into alarm. “Whoa, okay, no, that’s not good,” she said quickly, steadying you as you tried and failed to put weight on your foot. “That’s—nope. We’re leaving.”
“I’m fine,” you started, though your voice wavered slightly as another wave of pain hit.
“You’re limping,” she cut in, already guiding you toward the edge of the dance floor with surprising strength.
“I can power through,” you insisted weakly, though you didn’t believe it.
“You cannot power through a sprained ankle for the sake of your column,” she said firmly, giving you a look that shut down any further argument. “We’re getting an Uber, and I’m taking you to get checked out.”
You winced as you tested your weight again, your entire body tensing as the pain flared. “...okay,” you admitted reluctantly, letting out a small sigh as you leaned more heavily on her. “Maybe not.”
She softened immediately, adjusting her hold on you as she helped you hobble toward the exit, shaking her head lightly. “Yeah,” she muttered, “let’s keep your modern woman era a little less painful.”
The waiting room at the PTMC was too bright in a way that made everything feel harsher than it actually was, like the fluorescent lights were determined to expose not just your mildly swollen ankle but every questionable decision that led you there. It was a stark difference from the thrum of music still echoing faintly in your ears, like your body hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that the night had shifted from reckless and fun to clinical and inconvenient. And it was too real. That was the worst part. Sitting there, slightly tipsy and more than a little embarrassed, your heel dangling uselessly off your foot as you shifted on the plastic chair, you couldn’t quite reconcile the version of yourself from an hour ago with the one currently waiting to be medically evaluated.
Your best friend hovered beside you like a self-appointed guardian, one hand on your shoulder, the other holding your purse like it was evidence of your poor choices. “I’m just saying,” she muttered, leaning in slightly, “this is exactly what happens when you try to reinvent yourself in six-inch heels.”
“They are not six inches,” you protested weakly, though you didn’t have the energy to fully commit to the argument.
“They look like six inches,” she shot back, unimpressed, before softening just enough to squeeze your shoulder. “You’re okay, though. It’s probably just a sprain.”
“Probably,” you echoed.
When you were finally called back, your friend straightened, slipping into action mode as she helped you up, her arm steady around your waist as you stood, wincing as your ankle protested. “Come on,” she murmured, guiding you forward.
You perched on the edge of the bed, exhaling softly as you adjusted your leg, your friend lingering nearby, arms crossed now as she leaned against the wall. “My girlfriend’s on her way, but I can totally stay until the doctor comes if you want me to.”
“I’ll be okay,” you assured her, offering a small smile. “It’s really not that serious. I promise. Go home.”
She hesitated, clearly torn between hovering and trusting you, but then her phone buzzed, and she glanced down at it with a sigh. “That’s her,” she said. “Text me when you get home. And if it’s broken, I’m never letting you forget this.”
“It’s not broken,” you said through your laugh. “But deal.”
She squeezed your hand once before heading out, leaving you alone with the hum of the hospital and your own thoughts.
The curtain opened a moment later.
“Heard we got a potential broken ankle in here, I’m Dr.Robinavitch—”
You looked up and froze.
Because of course it was him.
The man from the sidewalk. The one you had tried to reduce to a fleeting, insignificant moment. The one who apparently worked here. Because the universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor.
He stopped mid-sentence, recognition hitting just as quickly as it had for you. It was subtle, just a slight shift in his expression, a flicker in her eyes, but it was there.
“Well,” he said, the word carrying that same amusement.
“You…” you replied, adjusting on the bed. Suddenly hyper-aware of everything, your going out outfit that your friend had picked out for you, which in hindsight was not very appropriate for a place outside of the bar, the way your heel hung off your foot, and the fact that you were sitting in front of a man who had seen you at your mildly humiliating.
He sat on a chair in front of you, reaching for your ankle, his hands warm and rough yet careful as he slid your heel off. “What happened?” he asked.
“Dancing,” you said, lifting your chin just slightly.
“Dangerous hobby.”
“I like to live on the edge.”
That earned you a glance upward, his eyes flicking over you, not in a way that felt inappropriate, but not entirely clinical either. You felt your cheeks warm a bit, subtly displaying your outfit a bit more for him.
He cleared his throat slightly, like he was reminding himself where he was before refocusing on your ankle, pressing gently along it. “Does this hurt?”
“Yes,” you said immediately.
“And this?”
“Also, yes.”
“Do you always run into your patients before they show up here?” You asked, tilting your head slightly.
“Only the ones carrying condoms for research purposes,” he replied without missing a beat.
You groaned, dropping your head slightly. “God, I wish you’d forget that part.”
“I don’t.” And you liked that. “So, you said you’re a writer.”
You perked up slightly. “I am.”
“What do you write about?” he asked, pressing lightly along your ankle.
“Relationships,” you said. “Modern dating. Sex. The ways people pretend not to care when they very much do.”
He hummed quietly, considering that. “That sounds…complicated.”
“It is,” you admitted. “But lately I’ve been trying to write about the opposite. Casual connections. Flings.”
“And how’s that going for you?” he asked, glancing up.
You hesitated, then smiled wryly. “Well, I ended up here, so…jury’s still out.”
That earned a small, genuine huff of amusement from him, the kind that felt rare. “Fair enough.” He stood after a moment, his expression settling back into something more neutral. “Just a sprain,” he said. “Nothing serious. You’ll live.”
Relief washed over you, and you let out a small breath. “Good. I had plans.”
“Try to take it slow.”
“I’ll do my best,” you said, though your tone suggested otherwise.
He gave you a look that said he didn’t entirely believe you. But there was something softer underneath it, too. Not quite concerned or amused. It caught you off guard in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely. Discharge, it turned out, was far less dramatic than you expected. A printed sheet of instructions, a wrap for your ankle, a reminder to stay off it (which you already knew you would absolutely ignore at least once), and a polite but firm suggestion to avoid “dangerous hobbies” for a few days.
“Try to keep weight off it for forty-eight hours,” he said, handing you the papers, his tone slipping easily back into something more clinical, more practiced. But there was still that undercurrent, like he didn’t want to retreat behind professionalism. “Ice, elevation. Over-the-counter painkillers, if you need them.”
You nodded, even though your attention was only half on the instructions and mostly on the way he stood just a little too close, like he hadn’t quite decided how much distance to put between you yet.
You shifted your weight, wincing just a little as reality came back into focus. “I should probably go wait for my Uber,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the entrance, like you hadn’t just changed the trajectory of your night.
“I’ll walk you,” he said instead, like it wasn’t a question.
Outside, the air felt cooler. The harsh brightness of the hospital gave way to streetlights and the distant hum of traffic, the world settling back into something more familiar. You leaned lightly against the wall near the pickup area, trying to look more put together than you felt, your heel still dangling uselessly from your fingers.
You pulled out your phone, checking the app. “Five minutes,” you said.
He lingered.
“You don’t have to stay,” you added, glancing over at him. “I’m a big girl.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m still going to.”
There was no hesitation in it. No over-explanation. He stayed. Close enough to talk, far enough to pretend it wasn’t intentional. You found yourself filling the silence, easily slipping back into the rhythm you knew so well, telling him, half-joking, half-serious, about your column, vaguely about bad decisions and good stories you had written about in the past. Him giving his own opinions on certain topics. You were surprised by the way he actually listened.
And when your car finally pulled up, neither of you moved right away.
“Well,” you said, adjusting your grip on your shoe, suddenly very aware of the moment finally slipping away now that the bubble had burst. “Doctor’s orders. Rest, ice, elevation.”
“Try to follow at least one of those,” he replied.
“No promises.”
His mouth twitched, just slightly.
You opened the car door, then paused, glancing back at him. “Have a good night.”
“You too.”
You slipped into the car, your heart doing something inconvenient all over again as the door shut between you. And as you pulled away, you couldn’t help but look back–just once. A smile on your face when you saw him watching you go.
When you turned the corner, you wondered.
Maybe simple sex can help figure things out after all.
CONGRATS ON 1.1k!! 🫶🫶 such a huge milestone and so well deserved!
i’m planning on taking a trip to the state fair 🎟️, snacking on some chips on the way there, maybe with the windows down…care to join me? 🥰
snugglebug // 1.1k follower celebration
my first time writing for our certified babygirl <3 this is set around s1-3 carter cuz thats my beloved ily loser
one of carter’s favorite pastimes, since you two started dating, is using you as a human mattress.
usually it starts the same way every time. you’ll be sitting in bed, half trying to study, half giving up and flipping through a magazine instead, when carter finally drags himself through the apartment door looking like he’s survived active combat (aka. a usual ER shift).
he crawls into bed dramatically, exhausted beyond belief. he doesn’t even say anything at first, instead climbing over you. a knee settling down on either side of your hips, a dramatic sigh leaving him before—
thump.
he face plants directly into your chest, nuzzling himself right in between the valley of your breasts. perfectly settled, like he’s found his home for the day.
the first time he ever did it, you had frozen out of the suddenness. sure, he was always very cuddly, but you were more the one throwing yourself on him rather than the other way around. though what did you expect, he’s a snugglebug through and through.
“carter?”
no response. his arms merely snake around your waist as his entire body goes limp against you. dead weight.
“carter, i can’t breathe.”
a muffled, sleepy voice answered against your shirt. “m’comfortable.”
“you’re crushing me.”
“good, now shush.”
you had tried shifting him a little, but he immediately made the most offended, whiny noise imaginable. “don’t move,” he mumbled, already halfway asleep. “you’re warm.”
you could try to push lightly at his shoulder but his hold only tightened instinctively. “why are you evicting me,” he mutters with his eyes still closed. “this is my spot.”
and the thing is? he looks so soft. completely relaxed for once. all his usual pent up energy and tension just gone. shoulders slack. fingers loosely gripping your shirt like he’s worried you’ll disappear if he lets go. you always run your fingers through his fluffy hair out of habit, and the sigh he lets out each time is the epitome of blissful relief.
you always pictured bambi, finally lying down after wobbling around all day.
you couldn’t deny him of this. hell, you love him. that's enough said.
so now it’s basically routine. if you even hint at trying to get up while he’s laying on you, there isn't much use.
“i have to pee.” you whine.
“don’t.”
“carter.”
“hold it.” he protests.
“aren’t i gonna get bladder stones, doctor” you’d poke at his nose.
“m’take them out for you, don’t worry.”
and you can't help but giggle every single time for whatever stupid excuse he gives you.
“five minutes,” he would bargain on other days. “just five.”
five turns to ten. ten turns to twenty, and suddenly you’ve both drifted off for a three hour nap. especially during midterms or finals.
sometimes he even drools a little, but he always denies it.
today’s version of the routine had gone exactly the same.
carter wasn’t even supposed to be on until later that night, meaning you’d actually have him home for more than just a few miserable hours.
so you both woke up at a decent time and went out to fetch some lunch, coming home and chilling before carter would leave again for the graveyard shift.
eventually, you knew you had an essay to write so you had begun to prepare your workstation before carter pulled you into your usual spot on his queen bed. collapsing on top of you like always.
“just going to rest my eyes a bit” he mentioned, but he was dead asleep in less than 5.
you stayed awake this time. catching up on some chapters for your book report due in a few days. eyes drifting away from the page to stare at his messy strands of hair, or the long lashes resting against his pink cheeks.
and then…the dreaded pager started beeping.
“carter,” you mumbled, patting his shoulder.
nothing.
it beeped again barely a second later.
“oh, carter” you quipped, poking lightly at his forehead. he flinched just enough to acknowledge you before turning to snore even louder than before.
the pager continued going off a few more times before the apartment phone finally rang instead.
you rolled your eyes at the lack of acknowledgment of his surroundings from the boy on top of you.
“hello?” you answer the call.
“is carter there?” dr. benton. not the warmest person in the ER, and the tone alone told you everything you needed to know about your boyfriend’s impending doom.
“i’ll pass the phone to him.”
oh, he’s sooo screwed.
“carter,” you cooed again, shoving his shoulder a little harder this time. you were rewarded with a sleepy, muffled “mhm” as you held the phone against his ear.
“CARTER—”
the voice practically exploded through the speaker loud enough that you even managed to flinch a little.
though, nothing beats carter jolting like someone shocked him with defibrillator paddles.
he recoiled upright instantly, hair sticking everywhere, eyes wide and panicked as he looked around the room like benton was already standing there, waiting to kill him.
in the process, he smacked the phone clean out of your hand. but you were already laughing too hard to care.
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when the fic has 10k+ words, fluff, angst, smut right at the end, friends to lovers, character who’s down bad for reader, AND Y/N DOESNT ACT LIKE A CHILD
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
synopsis: Sometimes, dating Adrian Chase means sneaking through basement windows because he really wants you to see his secret basement and really doesn't want you to meet his mom.
gif by @/chaseadrian
pairing: adrian chase x reader
tags: 18+!, smut, established relationship, (protected) sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, humor, fluff, quiet sex, hand gagging, mild sensory deprivation, not fully sub or fully dom adrian but a secret third thing, overstimulation, biting
word count: 5.8k
notes: brought to you by this request! title from the song "big dumb sex" by soundgarden which I firmly believe Adrian would like because it reminds him of all the glam metal songs about sex that Peacemaker likes but it has none of the subtext.
“Honestly, I’m kind of looking forward to meeting your mom!”
Adrian slammed on the brakes so hard you had to brace your hand against the dashboard, your seatbelt cutting tight across your skin. His eyes were wide, a grimace of pure panic on his lips.
“You can’t meet my mom!”
You blinked back at him. “Sorry?”
“There’s no fucking way you’re meeting my mom,” he said again, his tone firmer this time, but not any more elucidating than the last outburst.
“I don’t understand. Aren’t we going to your house?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“A house you live in with your mother?”
“Also yes.”
“Is she home?”
“Probably!”
“But I can’t meet her?”
“Fuck no!”
You stared back at your boyfriend who looked like he might throw up at any second. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. A blaring horn behind you made you nearly jump out of your skin, and when you looked in the rearview there was a line of cars held up behind you. Right. Because Adrian had stopped in the middle of a busy road. Adrian, however, suddenly no longer seemed to be in a rush to get home.
You put your hand on his forearm. “Ade, you gotta drive.”
“Okay,” he managed, voice a ragged whisper. He pried his foot off the gas and then proceeded to drive a blazing 25mph the entire rest of the way. You waited until the Seabring was parked on a cute, tree-lined neighborhood street to speak again.
“I’m not going to lie, I’m a little offended you don’t want me to meet your mom,” you said finally. Adrian laughed, doubling over so sharply you were afraid he was going to smack his face on the steering wheel.
“She’s the one who should be offended. She’s a total fucking bitch and I don’t want you to meet her because I don’t want her to, like, get her stupidness all over you.”
“Babe…” you breathed. “Respectfully, what the fuck?”
Adrian raked his hands over his face. “You don’t get it.”
“Okay. You’re right. I don’t think I get it,” you agreed. You laid a hand on his arm. “But, clearly it’s stressing you out. So, decision made, easy peasy!”
Adrian peeked at you from behind his hands. “Yeah?”
“Yeah! Although…” you hesitated to ask because you could only imagine you weren’t going to like the answer. “How are we going to get in without your mom finding out?”
“You’re lucky I love you,” you grumbled, wiggling in his grasp. “Your hand is so far up my ass I’m starting to feel like a puppet.”
“Just let go of the window sill!” Adrian hissed. “I’ve got you, I’m not going to let you fall.”
You groaned and finally relented, knowing for a fact that Adrian did not have you. But the boy was going to have to learn his lesson the hard way, you supposed. The two of you fell into a tangled heap, your elbow landing squarely in his ribs, his knee striking against your hip in a surge of pain, your forehead colliding with his chin.
“Ow fuck – ow, ow, fucking hell, Adrian,” you grumbled, trying to gain any sort of leverage, but your hands were sinking into some sort of fabric over and over again on either side of Adrian while he tried to get his hands in between you, making sure you weren’t injured.
“Sorry! Sorry, are you okay? Are you alright? Speak so I know you’re not concussed!” Adrian said, scrambling. You rolled your eyes and batted his hand away.
“I’m fine,” you grumbled. “That is not how you check for a concussion, by the way.”
“What…what is this?” you asked. Whatever it was groaned under your weight as you struggled to your knees. “Is this a futon? Why do you have a futon in your basement?”
You climbed off of him with a bit of difficulty before you turned your attention towards the rest of the basement. “What the f – ”
Adrian clapped a hand over your mouth from behind. He was blazingly warm against your back, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he was afraid you were going to run. You swayed slightly in his arms as you regained steady footing, your balance entirely thrown off by his sudden seizure of you. You nipped at his palm gently and he let you go. You turned to find his wide eyes focused on his slightly wet palm.
“Care to explain the drugs, Adrian?” you asked, this time managing to keep a lid on your volume.
He simply shrugged. “What do you mean? Where else would I put it?”
“Where did this all come from?” you asked, turning to look at it all again – pallets of drugs (was that fucking cocaine?) and what had to be millions of dollars, carefully banded and stacked in various places. You reached out to run your hand across the money but Adrian batted your hand away.
“That’s blood money, don’t touch it!”
“Where did all this come from, Adrian?”
“What, you think I’d just leave drugs and cash at crime scenes where anyone could take it? Like corrupt fucking police? Absolutely not,” he asserted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can’t believe you think I should let the cops have all this.”
“I never said that, Adrian!” you exclaimed. “First and foremost, fuck the police – ”
“Fuck the police,” Adrian agreed with a thoughtful nod.
“Secondly! I just can’t believe you never told me about this! I thought that we tell each other everything? I mean, you told me you were Vigilante on our first date.”
“Second date.”
“Adrian, we’ve been over this, having sex after a first date does not count as a second date.”
“Agree to disagree.” He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “And it’s not my fault your pussy is like my personal truth serum.”
“Adrian…”
His face contorted. “What, is that a weird thing to say?”
“It’s not really a normal thing…”
“Whatever,” he pouted. “You don’t get it.”
“Come on, Ade, you were so excited to show me your basement. So give me the grand tour.”
“Fine,” he huffed. He crossed to a workbench and gestured at it vaguely. “These are my power tools. Over there is my wall of chemicals. Tour concluded.”
“Adrian,” you groaned.
“What?” he snipped. “You wanted the tour – there it is!”
“I cannot believe you made me shimmy through a window for that.”
“Yeah, well, sorry it’s disappointing.” It was said in a way in which you knew he was not sorry at all. He was being petulant.
“It’s not disappointing, it's just…a lot for me to take in. I’m very interested in it!”
“Uh huh,” Adrian mumbled, mindlessly thumbing through what appeared to be a box full of pocket knives?
Well, you could be petulant too.
“Fine!” you proclaimed, hands on your hips. Adrian rolled his eyes and you bit back a grin before climbing up onto the futon.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going back out the window,” you explained with a nonchalant glance over your shoulder at him. He was looking up at you with those big eyes of his and you almost caved instantly. It would be so easy to climb down, wrap your arms around him, kiss the grumpiness right off of his handsome face. But you liked teasing him so much more.
So you stretched up, desperately trying to hook your fingers into the windowsill that was just out of reach.
“You’re not going to be able to reach that,” Adrian said matter-of-factly.
“Watch me,” you countered, wedging your tongue between your teeth as you tried to will yourself taller out of pure spite.
“Do you think you’re magically going to get taller or…?” Adrian asked like he could read your goddamn mind.
“Be quiet, Adrian, I’m concentrating,” you snipped back. You rolled up onto your tiptoes but the physics of standing on a soft surface made that change negligible. You dropped your arms down with a huff and jumped off the futon.
“Okay, I’m using the door!”
“What?” Adrian gasped, lunging for you as you feinted towards the basement door. You laughed in delight as he grabbed you by the waist and yanked you backwards onto the futon, pinning you beneath him.
“Oh no! You caught me!” you wheezed out, all the air knocked out of your lungs.
Adrian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Were you really going to go out the door?”
“Well, well, look at the situation we find ourselves in,” you commented drily, ignoring the question, batting your eyelashes at Adrian.
“If you don’t answer my questions just know I know a lot of really effective torture techniques,” Adrian said lowly, a familiar hunger already creeping into his expression. You ran your fingers through his curls, dragging your nails against his scalp. “Are you trying to distract me?”
“Me? Never,” you murmured. He shivered against you and you gave his hair a testing pull. His mouth dropped open slightly and you took the opportunity to sweep your tongue across his lower lip. He whimpered into your mouth as his hips rolled against yours instinctively.
“Someone’s eager,” you assessed, grasping at his shirt and trying to untuck it from his jeans. “What did it, the puppet thing? Threatening to torture me? Tackling me onto your weird sex futon?”
“It is not a weird sex futon! Just a regular futon!” Adrian laughed against your neck and then winced. “Stop making me laugh, I can feel it in my dick.”
You hooked a leg over his hip. “Then maybe you ought to do something with that dick of yours.”
“I really want to have sex with you right now,” Adrian began.
“Why do I feel like there’s a but coming – ”
“Butts can’t come,” Adrian snickered. Then he shook his head like a hapless puppy, his curls tossing about. God he was such a dork sometimes. But he was your dork. “Though, I do sometimes feel like I could come just by looking at yours.”
You narrowed your gaze at him despite how adorably stupid he was being. “Just say it, Adrian. Why can’t we have sex right now?”
“The thing is…you’re kind of loud?” Adrian said with a wince. Then his eyebrows lifted. “And I love that about you. I love how loud you are. I love thinking about how if we lived in Metropolis Superman for sure would have heard us having sex and he’d be so fucking jealous. Thinking about it right now actually is making me, uh, a little hard – ”
“Adrian!”
“I’m just being honest!” he huffed. You decided not to comment on exactly who was the loud one in the relationship because you knew he would take it as a challenge and you liked hearing all the little pathetic sounds he’d make. He pushed his glasses up his nose only for them to slide right back down again as he looked down at you. “My mom cannot hear us.”
You nodded slightly. “I understand that that might be embarrassing for you. We don’t have to.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be embarrassed!” he said, eyes wide. “I just don’t want her to know you’re here. Because if she hears us then she’ll ask who you are, and then she’ll want to know how we met and if we want snacks and if you’re staying for dinner and it’s a whole fucking thing.”
“Ade, that sounds very normal.” You propped yourself up slightly on your elbows. You hooked a finger into the collar of his rugby shirt. “What if I promise to be quieter than a church mouse?”
“What does that mean? I don’t really have a reference point for how quiet that is?” he replied, his tone tinged with the beginnings of a classic Adrian spiral. “On a scale of like 1 to 10 where 1 is – ”
You interrupted him with a kiss, your tongue wasting no time dipping into his already open mouth. He came alive, wriggling against you, hands grabbing hold of your biceps, grip tight, muscles taut and somewhere between pushing you away and pulling you even closer.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he murmured against your lips.
“It’s just an expression, love,” you replied, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose. Then you narrowed your gaze slightly, squinting to study the color of his eyes up so close. In the dark basement his pupils threatened to swallow the dark green whole. Well, the darkness and your hand that had slipped below the waist of his jeans probably had something to do with it too.
“How about if I get too loud then you just put your hand here,” you instructed, bringing his hand over your mouth and pressing it firmly.
“Okay,” Adrian said, practically drooling. “I think I can do that.”
“Well then, problem solved!”
You were working to shimmy his jeans down slightly when he grabbed you by the wrist.
“I wanna go down on you,” he breathed.
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Okay. We can do both things…unless you’re in a rush for some reason?”
“It’s just that if you keep touching my dick like that I’m going to come in my pants, and I really want to put it in you,” he said, practically a whisper. There was absolutely zero reason for that sentence to be as hot as it was.
“Why is it that you seem like you’re begging every single time even though we’ve had sex a lot, Adrian,” you teased gently, brushing a stray curl out of his face.
“What if you change your mind, hm?” Adrian asked, dipping his head so you could scratch your fingers across his scalp. “What if one day you wake up and you’re like, oh gosh, I never want to have sex with that weirdo ever again?”
“First of all, being a weirdo is strangely part of your charm,” you replied, pausing to kiss his forehead. “Second of all, I do think you’ve ruined me for life. You dick game is incomprehensibly good and you’ve literally made me go temporarily blind with your head between my legs. I don’t want to have sex with anyone but you.”
“Not even Peacemaker? Because I really couldn’t blame you if you did want to have sex with him. Trust me, I get it, he’s kind of a perfect human man,” Adrian insisted like he was rationalizing in an argument he was having with only himself. His lips pursed. “Although he is kind of all hard edges so having sex with him is kinda sharp which you might not like.”
You were already reaching between the two of you to undo your button-down shirt.
“Not even Peacemaker,” you affirmed. Adrian seemed to wrestle against his own grin, both pleased as punch that you didn’t want to have sex with anyone but him, and also a bit insulted that you didn’t want to have sex with his favorite person in the world.
Tugging your shirt open, you guided his hands up to the front clasp of your bra and used his fingers to flick it open. Whatever logic war was raging in his brain was struck silent by the sight of your breasts. Maybe it was an unfair hand to play, but you wanted your boyfriend to stop thinking about his best friend and start thinking a little more about fucking you senseless.
He wasted no time taking each of your nipples into his mouth in turn, because, as always, he insisted it was only fair for them both to get the same amount of attention. Though you’d never asked, you were fairly certain Adrian had been the type of kid to make sure each toy got the same amount of playtime so that no one toy felt left out.
He swapped his mouth for his hand on your chest and kissed his way down the rest of your body. He deftly yanked your pants and underwear down, kissing the inside of your knees as he peeled them the rest of the way off your body. In his eagerness to get down between your legs he scooted down the futon, his boot kicked one of the metal shelves behind him. The whole unit swayed slightly, the metal ringing out in a resonant sound.
“Adrian?” A woman’s voice called from upstairs. You froze, but Adrian wasn’t deterred. “Are you down there, sweetie?”
Adrian’s mouth was decidedly preoccupied between your legs so he didn’t answer – it was a good thing, because it probably would have involved some absolutely blatant response about the fact that he was, in fact, down there. You pushed at his head but he only looked up at you with a hungry glint in his eyes as he dragged his tongue through your folds, painfully slowly. You hissed in response and he moved his hips slightly against the futon, settling in for a hearty meal. When Adrian ate you out it was almost always multiple courses, a real fine dining experience.
He hadn’t even put his fingers in you yet – just used one hand to spread you open wider for him while the other still played with your breasts, alternating between them, pinching and palming and scratching. His face was pressed so firmly between your legs, his tongue so deep into you you wondered if he was trying to eat his way to your heart.
“Jesus, Adrian!” you whispered, your heel kicking at his hip, trying to get him to ease up a little. But he was hyper focused, like he was speedrunning his way to your orgasm. He moved, wrapping his arms around your thighs, pinning your hips down as they tried to wriggle away from him for just a little reprieve.
You heard footsteps on the stairs and you dug your heels into the futon, trying to pry yourself loose from his perfect, stupid fucking mouth. Instead, he traced his teeth over your sensitive clit and you came hard suddenly. You clapped your own hand over your mouth and Adrian batted it away. You managed to stay quiet, the only sound your own ragged breath in the quiet of the basement and the wet, obscene noise of Adrian’s mouth against you.
Except Adrian continued his ministrations between your legs, letting up with his mouth only to look up at you and grin while he slowly slid two fingers into you. He had that calculated look in his eye again and you knew he was studying you. He liked knowing exactly how each movement, each touch affected you. He crooked his fingers inside you, watching closely as you bit down hard on your lower lip in a desperate bid to stay quiet.
He was doing it on purpose. He wanted an excuse.
You hated giving him what he wanted so easily when he was being a menace but you could taste your own blood on your tongue and he used his other hand to rub at your clit while he kissed your hip bone. A noise squeaked out past your lips and Adrian’s grin grew into a full fledged smile, the kind where you could see all his teeth. The kind that was both predatory and full of genuine delight.
He moved his fingers faster, pushed deeper, bit hard at your hip, bruising the skin. You fumbled for his head but you could barely see straight. You managed to pull a fistfull of hair but it only made him giggle before he lapped at your cunt and made you come undone all over again.
“Adrian!” you hissed through the rheumy film of your orgasm. Adrian pulled his fingers free and popped them straight into his mouth and pure, wet want flooded your own.
“Adrian?” There was a knock at the basement door. You clapped your hands over your burning face but Adrian just seemed annoyed.
“Fuck off, mom!” he called, sliding his way up your body to bite at the sensitive spot below your ear. He loosely pressed his hand over your lips and you weren’t sure if you were grateful or pissed. When the friction of his jeans between your legs almost made you sob against his hand, you settled on grateful.
“Do you have a friend in there with you?” his mom asked. “Should I make some snacks?”
“Jesus fucking – no, mom!” he whined, even as he rolled his hips against you. He grabbed at your breast with his free hand again and you bit his hand in retaliation.
“Ow!”
“Are you okay, honey? Please tell me you’re not giving yourself stitches in there again!” his mom continued. She seemed kind of sweet – what the hell was Adrian’s deal?
“Your mom seems nice,” you managed, free of his hand.
“Stop getting ideas, I can see you getting an idea right now!” Adrian protested, pinning your hands above your head and silencing your mouth with a kiss.
“Adrian, hon, who are you talking to? Is that…is that a girl in there?” His mother’s voice noticeably ascended the scale in pitch and Adrian swallowed your laugh, your shoulders shaking silently.
“I’m talking to my bros in the Fortnite lobby, Jesus fucking Christ! Can you hop off my dick for like five seconds, please?” Adrian shouted back, pulling away from your mouth, making you unacceptably hungry. When he returned to you, you bit his lip in recompense. He hissed but surged forward anyway, his tongue deep in your mouth.
“Okay, Addy, you just let me know if you need anything! Just holler! I’ll be upstairs!”
You waited for the sound of footsteps retreating back up the stairs to pull back.
“So, I’m one of the bros now?” you taunted.
“Well, you’re better than one of the bros. You’re like…you’re my best bro. A bro for life. But, like, in a romantic way, a romantic bro,” he explained. You nodded like that made sense. Because, strangely, it did.
“So…Addy?”
“Please don’t – ”
“It’s kinda cute!”
“No, it makes me sound like a fucking infant. And I’m not an infant. I’m a grown man.”
You giggled. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten, Ade. As a matter of fact…”
Your hand slid in between you, grasping at him through his pants. He was, unsurprisingly, already completely hard. He hissed through his teeth and then wrangled himself out of his rugby shirt, treating you to a spectacular view of his chest. A thin sheen of sweat covered him in a way that made him look unfairly hot – like the centerfold in a magazine of hot nerds. You ran your hand up from the waist of his pants to the small, pale trail of hair just above and let your fingertips press firmly into the skin of his stomach. His gaze narrowed at you.
“Flip over,” he whispered, voice husky.
“Make me,” you whispered back. Adrian blinked back at you for just a moment before he slipped his hands around your waist and tossed you onto your stomach like it was no effort at all. He reached up and stripped you of the button down and the bra that still clung to your shoulders. His fingertips bit into the swell of your ass but then he paused.
“Sorry, was that okay?” he asked, sounding breathless in a nervous way. You looked back at him and offered a calm smile.
“That was perfect,” you assured him. “You’re perfect.”
“Okay, because if you want to fuck some other way that’s totally okay too, I just thought – ”
“Oh no, not you fucking me while I’m laying on my stomach! Whatever will I do!” you drawled sarcastically as you started to twist in his arms, bringing the back of your hand up to your forehead like some scandalized, vaguely transatlantic woman. Then you paused and blinked at him. “That was sarcasm by the way.”
“Uh, duh, I totally knew that because you love when I fuck you like that! It’s like one of your favorite things. Remember that time we prone-boned and you like totally ruined your sheets?”
“Oh my god, Adrian,” you whined, your hands flying up to cover your increasingly red face.
“What! It’s just a statement of fact. And a statement of hotness.”
You finished flipping onto your stomach if only to bury your burning face in the futon. Adrian’s hand ran along your damp inner thigh for a moment before he nudged your leg up slightly, and pulled your hips up and flush against his.
“Oh shit,” he mumbled, and not in the good way. You lifted your head to look at him over your shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know if I have a condom?”
“You have a fucking arsenal down here but not a single condom?”
“Well, it’s not like I’ve ever had a girl down here before!”
“Aw, is that your roundabout way of saying I’m special?” you asked, batting your eyelashes. But Adrian was too preoccupied scrounging around for a condom. He was so cute doing it you were loathe to tell him all he had to do was open your purse. The man was desperate for it and you were willing to torment him just a little bit – he would be handsomely rewarded for it in the end.
“Hey Ade?”
“Hold on, I’m sure there’s one here somewhere!” He yanked another drawer open, violently rattling whatever was inside. He slammed a cabinet open to no avail. You started to feel bad, even if you were getting a great view of his impressive physical form in the process.
“Adrian!” you called, louder this time to get through to him over the small ruckus he was making, but hopefully still quiet enough to not rouse his mother’s suspicions again. Finally, he turned and looked at you dangling a condom from your fingertips.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he said breathlessly. “No, seriously, I wish I could paint you Titanic-style right now exactly like this.”
Adrian was on top of you again in the blink of an eye, teeth tearing at the foil of the condom and spitting it aside. You watched over your shoulder as he realized he still needed to take his pants off and was trying to figure out balancing the opened condom while he did that. You giggled and held out your hand for him to rest the condom on your palm.
He tripped up off the couch, halfway out of his pants before he was even fully upright. He hopped on one foot as he desperately tried to free his other from the leg of his jeans, and you were treated to an increasingly silly whispered string of curses.
When he was finally free he paused, putting his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling quickly.
You giggled. “Are you winded?”
“No!” Adrian said, full volume. Your eyes flicked to the ceiling of the basement, but Adrian’s mom seemed to have gotten the memo. “This is…I’m doing breathing exercises, actually. Gotta loosen up my diaphragm for optimal airflow so I can have so much sex with you.”
“Get over here, you absolute goober,” you replied with a beckoning crook of your finger. Adrian stooped beside you to retrieve the condom you were still holding and pressed a quick peck to your lips, upturned in an amused smile.
He settled back between your legs, kneeling on the futon as he rolled the condom on and you waited patiently with your chin in your hands. The feeling of his warm fingers back between your legs surprised you, dragging through your folds, gathering slick before sliding his hand over the condom.
“Are you good? Are you comfy?” Adrian asked as he grabbed hold of your hips and angled them slightly upward. He positioned himself at your entrance, dragging the tip through your folds, but waited for your approval. You quietly hissed at the sensation.
“Please, Adrian,” you managed. That was approval enough for him – he wasn’t in one of his taunting moods, determined to draw it out forever to the point of insufferability. No, Adrian was borderline efficient. It was a mood he sometimes got into – careful, precise, skilled. He pushed in, a long, slow stretch of flesh, the warm weight of Adrian partially against your back, keeping you pressed into the futon. A hand groped at the flesh of your hip and he gently guided you into the position he needed.
And that made your eyes water, the perfect depth, the perfect speed, the perfect amount of pressure – a gasp dragged from your lips at the angle. Adrian knew what made you tick. You’d witnessed the man disassemble and reassemble a gun with alarming speed on more than one occasion, and he knew how to disassemble you just as easily.
It took no time at all for pressure and warmth to mount between your legs.
“Put your hand over my mouth,” you panted.
“What?”
“I don’t think that I can keep being quiet,” you said, voice ragged. As if attempting to prove you wrong, Adrian buried himself, deep and slow, and a yelp came from your lips before you could stop yourself.
“Right. Okay,” Adrian said in the kind of voice that sounded like he was processing a direct order. You tilted your head up slightly and Adrian dutifully cupped one hand over your mouth.
“Oh shit,” he managed. His fingers flexed against your skin as he thrust into you again, angling your hips ever so slightly once more, perfecting the position. Your needy hand slid under your body and Adrian groaned as your fingers touched at where your bodies were joined, fingers parting around the slick base of his cock for one taunting drag before retreating to your clit. Adrian’s pace faltered and you grinned into his hand. You nipped at his palm again but he stayed firmly in place and instead responded by draping himself further over your back, his weight pressing you further into the futon and your own eager fingers.
You were close, close, closer as his fingers bit into your skin and you rubbed desperate circles at the apex of your thighs. You clenched around him and Adrian whined.
“That’s not fair,” he hummed into your hair. He slowed for a frustrating moment and then his mouth was at your ear. “Can I try something?”
A million things raced through your mind – an electric series of possibilities, some of which perhaps bordered on terrifying. But you trusted Adrian. You loved him. Fucking you was a science at which he was studiously determined to excel. So, you nodded. And Adrian draped the full weight of himself on you, carefully, gently. And then he wrapped his other hand over your eyes, casting you into total darkness.
“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice low in his chest against your back, words that sounded equally like reassurance and threat. A loving adage and a declaration of total possession. Your body responded unconsciously, pushing back against his thrusting hips, terribly wanting. “I want you to come, just for me, okay?”
You made a noise, something wrenched from deep within, muffled expertly by Adrian’s capable hands. He dragged his tongue along the side of your neck and then his teeth nipped the skin. A jolt of pleasure ran down your spine. You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold out when Adrian was dragging himself in and out of you with a studied speed, burying deep every time, hitting that perfect spot.
“’m close, are you…close,” Adrian slurred before biting at your jaw, his words barely coherent.
“Mhm,” you spoke into his hand, sure you were probably drooling. You didn’t care. Adrian nudged your knee ever so slightly with his own, spreading you open just a bit more. But it was enough. In the total darkness of Adrian’s embrace, you crashed over the edge, a shout muffled into his hand. You breathed quickly through your nose, finding it significantly harder to catch your breath and Adrian chased you into bliss only a second later, a curse hissed through his clenched teeth, certainly too loud. His hand released your mouth as his forehead fell into the curve of your shoulder. His sweaty hair tickled at your chin and you turned, still blind, to clumsily press a kiss to his temple.
“Well, that was new,” you remarked, still trying to catch your breath. In the darkness beneath Adrian’s hand, the edges of your vision sparked.
“Was it okay? Did you like it?”
“It was more than okay, babe,” you murmured assurance. That was Adrian – aiming to please, even when it came to dabbling in something like minor sensory deprivation.
After a long moment, his hand fell from your eyes to the futon with an audible thump and he slipped out of you, laying half on top of you and half wedged beside you on the futon.
“I feel like I don’t have any bones anymore,” he muttered. “You stole them. You’re a bone thief.”
“I’ll keep your bones safe in my bone collection. Promise,” you laughed breathlessly. He perked up slightly, lifting his head so he could look at your face.
“Yeah?” he asked, eyes wide with puppydog-esque devotion.
“Yeah. You’ve got centerpiece level bones. Real main attraction stuff.”
He brushed your hair from your face, and then wiped your cheeks free of tears, thumb grazing across your lower lip, collecting any errant spit. He popped his thumb into his mouth and you recoiled.
“Adrian, gross!”
“Sorry I just want part of you in me,” he replied like you were the one being unreasonable.
You smirked at him and shifted so that you could slip on top of him, straddling his narrow waist. “Maybe it’s time we revisit that conversation about peg – ”
“Adrian?”
Adrian’s mother’s voice came from directly outside the door. You clamped your mouth shut, looking down at Adrian with wide eyes.
“What, mom?” he called back, rolling his eyes, his head falling back onto the futon.
“Do you and your girlfriend want to come upstairs for dinner? I made a baked mac ‘n cheese with the breadcrumb topping you like so much!”
“Girlfriend?” he scoffed, voice traitorously too high. “What girlfriend? You’re so crazy, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Oh, sweetie, Mrs. Peterson from across the street called and she said she saw you sneaking in through the basement window with a very pretty young lady!”
You had to laugh. There was simply no other choice. Adrian groaned and draped his arm over his face, treating you to a wonderful (very biteable) view of his bicep. “Fuck, I knew I always hated Mrs. Peterson. No trustworthy person has that many chihuahuas.”
When Adrian didn’t respond one way or the other to the evidence presented, his mother called out again, “Does the pretty young lady like mac ‘n cheese?”
You grinned down at Adrian who appeared to be going through the five stages of grief in quick succession. Luckily for him it was going to take a lot more than an overbearing mother to scare you off. If you could survive the Vigilante of it all, you could survive anything. You leaned down, bit Adrian’s bicep and then kissed his swollen lips before he could protest.
“The pretty young lady loves mac n’ cheese!” you called back.
adrian taglist: @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase @vigilantexreader @faelvz @a-young-g0d @euinein @fangirl48 @navs-bhat (as always, if you want to join my taglist, just let me know! respectfully, no minors! there are some people who have requested in the past and if you're a minor/I couldn't verify if you're over 18 you've been taken off, I'm sorry!)
"human resources" - dr. michael "robby" robinavitch x reader
kinktober 2025 day 18: size kink
Summary: After finding Dr. Robby’s Tinder profile with a suspiciously large outline in his shorts, your friends make a bet to see who can get definitive proof of his big dick -- and you, despite being wildly in love with him, agree to participate.
Tags/Notes: workplace shenanigans ft. santos, whitaker, javadi, mohan, king (i chose the pic with her on purpose), background mohabbot, slow burn-ish, mutual pining, first time together, fingering and oral (f), unprotected piv (discussed), size kink obviously, loootsss of marks (bruises, hickeys, scratches), some mention of minor blood from said marks
Content: i mean the whole thing is kinda sexual harassment. everyone has fun but that doesn’t change that it would be very naughty to do something like this!
A/N: thank you all for being so nice about me getting sick and having to delay this, but hey i locked in and actually got it finished!
Word Count: 11.0k (oops)
not proofread properly bc it would've taken so long
The moment your lunch break starts, Trinity yanks you into an on-call room, where Mel, Victoria, Samira, and Whitaker have all also been dragged during a rare moment during the day when you can all leave the floor at once. It’s dark inside and it feels suspiciously like a gathering of cult members. Ever since you found out the six of you lived in the same building (which, yes, half the staff lives in because it’s the cheapest spot close to the hospital), you’ve been a group, even now that Samira’s off living with her knight in shining scrubs.
Trinity looks between you seriously, her phone screen illuminating her face from below like a horror movie villain about to give you the rules for a torture game. She announces seriously, “Guys, I have crucial intel.”
“Alright, get on with it,” Samira sighs. “Some of us have work to do and waiting in here has already taken up half my break.”
Trinity draws a deep breath and holds up her phone, showing off the screen in an arc to let everyone get a good look. “Dennis’ and my other roommate sent us these screenshots last night. I guess Robby has his settings so nobody who has his number can see it, but she did.”
You huddle around the phone as she swipes through a series of pictures, each one of your attending (and your best friend), Robby. A Tinder profile. As her thumb swipes across the screen, all of you ask questions over each other: He owns a motorcycle? And a real suit? Oh my god, is he shirtless there? Wait, he plays basketball?
While they gawk and laugh, you’re stuck on the bio that makes you smile: I’m a doctor. Not in a hot way. In an ‘I’m in therapy and you probably should be too if you want to date me’ way. Soft spot for puppies, babies, and good beer. My best friend forced me to make this when he got a girlfriend so that I wouldn’t be a third wheel. Guess I’m looking for my fourth wheel. Someone to stabilize me.
Victoria’s been standing there slack-jawed for the longest. As the baby of the group, she’s always surprised by everything. “I just can’t believe Dr. Robby is on dating apps.”
Trying not to get pathetically jealous at the idea, you reason, “I mean, he’s single. He’s attractive.”
Samira snickers, “Don’t they have an age limit on that app to protect seniors or something?”
You roll your eyes. “He’s not that old.”
“And you’re one to talk,” Dennis points out. “Dr. Abbot isn’t exactly young.”
“He’s a decade younger than Robby,” she replies. “Robby’s so old I didn’t think he could even download an app without help. He asked me to convert something to a PDF for him the other day. I find the idea that he’d meet someone from an app…charming. The way a cat trapped in a tree is cute.”
Mel crosses her arms over her chest and physically turns away from Trinity’s phone. She huffs out, “Guys, this is so inappropriate.”
Trinity glares. “You’re no fun.”
“That’s sort of my whole thing,” she cuts back. Then she nudges you and asks for backup, “C’mon, you know this is wrong.”
But you’re way too intrigued to agree with your roommate. You shrug and say, “It’s a public profile. Someone was bound to find it eventually, right?”
Mel scoffs and shakes her head. “Et tu?”
Trinity groans and makes Mel turn back around with a pointed look. She goes on, “Guys, the intel isn’t that he has a Tinder.” She zooms in on the picture of him with Dr. Abbot on a basketball court, Robby jumping to dunk the ball. You want to lick the sweat from his hairy chest. Trinity shoves her finger at the screen. “Look at this hog he’s packing. Dr. Robby has a giant dick.”
You take a closer look at the outline visible in his slinky athletic shorts. No way. You scoff and shake your head; the idea that a human man could have a dick that big seems outright ridiculous. In years of practicing medicine and being a sexually active adult, you’ve never seen one that would compare. So you shrug your shoulders up and awkwardly rush out, “That could be a water bottle or something.”
Victoria, wide eyes locked to the screen, chimes in, “Or- or just a shadow. The lighting.”
“Yeah, sure, or a massive fucking cock.”
Dennis, the reddest of everyone (he once told you about an absolutely mortifying sex dream he had about topping Robby), hisses, “Trinity, he’s our boss!”
“So?”
You step in, too. “So what are we even supposed to do with this information?”
“Well we all know what you’re going to do with it,” she says to you with a knowing, wicked grin. “You’re going to fantasize about how it would feel to take such a-”
“Trinity!” You slap your hand over her mouth. “If you bring up my crush on him one more time, I’m going to start paging you on every single bowel disimpaction that comes into the ER for the next six months. I’m working on getting over it!”
“Here’s what I’m proposing,” Trinity says seriously. She’s such a ringleader it’s not even funny. This is her circus and the rest of you are definitely her monkeys. “I say we all put in some money and the first person to get definitive proof that Dr. Robby’s packing gets the whole pool.”
“Absolutely not,” Mel says right away. She’s so serious that she shoves out of the on-call room and back to work. She never wants to play in the circus.
The rest of you stay put, though. Dennis mutters, “How much money?”
“This is high stakes,” Samira reasons. “A hundred each.”
“You’re only saying that because you have the best chances,” Victoria cuts in. “Dr. Abbot probably sees his dick every time they go to the gym together.”
“No outside interference,” Trinity adds immediately. “I like the sound of $100 each. That’s a pool of $500. Sounds pretty fair for the task at hand.”
Dennis wrinkles his eyebrows. “What if nobody does it?”
“Then we all lose out on $500.”
To a group of poor twenty-somethings, that’s pretty damn convincing.
“I’m definitely in,” Samira starts. If Trinity is the ringleader, Mohan’s the strongman. “Even if Jack can’t help, I’m smarter than the rest of you.”
Dennis punches her on the arm; he’s the group’s contortionist, always able to bend himself into ridiculous situations somehow. “Me too. I’m the only one with access to the men’s showers.”
You argue, “Then you should put up $150. That’s an unfair home field advantage.”
There’s a murmur of agreement from the other girls that makes Whitaker balk.
“Okay, yeah, I may also have a penis, but I have the distinct disadvantage of being scared shitless of Robby, unlike Samira and Santos.” Then he shoves an accusatory finger in your direction. “If anything, you have an advantage because Robby already wants to fuck you.”
You shove him in the chest. “He does not!”
“Ow, first of all.” He shakes his head and says, “How about we go no-holds-barred? Samira can use Abbot, I can use my Y chromosome, you can use your powers of seduction. Whatever.”
Victoria pouts. She’s the tightrope walker, always trying to balance the line of appropriate and otherwise. “And what the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Psychological warfare,” Trinity suggests. “That’s what I’m planning.”
Samira offers, “Maybe just beg?”
“Jesus, fine,” Victoria sighs. “I’m in, I guess.”
All eyes turn in your direction. “How about you, Mrs. Robinavitch?”
And your role in this circus of idiot doctors? Well, you’re just the clown who’s been nursing a big fat crush on her attending for two years. The idea of seeing Dr. Robby naked is too appealing for you to resist. So you present your hand to the center of the circle and sigh, “I’m in.”
The bet gets out of hand right away, not that this sort of thing could ever be under control. The six of you – Mel’s invited mostly because she’s your roommate and already knows, though she’s made her disapproval patently clear – meet for beers after a long shift the following Friday. Samira clears her throat and breaks the silence, “Do any of you sure-to-be losers have anything to announce to the group?”
Trinity pulls out her phone and dramatically sighs. “Well, I really thought I had it. I made a Tinder profile of a very respectable, almost-age-appropriate lady and matched with him. Paid for the goddamn Super Like and everything.”
Victoria’s jaw detaches from her maxilla. “You catfished him?”
Trinity looks honestly offended. “Only a little!”
Dennis gawks. “Whose pictures did you use?”
“My mom’s.”
“Seriously?!” Even Samira’s in disbelief over that. “Did you at least tell her?”
“It’s not like she’ll ever find out,” Trinity reasons. “Her and my dad have been together since the Dark Ages. They’d never be on Tinder. And I used a fake name. She’s just the prettiest woman over 40 I know.”
“You’re fucked up for that,” Dennis says with an admonishing shake of his head. Then he sips his beer and presses, “So how did it go between Robby and your not mom? No luck?”
“Obvioulsy not,” she explains. “He told me in, like, the third message that he’s looking for something serious and would only have sex with someone he loves. Like, apropos of nothing. Old people are weird; I don’t get him at all.”
You swallow hard. “That’s sweet, though.”
She scrunches her nose. “Is it?”
Victoria giggles, about one cocktail too deep, “Would you rather find out our boss is a total man whore?”
“Actually, yeah,” Trinity laughs. “It’s kind of sad someone his age is still looking to settle down.”
“Hey,” you stop her, “that’s actually mean, Trin. Robby’s a good man and he deserves to be happy.”
“Sorry, forgot it’s rude to insult someone’s boyfriend right in front of them.”
Samira shakes her head and tuts then, feeling merciful on your behalf, “Poor showing, Santos. I expected better from our leader.”
“Give me another week.”
“Not if I beat you to it,” she replies with a grin. Then she nudges you with her elbow and says, “C’mon, Jack wants us to go to dinner with Robby.”
It’s not an unusual invitation – the four of you get dinner a few times a month – but tonight it catches the attention of everyone else.
Dennis protests, only half joking, “Woah, woah, you can’t bring her if it’s going to turn into an orgy thing where she gets a quick shot at the win.”
As your cheeks turn pink, you argue, “I thought it was a no-holds-barred game, Whitaker. Your idea, remember?”
Samira gives you a conspiratorial look. “What do you say, babe, wanna go ask our boys to drop their pants in the middle of the restaurant?”
Pretending not to be as embarrassed as you are, you giggle, “I wouldn’t be opposed.”
“This is so unfair,” Dennis pouts.
“Start following him into the shower, then.” Samira smiles and links her arm with yours as you get ready to walk away. “Calm down; she’s always our go-to fourth wheel. No special advantage tonight.”
“Tonight, he did that thing where he touched my lower back when he opened the door for me,” you bemoan to Mel late that night, both sitting on her bed as you stare at your laptops. “Have you ever noticed how big his hands are?”
“Can’t say I have.”
You shut your laptop dramatically. “Seriously, how am I supposed to recover from that?”
Mel shrugs like she always does. “Ask him out.”
“I can’t. He’s my boss.”
“He’s probably waiting for you to do it,” she reasons. “It would be inappropriate for him to ask you, but not necessarily the other way around. Provided you aren’t asking in exchange for any benefits in the workplace.” Then she gives you a little mischievous grin that only you and Langon are ever privy to. “Benefits besides making out in on-call rooms, of course.”
The next series of attempts comes from Samira. She decides to use her one trump card, enlisting Jack’s help. He finds the whole thing hysterical because he’s a feral child just like his girlfriend, so he agrees. Trinity insists on adding a caveat to the rules: The picture has to be on the better’s phone, taken by the better, explicitly ruling out Jack’s involvement beyond being a co-conspirator. Samira agrees and insists it’ll be no problem.
So, for two weeks, every time Robby and Jack hang out, Samira comes up with excuses to tag along and shoot her shots. She goes to the gym with them and ‘accidentally’ walks into the men’s locker room on two separate occasions, both times catching Robby after the shower but with his towel already on.
On a Thursday night all have off, you’re unfortunate enough to witness one of the efforts firsthand. Samira invited you over to watch the Penguins game with her and Robby (since the two of you hate sports and she’ll be bored out of her mind otherwise).
After three beers, Robby excuses himself to the bathroom. Only fifteen seconds later, Samira stands up, gives a salute to you both, and whispers, “Wish me luck.”
Jack grins like the dumbass he is. “Good luck, honey.”
As she walks away, you shake your head and turn to him. “It doesn’t bother you that your girlfriend is obsessed with taking a picture of your best friend’s dick?”
“Nope,” he replies confidently. There’s a cool, clear ‘she knows what she has at home’ energy to the reply. Then he puts on a meddling smirk and akss, “Does it bother you that she’s going to see Robby’s dick before you get to when she wins?”
“Jack!” You toss a pillow at him hard, causing him to spill his beer slightly as he laughs. “Y’know, it’s hard enough dealing with the teasing from the other residents. I don’t need it from you.”
“Hey, I have to listen to Robby going on and on about you all the time; it’s not easy for me, either.”
Your eyes widen into planets, but before you can ask the million clarifying questions you need to, Samira’s back, wearing a disappointed grimace. Looking solemn, she glances between you and Jack and shakes her head. “No dice.”
She tucks under Jack’s arm and he kisses her forehead. “You’ll get him next time, slugger.”
Robby emerges from the bathroom two minutes later with his face tomato red, unable to look Samira in the eyes as he takes his spot next to you once more. He mutters, “I miss anything important?”
“I wouldn’t know,” you reply honestly. Pitying his blush, you touch his thigh and ask, “Can I get you another beer?”
“Please.”
Trinity shakes her head in disappointment once Samira recounts her latest attempt in a line of failures. The three of you and Javadi are at the nurse’s station during shift change, making sure charts are in order as the night shift begins to filter in. Trinity sighs, “Maybe I should just pants him. Say it’s a prank or something.”
You snicker, “That would definitely get you sent straight to HR.”
Victoria puts her head in her hands; she hasn’t even come up with a plan yet and it’s getting to her. “This whole thing is going to get us all sent to HR.”
“Not if you never try anything,” Trinity replies.
Victoria glares. “You’re just trying to get me to back down so you get the money.”
Trinity raises her hands and laughs. “Guilty.”
Out of the corner of your eye, Robby’s tugging off his trauma gown with a frown on his lips. He’s splatterned in blood, enough that it’s gone between his mask and gloves and gown. He’ll need a shower. From across the ED, the four of you watch as Dennis rushes through a patient handover and hustles down the hall. Shooting a knowing look over his shoulder at the four of you, Dennis follows Robby into the showers.
You whisper, “Oh, god.”
“I’m gonna miss the little guy,” Trinity says seriously, shaking her head, “especially his share of the rent.”
Victoria sighs, “He made the best coffee.”
When you’re all finished and ready to leave, you and the other girls wait for Dennis by the Pitt’s doors, trying to be inconspicuous as you await his status report.
Dennis emerges, walking fast, expecting you all to meet his brisk pace. You have to practically jog to keep up until you’re a block from the hospital, well out of ear shot of anyone else. Finally, he stops abruptly and swings around to scan his periphery. His eyes are trained on his shoes. He hisses, “Rumor confirmed. Huge.”
Your cheeks burn; blush is becoming a constant state for you thanks to this stupid bet. Trinity’s mouth falls open and she shoves his shoulder hard. “Show us!”
“I didn’t get a picture.”
The whole group groans in disappointment (besides Mel, who sounds relieved). Victoria puts her hand on her hips. “Then you didn’t confirm anything. You could be lying.”
“No way I went through that mortification for nothing. I saw it.”
“Doesn’t count, Dennis,” Trinity replies with an unsympathetic shrug. “We’re talking about $500 here. Hard proof you can share with the class or nothing.”
He frowns and offers, “I can tell you that it’s the size of my goddamn forearm and he has a birthmark the size of a quarter on his hip; that doesn’t count for anything?”
Samira claps him on the back and suppresses her laugh. “You’ll have to try again, Whitaker.”
You aren’t really planning on participating. No matter how much you get annoyed at the amount of crap you get for it, you really do like Robby. In fact, it’s a lot past ‘like.’ It’s love. He’s the person you go to for advice, for jokes, for reassurance. For silence. He’s the first person you text in the morning and the last at night. You don’t know exactly how or when it happened, but you gradually went from ‘Robby’s favorite resident’ to ‘Robby’s favorite person’ over the last few years. And that relationship, whatever it is, matters a hell of a lot to you. You don’t want to damage it, even over that much money.
And then your bank account goes into the negative.
You’d run the numbers wrong on your budget for the month, a handful of bills come through at once, and suddenly you’re staring back at a deficit of more than a hundred dollars. All of a sudden, the $500 your stupid-ass friends have been dangling like a carrot in front of your nose has some real appeal.
You know that, for you, there’s really only one option. You could never, in a million years, get away with any of the sneakiness the rest of them are trying. And, yeah, sure, maybe you could go for seduction the way that everyone is prodding for you to. But you’re way too ashamed to do that for a whole host of reasons.
All you can possibly do is beg.
So you spend the whole day screwing up your courage to nut up and ask. You can’t even look at Robby while you work, terrified of the possible outcomes that could roll out in front of you. Of course, there’s the obvious: A visit to HR, fired, tarred and feathered, stripped of your medical future. Most likely, he’ll be mortified and your friendship will be ruined. Possibly, he’ll be flustered and embarrassed and never speak to you again.
Then, worst of all, there’s the idea that this might start something between the two of you. Something you’ve been dancing around for a very, very long time. Something hot and true and real.
What the hell would you do then?
Robby notices. Because of course he notices. He leaves you alone at first, hoping you’ll just corner him and ask whatever it is you’re stewing on. Then he starts avoiding you, too, because he’s wracking his brain for what he must’ve done wrong for you to be like this. He’d made a joke about pandas that hadn’t landed yesterday, but that couldn’t be it. Could it? Maybe it was how he corrected you when you set that broken nose first thing this morning. He hadn’t had his coffee yet. No. You never made a thing about work stuff.
Finally, when he sees you slip into the locker room at the end of your shift, he can’t take it anymore. After a deep breath, he closes the space between you, touches your lower back, and leans in close. “Can we talk for a second?”
You jolt back from him and stare up into his eyes. Shit, you always forget how tall he is when he isn’t doing that thing where he shrinks down to make others more comfortable. “Um, yeah. Is- What’s, ah, what’s up, Robinavitch?”
Robby scowls. “‘Robinavitch’? I don’t think you’ve ever called me that before.”
“First time for everything.” You grimace, shifting from foot to foot, and snatch your backpack from your locker. “Can we, ah, go somewhere else?”
There are a ton of emotions flashing through his eyes. Concern, curiosity, nerves. But all he says is, “Yeah, of course.”
Robby leads you across the Pitt to his office, which is totally barren except for a stack of paperwork on the desk that he clearly has no intention of doing. He flips on the light, draws the blinds, and turns to you seriously. “Alright, sweetheart, what the hell is going on? You’ve been avoiding me all day.”
You stick close to the door and stare up at the ceiling tiles, wringing your hands. “Look. Okay. This is gonna be so horrifying, alright? So just…just don’t make fun of me too much. You can make fun of me a little, but not that much, because if you make too much of a thing of it I’m never gonna be able to look you in the eye again and-”
“Woah, hey, it’s alright.” Robby reaches out and touches your elbow, stepping closer to you until you look up at him. He cups your face with one of his agonizingly large hands and you’re so embarrassed it’s unbelievable. “Whatever it is, you can trust me.”
“God, please don’t be sincere,” you whine. “You can’t be sweet, sincere, cow-eyed, gorgeous Robby right now, okay? Because I’ll have to go jump off the roof if you look like you care about me when I’m about to say something as stupid as what I’m about to say.”
Carefully, he replies, “But I do care about you.”
“Okay. Fuck. Here goes.” You duck your head, lower your voice, and absolutely ramble out, “Trinity found your Tinder profile a few weeks ago and in one of the pictures it sort of looks like we can see the outline of your dick and she said it looked really big so then we all made a bet to see who could get a picture of it to prove that you’re, um, well-endowed, and we all put in a hundred dollars as a pool for the winner and I know- I know it’s so stupid and so, so wrong, but I could really use that kind of money but more importantly I definitely can’t afford to lose a hundred dollars right now because my bank account is overdrafted which is also mortifying in and of itself to tell you because you really shouldn’t be concerned with my financial wellbeing but the fact of the matter is that I-”
“Wait, wait,” he cuts you off, “you’re telling me that’s what’s been going on the past few weeks? My subordinates have been conspiring to see my dick?”
Reaching a new shade of effervescent pink as yet undiscovered by man, you squeak out, “Yes.”
And then he starts laughing. As you blush so hard that your entire body is burning, he absolutely cracks up – to the point that he’s hiccuping, tears falling, grabbing his stomach. Doubled over, Robby wheezes, “Christ, I was starting to worry I’d have to give Whitaker a talk about how nobody will judge him if he’s gay because he keeps ending up in the shower the same time as me and then running away when he realizes I’m naked. And I’ve been terrified that Jack and Mohan might be planning to invite me for a threesome the way she’s been loitering around me. Thank god.”
Shaky relief floods your body and you mutter. “That…wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I actually don’t know.”
After wiping an amused tear from his cheek, Robby reaches out his hand and commands, “Alright, slugger, give me your phone.”
Shocked out of your mind, you reach into your pocket and present it wordlessly. When you see that he’s going for his waistband, you turn around and cover your eyes like his dick might bite you.
Robby laughs again, this time at your obvious nerves. Not discomfort, though. Nerves. He chuckles, “You don’t get extra money for seeing it in person?”
Gnawing off your lower lip, you whimper, forgetting about the rules in the heat of the moment, “Nope.”
“I’m decent now.” When you turn back, he hands off the phone, screen still open. “Go get your money. Buy me a drink or something as my share of the spoils.”
Then you look at your phone. The syllable falls out before you can stop it. Shocked, breathless. Undeniably turned on. “Oh.”
You stare down at the picture with wide eyes. Your pupils dilate, your throat goes dry, and you can’t deny that heat and wetness collecting between your legs. Yeah, that’s a big fucking cock. Even soft, it has to be eight inches – but, like, real inches, not fantasy porn inches. And thick. Dennis may not have been far off base with his forearm comparison, given that he’s beanbole skinny. That whole ‘thick as a beer can’ thing you’ve read in tons of smut suddenly seems possible if Robby can get even thicker than that when he’s hard.
Jesus Christ.
Yeah, your dildo definitely doesn’t compare to the real thing, no matter how much you’ve fantasized about it while using your toys.
Robby’s amused voice is a little rougher when he asks, “What was that, sweetheart?”
Your head snaps upward hard enough that you hope your neck will break and kill you. “Please don’t tell me I just said that out loud.”
Robby cages you against the door between his forearms. “You definitely did.”
Your eyes fall to his lips. “Robby, I-”
He presses your bodies together. Your chest on his chest. Your thigh slotted between his. The smirk he’s wearing is so hot you start to melt underneath it. You might have a picture of his dick, but he’s holding all the cards. Shit, you can feel his cock through his scrubs against your thigh. He’s not even hard and you can feel how big he is. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You’re done. You’re through. Stop the timer, pull the plug, call in the guard.
He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to make eye contact. With you unable to speak, Robby teases, “You what? C’mon, gorgeous, use your words.”
All you can do is whimper.
The sound you make is downright pathetic, but it only encourages Robby. His breath brushes your lips and it feels like he can see your heart beating in your neck. Then he presses his lips to the curve of your ear and murmurs, “God, I’m gonna have so much fun wrecking you.”
It takes you forty five seconds to breathe again. Finally, with Robby pulling back enough to allow you to think, you mutter, “Mel’s outside waiting for me to walk home with her.”
“Of course.” He pulls back the rest of the way, taking a deep breath. When he shakes his head, it’s almost in disbelief – and you realize he wants you. He presses a soft, knowing kiss to your forehead, strokes your cheek with his thumb, and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
And he unlocks the door behind you with his arm still around you, the sound shaking you from the stupor of his presence.
After practically sprinting to the hospital exit, you find Mel waiting in your usual spot under an overgrown oak. Gripping her arm hard, you whisper, “I’ve got the picture.”
Her eyes pop out of her head. “What?! Seriously?”
“Yes.”
You start walking, harsh and fast, toward your neighborhood, needing to do something to get this crazy energy out of your body.
She hustles to keep up with your pace. “How?!”
“I told him the truth.”
She squeals like a gossipping cheerleader. “And he took his…manhood out for you?”
“I turned around. He took the picture.”
“Wow. He must really be into you.” Then, catching your elbow to slow your walking, she lowers her voice and asks, “Are you going to send it to everyone?”
“I- I’m not sure.” You roll your eyes and groan, “He was going to kiss me. After I told him. After he took the picture. He said- he basically said that he thinks about me, y’know, like that. So now sending it to the group chat feels like sending – god dammit – it feels like sending my boyfriend’s nudes, okay? You were right.”
She gives a self-satisfied smirk. “I usually am.”
“But I really need that money, Mel. Like ‘won’t be able to pay my share of the rent’ need it.”
“Ask Dr. Robby for it.” She needles with a cute grin, “Clearly he’ll do anything for you.” At the entrance to your building, she pauses. “Seriously, though, you shouldn’t.”
“He told me I could.”
“Still.”
“I have to think about it.”
“Okay, I guess.”
The six of you sit side-by-side like kids in the principal’s office, cramped into the small office high up in the hospital’s tower. There’s an HR rep across the desk. Robby and Jack are standing behind her, trying really hard not to laugh at your dejected expressions. You can’t blame Mel for snitching about the bet, not when you’d ended up mortified and crying and confused in her arms after the whatever the hell that was with Robby last night. The moment you’d reached your apartment, it all washed over you and turned into a full breakdown of ‘what the fuck.’
When the rep finishes going through what feels like a prosecutorial rundown of charges, she asks over her shoulder, “Dr. Robinavitch, do you feel safe continuing to work with them?”
He outright laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. To him, this whole thing is a ridiculous inconvenience. “Yes. God knows I’ve participated in my fair share of similar betting pools downstairs.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” she groans, already having nightmares about an avalanche of paperwork. She turns back to look at the rest of you. “Doctors, do you understand this was a massive violation of Dr. Robinavitch’s privacy?”
You nod solemnly, tears biting at your eyes. You’ve never been in trouble like this before and you absolutely hate the feeling of it in your gut. “I completely understand. I’m so, so sorry.”
Everyone echoes something similar – except Trinity.
The HR rep picks up on it. She presses, “Dr. Santos?”
It’s not her first time getting a talking to about a bet placed with colleagues. So she scoffs. “Yeah, I guess. But it’s not like Robby hasn’t done the same kind of shit.”
“Again, pretending we didn’t say that.” The rep pinches the bridge of her nose and shuts her eyes, breathing deeply for a minute. “Obviously, there will have to be consequences. We can’t send the message that this hospital doesn’t care about sexual harassment.”
Dr. Abbot lets out a harsh laugh. “Sexual harassment?”
She turns around and glares. “How else would you describe coworkers trying to take naked pictures of someone?”
“Well, yeah, I guess, but the ED always has this kind of thing happ-”
She cuts him off with a raised hand. “I am begging you all to stop talking before I have to call in Gloria to deal with this mess.”
That shuts everyone up.
For organizing the whole thing, Trinity gets placed on administrative leave without pay for a week, which she grumbles about before realizing she can go on an impromptu vacation. Because of the whole locker room incident, Dennis gets three days without pay. After the gym situation, Samira and Jack earn the same, which doesn’t really seem like a punishment considering they’re shacked up together. Since you at least asked for his consent, you have two days without pay. Because Victoria was too scared to even try, she gets sent home early with a warning. Mel, of course, gets off home free – although she gets put on night shift since they’ll be down Dr. Abbot.
“Are you mad at me?”
After shoving another handful of chocolate into your mouth, you shush Mel and turn up the volume on Bridget Jones Diary. “For the last time, no.”
Not convinced, she reminds you, “The only reason I told HR is because I didn’t want you showing your future boyfriend’s dick off to everyone in the hospital. You’d regret it.”
“I know, Mel,” you reply. It’s been 24 hours and you’ve had sufficient time to fight with her about the whole situation. “Seriously, I’m not mad. I get you, okay? I know you were trying to protect me in your own way. But I will be mad if you talk over the tarts and vicars party. We need to finish this before you leave for your shift.”
Accepting it (you know she’ll ask again soon), Mel reaches into your shared snack bowl and relents, “Okay, okay.”
Right when Colin Firth is about to announce that he likes Renée Zellweger just as she is, there’s a knock on your apartment door. You both ignore it, assuming it’s a package delivery, but a second knock a minute later takes you by surprise. Cutting a look over to Mel, you ask, “Did you get food or something?”
Her eyebrows knit together. “I figured you did.”
“I’ll check it,” you say, unfurling from the blankets and setting the snacks on the coffee table. In your knee-high socks, skimpy pajama shorts, and bralette, you joke, “Hopefully it’s the Mormons again and seeing my exposed skin will send them into a crisis of faith.”
Mel’s laughing until you open the door. Then she mutters something like ‘please Jesus no’ and looks like she’s debating taking the fire escape.
Robby looks really good in casual clothes. The jeans make his thighs look gigantic and, fuck, have his shoulders always been that goddamn broad? The white tee and – Jesus Christ, really? – leather jacket have him looking like a greaser, like one curl should be on his forehead, like you should be dropping to your knees and-
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You try to return your eye contact to an appropriate area and can’t find it in you. You’re obsessed with his arms. The way he’s leaning in your door frame, one hand above his head, elbow against the wood, has his trap bulging into his bicep and then down toward his veiny forearm and- Fuck. And his chest. His chest. Christ alive. His pecs. It’s only when you shut your eyes that you’re able to stammer out, “What are you- I’m, ah- Hi, Robby.”
He touches your cheek to get you to open your eyes. “I’d like it if you started calling me Michael.”
You try out the taste of that on your tongue. “Michael. Alright.”
He smiles at that. You love the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Mind if I come in? Or did you want to keep ogling my tits for a while?”
You startle backwards a few steps and awkwardly gesture to the apartment. “Sorry, ah, yes, of course, come on in.”
When he sees Mel on the couch, he bristles. It’s comforting to see his ridiculous confidence waver for even a second. “You live with Dr. King.”
“I do.”
“Right. I knew that.” He puts on an almost-professional smile and waves, “Hi, Mel.”
She holds the blanket tight around her neck like she’s naked underneath. “Hello, Dr. Robinavitch.”
You give her a wide-eyed, impatient look at her to break her bewilderment and hiss, “Mel, don’t you need to get ready for your shift?”
She scrambles upward, still clinging to the blanket. “Yes, yeah, ah, right, yeah. I’ll, um, I’ll leave you two alone. Out here. And then I’ll be leaving. For the night. Yup.”
Mel disappears into her bedroom, careful to cover her body every step of the way as if Robby would be phased by seeing her in sweats and a sports bra. As if his attention isn’t fixed squarely on you.
Robby’s eyes skate over your body and you’re suddenly agonizingly aware of how little you’re wearing. He smirks again. Fuck that smirk. “I’m a big fan of your outfit.”
You cross your arms over your chest and then stretch your arms out to cover your stomach and then realize that makes your cleavage worse and cross your arms again. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
Robby takes your hands in his to stop you trying to hide from him. He kisses your hand and you’re swooning. You didn’t even know what that felt like until now. “I told you I’d see you, didn’t I?”
“That was before our collective scolding.”
“Well, I’m a man of my word.” His hand goes to your neck, holding the back of your head and pressing his thumb over your pulse at once. His hands are so big. Your brain is cloudy with desire and then he makes it so much worse by saying, “I said I wanted to wreck you. I’m here to make good on that.”
Mel emerges from her bedroom in her scrubs and fleece jacket, eyes trained on the floor and cheeks red. She rushes past Robby, who takes half a step back from you. Snatching her keys from the hall table, she announces in an unnaturally high pitch, “Well, it’s time for my shift. See you both, um, later!”
Then she’s gone – forty five minutes early. And there’s a locked door between you, Robby, and the rest of the world.
You’re frozen and Robby thinks it’s too adorable not to take advantage of. He jumps right in, stepping close to put his hands on the slope of your waist, thumb on ribcage and pinkies on your hips, and asks, “So, what’d all your friends think about my dick pic? Sufficiently impressed?”
You bite your lower lip, not yet able to look at him, and admit in a hushed tone, “I didn’t send it to them.”
Robby tilts your chin up and searches your face. “Why not?”
“You know already.”
He leans in close, breath mixing with yours, foreheads touching, and replies, “I need to hear you say it.”
Your lip twitches up into a smirk. He’s as desperate for you as you are for him. That feels fucking good. Finally, you make eye contact – and he’s shocked by the intensity in your expression. He’s never seen you looking possessive. Blood rushes to his cock. You press a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat drum against your palm, and say, “I didn’t send it because you’re mine, Michael. And I don’t want anyone else seeing what’s mine.”
The grin that spreads over Robby’s features is heart-fluttering, slow and certain and reaching the corners of his eyes. “I’m yours, huh?”
A tiny bit tentative, you whisper, “If you want me.”
Robby laughs, “If I want you?”
You’d expected your first kiss with Robby to be hungry. For your mutual, long-suffering want to explode over each other and turn into shedding clothes and falling into something frantic and intense, chasing pleasure and needing like nothing else.
But it’s not.
Robby takes a deep breath first, like he needs to gather up his courage to actually press his lips to yours despite all his bravado. Then he gives his head a little shake, laughs softly, and leans in. Both of you are gentle, even as you step up onto your toes to deepen it, even as his slightly shaking hand presses up into the curve of your spine to pull you up closer, even as you let out a breathy moan. It’s a caress more than a claim, an exploration more than an ecstasy, a feather more than a fire.
“I want you the way I want oxygen,” Robby breathes into the wide quiet space after your lips part. He kisses you so softly again and, like he might cry, whispers, “I love you.”
It’s your turn to smile – slow, disbelieving, adoring. “You love me? Really?”
He scoffs and holds you close, eye contact so sweet, “I love you so much I can’t think straight when you’re not on shift with me. I love you so much it makes me outright stupid. It would embarrass me, how much I love you, but it doesn’t because every once in a while you look at me like you might love me too and those moments make my whole life worth living.”
Knees weak and heart thudding, you whimper, “Michael.”
This time, the kiss is what you’d expected. You’re biting his lip and rucking up his shirt and shoving him toward your bedroom while he’s chuckling into your mouth at your obvious and unashamed desire, keeping you balanced, matching your energy as he opens up the door and lets himself be shoved back onto your bed. You situate yourself in his lap and practically rip his jacket off so you can finally sink your teeth into his ridiculously gorgeous arms.
Robby pulls in a sharp breath when you suck a harsh mark into the sensitive hollow of his collarbone, dragging the bruise up his neck with unrelenting suction. “Planning on getting me sent to HR our first day back as a couple?”
You pull off of him and catch your breath. Carefully, you run your thumb over his hand and reply, “Yeah, actually. I wanna do this right. HR, paperwork, the whole thing.”
Robby, smiling a tiny bit, asks, “You’re not worried about what everyone’s going to think?”
“Who cares?” You shrug and tell him, “All the other residents have been telling me to ask you out since we started. Even Jack wants us to get together. We’ve been working together while eye-fucking for two years; I don’t think much’ll change.”
“Except how close the administration’s gonna be watching you,” he replies. “I don’t want you to regret-”
You cross your arms over your chest and say, “Michael David Robinavitch, if you’re seriously interrupting our first time together to talk about the boring logistical details of our relationship, I’m going to break up with you.”
“Right, priorities,” he agrees, hands travelling up to your bralette. “Let’s focus on getting you naked.”
“That’s more like it, cap.”
“First, though,” he says softly, pleading, “I want you to say it back.”
It’s as easy as a heartbeat. You kiss him again and murmur against his lips, “I love you.” You drag your bralette up and over your body, leaving you bare-chested and blushing. As Michael’s black eyes devour the sight, you repeat, “I love you.” Then you slip off his lap, lay back on the bed, and coax him to come with, caging you between his strong arms. Before he can descend and devour, you tilt your face upward, kiss him gently, and say one more time, “I love you.”
Robby shoves his hand into your pajama shorts with no hesitation or pretense, wanting to feel you so bad he doesn’t even bother taking the clothes off first. As his fingers part your lips, dragging slickness up to your clit, he groans delightedly, “Fuck, you’re soaked.”
With a soft moan, you explain, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”
You shimmy to push your shorts off, kicking them away. Robby roughly shoves your legs apart right away. He’s reluctant to remove his fingers, but he’s devastatingly hungry for your pussy on his tongue. He moves to the end of your bed and, just to make you shriek out a laugh, grabs you by the ankles and yanks you down, the fabric of your comforter turning into a sled toward his body. Then he smiles wide, shakes his head in disbelief, and praises, “You’re so gorgeous it’s almost offensive.”
You roll your eyes and fail to suppress a sweet, shy smile. “Thank you.”
Then he drops to his knees, muttering something about getting down to business. Reverently, he kisses and licks your inner thighs, going between sucking marks on your skin and soothing them with his tongue. Once he’s got you squirming and silently begging, he inhales your scent deeply, hovers close to your drenched sex, and groans, “I’ve been wondering how you taste for years. Can’t believe I finally get to find out.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
He grins and ghosts the breath of his words across your clit, “And I bet you taste like heaven.”
The moment his tongue makes contact, you both moan. His vibrates up your spine, turning yours into more of a breathy gasp. He latches onto your clit, then, refusing to tease when he finally has exactly what he wants. Propped up on your elbows, you watch as he greedily devours you, eyes closed and face relaxed with rapture. You’ve never seen him look so stress-free. Like your pussy’s the one thing in the world that can silence his racing mind.
He might not admit it out loud, but that’s the truth. Your tartness on his tongue has his cock leaking through his boxers. He’s rutting against your mattress like a horny dog, imagining how ridiculously good it’s going to be to finally slip his cock inside of you. That dizzying goal combined with the perfection of your taste has him dialed in, focused on your pleasure more than he focuses on most procedures.
He curls one finger slowly inside of you, thrilled out of his fucking mind when you groan louder and buck your hips against his mouth for more. His hands are huge and they’ve always been an object of your secret lust. When he adds a second finger, there’s a slight sting, but it’s quickly eased by his tongue lapping at your clit, flat and confident and accompanied by rhythmic gentle sucking. The pace he sets is indulgent, the first course in a long meal he wants to savor every morsel of.
When Robby feels your orgasm starting to tighten, he slows down. Teases it out. His fingers turn from curling to massaging, firm and insistent against your G-spot like only a doctor could. He makes sure to spread them wide, scissoring them, letting your muscles clamp and stretch. When your wetness soaks into his beard, he finally pulls off, just lightly kissing your inner thighs and breathing you in.
Orgasm-hazy and needy, you manage to stammer out, “I have an IUD, by the way.”
He looks up from between your legs with a mischievously raised eyebrow. Fuck, hes so handsome with his lips all shiny from spit and wetness. “Are you trying to tell me to fuck you raw?”
After a second, you nod bashfully.
“That’s very good to know, kitten,” he praises warmly. Then he pushes his fingers back inside you and moves his mouth down toward your clit again.
Sounding whinier than you’ve ever heard yourself, you demand, “Michael, please, just fuck me. Need you.”
He kisses your clit tenderly, like he’s greeting an old friend, and tells you, sternly and with no room for debate, “I’ll fuck you when I’ve got you taking three of my fingers. You’ve gotta cum one more time.”
You thrash against his hand and groan, “Christ, I want you so bad. I can take it. I swear I can.”
Still curling his first two fingers back toward himself, he gives you a look so perfectly condescending it makes you clench around him. “Trust me, baby, I love your enthusiasm, and it’s taking a hell of a lot of effort to resist you, but I’ve had this dick long enough to know you need to be good and ready.” He kisses your inner thigh and presses his thumb to your clit, which starts to make your thoughts evaporate again. Then he assures you, “I promise I’m gonna fuck you so hard and so deep that you’re gonna forget anyone else has ever fucked you before. Got it?”
You stretch your arms up behind your head and sigh dreamily, “I guess I shouldn’t complain about having a boyfriend who insists on making me cum twice before he puts his dick in me.”
“Twice when I’m feeling selfish,” he corrects seriously. “This is me rushing to get inside of you. When I’m taking my time, I’ll get four or five out of you first – bring out some toys when my fingers get tired – so you’ll be gushing wet and making the dumbest little noises for me. Turn off that big beautiful brain of yours.”
“You say that like it’s a promise.”
“It is.”
And then he’s back to eating your pussy. You’re still so sensitive from your last orgasm that he goes agonizingly gently, just using the tip of his tongue light as a feather to tease you. He holds you tight to his face by the hips so you can’t squirm away, no matter how much the overwhelming pleasure makes you thrash against the mattress. It’s his fingers that keep you grounded to reality, sloppy wet and firm and knowing. It’s like the beginning of your residency when he guided you through everything slow and steady, paying special attention to you and your potential. He holds your pleasure in his hands with expert precision.
Your orgasm slams through you as soon as he adds the third finger, stretching you comfortably open and pushing you forward. He’s holding you up now, your legs on his shoulders as your back arches away from him and your hands try to find anywhere they can get purchase, tugging his hair and beard and scratching his shoulders as your thighs spasm and ache. Your moans are high and stupid, thoughtless as ecstasy spreads out in front of you.
But Robby doesn’t let up, fingers branding into your hips as his other hand keeps working you open through the brutal aftershocks. The brush of his beard against your sensitive flesh has you seeing stars. Tears sting at your waterline and his lips wrap around your clit harder than ever, refusing to give you any relief from the lingering orgasm that’s bordering on painful now. It’s only when your moans turn to gasps and your tears actually crest over onto your cheeks that he detaches.
Robby blows cool air on your pussy and rubs his thumbs tenderly over your outer thigh as he slowly withdraws his fingers. Your whole body shudders from the stimulation and you feel so fucking good it’s like you’re high on the drug of your newly minted boyfriend.
He gradually kisses up your hip, over your stomach, between your breasts, and then finally along your neck to your lips, where he softly sucks your lower lip and praises, “Good job, angel. You ready or can I bring you water or something?”
You kiss him back for a minute, lapping up the taste of yourself on his mouth. He still has his pants on but you can feel that his cock is agonizingly hard and straining against them. So you press your forehead to his, take a deep breath, and nod seriously. “I need you to fuck me.”
Robby grins, pupils dilating and heart slamming. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined you saying that.”
“Probably about as many times as I’ve used a dildo and been disappointed it’s not your cock.” At your response, Robby laughs as he steps off the bed, rummaging through his discarded jacket. He pulls a small bottle of lube from one of the pockets and it makes you snicker. “You were that certain I’d fuck you?”
“Yeah, pretty damn sure.” Then he ditches the small talk, moving back to the edge of the bed like a lion and shoving your legs apart again. He uncaps the bottle and trains his gaze between your thighs. “There’s my greedy pussy. So pretty for me clenching around nothing. Fucking begging.” He squirts cold lube on your hot, overstimulated cunt and you hiss in a sharp breath that makes him chuckle darkly with arousal. “So sensitive, too. Fuck, you’re perfect. Need my cock, don’t you?”
You’re such a sniveling mess that you can’t even respond, just chasing your hips toward his cock to silently beg.
“Shh, shh,” he soothes, stilling your hip with his hand and spreading your legs as wide as they can possibly go. He lines up the head of his cock with your weeping entrance, taking a second to memorize the image as he murmurs, “Gonna take care of you, sweet girl. Don’t you worry. Just breathe for me.”
No amount of preparation could prepare you for the size of his cock. It doesn’t hurt because you’re ridiculously wet and he took his damn time, but the stretch is immense. Like sinking deeper into a yoga pose that makes you groan and curl your toes. A release. Your head snaps backwards and sweat beads on your forehead as he slowly, carefully, lovingly thrusts inside.
Robby touches your cheek and makes sure, “Is this okay? Not too much?”
You gaze up at him with eyes so full of love and lust Robby’s half-sheathed cock twitches inside the heat of your body. Unable to come up with anything else, you just whisper, “Perfect.”
Robby smirks and nods. He’d tell you how you fit him like a glove, how your wetness and tightness has him on the edge already, how you’re everything, but if he opened his mouth right now the string of high-pitched moans would be absolutely pathetic. So he leans down to kiss you, pushing your legs further back and up so he can fit himself between your hips. As his lips meet yours, you moan into the kiss, toes curling as his cock finally reaches into you as deep as he can, maybe three quarters of him piercing you.
Robby gradually draws his cock back and pushes forward again. With a trembling breath and a burning kiss, he groans, “God, you feel fucking incredible.”
Breathing hard, you grip his hair and nestle into the crook of his neck and cry, “So good, Michael. Your cock’s amazing. Like you were made for me. Feels incredible.”
His whole body shudders with pleasure and delight. “You can’t say things like that, baby.”
“Why not?”
He scoffs, one hand going down to play with your pebbled nipple. “I’d like to fuck you more than thirty seconds before I cum prematurely.”
That makes you bite your lower lip and eye him carefully. You file away ‘Robby totally has a praise kink’ for another day because you can’t put any coherent thoughts together as he manages to get deeper and deeper inside of you with every thrust. You didn’t even know your body could feel like this – loose, warm, brilliantly full. If he pulled out, you’d feel incomplete somehow. He’s christening a new version of you to the point that you’re starting to understand that whole ‘ruining you for other men’ thing. His cock is everything. It’s divine and electric at once, a symphony strumming from your cunt up your abdomen, rooted by his greedy hands on your tits and his mouth worshipping along your neck and collarbones.
Then he drops his thumb down to your clit.
You’re sparking toward another orgasm before you can even process the gesture. He grins into your neck as your back arches and your cunt clamps down. With your walls stretched so taut, each pulse of your pussy is sharp as a rubber band snapping, intense and vibrant. When you cum, you lose any control over your body, becoming something primal and raw and animal. Fingers digging into his flesh. Teeth sharp and violent over his shoulders. Legs locked around his ass. There aren’t any thoughts but the drunkenness of his touch, his body pressing down on yours, his claiming grasp everywhere.
As you shatter into aftershocks, overstimulating and delicious, you’re being so loud, moans and slapping skin and gushing cunt, that Robby probably should slow his fucking or muffle your mouth, but he’s addicted to the sounds. It’s the litany of music from your body that has his balls tightening and him grunting, “Where do you want it?”
All you can do is tighten your thighs around him and stare up with lust-ridden eyes, whining almost constantly, a silent plea for what you want.
Robby holds your face by the jaw, keeping you trained forward to look right at him despite how glassy and dazed your expression is. “If you want me to cum inside of you, you’re gonna have to ask nicely.”
You nod slowly, trying to come up with words when your thoughts are sex-fueled molasses. It takes another few seconds for you to come up with one idea that rings true enough to break through the fog: “I’m yours, Michael. Please.”
“That’s right,” he growls, hands around your ankles to keep you in the mating press as he shoves deep inside of you, cum bursting forward. You watch, rapt, as his mouth falls open into a precious little O and his eyes pinch tight and his right hand smashes back onto the wall to keep him upright. “Fuck. Fuck.” He falls forward and kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance: Desperate and owning. His voice is broken and raspy. “God, I love you. I can’t believe you’re finally mine.”
You just whimper into his neck, wrapping your arms around him and easing your legs down as much as they can with his body still between them. Not so subtly kissing and licking his sweat, you murmur sweetly, “Love you, Michael. Will you stay the night?”
“Of course,” he replies easily. “Stay here; let me get you cleaned up and comfortable. Is it alright if I rummage around to get you something to drink too?”
You nod and hum happily, “You’re an angel.”
After pressing a few more kisses to your lips and cheeks and forehead, Robby stands up, stretches out his arms, chuckles to himself, and disappears into your kitchen and then your adjacent bathroom. You drift contentedly in the blissed-out cloud of your brain, eyes gently closed and limbs heavy, until he returns. You barely notice his presence until you feel a cool washcloth wiping the beading sweat from your forehead and chest and then trailing down between your legs. Robby listens to your heavy, even, satisfied breaths as he works, switching to massaging the bruises his rough hands have left over your hips and his greedy mouth left along your thighs.
Finally, he sits next to you on the bed and softly rubs your shoulder. “Drink some of this for me.”
“Mmm.”
You barely open your eyes as you take the chilled blue Gatorade from him, chugging down half of it before offering it back so that he can drink it too. Then he gives you a tangy bright kiss and says, “C’mon, I’m pretty sure it’s bedtime.”
With a big stretch of your arms over your head, you swing your legs off the bed, kiss him hard, and stand. He slips back into the bathroom as you grab a pair of shorts and tank top to put on after you’ve showered or at least cleaned up some.
“Jesus, sweetheart, you’ve got me looking like I went ten rounds with a boxer,” he whistles low from the bathroom. “You’re awfully cute for a vampire, you know that?”
“I’m sure the marks aren’t that bad,” you reply with an eye roll, joining him through the doorway. Under the real lights, though, you realize with horror that you’ve not only given him hickeys and bruises but you’ve broken his skin in more than one place – both with your teeth and with your nails. There are mean bites all around his neck and down his shoulders, scratches over his arms and upper back, beads of blood mingling among the marks. Tears spring up into your eyes when you realize you’ve caused him pain that he’s going to be carrying around for a week or more. “Oh my god, Michael, I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Sorry?” He turns toward you with an adorably furrowed brow. “What in the ever living fuck are you sorry about?”
You rummage around the bathroom drawers for your first aid kit and sniffle, “I really hurt you.”
“Baby, baby, stop.” Robby snatches you back by the hips and pulls you up. “I’m gonna wear these as a badge of honor. You have any idea how good it feels to fuck a good girl so well she turns feral?”
You pout your lip as you try to suppress your smile. “At least let me look them over. Apply some topical antibiotics and bandaids.”
“I can take care of myself, sweetheart, they gave me a whole degree in topical antibiotics and bandaids,” he chuckles. “And you’re gonna have to get used to it. Now that I know how crazy you get, I fully expect to get these marks touched up more nights than not.”
“Michael,” you protest half-heartedly as he kisses you deeply, “the human mouth is a hotbed for for infections.”
He doesn’t stop smiling, though, tugging you into his body by the waist, his cock debating coming to light against your thigh. “Yeah, baby, I noticed your mouth is fucking filthy.”
“Robby, I’m serious, we need to clean the wound sites or-”
“Ohohoh,” he teases, “if you wanted to shower together, you could’ve just said that.”
You hum as you flip pancakes, pajamas hanging loosely from your body, Robby standing behind you lavishing kisses along the tops of your shoulder. The warmth of his shirtless body has kept you feeling so safe and cozy all night. When the door handle turns nearby, you startle slightly from the intrusion to your peace but don’t move.
Robby doesn’t either. He just shifts his weight so he can look over his shoulder at your roommate coming home. No point in pretending this won’t be a regular occurrence. He offers, trying sound kind and nonthreatening so she won’t get spooked like a rabbit again? “Morning, Dr. King, how was your shift?”
Mel stares at the two of you for about thirty seconds, computing and calibrating, before she just shrugs off her jacket, hangs it on the small coat rack, and replies, “Um, hi, Dr. Robby, it- it was good; finally checked off an emergent birth.”
“Good work,” he tells her earnestly; the first time delivering a baby on the ED floor is nothing short of terrifying. “Congratulations, kid.”
“Looks like I have some congratulating to do, too.” She beams and joins you both in the kitchen. “You two are finally happening? For real?”
“For real,” he confirms with a laugh as he realizes how much you must’ve vented to Mel over the years. “Took us long enough, I’d say.”
With Robby blocking the coffee maker, Mel just presents a mug to him. He fills it with a surprised nod, pleased to see her slightly more comfortable with his presence. She sighs out like she’s getting a massage, “God, this is such a relief for me. You have no clue how annoying she is about you, like, every night. Robby breathed on my neck and I almost passed out. Robby reached for the same suture kit as me. I had that sex dream about Robby again. It’ll be nice to go to bed earlier.”
You glare at Mel over your shoulder as you plate up a stack of pancakes. “You don’t have to make me look bad in front of my brand new boyfriend.”
“Trust me, baby,” he replies, turning to catch you in a quick kiss, “I’m twice as bad. I’m pretty sure Jack was getting ready to file a cease and desist because of how often I complained about not having you. Him and Samira are going to have to come up with a new couple to meddle with; I almost feel bad for them.”
Mel nervously asks, “Dr. Robinavitch, would you grab me the French vanilla creamer?”
“You can call me Michael, if you want.” He opens up the fridge, searches a second, and hands over the half-empty bottle. “Figure I should be on a first-name basis with my future wife’s maid of honor.”
You pour your own mug of coffee and give him a smirk. “Future wife, huh?”
“Mohan shared your ring Pinterest board with me when I left Jack’s to come here last night.” He kisses your cheek, beard scratchy and lovely, and murmurs, “The title being ‘Mrs. Robinavitch’ didn’t leave much to the imagination in terms of your intentions with me.”
Mel, absolutely grinning now as her happiness for her best friend bubbles over, giggles, “Maybe I’ll start a betting pool for how long it’ll take.”
Robby gives her a conspiratorial wink that makes your heart sing. “Cut me in for half and I’ll help you cheat.”
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synopsis: making tom do your homework is an easy feat that shows the rest of slytherin house just how whipped he is for you. | wc: 1.2k+
fem!reader (she/her pronouns), fluff, established relationship, reader is a muggleborn yet you always get your way with him (no specific house), knights of walpurgis cameos, their gossip and reactions are funny (to me), riddle era. | lordlist
Most students keep their distance from Tom Riddle — head boy, the prodigy with something dark lurking underneath that they don’t want to be caught up in. Most students anyway.
You, however, are currently sprawled across the green velvet cushions in the Slytherin common rooms beside him, dramatically slamming your potions textbook shut with a groan — making the students (largely consisting of some of Tom’s weird friends) to flinch for their lives at the abrupt noise disrupting the peaceful quiet.
“Slughorn is trying to kill me,” you whine loudly, earning you a few looks. You fail to notice them however — your eyes shut, tipping your head to rest it against your boyfriend’s shoulder.
Tom doesn’t even spare you a glance from his own work, quill gliding across parchment with infuriating ease. You peek a single eye open to watch his reaction, but all you see him do is scribble in ink. It really isn’t fair. No normal guy should have hands as attractive as that — veiny, big, powerful.
“You said the same thing last week. And the week before.”
“‘Cause it’s still true,” you pout.
“Or,” he says pointedly, dipping his quill into the pot of ink besides him, “you’re simply hopeless at brewing anything more complex than tea.”
You sit up straight, head leaving his shoulder which makes Tom shift a little at the lack of your warmth, gasping with furrowed brows at the jab. He doesn’t care to look your way. You stare harder. Nothing. So, you decide to pinch his arm.
Tom barely reacts, of course, finally glancing sideways at you — giving you a blank stare in return and an unamused arch of the brow at your childish behavior.
Suddenly, an idea pops in your head — one of great brilliance.
“Tom,” you coo, dragging your words. He hums, no longer paying you any mind and busying himself with his own work again — but you know he’s paying attention from his peripheral. You bat your lashes once, then twice, eyes wide and pleading. Your voice drips in innocence. “Will you do it for me?”
The response comes immediately.
“No.”
You huff, vexed. “Why not?”
“Unlike you, I have self respect,” he answers coolly.
You narrow your eyes, roll them, before smiling as if he made a funny joke. “I’ll give you a kiss!”
Tom scoffs. “I’m not that easily bought.”
You lean in closer, eyes glittering, soft lips ghosting near his ear. He intakes a sharp breath when they brush his lobe. “Two kisses. Pretty please?”
His quill pauses. Some of the other students peak over at the both of you at the sudden silence, having been nosy and overhearing the conversation the whole time.
“I’m not doing your entire assignment.”
“So… half?”
“Assisting,” he reiterates, albeit, still giving in to your demands. For all that Tom is, he appreciated the value of hard work and looked down on cheating… but for you, he’ll let it slide just this once (it does not end up being just once).
“Fine. Assist me then while I lie here and do absolutely nothing,” you hum in delight, patting a cushion and making yourself comfortable.
Tom exhales sharply — a mix between an exasperated sigh from how much you test his patience and a suppressed huff of laughter.
“You are completely unbearable.”
“And yet, you adore me.”
Unfortunately, he did.
Because Tom Riddle is the boy who could bend minds with a smile, and yet, for you — he is currently scribbling out your entire potions essay and rewriting it while you sit back and relax as if you hadn’t just gotten the most feared Slytherin at Hogwarts to do your homework on your command.
Across the room, several members of his inner circle — the so called Knights of Walpurgis — were watching the whole thing in disbelief.
“She didn’t even have to try,” one whispers.
“He just… did it.”
Another scowls. “She’s a mud—”
“Shut up,” a new voice hisses. “He likes her. I heard he hexed Rosier last week for making a joke about it.”
“…”
“Maybe if we get on her good side—”
“Enough.” Tom’s voice cuts through the air like a knife.
The gossipy murmurs stop immediately. The group clears their throats, looking anywhere else except at the both of you in a very obvious, idiotic fashion. None of them dared to meet Tom’s gaze… except you.
You lean over and kiss his cheek sweetly, smug and triumphant and ever so oblivious. “Well, I’ll be back later. I’ll give you the other kiss once you’re done as a reward — promise.”
You stand, dusting off your robes, already moving towards the stairs to leave the common room when he speaks out again, low but heard by all.
“Don’t stay out too long.”
You pause in your tracks, turning to face him with a tilt of your head.
“Why? Gonna miss me?”
Tom doesn’t answer your tease with what he wants to, not in front of the blithering idiots — but he doesn’t have to. The look in his eyes says ‘yes, I’ll burn this world down if it ever takes you from me’ . . . but instead, all that leaves his mouth is:
“Because your friends are irritating, and I prefer when you’re where I can see you.”
‘Sure, it’s only that,’ the students in the common room all thought collectively.
extra:
Later that night, when the common room had emptied, the Knights of Walpurgis gathered near the fireplace, voices hushed but urgent.
“I still can’t believe it,” Malfoy mutters, poking at the embers with his wand. “He ended up doing the whole bloody essay.”
“He didn’t have to,” Lestrange points out gruffly. “He chose to. Like… a domesticated pet.”
A few of them snort at that.
Rosier leans in, whispering like he’s sharing top secret intel. “I swear on Salazar’s beard I saw him almost smile when she came back down and gave him three kisses ‘stead of one like she said. He’s whipped.”
“Three?” Mulciber repeats, incredulous. “Yeah, one for each cheek, and then on the lips,” Rosier confirms, puckering his own and making kissy sounds. “Like a proper fairytale ending — if the fairytale involved a future dark lord doing someone’s potions homework.”
There is a long pause as they all try to picture it.
Avery finally exhales a laugh, making them all turn their heads his way. “He’s gone mad.”
“Mad?” Nott repeats, smirking into his goblet of wine. “Yes, mad with love.~”
That earns a few cackles and smoochy sounds — the kind that immediately dies the second a shadow falls across their little group. They slowly and carefully turn their heads to look back.
Tom stands right behind them with his arms crossed, expression unreadable, sleeves rolled up to his elbows neatly, the faintest trace of ink still on his fingertips. His gaze sweeps over each of them, cold and sharp enough to make them shudder and bow their heads in submission.
“Something amusing?” he asks softly, tone dangerous.
“No, Riddle,” they chorus at once, faces pale.
He regards them for a moment too long to make them squirm, then turns away in finality, the hem of his cloak brushing against the rug as he makes his way up towards the dorms.
But just before he disappears down the corridor, they all swear they see it — the slight pep in his step and the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth.
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