somebody sedate me

Lo and behold, when you swing your door open, it's Michael. He's nude, just as Mr. Greene promised, curled in the fetal position on your doormat. Wary, you glance up at the sky covered in thick clouds. A quick google search tells you that the moon set about half an hour ago, so you reason it's safe enough. The only thought that runs through your head as you drag his unconscious body inside is that you should have left the door unlocked.

You get him situated on the couch. It's not exactly easy, but Michael wakes up enough to lift himself off the ground and onto the cushion. He's quiet, half-present as you get him dressed in something other than his birthday suit. He was always like this after he transformed, groggy and barely able to string together a full thought. You'll question him about this all tomorrow, when he can tell which way is up.

Before you go to bed, you drape a blanket over Michael sleeping body. He doesn't stir.

*****

"Is that a–?"

"A steak. Yes. Eat it."

You toss the plate unceremoniously on Michael's lap. The slab of meat you found in the back of your freezer (something you had tucked away from before) bounces brilliantly as the plate hits his lap. You fear for a moment that it'll bounce right off and onto the ground. Your worry is only soothed by the thought that Robby would still probably eat the floor-meat. The dirty mutt.

"Thanks."

That's all Michael says before diving in. He devours the meat like it's the only food he's gotten in weeks. Apparently, transformations are taxing. It's once a month, more if you can muster the energy, and it nearly wipes out the individual. He told you as much when he first disclosed his condition to you.

Of course, he shared this with you once you finally stopped screaming in his face. You were with Michael for only two weeks at that point, knowing him longer thanks to work. He showed up to your house in the middle of the night. Unlike last night, you were awake to witness it all. He wasn't naked then, no, not yet. You found him as a beast, prowling the small length of your yard back and forth.

It terrified you. You locked every door and window and double, then triple checked it.

Then, when the moon disappeared and plunged the evening into the closest thing you can get to darkness in the city, that's when you found him.

It was the same ritual, the first occurrence. You took Michael in, clothed him, and fed him. There was so much fear then. Though, that's because you simply didn't know what was happening. It changed after that morning, when Michael for the first time spoke of his lycanthropy.

You're always amazed by how willing he was to trust you then. It wasn't like he had a choice. Apparently, transformed-Michael seeks you out. He has an urge to protect, something about territory and animal instincts. Still, he sat you down an explained everything to you. Everything. Even the scary shit, the stuff you should have turned and ran when he shared it.

You think about that trust a lot now, when the air in your house is too stale, too heavy for just you. They're your low moments, times where you regret ever having turned your back to him. It's not productive. After all, you left Michael because of nights like these. You would stay up, terrified of what would happen to him out there, whether or not someone would find him, hit him with his car, or, God forbid, call animal control.

When your worry became too much, when you began to spend even the nights when Michael was by your side in bed anchored to consciousness by your fears, that's when you knew something needed to change. To end.

"This is good," Michael says around the last mouthful of steak. He sets the plate down on the coffee table. "You made th's?"

"Yes," you purse your lips.

"Nice," Michael nods. "Nice."

Michael looks better than he did when he woke up and miles better than he looked last night. The steak has given a healthy flush to his cheeks. He'll need increased nourishment throughout the day, even the upcoming week, but that's not your problem because once Michael can stand on his own two feet, you will be kicking him out of your home.

"So, uh, is this gonna happen every month?" You ask.

Michael shrugs, his face utterly solemn as he confesses, "I don't know."

"The, uh, the big guy likes me, huh?" You try to joke. Not even you find it funny. Just the thought that there's some primal part of Michael that is drawn to you is enough to fill you with dread. This was supposed to be a clean break. Michael wasn't supposed to show up at your house three weeks after you dumped him.

"I guess," he chews the inside of his cheek. Shaking his head, Michael adds, "I suppose he is me."

"What does that mean?" You perch on the arm of the couch, swinging your legs so your feet rest on the cushion.

"The big guy isn't as… removed from me as you make it sound."

"So you came here?" It comes out as an accusation. You cringe.

Michael pauses, his brows furrowed as he thinks.

"No. No, I don't think I did. Not consciously, at least." Michael shakes his head, "It's hard to explain."

"I have nowhere else to be, considering that you're in my house."

Michael shuts his eyes, shaking his head slightly. You think for a moment that he won't answer you, that he's come to the same realization that you did a long time ago– that he's your ex and that you two shouldn't even be talking let alone playing some fucked up version of werewolf house. Just when you're ready to just bite the bullet and tell Michael to go, he speaks.

"I'm not human."

"Yes you–"

"No," Michael cuts you off firmly. "I'm not. I'm like a human. I look like a human most of the time. Speak like one, too. But I'm not. When I'm… When I'm like that, I don't think like you do. There's no rationalization or morals. No relationship or breakup. Just you. I didn't think that– that I should find you or go looking for you. It was instinct."

A great silence falls over the house.

He's asking you to understand the absence of all you've ever known. Your brain, your consciousness, is entirely you. Just attempting to picture an existence without the complexities that make up your inner being is enough to make your head hurt.

"Oh," is all you manage.

"I'm sorry," he says.

You frown, "For what?"

Something warm wraps around your calf. You look down. It's Michael's hand. His thumb traces gently back and forth over the bare skin of your shin.

"For not being what you need me to be."

You suck a breath through your teeth, "Michael–"

"It's true," he mutters. "I'm not human. Not stable. Not someone you could love."

"No," you say emphatically. "I can love you. I do. That's… That's why I had to leave."

Michael hums. His gaze slides from you as his hand slides down your leg. He wraps his fingers around your ankle.

"I love you, too," Michael says, gaze still somewhere far away.

"I know."

Then, Michael shifts his body, turning to face you fully. His head tilts up at you. You're too busy looking into his eyes to really register how the hand that was on your ankle is now creeping around to rest on the nape of your neck. Michael pulls slightly at the same moment that he leans in.

"You didn't need to let me in," Michael says. "Thank you."

"I didn't," you barely muster the words. "But I wanted to."

Michael hums. He's no more than a hair from you now. You hold your breath as you attempt to convince yourself that you don't want his lips on yours. Luckily, that decision doesn't sit only on your shoulders.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Michael whispers.

"Okay."

Michael wastes no time. Neither do you. The hand at the back of your neck barely twitches before you're catapulting his way.

His mouth is just like you remembered, soft lips nearly hidden by the angry scratch of his beard. Your lips part for him, savoring the taste of him as Michael invades your senses. He's overwhelming, always have been. You don't think you would have sought him out if he wasn't. Though, while Michael may be a force of nature, you're the only one who can tame him.

Could.

You could tame him. Before you– shit.

With every bit of courage you have left in your body, you push Michael away. "We shouldn't," you mutter. "Shit, we really shouldn't. Michael, we… we broke up."

Michael shakes his head, "No, you broke up with me."

"Which means we broke up."

"Agree to disagree."

"I don't need your permission to break up with you," you scoff.

"No, you don't." Michael leans back in, lips brushing yours, "But you need to actually want to break up with me."

"I–"

Michael presses his mouth to yours, groaning. Against your lips, he growls, "Baby, if you fucking say you don't want this after telling me you still love me, I'm gonna lose my shit."

He grabs you by the waist, tugging you down from your perch on the armrest. You tumble downwards and the world tilts. All the while, Michael hasn't parted from you for a second. He's desperate in the way he pulls you against him, his breath stuttering at the way your clothed cunt sits on top of the growing bulge in his sweats.

You part for only the briefest moment for him to tug your shirts off. It takes no longer than a second for your nipples to pebble in the cool air.

"Baby, come on," he whines in your ear. His bare chest is already plastered to yours. "Please let me fuck you. Please."

You laugh. Michael tenses, pulling away slightly so he can look you in the face.

"Did I do something?" He asks, brown eyes wide as he scans your face. "Say something?"

"No, no, it's just…" You bite your lip, "You're like a dog begging for a treat."

His face falls, unamused. "That's not fair."

"Is it?"

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Michael cocks his head, helping you up with two hands around your waist. He lowers you gently back on the couch next to him and yanks your thin sleep shorts off.

"Sit back," he orders. Michael stands, pulling his pants just low enough to free his cock. It drools thick beads of precum. Your tongue swipes out instinctively as you stare in something akin to wonder. "Hold your knees to your chest."

You obey, scrambling to sit yourself up and fix yourself just how he likes. As you hold your thighs, you let one hand slip high enough on your leg to rub your clit, swollen, aching, and still covered by the thin layer of your panties. You moan softly, drawing Michael's attention down between your legs. He snorts.

"You're bad."

You smirk, "What are you gonna do about it?"

Michael shrugs. His cock hangs between his legs, barely supported by the bunch of fabric underneath his heavy balls. "I don't know," he makes a show of thinking as he approaches you, "Maybe I'll have to fuck that attitude out of you."

Michael grabs his cock, stroking himself. His cock is a sight to behold with its generous girth and length. You always wonder if it would have been sized so impressively had he been born like everyone else. Thank goodness, you don't have to worry about that…

"Pull those aside," Michael instructs. His tip hovers over your clothed cunt. "Quickly, baby, unless you don't want me to fuck you."

You hook a finger around the gusset of your panties and pull. Michael drops his cock, lets the wet tip of him hit your clit before it slides down, agonizing slowly, to your dripping pussy. He wastes no time pushing in, but stops just as soon. He barely breaches your walls, forcing you to clench around nearly nothing.

You want to whine. You want absolutely nothing more than for him to pound into you, make up for lost time. Three weeks is too long. You need his cock, need him to fuck you, and fill you with his–

Oh. That won't do.

"Wait! Wait, Michael, don't!"

With his tip no more than an inch in your cunt, Michael freezes. His chest puffs up, shoulders spreading out and back as sharp eyes sweep the room before landing on you. It's strange– predatory. A glimpse of the beast you just barley missed last night.

"What's wrong?" He asks, voice nearly a snarl.

"Nothing, nothing!" You quickly answer. "I just… we don't have a condom."

"That's okay." Michael clears his throat, "W–With me, I mean. I'm clean."

"Great, so am I," you scoff. "We still need a condom."

Michael shakes his head, "We'll be fine."

"You might be fine," you retort. "I'll be pregnant."

"No, you won't."

"Michael, you are a doctor. There's no way in–"

"You're not fertile right now."

Your mouth snaps shut. You blink. You blink again.

"What?"

Michael sighs. His tip is still barely nestled past your entrance, just sitting there and no-doubt oozing precum in you.

"I said," Michael slowly pushes in until you're entirely speared onto his cock. You're too busy thinking about his revelation to fuss about a condom anymore. "You're not fertile. I can tell. I– It's a werewolf thing."

"Nuh-uh," your voice wavers as he starts to fuck you. "'It's a werewolf thing,' is code for, 'I'm too embarrassed to tell you the truth'. Spill, Robinav– oh fuck!" Michael's calloused thumb on your clit nearly wipes you out. You recollect yourself, not ready to let him win this battle, "Spill."

Michael's other hand sits next to your head, bracing himself as he fucks into you. "I can smell you," he mutters.

"You can… smell it?" You try to laugh, but it comes out airy and undetermined, "Smell my fertility?"

"Something like that," Michael grumbles. He lifts one leg onto the couch, getting better leverage as he fucks into you faster, "Now can I go back to fucking you or would you rather we stick to the lecturing?"

The wise-ass retort on your tongue dies quickly when Michael's head dips down to your chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth. As he fucks you, Michael's tongue swirls around the hard nub. Then, his teeth graze the sensitive flesh and you moan. The pain cuts through the pleasure, amplifying it as you arch your back.

You hum, nodding desperately, "Yeah, yeah, baby. That's–" The playful graze of teeth quickly turns into something harsher as Michael bites your nipple. "Ow!"

Instinctively, you grab Michael by the hair and pull him. He gasps, letting go of your nipple while his hips keep snapping into yours.

"Bad dog," you click your tongue. "Bite me like that again and I'll muzzle you, got it?"

Michael nods frantically, and you let go of his hair. His head drops down to the crook of your neck where he whimpers, "I'm sorry, baby. So sorry."

After his apology, seemingly just to spite you, Michael drags his teeth along the skin of your bare shoulder. It stings, and you can feel the distinct cut of his canines. They're dangerous enough when he keeps them to himself, long, distended, and impossibly sharp in order to cut through meat, even when he's not in his beastly form. Now, against the delicate plane of your flesh, they're nothing less than a knife. He glides them along the side of your neck and up to your ear, nibbling softly at your lobe.

"I'll be a good boy," Michael whispers. "I promise."

You hum, "Then make me come. Maybe I'll let you clean me up afterwards as a treat."

That gets his hips to stutter.

"Fuck yes, baby," Michael gasps.

His thrusts pick up pace. The stabilizing leg on the couch works overtime as Michael pounds into you with a newfound passion. You try to meet his thrusts as best you can, but it's difficult, especially as your orgasm approaches.

Above you, sweat drips down Michael's chest, through the thick layer of hair on his stomach, where it disappears somewhere in his happy trail. Your mouth parts, tongue sliding out as you imagine the salty taste of his perspiration on your tongue.

"Shit, baby," Michael grunts, "I missed this. Missed you."

"Mhm," your voice is high. "Missed you, too."

"Yeah, you did. So fuckin' tight it's like you're scared I'm gonna run off." You clench around Michael. He groans, head falling back, "Fuck, baby. Don't do that 'less you want me to come."

You moan, and the thumb on your clit starts rubbing faster. "Come," you say. "Come, baby, I'm right with you."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Michael's hips stutter. He barely gets another three thrusts in before he sinks all the way, filling you entirely with him.

With his orgasm, Michael's fingers fail on your clit. You're nearly left there, hanging over the edge of your orgasm. Desperation clouds your brain, and before you know it, you're grinding against him. Michael has given up on fucking you proper, no doubt overwhelmed by pleasure. So, you take over, grinding against the hairs on the base of his cock. The needed friction sends you tumbling over the edge, joining Michael as he floods you with his seed.

When Michael collapses on top of you, you're still coming. He kisses your neck, lets you ride the waves of your pleasure until there's nothing left. He waits there, slumped half on you, half on the ground. Just when it seems like the stillness is going to drive you crazy, he moves, pulling out of you with a soft curse.

He rearranges you to lay on the length of the couch, then crawls on top of you. His body is heavy, tired, but nothing you haven't had on top of you before. You massage the back of his neck while you two lay there. Decidedly, it's nice, really nice.

Michael breaks the silence, "We can never break up." He shifts, resting his chin on your chest so you can see eye-to-eye. "You know that, right?"

Your brows furrow, "Why?"

"We know too much about each other. You know that I'm a– you know." Robby laughs quietly to himself, "And I know that you have a thing for strays."

"Ha!" You throw your head back, "Those are not the same. Not even close."

"No, maybe not." Michael kisses your cheek and hums, "Then why else are you keeping me around, baby? Why haven't you kicked me out yet? And don't say you weren't, because I know you were thinking about it before you even let me in."

You chuckle, "You got me. I do have a reason…"

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Well, it's just that I do have a pussy full of cum, and…" You bring your thumb to Michael's mouth. His lips part for you. Perhaps less-nicely than you intended, you grab the tip of Michael's tongue between your first finger and thumb. Slowly, you drag the soft pink flesh out of his mouth, pulling it taught. "Nobody else has a tongue as good as yours to lick it up."

Michael attempts to speak. It comes out as warbled nonsense. You laugh.

His shift has barely started when Robby finds Jack shuffling awkwardly away from you with his proverbial tail tucked between his legs. Robby doesn't even need to ask what happened before Jack spills.

"I asked her out," Jack says like it's the only explanation needed.

Robby blinks. If Jack asked you out, then why does he look so upset?

Unless...

"She said no?"

Jack nods, "Didn't even think about it."

Apparently, Robby is a glutton for punishment, because he pats Jack on the shoulder and says, "Don't worry, brother. I'll go talk to her."

"Good luck," Jack grumbles, already retreating to the lockers.

Robby doesn't need to do much looking. Your scent alone, strong even despite the scent patches you wear, is easy enough to follow. Robby finds you charting, typing away and looking too nonchalant for someone who just turned down a perfectly fine alpha.

"Hey there," Robby says, pretending to read over your chart. "How's it going?"

"If he sent you here to change my mind, it won't work."

Robby bites back a smile. You're a strong-headed omega, always have been. "I offered to."

"What a mensch."

He chuckles, “Dr. Abbot’s a good guy. You should give him a chance."

"I know." You shrug, not even pausing as you type up the chart, "But I'm not interested."

“Really?”

“Yeah. He’s too… uh,” you clear your throat, shaking your head. “Not my type.”

Robby snorts, “What, too muscular for you?” His words are sharp and mean, an unfair projection of his insecurities onto you.

“Actually,” you chuckle nervously. “Yeah.”

Robby doesn't remember much of the rest of the day, his mind is too busy turning your conversation over in his head.

What omega doesn't like a muscular alpha? Maybe you prefer someone skinnier, someone like Mohan. Or maybe Garcia, still muscular, but much leaner than Jack. That must be it, Robby decides. Surely you just prefer a leaner alpha.

Robby accepts that as the truth. Just like before, he resigns himself to keeping his distance, telling himself there's no world in which you'd go for him.

How wrong he is.

You're frustrated, to say the least. You've been working at PTMC for the last three years, and each and every day you've been here, it's been a struggle not to throw yourself at your attending and beg him to claim you.

You drop every hint. You push your scent when you see him outside of work. You always pour him a coffee when you're in the staff lounge (with two cubes of sugar, even though he's a stubborn alpha who lies to everyone and says he prefers it black). Hell, you told him that you don't prefer musclar, cut alphas and still this man doesn't understand that you want him.

For fuck's sake, you've stolen a sweatshirt from him for your nest. That was last fall, and while the scent faded quickly (thanks to the fact that you spend every single heat with your face buried in it, imagining that it's him), the idea of returning it has on multiple occasions made you cry.

Finally, you decide to confront him. It's two days before your heat and you're sick and tired of dropping every goddamn hint that Robby is your walking wet dream. If he's not going to court you, then you just have to take matters into your own hands.

You corner him by the lockers. You've already taken your scent patches off for the day. Typically, you wait to do it until you're finally home, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Robinavitch," you bite. You're caging him against the lockers, "Put in for PTO starting Tuesday."

Robby gulps. His pupils are blown, the brown of his eyes almost entirely disappeared thanks to the scent of pre-heat flooding his senses. He stutters, "W-Why?"

"My heat."

"I don't see why I need to–"

"You're spending it with me," you say like it's law. Frankly, it might as well be. You know that with this option on the table, Robby would be remiss to pass it up. "Unless you have a problem with that," you add, just to see him panic.

"No! No! I–" Robby blinks. What'd you give to know what he's thinking right now... "I haven't courted you."

You scoff, "Yeah, believe me, I know. This is your chance to make it up."

"Are you sure?"

"One hundred percent. I'm sick and fucking tired of waiting for you to wake up and make a move."

"But I'm..." Robby clears his throat. Quietly, he finishes his thought, "I'm fat."

"Good," you say quickly, because the thought of making him feel bad for his body makes you ill. In no word will you allow him to be insecure about one of the hottest parts of him. "I look forward to seeing your fat self in my nest."

Robby's jaw drops. You smile.

Honestly, you really shouldn’t be putting in this kind of effort for a guy who’s failed to get you off not just once, not twice, but three times now, which happens to be the same number of times you’ve hooked up with him. 

Yet here you are, striking various poses in various states of undress with the hope of inspiring Tony to just try harder.

You start on your knees in your thigh highs, cheeksters, and a way-too-short crop top. Arch the back, make sure to get some under and side boob, a tasteful lewd to whet his palate.

Move to the bed and lose the panties. Part of your face is in the shot, lip between your teeth, but the main focus is your ass that’s pushed into the air enough to get a better view. 

The last photo is of your tits—most of them, anyway, but if Tony is smart enough to press his thumb to the screen, he’ll see that it’s a live and be generously afforded the sight of your nipples on screen for half a second when you give a little bounce. 

None of it is crazy, just enough to make him hungry, prepare him for the video you film. Back in bed, you take the time to get yourself wet with your favorite vibrator, feel your muscles contract and loosen in preparation for your fingers first, then your dildo. 

About seven inches with a satisfying girth, the toy is a shade of light teal (and glows in the dark, but that’s irrelevant). Phone secured in a telescopic stand that gives you more reach, you click ‘record’ again and spend the next 20 minutes filming and editing until you’re pleased with the end result. 

Your moans are loud enough to hear but not over the top, still leave gaps that are filled by the squelch of your pussy. Some frames catch the quiver of your thighs, others a glimpse of the curve of your tits where your shirt has ridden up. The star of the show, however, is the toy you’re plunging in and out of your cunt, coated in gossamer arousal at first but eventually smeared with white cream as you continue to fuck yourself with it. 

The orgasm at the end is faked, impossible for you to achieve without clitoral stimulation, but you’re positive Tony won’t know the difference considering you’ve already faked three with him. 

Scrolling through, you hum at everything you’ve managed to capture. Good work. Maybe he’ll finally go down on you for longer than three minutes. Maybe next time you see him, you’ll actually cum. 

Wishful thinking, but enough to motivate you to send the suggestive images and filthy fucking video. 

It’s about four PM, so Tony will be at work for another hour. Refusing to wait with baited breath, you toss your phone to the side and busy yourself with cleaning your toys. You’ve done enough for this guy; you’re not gonna let him take up any more space in your mind by obsessing over what his reply might be. 

You have no idea that you’ve just made a horrible mistake.

You should’ve double checked. Maybe then you would’ve been quick enough to delete everything. 

But, you didn’t, so you’re not, and about 15 minutes later when you pick up your phone again your heart drops into your ass. 

It’s so fucking stupid. You’re so fucking stupid. But Tony was your most recent message, and you were positive that when you unlocked your phone, it opened up his thread like it usually does. You hadn’t even noticed that it had, instead, taken you to your most recent notification—an older text thread that had remained untouched for over a week.

Until now. 

>> I know you just worked 5 in a row, but Mel is out with the flu. Is there any way you can come in for her tomorrow? 

From Robby. 

As in Dr. Robinavitch. As in your senior attending, your boss, your teacher (your crush for the last two years).

And, right there under his question, or really in response to it, are your three pictures and amateur video. 

You slap a hand over your mouth to keep vomit from spewing past your lips, ohh God, your stomach is rolling. There are literal tears in your eyes as you frantically type 

<< DO NOT FULLY OPEN THIS THREAD!!!

<< JUST DELETE IT 

<< PLEASE

But, you’re kidding yourself. It’s already been 15 minutes since you sent them, and that dreaded ‘Read’ is already time-stamped beneath your video. 

Dizzy and hot with humiliation, you walk into your bathroom and sit on the tile, want to be as close to the toilet as possible in case you really do hurl. 

<< I am SO sorry those obviously weren’t meant for you 

<< I didn’t realize you texted 

<< I should have double checked. Triple checked 

<< I’m so so sorry oh my god 

Three dots appear, and you bite down on your lip so hard, you just might open the scars left by old piercings. 

The dots disappear for several seconds. Pop back up. Disappear again. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

>> No worries. Deleted. 

You inhale shakily, the text almost impossible to read with how your phone quakes in your trembling hands. 

There is no way you’ll be able to look Robby in the face ever again. You should just go to the hospital now and grab any shit you have in the locker you share with Trinity. Start looking at different residency programs. See if you can get some kind of letter of recommendation from an attending who is not Robby. 

His question, you remember. If you can work for Mel. You can’t agree to it—absolutely not. 

Should you tell him that, though? Is he waiting for a real answer that does not involve your naked fucking body? Oh, this is bad. This is very not good. 

You don’t tell him that you’ll cover the shift, and Robby doesn’t ask a second time. He probably knows you’re going through the five stages of grief and are nowhere near ‘acceptance’. He’s a smart guy, merciful despite what some of the other residents say. You need time to process your egregious mistake, and he’s giving it to you. 

Or, so you assume. 

In reality, Robby is about ten miles away, dealing with what might be the most painful erection in the history of mankind, and he can’t even do anything about it aside from hide in the bathroom, staring and cursing at his traitorous dick for reacting like this. 

He’s at work, for fuck’s sake. There are patients bleeding out on the other side of this door, and he’s standing here like an asshole, contemplating if it’s possible to will his predicament away, or if it’ll be easier to just jerk off right here. Robby has no doubt that he’d be able to cum within thirty seconds, but the morality aspect of it…

Getting himself off in the bathroom of his own emergency department is goddamn degenerate behavior, but how the fuck is he supposed to focus like this? 

Holy fuck, he’s so hard it hurts, and when Robby finally pulls his cock from his cargos, the pressure of his hand alone has him gasping and hissing. His tip is leaking precum, and he decides that yeah, this was the right move. Most ethical? Fuck no. But at least now he won’t have to explain any suspicious fluid that may bleed through his pants. 

The weight of his phone in his pocket is comparable to that of an anvil. Robby tries to ignore it, gives himself a few slow strokes while bracing his other hand on the wall. 

Don’t. Don’t look at the pictures. Do not fucking open that thread again (the one that he definitely did not delete). Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t—

“Shit,” Robby huffs, grabbing his phone, unlocking it, immediately opening your messages. 

He’s fucked. He is fucked. Can’t believe he’s actually doing this. It’s wrong on so many levels, but God, you are gorgeous and splayed out, on display for Robby to drink in even though these images were not meant for his eyes.

The arch of your back in the picture of you on your knees. The outline—the suggestion—of your tits beneath that impractically tiny top, completely gone in the next image to show off the slopes and curves and valley between. Robby thinks about what it might feel like to suck on your pebbled nipples, what sounds you’d make for him. 

Then, he sees the video, the one he hadn’t actually opened because the screencap was already too much. It’s what sent him speed walking to the nearest bathroom in the first place. 

He’s smart enough to turn his volume all the way down, looks over his shoulder to make sure no one is nearby despite being in a very locked staff restroom that is one, marked as occupied, and two, requires a code to get in. Still, it never hurts to double check (as you learned just a few minutes ago). 

With a deep breath, hand still wrapped around his cock, Robby taps his screen to play the video and—

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers, sucking saliva from his teeth as he watches you move the camera from your chest down your torso, your hips, and finally the hand between your legs. The toy between your legs. 

Robby is panting as he watches you, stroking himself and time-locked with the bright dildo you’re thrusting in and out of your cunt. 

He wants to hear you, fuck, he wants to find out if you’re moaning or whimpering or letting your pussy do all the talking. 

The toy shines in the light whenever you pull it out, but Robby zeroes in on the ring of cream you leave around the base, smearing it up and down as you keep fucking yourself, and fuckfuck, he’s gonna cum. He’s gonna cum in this hospital restroom to this video that he was never supposed to see, the video he’d told you he deleted. 

So wrong, so fucking wrong, possibly the most fucked up thing he’s ever done, but he couldn’t help it—can’t help it when you tremble and buck and shove the dildo into your pussy as far as it’ll go like you’re greedy for more. 

Robby can give you more. He wants to give you more, has wanted to for too fucking long. From the first time he stood behind you to guide you through a procedure, got a whiff of your shampoo, saw the way you smiled at him. Cute and competent, beautiful, flexible, good. You’re so fucking good. 

He’s ignored it for two years. Two years of squeezing his eyes shut to block out the stars in yours. Two years of biting back groans when you end up pressed against him in a crowded trauma room. Two years of flushed skin and heart palpitations and staring at someone he shouldn’t even be glancing at. 

But, now he has the pictures and this video, and it’s like he’s been damned to a special kind of hell. He’s watching you take that dildo, obsessed with the idea of watching you take something bigger, take him, let him fill you up with more than just his cock. Shit, he could give you so much more, load after load until his cum is dripping out of your pussy rather than off of his hand like it is now. 

“Fuuucking—”

Robby drops his head to the wall and takes a few deep breaths while letting the shame wash over him, wishing he would drown in it instead of simply bathing. 

•

Robby quickly figures out that he is going to have to be the mature one out of the two of you. He doesn’t really have a choice, has to pretend that he didn’t get off to your photos or that he’s watched the video so many times he has it fucking memorized. Every breath, every moan, the faked orgasm at the end that’s honestly kind of insulting. He’s offended on your behalf because you should never ever have to fake that. You should have never gotten so good at faking it.

The first shift that you work with one another, you go out of your way to avoid him. It’s impossible to keep up considering the environment and pace that goes along with traumas, but whenever you aren’t stuck in a room with him, you do your best to hide. 

It isn’t subtle. 

If Robby could, he would also be making himself scarce, but again, he was supposed to delete your messages, not obsess over them with his hand shoved down the front of his pants. 

After stepping into an exam room that you’re already in then watching you scurry out of it at the first opportunity, Robby decides he’s had enough. This kind of avoidant behavior, though understandable in this case, just doesn’t fucking work in an ER, and he refuses to let you fuck up the rest of your residency over some accidental nudes. 

So, Robby plasters on his best ‘I have never seen your pussy before’ expression and, when he gets his chance, wraps a hand around your elbow and gently guides you out to the ambulance bay. 

You don’t protest or shrug him off, just sigh, resign yourself to whatever fate you think Robby has in store for you. 

He looks around, checking for any coworkers or, you know, incoming ambulances, and once he deems it safe, Robby takes you by the shoulders, looks you dead in the eye, and states, “you have got to fucking relax.”

He thinks you might sputter or gawk, but that is not what happens.

“That’s easy for you to say!” and you do not bother censoring yourself when you continue, “you’re not the one who sent fucking nudes to your boss.”

“Definitely not arguing that, and I get that you’re embarrassed, but I’m telling you—” he notices that he’s still holding onto you, drops his hands and shoves them into his jacket pockets, “—it’s fine, alright? I’m not gonna fucking blackmail you or make fun of you or some shit. I’m not twelve.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re a grown ass man who I work with every day who has now seen my—my, like…” 

You can’t even say it, can’t even look at him, just hide your face in your hands. 

It’s fine. Robby can finish it for you. Maybe if he’s blunt about it, the awkwardness will dissipate. Lay it out. Rip off the band-aid. Exposure therapy. 

“I’m a fucking doctor. Seeing a pair of tits,” perfect, pretty tits, “and a vulva,” slick and creamy, hole all twitchy and greedy… Christ. Robby has to clear his throat in order to finish, “it’s not gonna faze me. Yours is not the first female body I’ve seen.”

The number of emotions that play out on your face is more entertaining than it should be. Mortification to surprise to confusion to something very fucking pouty. 

“What? What are frowning about?” 

Your, “nothing,” comes out suspiciously fast, and Robby narrows his eyes as you avert yours. “Nothing. It’s just weird hearing you talk like that.”

He rubs a hand down his face. Of all the things to focus on. 

“Tits. Pussy. Cock. Cunt,” he lists because if you’re gonna hash all of this out, he can’t have you on the brink of combusting. 

“Oh my god, stop! Stop talking!” It’s practically a squeal, and the noise sends heat racing down Robby’s spine to settle right at the base of it. 

It reminds him of the sounds you made in that video, turned up all the way while in the privacy of his own home. Gasps, and mewls, and adorable whines. Little ‘please please please’s thrown in there as a treat, but even if the begging isn’t genuine, it still sounds damn good, still ricochets in Robby’s brain even now. 

“I’m just trying to show that this isn’t a big fucking deal,” he tries, then immediately backtracks when he sees yet another emotion play out on your face: anger. “Hold on, wait, listen. I’m not trying to invalidate you. I—look, I get that you’re probably feeling vulnerable, or that now I don’t know, I have something on you, or more power or some other bullshit. I recognize that, okay? Nod with me,” he pauses to make sure you’re following, would be worried about condescending, but you don’t seem to take it as such, just stare and do as you’re told, nodding slowly. “As far as I’m concerned, it never happened,” a lie, “it was a mistake. You have a life outside of this ER just like I do.”

“You send dick pics to the wrong people?” you pipe up, finally starting to look more like a person and less like a deer being hunted.  

“Well, no…” Robby cradles the back of his neck, “but I’m sure some of the people who’ve seen it wish they hadn’t.”

He never noticed how fucking cute you are when you’re caught off guard—eyes widening, brows rising, lips parting. 

“Didn’t ever think I’d end up in a conversation with my attending about his dick,” you mutter. 

Robby laughs, “yeah, well, I didn’t ever think my best resident would send me a sex tape.”

Your jaw drops, but the corners of your mouth are still upturned. “It was not a sex tape—”

Hands back in his pockets, Robby’s body language screams his disagreement. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, presses his lips into a line, rocks his head back and forth as if he’s waffling on the idea until he eventually responds, “mmmyeah, except it is. That was a sex tape.”

“It was n—wait,” you stop, eyes going wide again only they don’t stop growing, threatening to pop out of their sockets. 

Confused, Robby raises an eyebrow and—

Ohh, shit. 

“You watched it?”

Yep, he just outed himself, and now all he can do is cringe. 

“Robby, what the fuck?!”

He expects a slap to the face. Deserves that and more. But all you do is stand there, hands on your cheeks like you just stepped out of whatever art museum The Scream is mounted in. 

“I’m sorry—I don’t…” He runs his palms up his face, presses them to his temples before settling at the top of his head and squeezing his skull as if it’ll ground him. “I have no fucking excuse. I’m sorry. It was just base brain curiosity.”

Head hanging forward, you shake it back and forth, muttering something Robby can’t hear as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. 

Should he go back inside? He should go back inside. Jesus, this is about to be an HR clusterfuck, god dammit—

“Okay, the least you can do is tell me I looked good in it, fuck.” 

You seem to steel yourself, crossing your arms over your chest, hip cocked out, chin up in some kind of unnecessary defiance. 

“You…” Robby blinks at you, stunned. His entire body feels like it’s on fire, blushing all the way to his scalp. “You want me to fucking critique it?”

“Absolutely not. If you criticize any of it, I will kill myself,” you say so seriously that Robby actually believes you. “I want you to tell me that I didn’t fucking film it for no goddamn reason, ‘cause the guy it was for didn’t seem to care, so—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Robby cuts you off, startled by how loud his voice is. 

It makes you jump, but you still release something that might be a giggle. 

“I wish I was. He just said ‘you’re sexy’,” finger quotation marks, “with a sweating emoji.” 

You roll your eyes, and Robby lets out an incredulous laugh about an octave higher than is normal for him, looks up at the bay awning while uttering, “Jesus, men are so fucking stupid,” before he levels his gaze back on you. 

“Yeah, I’m well aware.” All moody and inpatient, literally tapping your foot as you look at Robby expectantly. “Well?”

He checks his surroundings again, must be habit at this point, then asks, “you want me to be honest?” and when you nod, he pushes a little more, “one hundred percent?” just to be sure. 

“Oh my god. You watched the video like a fucking pervert. I think I deserve some validation—yes, I’m sure.”

How is his skin still getting hotter? 

Robby exhales through his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut for a second before shaking off his nerves. 

You aren’t mad at him. Irritated, maybe, but not about to shove a scalpel into his carotid. And, you’re asking for his opinion, asking for his praise, brimming with curiosity. 

It gives Robby undeserved confidence, and he slowly walks you backward toward the brick wall behind you until he’s got you crowded against it. 

Lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear, he confesses—quiet, deep, rough, “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cum to that video of you.” 

You inhale sharp enough for him to hear, air filling your lungs and making your chest rise, and suddenly Robby isn’t the only one who’s burning. He can feel the heat radiating off of you. 

So, he keeps going.

“You want validation?” 

He’s met with the tiniest nod, as if you’re ashamed for asking. Robby tells you exactly why you shouldn’t be. 

“I got those messages while I was here, right in the middle of the pitt. Didn’t even move ‘cause I was too busy staring at how pretty you are in them…” He raises a hand to catch a strand of your hair, tries to memorize how soft it is between his fingers. “Locked myself in the bathroom ‘cause I couldn’t let anyone see how fucking hard I was getting. Doubt I need to tell you what I did in there.”

He’s getting bold. Too bold. About to cross the last line bold. Your head is tilted back so you can gaze up at him, and Robby takes it as an invitation, drops your hair in favor of running a knuckle up the side of your neck then along your jaw. 

“I watched that video and stroked my cock until I came all over my hand like some fucking teenager. And, then I went home and did it again.”

Biting your lip, your eyes are hooded and desirous as you slide down the wall a couple inches, stopped by the leg Robby slots between yours without thinking. 

“Listened to you over and over—so fuckin’ sweet when you started whining, when your pussy started begging.”

“Holy fuck,” you whisper, and it pulls a chuckle from his chest. It’s easy to tell you’ve never had a man speak to you like this. Robby is glad to be the first. Honored, even. 

Some of your weight rests against his thigh, and he has to bite back a groan when your hips twitch against him. 

It was just a few days ago that Robby was locked in a prison of arousal and self-loathing, hating himself for even thinking about getting off in the EC. Now, he’s got you pinned to the wall outside of the same department, and all he wants is to watch you grind and squirm against him. 

Any shame he felt before is long fucking gone. 

“The photos, the video… I know you’re embarrassed, but I am fucking ruined, okay? I can’t think straight anymore, not when you’re around. Fuck, not even when you’re gone.” 

He’s telling you too much, admitting things he shouldn’t, but he’s spent days walking around with the image of you fucking yourself with a dildo burned into his retinas (days walking around with his cock being at least half hard at any given time). 

Pent up, frustrated, and stupid, Robby really can’t be held at fault for running his mouth and letting his hands wander. 

“And, the worst part of it all,” his fingers curl over where your neck meets your shoulder, but his thumb is stretched out to lightly press against your throat, wishing he could leave his unique print on your skin. 

“The fucking worst part is that you took those while thinking of some someone else, put on your little thigh-highs and fucked yourself for some asshole who can’t tell the difference between a real orgasm and a fake one.”

You go rigid between Robby and the wall, staring up at him in shock. You’re still simmering from the contact, with where all this is heading because it is heading somewhere. 

But, the difference between… there’s no way he could know. He’s just talking shit about Tony because he’s jealous apparently (and that idea is extremely fucking hot), but his words hit home because yeah, you have faked every orgasm with Tony, and no, he hasn’t noticed. 

But, how could Robby? He’s seen one video; it’s not like he knows—

“Honey, I’ve been fucking for longer than you’ve been alive,” oh, good lord, “I know what an orgasm looks and sounds like.” His hand is calloused where he cups your cheek, and you melt straight into it. “What you did in that video was beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t real.”

He raises the leg between yours, probably rocks onto the ball of his foot, and it presses harder against you, but it’s not enough. Even when you grind down, clutch at his shoulders, it is not fucking enough. 

His brazen display of self-assuredness makes you dizzy and dumb. If he’s this confident, there must be a reason, and that reason is likely how you’re responding to him. Your body language, how you can barely even see him through your half-lidded eyes, how your bottom lip is raw from chewing on it.

It makes you desperate—embarrassingly so, and when his coarse beard grazes over your cheek bone, you let the last of your inhibitions dissipate. 

“Robby, I swear to God, if you keep talking, I will literally fuck you in one of the parked ambulances.”

He has the audacity to laugh, a puff of air straight from his throat that cascades over the shell of your ear, and it makes you want to cry. It makes you hit your head against the wall behind you. One, two, three times before Robby slips his hand between your skull and the bricks. 

“Not in an ambulance,” he shakes his head, brown eyes trained on your mouth. “You won’t be able to move the way I want you to in an ambulance.”

His voice is so low, a rumble, a vibration, and it makes you pulse, pussy hungry for what you can’t have. 

You roll your hips in a plea for more friction, and you’re about ready to strip right here and now if it means he’ll fuck you. 

If you could just push him a little further. If you could just make him as crazy as he’s made you. 

Eager to the point of hysteria, you squeeze your eyes shut and tell him the secret you’ve been harboring since starting at the hospital (part of it, anyway), something you never imagined telling him, and it comes out in the form of pathetic incoherencies— “it was you. I was thinking about you when I made the video, ‘nd I’ve done it before—made myself cum while—I try not to, t-to think and, like, imagine other things, but can’t—”

A surprised grunt (squeak) is forced out of you when Robby crushes his lips against yours, and you cannot remember the last time a man has rendered you so fucking useless, but fuck, you’re holding onto him as if it’ll keep you in a solid state because it sure feels like you’re about to evaporate out of his hands and into the clouds.

You are going to die here. No way you can survive his beard scratching against your face or the sensation of his lips on yours, warm and a little chapped but so, so hungry as they move with yours. 

Jesus fuck, you feel his tongue, do not hesitate to stroke it with your own, licking into his mouth before pulling back and catching his bottom lip between your incisors and biting. 

Robby groans, the fingers at the back of your head curling into your hair. He cants his hips forward, and you finally see that it’s not just you who’s affected. Worked up. Not thinking straight. 

This is Robby—the man who is obsessed with controlling everything he can, who refuses to let anyone see what he’s bottled up, who compartmentalizes so much you’re surprised he doesn’t have multiple active bleeding ulcers—tearing apart at the seams little by little. 

Quick, tiny rips that turn to longer cuts then into deep gashes until he’s cleaved right down the middle. You feel the way his eyebrows pinch together when you hold his face to yours, inhale every one of his shaky breaths, grind yourself down on his thigh as his hips move in short, abortive thrusts. 

Fuck, fuck, “on-call room—”

“No.” Growled. Rough. Leaving no room for argument. “I’m not doing this until I can spread you out,” —the way he keeps running his nose up your cheek is driving you crazy, but not as much as his voice in your ear, “until I can make you scream my fucking name.”

“God, fuck, Robby—”

He smiles, you think, judging by the way his beard scratches at you differently, “not a chance in hell I’m letting anyone else hear you like this.”

There is a very good chance, however, that you’re dripping through your panties and possibly your scrubs. You surge forward, demanding another kiss that Robby eagerly bends to. 

A siren sounds in the distance, distorted by the doppler effect that matches the way you feel inside, like your sanity is waxing and waning, screaming then whimpering. 

“There are still three fucking hours left in this shift,” you grumble, “and you expect me to just power through? Wet?”

He swears under his breath, something that is so very satisfying, but when he actually lifts his head and pulls back enough for you to see his flushed face, he somehow manages to school his expression into something professional. 

“I expect you to do your job,” he says, masterfully composed. You pout, and Robby brushes hair from your face at the same time that he shifts his leg against your cunt, and you think he must really enjoy seeing you unstable because he tacks on a low, sing-songy, “be good for me.”

Fucking devilish. 

Hands on his chest, you shove him backward, eyes narrowed in a heatless glare. 

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“Oh, you have no idea how mean I can be,” he shoots back, winks, then turns his attention to the ambulance that’s pulling up into the bay. 

Back to business, hands in his pockets, brown eyes clear and alert, like nothing even happened. 

“34-year-old female with multiple fractures after a hit-and-run while biking…”

You move on autopilot, falling into step beside the gurney as the medic rattles off numbers and injuries. The motions come easily, muscle memory, but even as you assess and examine, you can’t ignore how damp your panties are. When Robby announces that the biker’s hip needs to be reduced, you almost roll your eyes at him before stepping up to get a better angle. 

External rotation, upward pull, praise the Gods for fast-acting pain meds. 

A hand steadies you as you begin to lower yourself, and you don’t have to look to know who it belongs to. Scorching and far too familiar, following your movements while remaining planted on the small of your back. 

When you’re on solid ground, you lean close to Robby’s shoulder and clack your teeth together as if snapping at him. Playful, maybe even cheeky, but quick so that no one else notices. 

He goes along with it, scrunches his nose while imitating a snarl, and you gallop to put distance between you and him before he can catch the ridiculous fucking giggle that bubbles out of you.

What have you gotten yourself into? 

Two and a half more hours, a case of appendicitis, and a knowing smirk. 

An hour and 45 minutes, a collapsed lung, and fingers that linger a little too long. 

30 minutes, a football player with a compound fracture, and breath on the nape of your neck as he slides to get to your other side. 

The night shift crew starts trickling in, and Ellis nearly pulls you into what would probably be a witty conversation full of laughs and subtle shit-talking, but you spin away from her with the excuse of being late for a family dinner. 

You need to shower and you need to give yourself a pep talk in the mirror and you need to—

“Family dinner?”

Robby catches up to you outside, which was not supposed to happen because he always stays later than necessary, wants to be his control freak self and keep an eye on the night shift for at least an hour. 

“Too late for you to play dumb. I already know you’re an evil goddamn mastermind.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responds, eyes to the sky, whistling in a casual, cartoonish manner. 

Bouncing back and forth between overwhelming frustration and giddy anticipation, you walk a little closer to him, biting the inside of your cheek when Robby gently shoulders into you.

Then, like a bucket full of ice water, the situation washes over you all at once. From the accidental pictures up to now. The mortification and anxiety, the compulsive avoidance, the enthusiastic conversation you had mere hours ago. 

You stop walking.

Flirting at work is one thing, but bringing it out into the real world…?

You want it. You want him. You have for too long, and you’ve struggled with it. 

Dating apps and hookups and finding new fucking hobbies—they’re just attempts at distracting yourself. You wish you could cope with extra shifts, but that would be counterproductive. It’s hard enough seeing Robby a few days a week. Any more than that and there would be no hope for you to get over this thing you’ve had for him. 

This can’t be a hookup brought on by a few filthy photos. This can’t be the first time he’s ever seen you as more than just a resident. This can’t be a roaring fire tonight that gets doused in the morning. 

Robby only gets a few steps further before noticing your standstill, stops a few feet ahead at the edge of the lot your car is parked in. 

“You okay?” he ventures, “rethinking all of this?”

You shake your head, “no,” then, “yes.”

Robby frowns but the expression doesn’t come off as upset. More confused than anything. 

“You can back out. I know you’re in limbo or… something, but—”

“No, it’s not that,” you wave off, and you notice that your hand is shaking. Actually, all of you is shaking. It’s pretty well contained, you think, but the antsy energy makes you clench your jaw too tight.

Robby is looking at you in a way only he can—concerned, compassionate, exhausted—and he’s about to open his mouth again, push for you to talk to him with that gentle tone that’s usually meant to placate patients and family, and unfortunately, you’re going to be completely honest, tell him what you left out in the ambulance bay, because you’ve never been able to lie to him. 

“What is it, then?” He takes a step forward but keeps his hands in his pockets. It makes him look relaxed, unimposing, I am restrained; I cannot hurt you. “This can end right here if you want it to, but you’ve gotta tell me.” 

Kind despite the gravel, just as you predicted. 

Heaving a sigh, you snort to yourself, truly cannot believe you’re about to ruin the rest of your residency with a single conversation. 

“I know, yeah, just… I’m about to say some things, and they might make you feel awkward or, I don’t know, like, trapped or whatever, so—”

“Is this about the crush you’ve had since you started?”

He just says it. To your face, right out in the open!

Jaw dropping all the way, you stare at Robby completely dumbfounded. Your cheeks blaze and your ears ring and the world around you comes to a jerky stop. 

“You—you knew?”

His eyes are damn near blinding with the way they shine, a smile tugging at his lips, so fucking self-satisfied even as he blushes. 

“It took me a while to catch on, but yeah,” he nods, moving closer now as he pulls a hand from his pocket to scratch over the hair on his cheek. 

You’re only torturing yourself by asking, “how?” but you need to know. What did you do? What tipped him off?

Robby’s grin softens, his blinks get slower, and for the first time today, he sounds a little unsure. 

“You remember that marathon last year? Some charity event, I think for Alzheimer’s or dementia, one of those nightmare diseases.”

“It was Parkinson’s,” you remind him. 

“Right, anyway, we were fucking packed with broken ankles and torn ligaments, that one guy with rhabdomyolosis…” he lists, eyes to the sky instead of on you. “Then, that kid came in with a dislocated jaw, and—”

“Oh, no, I remember now.” Because you do. You remember this story almost as well as you remember the butterflies. 

Robby chuckles. “I still don’t know why, but you got this fucking look on your face when I showed you how to pop it back into place, like I’d just performed some goddamn miracle, and it didn’t—no, it still doesn’t make sense to me, but I remember liking that look way too fuckin’ much, thought about it too much, wondered if you thought about me too much, and eventually it sort of… started making more sense. Not that it’s me, that doesn’t—the doe eyes, I mean, I understood a little better.”

His rambling would be adorable if you weren’t so fucking embarrassed. Shit, how many times had you stared at him with those “doe eyes” without realizing it? Like a dumb puppy chewing on his pant leg to get his attention. 

You slap a hand over your face and shake your head. “So, you’ve just been going along with it no matter how uncomfortable it probably made you.”

If you were to actually look at him again, you’d see the way Robby rolls his eyes. 

“Didn’t listen to a fucking word I said, Jesus…” 

Now, you do glance up, see the familiar way his fingers lock at the back of his neck as Robby slides his jaw back and forth like he’s thinking. Debating. 

“Okay, here’s what it is—I went along with it. I ignored it.” Ah, ouch. “Or, I tried to, ‘cause it’s fucking distracting, but not… it doesn’t make me feel like—what’d you say earlier? Awkward or trapped. It's distracting ‘cause I can see it. On your face. And, I lose my goddamn focus ‘cause all I can think about is—fuck—what can I do to make you keep looking at me like that?”

He looks stressed, like he’s arguing with an ignorant, unruly patient, even releases one of those incredulous laughs. It doesn’t feel like he’s frustrated with you, though, and you think that maybe he hadn’t planned on telling you all of this. 

“Wait…” you massage your temples, “what are you—hold on.”

Is he saying what you think he’s saying? No. No, definitely not. 

“You’re my resident,” Robby groans, and you know. You know you’re his resident and he’s your attending. 

You know it’s cliché and stupid and impossible which is why you’ve been doing everything you can to move the fuck on. It even felt like you’d been making progress, slow and minuscule as it was, it was still progress. 

But, now you’ve seen how heated his gaze is, heard how rough his voice gets, felt his body pressing against yours, and all of that progress has been lost. In fact, you’ve fallen behind your initial starting point, and this time he knows. 

“I’m sorry—I know. I didn’t mean to put you in a shitty spot, but I couldn’t help it! If I could stop, I would.”

“Please fucking don’t,” Robby replies swiftly, covers the last bit of distance until he’s right in front of you, shaking his head and keeping you pinned under those endlessly tortured brown eyes, “don’t be sorry, don’t try to stop.” 

His hand feels huge on your cheek, and you subconsciously lean into it while gazing up at him. Curling his fingers, you feel his nails graze your cheekbone as a devastatingly soft plea falls from him, “don’t stop fucking looking at me like this.”

You wouldn’t be able to even if you wanted to. 

The kiss is a surprise. You didn’t think he’d be the type to be comfortable displaying something like this in a public setting; any of your coworkers could walk by, could snicker, could judge, so either he’s not in his right mind, or he really does not care. 

“There are people,” half-hearted and muffled against his lips as you raise up to your tiptoes. 

Robby huffs a laugh and tells you, “couldn’t give less of a fuck,” and proves it by settling his free hand on your back, just over the waistband of your pants, and pulls until you’re slotted against him. 

It’s… not softer than before, there’s definitely still force behind the kiss, but it’s less greedy. Less about taking, more about giving—giving up, giving in, giving everything. 

You’re still just as desperate as you were three hours ago, want him between your legs, want him to wreck you, but the way his mouth feels moving with yours is all you can focus on. Harsh pressure receding into something feather light, angling your face, tender yet controlling, so that his nose bumps yours, parted lips barely dragging over yours, and he’s teasing, making you want him more and more. 

“So, here’s my plan,” Robby breathes so, so close. 

You think you hear footsteps nearby, can’t find it in yourself to be bothered by them. 

“You have my…” you barely manage to swallow a whimper when he pulls you impossibly closer, “—undivided attention.”

Robby smiles and hums, “like the sound of that,” before getting back on track, “my plan, though—”

“Mhm, your plan,” your hands travel down his torso, finding belt loops to hook your fingers in. 

“It involves going to your place first, so you can grab clothes, your toothbrush, and whatever toys you use to get yourself off—” 

The way he says it punches the air straight from your lungs. 

“Then, we’re going to mine, and I’m gonna use every one of those toys, make sure you actually cum.”

Robby nips at your lower lip, traps it and sucks before he continues. 

His voice isn’t just gravel now; it’s stone. Firm, deep, excavated from his chest— 

“And, when we get there, I am going to fuck you until the only thought in your pretty head is how good I can make you feel.”

If it weren’t for Robby’s broad frame in front of you, the setting sun would beam straight through your dangerously blown pupils, fry both of your fucking optic nerves, but the danger is blocked, eclipsed by this menace of a man.

You’ve seen Robby goof around, seen him play and poke fun, but you have never seen him look and sound and be so fiendish—an honest to god villain. 

And you are so fucking wet, you think you’re getting dehydrated. 

“That… that sounds, uh,” you try, possibly panting, definitely light-headed. But, you are nothing if not stubborn, so you counter, “sounds kinda presumptuous, actually. Assuming I’m just gonna, like, spend the night and cum my brains out.” 

You make a show of rolling your eyes. The petulance doesn’t quite land when you shudder from the sensation of his fingers toying with your waistband, so you add, “I’ve noticed that when guys talk a big game, I usually leave disappointed.”

Robby looks entertained, a little endeared, an expression that reads something like, that’s cute. 

“I’m sure that’s been your experience in the past, but I’m not some fucking,” he makes a dismissive motion like he can’t be bothered to think too hard about it, “some douchey real estate agent you found on Tinder.”

“What side of Tinder are you on?” you snort. 

“I’m not on it at all, actually, but you’re missing the point.”

“Right,” you suck your teeth, still challenging but refusing to move away from him. “The point being you’re gonna rock my world or whatever.”

Robby takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger then uses them to shake your head for you. With his eyebrows raised, his responding, “no,” sounds like an admonishment, “the point being I actually care about making you cum, and plan to do so—multiple times, if I have it my way…”

“Your way,” you parrot. 

“My way.” He strokes your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Gonna make sure you don’t send more filthy fucking pictures to anyone but me from now on.”

Is it possible to climax from words alone? It must be because having Robby talk to you like this, show how possessive he can be, it feels like you’re about to explode. 

“So I can keep sending videos, then? Didn’t say anything about those.”

“As long as it shows my head between your thighs, go for it.”

Your pitchy, disbelieving giggle breaks enough for him to hear, “what? Are you serious?”

“No, I’m not fucking serious, are you kidding me? My eyes only, got it?”

Your pussy clenches as if he’s already fucking you.

“I—didn’t you have a fucking plan, or are you just gonna keep riling me up?”

“Oh, so you’re on board then?” he toys, smile growing both in size and smugness. 

You click your tongue, quietly scoff, “as if you don’t know. Asshole.”

Robby laughs, and you grab a handful of his hoodie before turning and making your way to your car.

He’s more than happy to be tugged along behind you.