Let Me Be Weird, To Be Weird Is To Be Free

The front door had barely clicked shut behind you before the weight of the evening started pressing down on Frank. The drive home from your brother’s house had been thick with silence, his hand gripping your thigh, thumb stroking over your bare skin like he could somehow imprint the memory of you holding your niece right onto your skin.

Hours later, your house was quiet except for the hum of the city outside the windows. You’d changed into one of his worn t-shirts, the hem brushing your thighs as you moved around the kitchen making tea. Frank had tried to distract himself by flipping through channels, checking his phone, even loading the dishwasher. But nothing worked. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you cradling the baby against your chest, that soft smile on your lips as the little one wrapped her tiny fingers around yours. The way you’d rocked her so naturally, like it was the most effortless thing in the world. Like you were made for it.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop imagining it was your baby- his baby- sleeping against your chest instead.

Two hours have dragged by in this strange, warm feeling. You’ve curled up on the couch together watching something on TV, but Frank barely registers any of it. His arm stays locked around you, fingers tracing slow patterns over your stomach. Every few minutes he presses a kiss to your hair, the curve of your shoulder, each one lingering longer than the last. His body is tense, a low thrum of need running under his skin that wouldn’t settle.

By the time the clock ticks past midnight, his body is aching.

Frank finally stands up from the couch and crosses the room to where you’re standing by the window, staring out at the scattered city lights. He comes up behind you without a word, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest with a shaky exhale. His hold is tighter than usual, almost desperate, like he’s afraid you might slip away.

“God, baby,” his voice is rough, overcome with yearning as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “I haven’t been able to think about anythin’ else since we left your brother’s. The way you looked holding her. Like you were meant to be a mom.”

“Aw, sweetheart,” you say gently, letting your head fall against his, as he breathes into your neck desperately. You knew something’s been up, especially with the way Franks been so quiet, almost something pensive about him.

A large hand of his slides down, splaying wide over your lower stomach, as his fingers press in with a kind of reverence. You can feel how hard he is against your ass, his hips involuntarily rolling forward as if his body is already trying to make it real. You try to stop yourself from letting out a whine, obviously needy now that he’s making all this baby talk.

“I keep picturing you like that with our baby,” he whispers hoarsely, his lips brushing your ear. His breathing is hot and uneven, like he’s not in control of himself. “Your belly full because of me. Your tits all heavy. Fuck, I’m losing my mind thinkin about getting you pregnant tonight.”

He turns you slowly in his arms, cupping your face with both hands. His eyes are glistening with pure, aching want. Gently, his thumbs brush over your cheeks as he searches your gaze to figure out what you think, his breathing ragged.

“I need it, sweetheart. Please-” His forehead drops to rest against yours, voice dropping to a broken murmur. “Let me take you to bed. Let me put a baby in you.” His voice is dripping with desperation, like he needs to see you like that. Holding his child.

“Alright baby, alright” you whisper, moving your hands behind his neck so he can anchor you, knowing the extreme weight of your words. You pull your head back, and nod gently. “I want that too Frank.” you whisper, a little emotional. “I wanna make a family of our own.” You let out a small, choked noise as Frank nods, moving your hair out of your face for you.

He presses his lips to your forehead, still being gentle for you despite how out of control he feels. “C’mere” he says, hands trailing down to your hips, before he lifts you up firmly, your legs wrapping around his torso. You can’t help but squirm, almost bucking your hips into his abs. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs, moving his face to your neck, peppering you with gentle, wet kisses.

You whine, head lolling to the side, and Frank gets it. “Mhm, I know baby, shh,” he coos, lips on your collarbone as you hold onto him desperately. He holds you steadily with one arm, the other reaching down, his fingers brushing against the hem of the fabric of your shirt. Well, his shirt. He lifts it up, and you help pull your arms out of it as he tugs it off, over your head.

You curse yourself for wearing a bra and panties under the shirt, because you need him so bad- but now there’s an extra barrier between you. Your tits are sore and aching, pressing against his chest as he pulls you closer, wanting to feel you against him.

Holding you steadily, he starts taking heavy steps towards the staircase, holding your head against his shoulder carefully, as if to keep you safe. Like a steady rhythm, he presses a kiss to your shoulder each step upstairs. Before you know it, you’re in your room, your bedside lamp filling the space with a golden glow.

You can’t help but gasp and whine at every graze of your skin on his, you don’t know what’s made you so sensitive tonight- besides your desperate want for Frank, to have his babies. “I know, sweet girl, I know,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with need. He’s laying you on your back, nestling you in the middle of the sheets on your bed.

You gasp at the contrast of the cool sheets on your skin, your body on fire with want. “Frankie,” you whine, clawing at his chest, trying to pull him closer onto you. He’s hastily moving his hands down your body, desperately kissing everywhere he can reach.

You whine, feeling molten as his hands burn into your bare skin. “Mhm sweetheart, we’ll make you feel so good” he coos, kissing your forehead, as one arm lifts your torso from below so he can undo your bra. It’s quickly thrown to the side, and his lips are all over your chest as he feels you with his calloused hands. “There we are baby, s’that better?” he whispers against your skin, palm kneading one of your tits, as his stubble grazes the other one.

His tongue is between your tits, moving lower as he worships his way down your body, kissing and licking until he reaches your stomach. His calloused palm rubs over it gently, his yes filled with longing. “Gonna make you the prettiest mama ever.”

His fingers are tracing the waistband of your lacy panties, and soon he’s sliding them down, discarding them to the side as he settles between your thighs, both his arms hooking under one to reach you better. “There’s my girl, all wet and ready f’me” he groans, inhaling your scent. “Been thinking about this pretty pussy all night.”

Slowly, he lowers his head, the flat of his tongue pressing against your slit. “Ohh, you taste so sweet baby” he murmurs against you, which makes you shudder.

He licks at you slowly, with purpose- like he has to savour the moment. His tongue parts you gently, your slick gathering in his mouth as you whine. “Mph, fuck- you’re perfect mama.” He’s loving on you, pressing messy kisses against you, his tongue working soft kitten licks against your folds, like you’re something fragile.

“Frankie I need you so bad” you moan breathlessly, his gentleness driving you to the edge. He mutters something against your core, and then he’s licking more messily, more fervently. His arms are still wrapped around your plush thighs while he starts to devour you now. You moan every time his nose nudges your clit, back arching up desperately. “Mm, oh- fuck!” you moan, legs feeling like jelly as he eats you like a favourite meal. “Frank- fuck!” you cry out, desperate for release.

Your hands move to his hair, and you push his face down- a little too frantic. He chuckles into your heat, but understands what you need. “Alright baby, easy.” he says lowly, licking noisily at your pussy, moving up to suck on your clit. That nearly breaks you, and you can’t do much but whine helplessly.

“Aw my baby’s so needy,” he groans, voice laced with faux sympathy. His eyes meet yours, mouth still clamped down on you, and his tongue meets your entrance. “Let go baby, alright?” he coos, tongue fucking you gently.

Your hips buck against his face as sweat gathers above your brows. “Frankie I’m so close-” you all but cry, knees weak as his mouth is back on your clit, the pressure deliciously perfect. “Shit- mph- Im gonna cum-” you mumble, barely able to get out a proper sentence.

“Cum f’me baby, that’s it” he praises as you finally break, thighs shaking around his head. Your orgasm hits you hard, back arching as you gasp and cry out his name. Frank licks you through every wave, murmuring sweet filth against your sensitive flesh.

He moves back, climbing back up, beginning to kiss you so deeply that you can taste yourself on his tongue. “My sweet girl” he praises, pulling the shirt off his body in one tug. He hovers over you, undressing himself as you watch him, both your legs limp. Still, his eyes don’t leave yours as he pulls his trousers off, your clothes now in a pile to the side of your bed.

“Look at me, baby,” he whispers, climbing back onto the bed, his cock bouncing against his thigh. He’s big, but thick too, and it’s a real stretch getting him to fit most of the time. He climbs between your thighs again, lifting your head gently to fix the pillows beneath your neck. “There we are mama, get’cha all comfy.”

Though it’s never been said, and he never pressures you into anything, you know one of his favourite positions are missionary. You don’t know it, but it’s because he can see your beautiful face, feel you against his chest as he holds you, makes love to you.

His mouth is beneath your ear, peppering kisses down your neck as he moves further down. He can’t hold himself back anymore, so he takes his dick into his palm, tugging himself a few times, head falling back in need as he groans. He looks back to you, lining himself up at your dripping slit. His aching tip nudges against you, slipping past your clit since you’re both wet with need. You twitch at the brief contact, and Frank tries again, pushing against you till his tip finally slips inside, plopping in place.

You gasp as he finally enters you, pushing in slowly. “There we are baby- god, you’re so tight” he groans, a hand on your hip. He bites his lip in concentration, pushing further as he watches your face. Your eyes close, wincing at how overwhelmingly big he is. “Think you can take it?” he asks sweetly, trailing a hand to the side of your face and cupping it lovingly.

You nod, eyes still squeezed shut as he stretches you out further. “That’s it baby,” he says, thumb moving along your jaw, “let me see those eyes.” You open your eyes and they meet his dark ones, all while he’s still gently pushing into you. “Almost there, you’re doing so well” he praises, leaning down to kiss your forehead. None of this matters to him if you’re not feeling loved.

He’s almost fully in, lips still brushing past your hairline, murmuring words of praise. You gasp sharply, digging your nails into his shoulders at the intense fullness, and he hasn’t even bottomed out yet. You feel like you’re going to tear. “Frank-,” you moan, but youre wincing; it sounds like you’re in pain.

“Hey, hey..” he says, eyebrows furrowed in concern as he moves back slightly to see you, “want me to stop, baby?” He rakes his fingers through your hair, tilting his head as he watches your face.

“I can take it” you say, shaking your head, wanting more.

“I know you can sweetheart, but I can’t let myself hurt you.” His voice is soft and caring, like he’s talking to something fragile. Still, his fingers are running gently through your hair as he watches you with his big dark eyes.

“Please Frankie, I want all of you,” you protest, shaking your head, “I promise I’m okay.” He can’t help but sigh, like he’s fighting with himself. He tilts his head, quiet for a second before he speaks.

“Baby, we can still do it like this, I can’t have you hurting yourself.” he says softly, shaking his head. He looks upset, like it’s his fault you’re hurt. “It ain’t worth it-”

“Frank.” You cut him short, and his hand makes its way to cup your face. “I can take it. I want all of you.” He frowns, watching you like the most treasured thing in his life before he sighs in defeat.

“Anything hurts, and you tell me to stop- okay? Anything.”

You nod, your sweet eyes never leaving his. “Alright baby,” he whispers, clenching his jaw as he pushes himself even deeper. “Deep breaths f’me, that’s it.” You hold his shoulders as he gets impossibly deeper, inhaling and exhaling deeply like he said. His own voice is strained when he speaks, “Attagirl, you’re doing so well.” It’s like he forgets his tight you are every time you fuck.

“Fuckkk” he groans, bottoming out into you. “I’m all the way in, sweet girl. Right up against your womb.” Something about the way he says it so bluntly makes you moan. His thumb drags across your bottom lip as you cry out, he hasn’t even started moving yet.

“Mm, please Frankie,” you whine, bucking your hips against him subconsciously.

“I know mama,” he murmurs, slowly starting to rolls his hips into yours. Your legs burn from having them up for so long in the air, and as if Frank can detect it, he helps you rest them around his hips. “There we are baby,” he groans, a little more need in his thrusts now, like he’s setting the rhythm.

You whine each time his cock grinds in and out of you, deliciously dragging past your walls. One of his hands is working at your tit, squeezing and moulding like you’re made of dough, just so he can feel every part of you. His other hand trails down to your side, stopping at the crease where your hip meets your thigh.

He keeps his hand tight there to keep you steady and continues thrusting- deep, needy rolls of his hips that quickly turn desperate. Skin slaps wetly against skin as he fucks you harder, eyes locked on yours the whole time. "You're so warm," he groans, head lolling back "m'gonna pump you so full tonight, baby."

He looks down, watching your stomach in awe, before guiding your hand to rest over your own stomach. "Feel that sweetheart? I'm so deep inside you." You nod, biting your lip at the overwhelming feeling of being so full. All of your senses are going insane. His own hand presses gently but possessively on your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock with every thrust. "That's where our baby's gonna grow.“

You moan and whimper beneath him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer. “You're taking me so well, my sweet girl.” The eye contact makes it even more intimate- his breath mingling with yours as he pants dirty, loving words into your neck. "Gonna cum so deep inside this pretty pussy. Fill you til you're stuffed."

After long, desperate minutes of missionary, his body presses flush to yours as he pants, sweaty and breathless. He kisses you hungrily, your tongues clashing all needily, and then slowly pulls out with a reluctant groan. “On your stomach f’me, sweetheart. Wanna breed you even deeper.”

He helps flip you over, his hands running down the slope of your back, lips following them to press hot, wet kisses all the way to your ass. Carefully, he hovers over you, then covers your back with his much larger body. He pulls your hips up just enough with a soft: “Attagirl,” and places a pillow beneath them. With a few more kisses against the back of your neck, he sinks back inside you in one smooth, filthy thrust. You cry out at, glad he did it slowly before, so at least you knew what to expect.

The new position lets him press you into the mattress, caging you in completely as he starts pounding desperately, like a dog in heat. “Oh fuck, baby, this is perfect. I can feel every inch of this sweet pussy.”His thrusts are deep and urgent, hips snapping against your ass with obscene sounds. If you weren’t so horny, you would’ve told him to quiet down, “incase the neighbours hear”. One hand reaches underneath to rub your clit while the other strokes your back lovingly. “Feel how deep my cock is, baby? Gonna pump load after load into you till you’re leaking me for days.”

You’re crying out into the sheets, pushing back against him desperately as your pussy flutters around his thick length. Frank’s voice stays sweet but deliciously pervy, the way you like it, right by your ear. “That’s my girl. Love how wet you get when I talk about breeding you. Gonna keep you stuffed every night till your belly starts swelling. Can’t wait to see these tits get heavy too- mm, all for our baby.”

You moan louder into the mattress, the pillow under your hips tilting you perfectly for him. Every thrust grinds against that spot deep inside you, making your toes curl. Frank’s weight pins you down so sweetly, as a thick arm braces beside your head, while the other keeps rubbing slick circles over your puffy clit. The slap of his hips against your ass fills the room and makes everything sound even filthier.

“Fuck, listen to that,” he growls against your ear, voice rough and loving all at once. “Taking me so well, brave girl.” He nips at your shoulder with his teeth, then soothes it with the flat of his tongue, all while his hips continue bucking into you restlessly. “You’re so tight, baby. Getting close again?”

You nod frantically, words lost in your throat as another deep stroke forces a broken whimper out of you. He feels your walls flutter harder around his cock, and groans lowly, like he’s pleased.

“Yeah? Gonna fall apart while I breed you? Go on sweet girl, lemme feel it.” His fingers press a little firmer on your clit, and he quickens his pace until finally, the coil snaps. You cry out his name, pulsing and gushing around him as pleasure takes over your body. Frank groans like he’s the one falling apart, his hips stuttering for a split second before he continues to fuck you straight through it, drawing out your pleasure for you.

He doesn’t even stop. If anything, he gets more desperate, like he wants even more from you.

“Attagirl- fuck, just like that.” His hand slides from your clit to grip your hip hard, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. “Gonna fill you up baby, keep this womb nice and full f’me.”

He shifts his angle slightly to drive even deeper, the head of his cock nudging your cervix with every snap of his hips. You’re still weak from your orgasm, whimpering as he uses you, his breath hot against your neck. “You okay baby?” he asks, voice gentle. “Think you can take it? Lemme get you nice and full?”

“Frankie- please-” you manage to choke out, voice hoarse. You push yourself back with all your might, and he understands.

“Alright, mama. I’m right there. Gonna pump you so fucking full.” He presses a kiss to your back, before his thrusts eventually turn erratic, grinding against you like he’s trying to bury himself inside you forever. “That’s it- fuck- gonna breed this perfect pussy.”

With a groan that sounds like it was ripped from his the bottom of his chest, he slams against you one last time and stays there, his cock throbbing inside you as he starts to cum. You’re flooded with that familiar substance, white hot like thunder, as pulse after pulse of it paints your insides.

He keeps rocking shallowly through it, pushing his load deeper, making sure none of it escapes. “Right there, baby, that’s where it belongs.” he groans, holding you tight as his hips continue bucking. His eyes are squeezed shut in pleasure as he groans lowly, and you’ve never felt him so vulnerable inside you.

You’re both panting, skin damp with sweat, limbs weak and limp. Frank stays buried deep against your soft ass, as he carefully collapses his weight onto you in a protective cage. He presses wet kisses along your spine and the back of your shoulder, murmuring praise between each kiss, like he wants your skin to absorb his words.

“Took me so well, pretty girl. Look at you, all stuffed and dripping.” One of his hands slide under you again, resting warmly over your lower belly where he’d pressed his palm earlier. “Can already imagine it. You round and glowing, carrying our little one. Gonna keep you like this, sweetheart. Filled up and loved every fuckin night.”

He stays inside you for a long moment, softening slowly but refusing to pull out yet. It’s like he wants to stay in the comfort of you for as long as possible. Lazy little rolls of his hips keep his cum right where he wants it, deep inside you. Eventually he moves himself to the side, pulling you against him so you’re tucked against his chest, a leg draped over his. His hand never leaves your belly, and as if he’s already protecting something precious, his thumb strokes back and forth against you.

He looks down at your hopeful eyes, and kisses your forehead, before moving to your lips, slow and sweet this time. “Rest up, baby,” he whispers, his voice husky and warm. “Gonna need to fill you at least twice more before morning.”

You stay curled against his chest, both of you still catching your breath. You smile softly against the skin of his chest, already feeling the warm trickle of his cum starting to slip down your thigh, but you know he’ll just push it back in with his fingers- or his cock- soon enough. Frank’s cock has softened inside you, but he keeps you pressed close, an arm around your waist while his other hand continues that soothing moment over your belly like he’s already imagining it round.

After a few quiet minutes, he presses a gentle kiss to your temple and gently starts to ease himself out of you. You whimper at the loss and the sudden feeling of being empty, but he’s already shushing you softly, as a parent would to a child.

“I know, baby. I’ve gotcha.” His voice is low, but so full of warmth as he speaks to you. He rolls you onto your back carefully, before kneeling between your spread thighs, his eyes darkening for a second as he watches his cum slowly drip from your pussy. Before you know it, two of his thick fingers push it back inside you, making you twitch. Your lips part and you whine softly, eyebrows furrowed from how overwhelmed you are.

“I know baby, I know.” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your lower belly, before he slowly climbs off the bed. “I’ll be two secs,” he whispers reassuringly, turning around and leaving your room.

He returns quickly with a damp, warm cloth and a glass of water, watching you with awe as you lay down. He gently helps you sit up first, holding the glass to your lips as you drink. “Small sips, sweetheart. There we go, such a good girl f’me.” You drink obediently as he lets you hold the cup, so that he can move down slightly. He starts to wipe away at the crease between your thighs with the warm cloth, wiping away the mess as he presses small kisses to your inner thighs, urging you to part them slightly.

“Sore?” he asks, noticing the slight tremble in your legs. You nod, and he smiles warmly, setting the cloth aside. “Alright,” he says quietly, moving his big hands to your thighs, starting to work at your them firmly, before moving to your calves.His hands are strong but still gentle as he massages you, until you’re basically melting into the sheets with a soft sigh.

Once he’s satisfied you’re taken care of, he slides back into bed and pulls you beside him, whispering “that’s it pretty girl,” as your head rests near his heart. The covers are drawn up around you, enveloping you both in warmth. The air is warm, but in a familiar comforting way. His calloused fingers trace up and down your back, making you giggle, while his other hand cups the back of your head lovingly.

“You did so well tonight,” he whispers against your hair. “I’m so proud of you, sweet girl.” He tilts your chin up for a slow, deep kiss, and it’s nothing urgent this time, just purely affectionate. His mouth is warm and familiar, and if you could, you’d stay like this forever, with his skin against yours, his lips begging against yours.

“How do you feel? Any pain anywhere?” You shake your head, nuzzling back into his neck. He hums, full of relief and tightens his big arms around you, never wanting to let go.

“I meant every word mama, I can’t wait to watch your body change, to see you carry our baby.” His hand moves back to your belly, rubbing over it tenderly. “Even if it doesn’t happen right away, I’m keeping you stuffed and loved until it does. I’m gonna take care of you baby. Always.”

He reaches over and clicks off the lamp, tucking you even closer to himself as your legs stay tangled together. His voice grows a little sleepier, but it’s still full of that quiet reverence.

“Close your eyes, I gotcha. Gonna hold you all night long. And in the morning, I’ll make you breakfast all nice an pretty, and we can do it all over again if you want.”

You hum quietly, already drifting off to the beat of his heart. All you can feel now is the gentle press of his palm on your belly. You feel safe and cherished, and it’s all you’ve ever wanted.

It’s also all Frank’s ever wanted, after facing all the hardships in his life. A beautiful girl to love, someone he can confide in and call his. And finally, he has it. Nothing could make him happier. And he won’t let anything take this away from him.

He sighs contentedly as your warm breath fans against his skin, knowing you’re lying there, safe and full of him. No matter what, he’ll give you this baby. He’ll help start the family you’ve both always wanted, and be here for you through thick and thin.

He finds you nestled in bed, surrounded by blankets and clothes and pillows and stuffed animals. You've rolled over on your belly, and he feels like he has to squint to see through the smell of your heat. It's like the room has been filled to the brim with flowers. It's like he's walked into a greenhouse after it's rained, the outside world wet and warm and so sweet. There's an undercurrent of potting soil, clean but earthier than he's used to, and beneath that, spicy and burning.

You're whimpering, whining something needy into the pillow. He crosses the room in a couple long strides, pausing when he sees you laying there with your arm between your legs. You squeeze your thighs together as your hips grind greedily against your arm, trying to find any kind of friction you possibly can to ease the burning, the fire.

Spencer crawls into the bed like a man who'd fallen to his knees in front of his faith and begged to be loved in return (he is).

“Baby,” he says, his voice strained. He can taste your arousal in the air, potent like streams of smoke in a cartoon wafting off a pie in the window. His vision gets a little blurry around the edges, and he's only moving closer. “Hey. I'm here, omega, I'm here.”

You whine again, louder this time, turning over onto your back. You're naked, having stripped yourself from the overwhelming heat making it impossible to get any kind of comfort, especially without him here to put his skin on yours, wrap you in his scent, in his arms. You reach your hands up immediately for him. Your eyes are watering, your face screwed up in pain and dissatisfaction. “Alpha?” you mewl, breath flooded and useless. You reach for him blindly. “Alpha, please, please.”

“I know, angel.” The way you say it, “alpha”, like the word alone is praise. He's choked up looking at you, setting a palm against your scorching skin as he cups your cheek. “I'm sorry. Thought we'd have a bit more time. I'm sorry.” He strokes your temple with his thumb, wiping away a layer of sweat that's begun to build. “You're burning up. My poor girl.”

You're spread out wide, your pussy leaky, your nipples peaked and sensitive, your lips and cheeks wet. “Need you, alpha.” Your hands are tangled in his hair now, pulling and tugging and wanting so badly for him to stop talking so he can kiss you.

“I know,” he says. He can feel his hands beginning to shake, his brain clouded with everything going on. He's so hard in his pants, drenched in you, trying to get his thoughts in order so he can focus on giving you what you need. “I know, I'll make it better. I will, I promise.”

“S-Spence,” you plead. “Hurts. Need you, it hurts.”

Spencer realizes he might be stalling and nods quickly. “Yeah, okay. ‘M sorry. I know, I'm taking so long.”

Before you can whine again, his lips are on yours. It provides a weird kind of relief, not satisfying but a balm to the cracks in your lips either way. You moan into his mouth, feeling like you'll melt any moment now that he's here.

He groans against your mouth, cradling your head in his hands as he slots himself between your legs. Your body leans up to meet him, your hips grinding up in search of more relief. He keeps kissing you, licking along your lips and humming and trying not to grind back down.

But that's not enough for you. You get restless, pulling away from his lips and whining between every peck against your face. “No, no, no, no please.”

“I know,” kiss, “I know,” kiss, “it's okay.” A long, smacking kiss. “I'll make it better.”

Upset, you nearly growl. “Now.” He really needs to get his act together before you start sobbing over how he no longer loves or cares for you. “Now, alpha. Please, need it now.”

He shushes you gently. “I know,” he repeats. His hand reaches down. Just as you go to complain again, his warm hand is cupping your heat. You gasp, sensitivity tenfold now that he's finally touching you. Your head tilts back, your mouth drops open as you wriggle beneath him. “There you go, honey. I got you. Just let me take care of you.”

His finger dips into you, curling up right against the spongey part of you that has you grasping his arms like it's hurting you. He coaxes his fingers in and out of you, slowly, carefully, until his hand is wet and dripping with your arousal. It has his senses soaking in you. It's hard to think, he doesn't even notice himself grinding down against your leg until you're grinding back.

He adds another finger, and the way you moan is so sweet that he can't help but add a third. His hand works in and out of you, and he watches your face scrunch so tight that it looks like it might hurt. You cry out for him, squirming and mumbling in high pitched little whines that make him painfully hard in his pants.

It stays like that for a while. He fingers you until you're crying and shaking, doesn't even touch your clit until you're two orgasms in. At one point while you'd been distracted coming down from a high, he'd stripped down to nothing and crawled back into the bed with your legs over his shoulders.

Your hands move to pull at his hair, despite your insistent keening. “No, no, alpha. Need you.” Tears streak down your cheeks, and something in him feels like it's breaking. He reaches up to wipe your tears away as you continue to babble at him. “Need you to fuck me. Need you inside me, alpha. I need your knot so bad.”

All the other times you'd begged him like this, sprawled in your nest pleading him to knot you, it'd made him feel so horribly bad about the fact that he simply couldn't. He'd just stroke your face and tell you he's going to take care of you and make you cum again on his hands or his mouth, he'd press his hand on your belly and rock into you with a promise to do it as long as you needed.

Now you say it and his cock throbs as he pushes his hips into the mattress to try and quell the need. “Shh,” he says, holding your hips down and stroking his palm over your thigh. “Gonna give it to you, omega. Just wanna do this first, okay? I wanna make you feel really good.”

You stutter on his name, worse when his tongue laps at you with a greedy hum. A part of Spencer's brain melts at the taste of you. Was it always this good? He'd had no trouble spending all his time between your thighs, but this is even better than before. It's like all the sense is gone from his head and replaced with tasting you and making you cum as many times as he can.

You grind against his face and whine and pull his hair. You're still crying, the pain still present but eased enough for you to breathe around the force of it. His tongue licks you up like a man starved, lapping and humming and sucking on you. You leak onto his tongue in generous amounts. It's lewd and sinful and so, so perfect.

He stays right there, pleased and needy as he eats you out, bringing you to orgasm after orgasm until neither of you is really sure how long it's been. The only number Spencer is aware of is how many times you've cum so far.

You've been reduced to nothing but trembling limbs and whining cries and a mess of wet that is becoming indistinguishable from arousal, spit, and sweat. “Please, alpha! Need you inside me now. Please, please, please.”

The sounds come out of you like sobs, throaty and wet, until Spencer really can't hold out much longer. It would be so, so embarrassing if he popped a knot into the sheets the first time he actually gets to use it instead of inside of you where you're begging him to be.

Spencer pulls away from your thighs reluctantly, spending a couple seconds laving his tongue over the skin of your inner thighs just to make sure he's truly everywhere.

Spencer's body leans over yours in a towering way. He looks at you with eyes blown wide and dark with lust. He looks less worried than he usually does when you get this needy. You're used to his brows being pushed together in concern, his words dripping, “I know, I'm sorry. It's okay, I got you. I'm sorry.”

He watches you like he wants to take a bite out of you. It's a lingering look that has you staring back up at him like you're gonna roll over and show him your belly. But you're already showing your belly, and you're dying to have him scratch.

“I'm gonna make it better, omega.” His voice is low, rougher than usual. There's an undercurrent to it that makes your skin prickle with a sensation you haven't felt like this before. “Be good for me, and I can give you what you need. Okay?”

You nod, looking dazed in the way you would when half your brain isn't conscious. “Okay,” you whisper.

He nods, coming down to kiss you once more. You moan into his mouth, every touch sending you into another fit of desperate heat that makes it impossible to think straight.

Spencer takes himself in his hand, and it takes everything in you not to writhe beneath him just to try to get him in you faster. One hand on your hip, and the other on his cock, he strokes himself a couple of times before he's lining himself up with the dripping heat of your pussy.

When he starts to push in, your eyes close and your mouth drops and your head tilts back. You moan at every inch that fills you, every stretch that has you panting for breath. Spencer clenches his jaw tight and tries to keep himself from cumming at the sheer feeling of you—especially with the way his knot has begun to swell, ready and waiting to bury itself inside of you.

You cling to his body like a lifeline. His hips go flush with yours, and you wrap your arms and legs around him because he still feels too far away.

Spencer lingers there inside you, trying to calm his breathing and steady himself. You just feel so good. Better than before. He's so much more sensitive, every squeeze sets him on edge, every drag makes his teeth clench.

He takes one of your legs wrapped around him, hooks it into his hand and pushes it back until you're spread open and wide for him. He watches his cock thrust in and out of you, the gush of your arousal seeping out over your puckered hole. The sight has his hands tightening around your thigh, around the blanket near your head. “My pretty omega,” he says, his voice thick with want.

He doesn't realize how vastly his pace has changed until he hears the way you're crying. Your face is wet with tears, your mouth can't decide between frowning, smiling, or just dropping open to let the sounds flow. You babble beneath him, your hands everywhere and your skin burning and damp with sweat.

“Yesyesyesyesyes, alpha. Please don't stop, I—You're so, n’god.” You stop making too much sense. And as you continue to tighten around him, he continues to lose himself in the ripe desperation of your pleasure. His brain is clouded, and his teeth hurt, and there's a rumbling in his throat that's echoing like a comfort in your ears. “Gonna—alpha, m’gonna–”

Spencer watches, eyes hooded, breath heavy, as you cum around him. He keeps rocking into you, the blunt head of his cock hitting your soft spot every time. You've been rendered speechless. Your head is thrown so far back, your full throat is on display for him like you want him to sink his teeth into you. It would be so easy. He'd be able to taste the salt on your skin, feel the vibration of your moans against his tongue and conducting up through his teeth and into his skull.

You grip him tight, milking him before he's even cum. He dips his head into the crook of your neck, groaning roughly in your ear before he mouths against your skin. You feel his tongue licking out over your scent glands, drenching you in the leathery scent of him while you cry your praise.

“Moremoremore.” Your words are a command in his head. He fucks into you and pretends the roughness of his thrusts are only from your request, instead of a staggering need to imprint himself into your body, molding you to him and him alone.

“Pretty omega,” he growls into your skin. “So pretty, cumming for me. All mine, my omega.”

You nod, sputtering “yoursyoursyours” until your voice is breaking apart. “Need your knot, alpha. Need it so bad. Want your pups, please!”

He growls, pulling out of you so suddenly that you gasp at the loss of him. Your gasp twists into a watery sob. Spencer's hand presses into your tummy again, trying to soothe you with a gentle shush, even as you cry. “No, no, please. Need you in me. Please, I'll be good. Be your good omega.”

“I know you will.” He kisses you slowly, too slowly for you to handle. He flips you over onto your belly, places a pillow under your hips to lift you up as his greedy hands spread you open for him again.

You're wet and glistening, leaking like a faucet. He never ceases to be amazed by just how wet you get like this. The sheets are definitely ruined, and he might have to buy more (again), but he couldn't care less right now with the way your pussy flutters for him.

He presses his chest to your back, wraps his long arm around your neck, grips your hip like it'll keep him from losing the rest of his mind. “Gonna fill you up, angel. Make you nice and full, and then keep it plugged all inside you.”

Your cries are muffled into a pillow. He lifts you up gently by your neck, nestled into the crook of it to keep tasting your leaky glands. When he pushes back inside of you, you go limp in his arms and his hold on you tightens to keep you nice and close.

Then he fucks you in a way he's never done before. He doesn't even realize it. The scent of your heat is making it so hard to think through the haze. His cock pistons inside of you with a need that is purely instinctual. You let him wreck you, rewarding him with moan after sob after moan until your words are nothing but a string of nonsense mixed with “yes, alpha” and “more, alpha” and “please, alpha”.

His hips rut into yours at a punishing pace. He can feel your slick wetting the skin of his thighs each time his thrusts meet you. He pins you beneath his body with more weight than you remember. You feel like you're breathing easier with him on top of you like this, providing a comfortable warmth and pressure to the part of you that feels restless.

His lips come down to your neck, covering you in kisses and licks and little nips of skin that have your toes curling, wanting nothing more than to feel his jaw lock around your throat and clamp down. His knot swells at the base of his cock, a foreign feeling that hurts right now more than it's pleasant.

“Feel so good for me,” he huffs in your ear, his thrusts only getting sloppier. He fawns over you in deep rumbles, lets his teeth scrape against the skin of your back in an attempt to ease the pain in them. The need has never been this strong before. “Pretty omega. Gonna make me–m’fuck.”

You continue to beg and plead. He continues to fuck you like your pleasure is his life force. You feel his hold tighten. You feel his thrusts become more shallow, closer to deep, needy grinds right up against your cervix instead of a full back and forth of his hips. The feeling of his knot hitting your pussy has you dizzy.

The snarl Spencer lets out makes your skin flush with heat. It's almost feral—animalistic—the way he does it. Feeling his knot slip into you is a sensation that has your brain melting in your skull. It fills you to the brim, makes you feel so full to bursting with him. As you clamp down around his knot, you're crying out as he pulls another, bone-deep, more intense orgasm from you that makes your body shutter beneath him like a leaf barely hanging on.

When you feel his teeth sink into your shoulder, your eyes go cross and your lungs fill with air. You gush around him, calling “alphaalphaalphaalpha”. He grinds into you with everything he has, filling you with a warmth that lets the heat simmer down into something manageable.

“Good, good omega. Good girl, just like that.” The stretch of him is delicious, mind-numbing. You feel your muscles loosening, the cries in your chest calmed to something slower, steadier. Your body goes limp on the bed, relishing in the feeling of his body atop your own.

It takes a while for the air to still. Longer for your breaths to follow. Spencer's thumb is circling over the skin of your hip, a soothing touch that has your eyes drooping.

Spencer takes in a deep breath as he comes back from the haze that had filled the room. You sigh happily as you feel his tongue licking over the bites on your shoulder. Your scent surrounds him like smoke, and he's trying not to get too overwhelmed by the way your scent gland seems to beckon to him. He flexes his jaw, lays his forehead on your shoulder where his teeth have imprinted themselves. You'll be smelling of him for weeks. Anyone who gets close will take a single breath of you and know you're his. That only makes it harder not to fully claim you.

Spencer kisses you right over your scent gland. You purr, turning your head so you can peek back at him. He smiles at you, kissing your cheek with the gentlest touch. “Hi.”

You hum, reaching back to grab his hand, encouraging his fingers to wrap around you, your joined hands resting atop clothes and blankets as you both come down from your highs.

“Hi, Spencer.” Your smile widens when he kisses the corner of your mouth. “Mmm, thank you.”

He nods against your skin. You feel him wrap his arms around your body. Still connected, he turns you onto your side as he keeps you close. “Feel better?”

You nod. “Feel like I can think.” You cover his hand on your midsection with your own. “I can, like…breathe again.”

He sighs, nuzzles into you some more. “I'm sorry I wasn't back quick enough. Thought I had time.”

You turn your head as much as you can. “No, baby, it's okay. S’okay, you're here now.”

He smiles and hides his face from you in the crook of your neck. You reach a hand back to card through his hair as you giggle. He hisses in your ear at the way you tighten around him, his hips bucking once out of instinct.

“Ah, fuck,” you whisper.

“Sorry.”

“Mm-mm, s’okay.” You try not to grind your hips back. “Feels good, 'm just sensitive.” You try to breathe around the stretch of him inside you. “You know I've never been knotted before?” You shoot him a smile at his shocked look. “I have a history with betas.” Then you wink, and he's laughing into your neck.

He strokes your side with the gentlest hands. “Yeah, well, next time we tie…I will be looking at you. Wanna see your face.”

You scratch his scalp gently. He hums. “Statistically, the first tie always takes much longer so…maybe we rest and try to eat before we start again later?”

Your eyes are already closed as you hum at his suggestion. The exhaustion creeps into the corners of your eyes and tugs. “M’kay.” Spencer, soft as a pillow, smiles and kisses the back of your neck.

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He knew this was stupid, plainly a terrible idea. On any other day, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but today wasn’t any ordinary day. Today was his birthday. Fifty-five years old, and he had never felt more lost in his own life. Nothing had turned out the way he’d once imagined it would. If someone had told him, back when he was a resident, that he would still be coming home to an empty apartment at this age, no wife curled up on the couch waiting for him with a tired but loving smile, no chorus of small feet thundering toward the door, shoving drawings into his hands and saying “Look what I made for you today, daddy!” he would have laughed in their face and called it a cruel joke.

Yet here he was. No relationship had ever survived the weight of the hours and the way his mind stayed trapped in the ED long after he left it. He couldn’t be present anymore, not the way a partner deserved. The job had hollowed him out in ways he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

It had been almost a year since he ended things with Noelle, not long after he returned from his sabbatical. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do. Maybe it really was better this way. At this point in his life, trying again felt pointless, almost selfish. He was saving whatever good women were still out there from the inevitable complications of loving Michael Robinavitch.

But today the emptiness hit differently. The apartment felt quieter than usual, and his thoughts were louder, circling like a vulture. He knew it was the birthday doing this to him. Birthdays had a way of dragging the sorrows out into the light, every missed milestone, every abandoned version of the life he thought he’d have. Jack had tried to pull him out of it, offering a beer after shift, but Robby had politely declined. He wasn’t in the mood for forced cheer, for anyone raising a glass to another year of the same.

He’d made it clear to the whole department that he didn’t want any birthday cake, no cards, no presents, nothing. Still, the well-meaning murmurs had followed him all day: “Happy birthday, Dr. Robby,” each one met with a progressively wearier smile until the words blurred together. By the end of the shift, he was only managing quiet nods of acknowledgment, the kind that said thank you and please stop at the same time.

So here he was, in an apartment that was too big for himself, lying on a couch that felt even bigger, downloading Tinder on his phone. He rubbed a hand over his face, he’d tried Tinder once, maybe two years ago. Downloaded it, swiped for a week, then deleted it when the superficial nonsense started bothering him too much.

He started with the basics. Photos. Robby opened his gallery and scrolled slowly through the meager collection. Most of the images were work-related, grainy screenshots of charts, or blurry shots of trees and roads he’d taken during his bike rides. After a long hesitation, he picked a silly selfie he’d sent Jack a few weeks earlier. He was holding up the book the two of them had been texting about, half-smiling at the camera like he felt ridiculous even taking it. It wasn’t terrible, he supposed. He looked… friendly. Approachable, maybe. 

Next, he chose one from the department barbecue he’d actually forced himself to attend last summer. He was wearing the sleeves rolled up on a button-down shirt, and holding a beer in his hand. He didn’t hate it, it showed a version of himself that still showed up for people, even when he didn’t feel like it. The last one was from the hospital fundraiser gala two years ago. He looked elegant in that photo in a black suit, but he had to crop Jack out of the frame, his face was still half-visible over his shoulder. Three photos, not exactly a compelling portfolio, but they were honest, he wasn’t pretending to be anyone other than himself.

He moved on to preferences. Gender: Women. Age range… His thumb froze. At first, he set it to 50–60. Women at the same stage he was, maybe divorced, maybe widowed, or just tired of feeling alone. But then something flickered in his chest, part curiosity and part desperation, and before he could talk himself out of it, he dragged the lower end down. Twenty to sixty. The wider net felt reckless, almost embarrassing. But what if the love of his life existed somewhere in that range? What if he missed her by something as stupid as a single year on a slider?

As if the love of your life was sitting on Tinder on a Sunday night, he thought. Don’t be fucking stupid, Robby.

He stared at the screen for a long moment, and with a quiet sigh that sounded too much like surrender, he tapped confirm. Now it was time for the bio. Robby stared at the blank field for a long minute. What the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t looking for anything specific. Company? Distraction? Someone who wouldn’t mind a man who came home at crazy hours, sometimes covered in blood and whocarried more baggage than he could carry?

He typed slowly what felt the most honest: “ER doctor in Pittsburgh. Love long bike rides to clear my head and 70s rock. Not entirely sure what I’m looking for here, but if you can handle sarcasm and odd hours, we might get along.”

He read it back. It sounded stiff, after all, he wasn’t used to this. But it was him, and so he hit save before he could overthink it more. The app prompted him to start swiping. Robby leaned back against the couch as the profiles began loading, smiling faces, pictures of holiday destinations, and bios full of lists of requirements. He swiped left on most without much thought. 

Left. Left. Left. Some of the women seemed nice, but nothing pulled him in. He kept going until the endless scroll of faces started blurring together. No one stuck, just the same hollow feeling that had driven him to download the damn thing in the first place.

But then your profile appeared. Robby’s entire body froze. The photo loaded first: you, one of his own residents. You were standing in scrubs outside the Pitt with the same smirk you got after a particularly chaotic shift. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered as the heat crawled up his neck. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling right now. 

At work you were talented and dedicated, but still green enough that he rode you hard during shifts. And here you were on Tinder, of all places. The thought that you, or anyone else from the department, might stumble across his profile made his stomach twist with embarrassment. He could already imagine the gossip: Dr. Robby on Tinder. How pathetic.

He should swipe left immediately, delete his profile, and pretend this never happened. Instead, curiosity won. Robby tapped on your profile, telling himself it was just… professional concern. Making sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. He cared about his residents. Yeah, that was it.

Your bio loaded beneath the main photo: “If you like girls who will force you to watch her Letterboxd top four and then talk your ear off for hours about the hidden meaning behind her favorite songs, then I’m your girl. Emergency med resident with zero free time. Not looking for anything serious, just fun, meeting people, seeing where it goes.”

Robby let out a chuckle despite himself, the sound was unexpected in the quiet of the moment. He had only ever seen you in the chaos of the ED, running on adrenaline and too little sleep. But this version of you felt… different. He found himself thinking about how little he actually knew you. How little he’d allowed himself to know.

He didn’t know where you were from, or what your family was like, whether you had siblings who called too often or parents you tried to make proud. He didn’t know what you did outside of the hospital besides the occasional beer in the park, or what made you laugh until your sides hurt. All those small and ordinary pieces of a life that existed outside the emergency department.

It felt strangely intimate, seeing you like this. Like stumbling across a part of you he wasn’t supposed to have access to. A version of you that wasn’t filtered through the hierarchy of resident and attending. Up until now, you had been “his resident”, contained within the professional boundaries he’d carefully maintained.

He started swiping through your photos. The second picture was you laughing in what looked like a group hike, with your hair windblown and your eyes bright. You looked undeniably pretty. Objectively, he’d always known you were attractive. The kind of natural attractiveness that turned heads in the hospital corridors even when you were exhausted and covered in sweat. But once again, he’d never thought about it. You were a resident, he’d gone down that path before, and it’d ended badly. That made you off-limits, end of story.

The third photo was of you in a cozy sweater, curled up with a book and a mug of coffee. It was cute, almost sweet. The kind of image that made the loneliness in his chest ache. He kept swiping until the last photo hit him like a defibrillator. You were on a beach somewhere sunny and sandy, wearing a bikini. Your skin was glowing under the sun, and you were smiling at the camera in a confident pose, the kind of effortless beauty that could stop any man cold. Holy fuck, your body barely contained by the fabric of the bikini, the photo capturing the gentle swell and the way the light played across your body. 

Robby’s mouth went dry, the heat flooded his face and then lower down his body. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t let himself imagine you like this, outside the hospital, undeniably a woman and not just one of his residents. His pulse kicked up, the nervousness made his hands shake and his grip slippery. He fumbled the phone, trying to swipe left fast. Swipe left, damn it, he thought.

But he accidentally jerked his thumb the wrong way, to the right, and the screen lit up with that unmistakable animation. 

It’s a Match!

On the other side of Pittsburgh, you had been lying in bed, still trying to unwind after another brutal twelve-hour shift. Sleep felt miles away, so you’d given in to the guilty habit of late-night Tinder scrolling. Sure, swiping at 1 a.m. probably looked desperate to anyone else, but who cared? It wasn’t like you had much of a life outside the hospital anyway.

You swiped left with efficiency. Guy whose entire bio was just a link to his podcast. Left. Gym mirror selfies and nothing else. Left. Self-proclaimed “entrepreneur in the crypto market” with a Lamborghini in the background that probably wasn’t even his. Left.

How was it this difficult to find someone even remotely decent? You weren’t expecting to meet the love of your life in this digital dumpster, but was it really too much to ask for a man with basic social skills and a profile that didn’t scream immediate red flags? Someone whose opening line wasn’t just “u dtf?”

Guy who still clearly lived with his mom. Another left. “No feminists” in the bio, followed by a rant about “high value woman.” Left.

Then your thumb froze mid-swipe. Michael Robinavitch. Your heart slammed against your ribs. There he was, Dr. Robby, looking straight into the camera in one of the photos, that familiar half-smile you’d seen a thousand times in the ED, only now it was on a dating app.

You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly wide awake. What the hell was Dr. Robby doing on Tinder? You’d scrolled through this app for weeks and never seen him before. He must have created the profile recently. The man you’d been quietly (and not-so-quietly) thirsting over since your very first day of residency was right here. One match away. 

How could you not like Robby? He was everything you’d ever wanted in a man, strong, steady, impossibly smart, and so damn capable it made your legs weak every single time he gave you a calm and yet authoritative instruction in the middle of a trauma.

You’d lost count of how many times he’d gently reprimanded you for being distracted while charting. He always assumed you were just tired from the long hours. He had no idea that you kept getting lost in vivid daydreams about him: running your fingers through the silver-flecked hair and that coarse, greyish beard, feeling those big hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close.

You loved the way his eyes crinkled warmly behind his glasses when he smiled, the way his voice dropped into that gravelly register when he needed to command attention in the ED… it did things to you. Dangerous, addictive things. Sometimes getting in trouble with him felt more exciting than it had any right to.

His Tinder bio was unexpectedly adorable. He looked a little lost, like he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged on the app but was willing to put himself out there anyway. That bike is not the only thing I’d like to ride, you thought, as a little smile tugged at your lips.

His pictures made you melt and sigh at the same time. That warm, contagious smil, the glasses that struck the perfect balance between hot and endearingly sweet. The silver threading through his beard that made you press your thighs together at the mere thought of feeling it against your skin, between your legs, specifically. 

You swiped slowly through the rest of his photos. Those wide shoulders, that tall and solid frame, that soft belly under the button-down shirt… you wanted him in a way you had never wanted anyone before. 

It was almost pathetic the way your heart did a little skip every time he complimented your work on a tough case. The way your thighs squeezed together almost involuntarily whenever he stepped in close during a complicated procedure, guiding you step by step, his voice low and patient near your ear. “Yeah, grab the blade like that… make a two-inch incision, softly, very gently.” “Hold the tube with your left hand, tight, don’t move it.”

It made your mind wander to dangerous places. Was he like that in bed too? The kind of man who talked you through it, calm and devastatingly attentive? In your fantasies, he absolutely was. Late at night, alone in this very bed with nothing but your hand and your imagination, you could almost hear his voice murmuring against your skin: “Keep your legs open for me, nice and wide… just like that.” “Look at you… already making such a mess. I’m gonna start with one finger, okay? Think you can be good and take it for me?”

Should you swipe right? It felt like the only logical choice. If he swiped left, which seemed like the most likely outcome, he would never even know you’d swiped on him. But if he did swipe right… then maybe, just maybe, you could end up in Robby’s bed.

Your hopes stayed low. Never in a million years did you actually expect Robby to be attracted to you the way you were to him. You would’ve noticed something by now, maybe in lingering stares, subtle flirting, or any shift in the way he treated you. But he didn’t. He treated you exactly like the rest of the residents: a young doctor he needed to teach, who could sometimes be frustratingly distracted.

Still, you couldn’t contain the tiny, thrilled scream that escaped your lips when the screen lit up:

It’s a Match!

Robby had matched with you. He wanted you too.

“Shit!” Robby dropped the phone onto the couch like it had burned him. It bounced once and landed face-up, the match confirmation still glowing on the screen. He and you had just matched on Tinder. All thanks to that goddamn bikini photo and his clumsy, nervous fingers.

He stared at it, feeling his heart hammering harder than it had during the worst trauma cases. This was mortifying. You’d seen his profile, you’d swiped right, and now you were going to see that he’d swiped right as well. Part of him, the tired and lonely part that had downloaded the app and widened the age range, wondered what you’d think. 

A dozen what-ifs tumbled through his mind. What if you saw his profile and laughed? That disbelieving laugh when something genuinely surprised you. What if you messaged him first? Maybe it had been a mistake on your end too. Maybe your phone had slipped, or you’d been swiping too fast after a long shift, half-asleep and a little buzzed. Or maybe… maybe you’d swiped right on purpose, just to tease him. He could already picture the text popping up on his phone: “Oh my god, Dr. Robby. What are you doing on Tinder? lol.”

Robby ran both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. He picked the phone back up, looking straight at the Send message button. He shouldn’t. The responsible thing would be to delete the app, pretend this night never happened, and go back to being your attending, not your Tinder match. 

Instead, he opened your profile again. Robby tried to move past it, he really did, but his eyes lingered on that last photo far longer than they should have. You in a bikini, your skin glowing under warm sunlight. He couldn’t believe that was what you looked like underneath the baggy scrubs you wore every day in the ED.

It felt wrong. Like he wasn’t allowed to see you like this, like he was intruding on something deeply private, crossing a line that should never even be approached between an attending and his resident. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but it wasn’t enough to make him look away.

His body reacted anyway, a sudden heat stirring unwanted, a throb of arousal he hadn’t felt this sharply in longer than he cared to admit. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, hating himself for it even as the reaction deepened. What the hell is wrong with you, Robby? he told himself, but the self-reproach did nothing to dull the pull. What could he do? You were a woman. A beautiful one, and for the first time, he was seeing you not just as his resident, but as someone undeniably, breathtakingly desirable.

Before he could delete his account and go to bed as he should, your message popped up.

You: hii :)

Robby’s breath hitched in his throat. For a split second, he swore his heart actually stopped. Then it slammed back into rhythm, pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears, in his temples, in the tightness of his chest. The little smiley face stared back at him from the screen, innocent and cheerful, as if it hadn’t just flipped his entire night upside down.

You had matched with him. At eleven at night. On his lonely fucking birthday. What the hell was he supposed to say to you at 11 pm. after accidentally matching with her on Tinder? “Hey, funny seeing you” here felt pathetic. “This is wildly inappropriate” felt like a lie because the rush of heat still lingering in his veins said otherwise.

He set the phone down on the coffee table for a moment, dragging a hand over his face for the millionth time. Part of him wanted to delete the match immediately, pretend it never happened, and go to bed like the responsible, professional attending he was supposed to be. But another part, the part that had been sitting alone on his fifty-fifth birthday, couldn’t bring itself to swipe left on this one unexpected connection. So he picked the phone back up and stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.

Another message came through a minute later.

You: robby? it’s me from work... guess you saw my profile too haha

Robby let out a long breath, he couldn’t avoid it now that you’d initiated a conversation with him. It was better to be direct, explain the mistake to you, and shut this down before it got any more awkward.

Robby: hey yeah, I saw it listen, this is embarrassing as hell, i was messing around with the app, dropped my phone and it must have swiped right by accident sorry about that, didn’t mean to make things weird

He hit send and immediately regretted how cold it sounded, but it was the truth. The phone stayed quiet for a moment that stretched too long. He had his eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for your reply so he could shut down this awkward conversation and delete this stupid app before he accidentally matched with anyone else from work. 

You: oh. so it was a mistake? damn, i thought you had swiped right on purpose. bummer.

Robby’s eyes widened. You were being direct, not beating around the bush or deflecting by saying it had been a mistake on your end as well. He could practically hear your voice saying it with a teasing edge.

Robby: Sorry about the confusion  i know it might be awkward finding me on here. probably the last person you expected, i don’t usually do this. 

You: honestly it was surprising. didn’t peg you as the tinder type at all.  but hey, we all have our moments i guess

Robby: i’m not the type this is my second time ever downloading it and i already regret it, should probably delete the whole thing before i make an even bigger fool of myself.

You: yeah i get it. i thought the match was mutual so i figured i’d say hi. sorry for texting if it was just an accident. didn’t mean to make it weirder

Robby read your message twice. Thought the match was mutual. The words echoed in his brain. You had swiped right on purpose, not as a joke, not out of morbid curiosity about your boss’s sad dating life. You had chosen him willingly. The realization of what that meant sent a confusing rush through him. You liked him, that had to be it. The thought of you… having a crush on him made a warm feeling run through his body, one he immediately tried to shove down.

Robby: What do you mean you thought it was mutual?

You: idk... i saw the notification and figured you wanted to match with me since it happened. that’s why i said hi right away. didn’t want to leave it hanging if we were both curious

He stared at the screen, his heart beating a little harder. You were so honest and blunt about your feelings, he found himself almost intimidated by it. Some rational part of his brain was trying to tell him this had to be a big joke, there was no way in hell you could like him. You were… you. What would you see in a man like him?

Robby: you wanted us to match? seriously?

You: lol yeah i did swipe right, didn’t i? your profile was actually really nice. the book pic is cute and the 70s rock mention made me smile. plus... i don’t know,  you’re interesting. figured why not. no pressure though

Robby: i thought maybe you did it out of curiosity or just to see if I’d swiped on you didn’t expect you to actually want that

You: well i did. but if it was an accident on your end then no big deal. we can pretend this never happened and go back to normal tomorrow. i won’t mention it at work or anything. promise

Robby let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes for a long moment as he exhaled heavily. He knew exactly what the responsible Chief of Emergency Medicine should do right now: unmatch immediately, delete his profile, and pretend the entire night had been nothing more than a lonely fever dream.

But tonight… tonight he didn’t want to be responsible. He didn’t want to be Dr. Robinavitch, the attending who had sacrificed nearly every personal connection, every version of a fuller life, on the altar of the ED. For once, he wanted to be Michael. Just Michael. The man who had matched with you on Tinder. The man who was currently staring at his phone with his heart hammering like he was twenty years younger.

Before he could piece together a polite but firm way to end the conversation and retreat back into the safety of professional distance, another message appeared.

You: i think your profile’s part of the reason i swiped right. the book pic’s really nice

He smiled faintly at that, a rare genuine twitch at the corner of his mouth. Robby leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.

Robby: your profile’s pretty good too, better than most of the ones i’ve seen tonight

You: aww thanks. your’s so much better than the usual bullshit on here which is not that hard to be but still finding you here is a nice change :)

Robby: you on this app a lot? seems like you’ve got the profile down

You: not really. i’ve been on a couple dates from here but it’s honestly exhausting. hard to find someone decent in this city. most guys are either looking for hookups with zero conversation or they’re boring as hell. you know how it is

Robby: fair enough. your age range must be set pretty high if it pulled me up fifty five isn’t exactly the usual crowd for you or is it?

You: haha yeah well  i like older men

Those four stupid words hit him square in the chest like a defibrillator. “I like older men.” Robby reread them slowly, feeling a dangerous warmth bloom low in his belly and spread outward through his chest. He was an older man, and apparently, that fit exactly into your preferences. Was that flirtation? Were you subtly implying that he was the kind of older man you liked? Or was it just a casual, throwaway comment, something you’d say to any guy on the app who happened to have a few gray hairs?

No. He was spiraling too deep, overthinking it the way he always did. Your words didn’t carry some hidden, special meaning meant just for him. They couldn’t. And yet… No matter how hard he tried to talk himself down, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of validation that lit up inside him. He felt desired, really desired. Not just by anyone, but by you: someone younger, and so strikingly pretty it almost hurt to look at your photos for too long. Someone who, in his mind, was clearly way out of his league.

Robby: It’s okay to have preferences  everyone does.

You: yeah exactly. i just find older guys more attractive than the ones my age. they’re usually more mature, know what they want, have actual life experience. it’s... hotter, i guess. plus the conversations are better

He swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He could practically see your face as you typed those words, maybe biting your lower lip in that teasing way you sometimes did right after nailing a difficult procedure.

Then the bikini photo from earlier flashed unbidden through his mind, and the heat in his body flared hotter. He pictured you exactly as you’d looked in that shot: sun-warmed skin, curves barely contained by the fabric. The thoughts he had no right to entertain came rushing in anyway, pulling him deeper. Thoughts of having you all to himself, of finally being able to run his hands slowly over every inch of that bare skin, tracing the line of your waist, sliding up your ribs, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. Of putting his mouth on you and every sensitive spot until you were trembling beneath him.

Robby: makes sense i usually go for women closer to my stage of life we have more in common that way

You: do age gaps bother you?

Robby: in what way?

You: like as a concept. are they a problem for you?

Robby: i’m okay with consenting adults doing what they want as long as everyone’s on the same page it’s not my business.

You: have you ever been in an age gap relationship or anything like that?

Robby: i once dated a woman a bit younger than me but usually around my age

He paused before sending the next part, he shouldn’t keep engaging in this deeply unprofessional conversation, but curiosity was getting the better of him. And you were simply so easy to talk to that he couldn’t stop himself from letting his walls down a little.

He typed before he could second-guess himself.

Robby: how much older are we talking anyway? the men you usually like i mean.

Your reply came fast, like you’d been waiting with the phone in hand.

You: usually over fifty up until their sixties or so. around that range. but it’s just a preference, nothing crazy. i feel like older men usually treat you better. they’re more gentlemanly, know how to actually listen, and they tend to understand what a woman wants... in every way, if you know what i mean ;)

Robby read the message twice. Three times. Four. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck me. You weren’t just being polite or making casual conversation. That winky face, the implication hanging there about “every way”. You were deliberately flirting with him, there was no other way to see it. He shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of his own body and the fact that it had been a long damn time since anyone had spoken to him like that.

He took a slow breath and replied, trying to keep some semblance of control.

Robby: do you date men closer to your own age too?  or is it mostly the older crowd?

You: i have tried guys closer to my age. some of them are sweet but a lot are still figuring their shit out. you should try dating a woman younger than you sometime though. maybe it’s exactly what you need.

Robby didn’t know what to say. The words hung there, full of possibilities around them. He was still wrestling with a response when another message from you popped up.

You: anyway sorry again for the confusion earlier. i’ll leave you alone so you can keep scrolling through profiles. i’ll go back to robbing the graves haha (joke, get it? because i like older guys... sorry that was sooo bad)

Robby chuckled despite the whirlwind in his head. The joke was cheesy, so perfectly you that it cut through some of the tension. But it also gave him an out, you were offering to back off and let this weird moment fade into nothing before tomorrow’s shift made everything awkward as hell. Part of him wanted to take the exit ramp, wish you a good night, unmatch, delete the app, and pretend none of this happened. But another part, the one that had been sitting alone on his birthday didn’t want the conversation to end.

He tapped over to your photos again, almost against his will. There it was the last one. You on the beach in that bikini, with the perfect swell of your tits catching the sunlight. Holy fuck. He wanted you, the realization hit him all of a sudden, making him switch back to the chat and move his thumbs almost on autopilot.

Robby: Nothing to apologize for honestly you’ve kept me better company tonight than I expected

You: see? younger women can be good company too :) you shouldn’t close the door so fast. you could meet someone nice if you give it a chance

Robby: you shouldn’t close the door on guys your own age either there are decent ones out there, you’ll find someone who can keep up with you

You: out of all the guys i’ve matched with here... you’re easily the best one. no contest

Robby: Really? that can’t be right  you’re selling yourself short.

You: no i mean it. you’re exactly the kind of man i’d usually go for. tall, older, smart... and hot

The word hot hit him harder than it had any right to. His face flushed deeper, his clothes felt constricting, his pants uncomfortably tight. Robby’s cock was already half-hard, thickening and pulsing insistently against the zipper of his jeans with every new message.

All because you’d called him hot. Just a little cheeky, playful comment, and it was enough to unravel him. The touch starvation wasn’t helping. It had been so damn long since anyone had looked at him with real interest, longer still since he’d felt this fluttering feeling low in his stomach. This rush of ego, this sharp need to be close to someone, to be wanted, to touch and be touched.

Robby: thanks i guess you’ll meet someone worth your time, you’re a good girl 

The message was sent before he could fully reconsider the wording. The second it went through, Robby winced. It sounded weirdly sexually charged, maybe it was because he was feeling sexually charged, painfully so. A Freudian slip at its finest.

You: good girl? 😏

Robby: shit i didn’t mean it to sound weird just a figure of speech i suppose.

You: should i call you daddy then? ;)

Robby nearly dropped the phone again. The winky face, the bold suggestion, the way it played so perfectly into the tension that had been building sent a bolt of pure want through him. He could imagine your voice saying it, teasingly so, with that mischievous glint in your eyes. His mind supplied far too many vivid images: you in nothing but your skin looking up at him, you saying it in person with a flirty smile. He was fully hard. Actually hard, just from a fucking text conversation.

The professional alarm bells were clanging loudly in the back of his head. This was his resident, the age gap, the power dynamic, the fact that you’d have to face each other at the Pitt in a few short hours... it was all wrong. But god, it felt good. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

He glanced down at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, his cock straining against the fabric like a flagpole. He couldn’t believe it. One flirty text from his resident and he was rock hard. Don’t get hard for your fucking resident, he thought. She’s one of your own. Off-limits. This is insane. He adjusted himself uncomfortably, trying to will it down through stubbornness, but the ache only sharpened.

You: too much? sorry i was just messing around lol

Robby exhaled and typed back, trying to sound more composed than he felt.

Robby: Don’t worry about it i know it was a joke, no harm done

You: it was... unless you don’t want it to be a joke 

He let out a surprised laugh, his cock twitched again at the follow-up, you were relentless, and something told him you were noewhere near done.

Robby: you’re funny, i’ll give you that.

You: that’s what i’ve been told. glad you’re having fun with me tonight

Robby: Well, I guess I should let you get some sleep early shift tomorrow and all

You: i don’t mind staying up. i swiped right on you, remember? yk for a minute i really thought you were gonna flirt with me or maybe even ask me to come over to your place or something

The words hung there. You had been excited, you had hoped he would flirt. The image flashed through his mind, you showing up at his door in the middle of the night, stepping inside and… He shifted again, pressing his hand down against his insistent erection through his sweatpants, trying to get some relief even as guilt gnawed at him. This was crossing so many lines he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross after Heather. But the loneliness that had driven him to download the app in the first place was quieter now, replaced by an electric tension.

Robby: that would be very inappropriate i’m your boss and there are lines we can’t cross

You: but you’re not dr. robby my attending in here. you’re michael robinavitch, 55, the guy who loves 70s rock and long bike rides. and i’m not your resident in this chat. i’m just a girl who likes movies and older men... and who is really, really into you right now

You were separating the roles so cleanly, drawing a line between the hospital and this private space. It was tempting, dangerously tempting. 

Robby: you know it doesn’t work like that we can’t just turn it off when the shift starts tomorrow

You: nah i’m pretty sure i can

Robby: No.

You: If we really can’t meet then we can do it over text, you know.

He stared at the screen trying to guess if you really meant what you were saying. 

Robby: what do you mean?

You: sexting, duh

He let out a short breath, Jesus fuck you were actually gonna kill him tonight.

Robby: that’s basically the same thing.

You: no it’s not. technically we’re not doing anything if it’s just messages. no one has to know.

Robby rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mind was screaming at him to shut this down, but his fingers were already moving. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering to do this.

This was a terrible idea. What difference did it really make whether it was real sex, his hands on you, feeling your heat around him, or just describing it in detail over text messages? A line was still a line. One he had promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. He didn’t want this to end with you giving up your residency, transferring to another hospital, another city, once things inevitably fell apart.

But fuck, his cock was achingly hard, straining against the front of his pants like a caged animal that desperately needed to be freed. The thought of you right now, maybe lying in your bed in, pressing your thighs together, that sweet slick already soaking through your panties because of him… it made it impossible to think straight. He couldn’t leave you like that, so wet, so needy, aching for him.

Robby: what do you want me to say?

You: i don’t know… just say something hot. you’re goot at being hot  

He hesitated, he wasn’t sure of what to say. He was scared of seeming naive and old school to you, but he wasn’t used to this whole… sexting thing. The most spicy exchange over texts had been insinuating pictures before asking someone to come over. Okay think Robby, if you can save someone’s life under extreme preassure then you can sext with a woman, just say something typical, he thought

Robby: who’s been a naughty girl?

The second he hit send he regretted it. He winced, already typing another message to backtrack when your reply came through.

You: lmao that was the best you’ve got?

Robby groaned out loud, dropping his head back against the couch. 

Robby: forget it. i’m going to bed

You: nooo wait. let’s try again :(

He should’ve put the phone down. He really should’ve. Instead he waited to see if you had anything else to say.

You: you’re so good at giving orders and guiding me at work. maybe you could do that now too? tell me what to do

You were right, in theory. He was good at instructing, guiding, teaching. It came naturally to him to step into that mentoring role, he had always been the one others looked to for direction.

Robby: i  feel stupid doing this.

You: pleeeease. i’ve always thought you were the kind of guy who talks people through it in bed. it’s the same here, just write it instead of saying it. tell me how you want me to touch myself

Your words hit him hard. He reread the message twice. He had never consciously thought about it before, but yes… that did sound exactly like him. Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden: the commanding tone he’d used with past partners, the way he’d instructed them. “Open your legs for me.” “Turn around.” “Look at me.” He remembered the way their breathing would change, the way they’d tremble under the weight of his voice and his hands.

Robby: you really want me to talk you through it, sweetheart?

You: yessss that was so much better. keep going

If anyone had asked you how it happened, you honestly wouldn’t have been able to explain it. You weren’t even sure yourself. One moment you were typing a slightly embarrassed apology to Robby for matching with him and the next, the conversation had taken a turn and you were the one demanding he sext you so you could get off. It was bold, stupidly reckless, and yet it felt inevitable.

Robby: good girl that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, i want you to get those pretty legs spread nice and wide for me, can you do that?

You whimpered softly and obeyed him instantly, letting your knees fall farther apart on the mattress. The cool air hit your exposed pussy making you shiver. 

You: yes. they’re open

Robby: Perfect i’d be on my knees between them right now if I could run your fingers up the inside of your thighs for me slowly, feel how soft they are

As you trailed your free hand up one thigh, you imagined his callused palms and the scratch of his greying beard following the same path.

You: doing it… feels so good thinking about your hands instead.

Robby: that’s my girl  now slide two fingers through your pussy and ell me how wet you are for me

You did exactly as he says, gasping as two fingers glided easily through your slick heat. You were soaked, embarrassingly so, the wet sounds filling the quiet bedroom as you stroked yourself.

You: So wet… i’m dripping. all because of you.

Robby: fuck i knew you would be i want you to circle your clit for me now Do it slowly and imagine it’s my tongue instead, licking you just the way you need i’d take my time, taste every inch of you

Your mons got louder, tipping your head back against the pillows as your fingers obeyed, traxing circles around your clit that sent sparks up your spine. In your mind, it was Robby’s mouth devouring you while his strong hands pinned your thighs down.

Robby: how does that feel, sweetheart? tell me

You: so good, i’m so sensitive. keep talking please

Robby: Good now slide one finger inside that tight pussy, nice and deep curl it up just like I would, searching for that spot that makes your legs shake i’d be watching your face the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look spread open for me, how good you are for listening

When you pushed a finger inside yourself, you curled it upward as instructed to hit that sensitive spot while your other hand kept working your clit in circles. 

Robby: add another finger and stretch yourself open i’d be so much thicker than your fingers, but we’ll start like this imagine me pumping them in and out while i rub your clit

Adding a second finger, you continued fucking yourself to the rhythm of his words on the screen. It was not enough, it was nowhere near enough to calm the hunger and desperation that was threatening to consume your whole being. You knew nothing would be enough, only feeling him inside of you.

You: wish it was you inside me. can’t get off like this. i need you robby please

Robby: you were the one who told me to do this 

You: i know i did. but it’s not enough send me your address

He was tempted, so tempted that for one second his fingers almost started typing on an impulse. But the reality crashed back in immediately. The risks, the morning after, the way he’d have to look at you during rounds, knowing what you’d done. He was rock hard and aching for you, but the responsible part of him still refused to crumble completely.

Robby: what for?  you’re not seriously thinking about coming over right now, are you?

You: robby i’m literally only like 2 miles away from you. are you dtf? not as dr. robinavitch and his resident, but as two adults who casually matched on tinder tonight. there’s no title or hospital here. it’s just us.

Two miles. You were so close. He stared at your message, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. His cock gave another insistent throb, the head already leaking a little against his underwear. The thought of you actually coming over, right now, in the middle of the night, made his mouth go dry.

Robby: Send me your address and I’ll order you a ride. 

You sent your address a moment later. It really was only two miles away. He confirmed the ride, watching the estimated arrival time tick down. Fifteen minutes… only fifteen minutes until you’d be at his door.

You: this is exactly what i meant earlier about older guys. so much more gentlemanly. taking care of the details instead of just telling me to get there

You had no time to get ready, and honestly, you didn’t care. Makeup? Hair? None of that mattered when you were this desperate, this aching for him. You climbed out of bed still wearing the thin tank top and soft sleep shorts you’d worn to bed, and threw an oversized jacket over everything, one that swallowed most of your body and made you look far more put-together than you actually felt.

Your hands were shaking as you grabbed your keys and phone. The rideshare arrived sooner than you expected. The drive across the city felt both endless and far too short, but eventually the car pulled up outside his building.

You stood on the sidewalk for a second, staring up at the apartment complex, suddenly hit with the full weight of what you were doing, showing up at your attending’s door in the middle of the night, soaked and trembling with need, because a stupid Tinder match had spiraled completely out of control.

But you didn’t hesitate for long, you took a deep breath, pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, walked toward his door and knocked on it.

Robby opened it right away. He didn’t say a word, the second you were in reach, you had one of his strong hands cupping the back of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss. It was electric to say the least. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His beard was scraping deliciously against your skin as he moved his lips with experienced urgency. You melt into it instantly, fisting your hands in his shirt, tasting the pure, overwhelming taste of him. Finally. Here he was, kissing you like he’d been starving for it just as much as you had.

He kicked the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his taller frame. You felt the warmth of his hands roaming everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, squeezing the curve of your ass through the fabric of your shorts. In your mouth, he groaned, making a vibrating sound that went through you as he explored every inch he could reach, like he was memorizing the feel of you. 

Your breasts were the next to get his attention, he was cupping them with his big hands through your tank top, brushing his thumb over your already hard nipple, while he tangles his other hand in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

You pulled back just enough to gasp against his lips, “It took you long enough.”

Robby chuckled, the sound coming out breathless. “Took you long enough. You have any idea what it’s like waiting twenty minutes for you with a hard-on?” He pressed you closer, letting you feel the thick and insistent bulge against your stomach. 

As if they had a mind of their own, his hands couldn’t stop moving, squeezing, caressing, claiming, running down your back, over your thighs, everywhere he’d fantasized about touching. Before you could respond, he bent slightly and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively. 

The strength in his arms, the way his broad chest felt against you, sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs. He carried you through the house with purposeful strides. The door to your room swung open and he layed you gently on the bed, climbing on top of you immediately until his full weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress. 

The kissing resumed instantly, slower now but no less intense. Robby’s mouth was moving from your lips to your neck, sucking lightly and scratching you with his beard in the most perfect way. Now his hands got bolder, continuing their exploration but this time sliding under your tank top, pressing his palms against your bare skin. He lifted the fabric higher, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room.

“Fuck,” Robby groaned, and maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, but you could see his soft brown eyes turning darker as he stared down at you. “Look at you. These tits… so perfect. So fucking pretty.” His voice was rough with want, the same commanding tone. He cupped them reverently, as if they were something precious, circling your nipples until they pebbled tighter under his touch. “They’re made for my hands. For my mouth.”

He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. The wet touch of his tongue made you arch into him with a moan, threading your fingers through his hair as he kept lavishing attention on your breasts. 

From one side to the other, Robby switched sides, licking and sucking the other while his hand massaged the first, rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual sensation, the tingly heat of his mouth and the firm squeeze of his callused hand, had you writhing beneath him, making you so wet you were soaking through your shorts.

The humming of his mouth against your skin sends sparks straight to your core. “So responsive,” he murmured, switching back to the first breast and sucking it harder than before. “These tits are going to ruin me. I could spend hours right here.” Sliding his free hand down your side, Robby gripped your hip possessively, continuing with the worshipping of your chest, licking broad stripes, sucking marks into the soft flesh, massaging and kneading until he had you panting and grinding up against the hard line of his cock through his pants.

The age difference between you only heightened everything, his experience was showing in every skilled touch, in every perfect flick of his tongue. He was being patient but hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long. You could feel how hard he was, he was making you feel it, pressing insistently against your thigh. The knowledge that you did this to him made you even wetter.

Robby lifts his head briefly to lock his eyes on yours. His lips were swollen and his beard slightly damp with his saliva. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, but his hands never stopped, squeezing and caressing, teasing your sensitive nipples with his thumbs as he waited for your answer.

You shook your head, pulling him back down. You’d rather die than stop right now. “Don’t stop. Please.”

His mouth trailed a hot path down your sternum, over your stomach, scraping you teasinglywith his beard against your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands followed strong, sliding down your sides and gripping your hips as he settled between your spread thighs. The weight of him, the sheer size and presence of this man, made your core clench with anticipation.

“These shorts have been teasing me since you walked in,” he murmured with the same steady tone he used in the pitt, but now turned intimate and commanding. Robby hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly peeled them down your legs, taking his time as he revealed more of you. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart. Good girl.”

You obeyed instantly, lifting your hips so he could slide the fabric off completely, leaving you in just your thin panties and the tank top. Robby smoothed his hands up your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle but firm pressure. “Keep your legs open like that,” he instructed you. “Nice and wide for me. Don’t close them unless I tell you to.”

You were already moaning softly, and he wasn’t even touching your core yet. Robby dropped his eyes to the damp spot on your panties, making the fabric cling to your pussy lips, and he let out a groan of desire and hunger. He cupped you over the fabric with one hand, pressing his palm firmly against your heated pussy while his thumb found your clit through the material and began rubbing slow circles.

“Oh god,” you moaned, twitching up your hips into his touch, seeking more of the contact. The friction was simply perfect, it was teasing, and it kept building higher and higher. Robby’s callused thumb was applying just the right pressure on your swollen nub. 

He watched your face intently through his hooded and lustful eyes as he worked you higher. “Feel good?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady even as his own breathing grew heavier. “You’re so wet already. Soaking through these panties for me. That’s it… rock against my hand, sweetheart. Show me how much you need this.”

Your moans only grew louder and more unrestrained, as he kept rubbing your clit with precision. The fabric added a delicious layer of friction, and every circle sent sparks shooting up your body. He got you gripping the sheets, your thighs already trembling as you fought the urge to close them around his hand.

Robby leaned down to kiss the inside of one thigh, scratching your skin deliciously. “You want my mouth? Want me to taste this pretty pussy? You gonna wrap these gorgeous legs around my neck while I do it?”

“Yes,” you gasped, nodding frantically. “Please, Robby. I need it.”

He hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down slowly, revealing your glistening, bare pussy to his hungry gaze. “Fuck… look at you. So wet and perfect.” He kissed along your inner thighs, taking his time, brushing his lips and beard against the sensitive skin as he worked his way closer. “Wrap them around me, sweetheart. Lock your ankles behind my head if you need to. I want to feel you holding me right where I belong.”

You did exactly as he said, wrapping your legs around his broad shoulders and pressing your heels into his upper back. The position left you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed. Robby groaned, the sound vibrating against your core as he finally leaned in.

The first lick of his tongue was broad and slow, dragging from your entrance up to your puffy clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and it made you cry out loudly, threading your fingers into his greying hair as he began to devour you with the same intensity he brought to every procedure at work. He licked and sucked with precision, alternating between long and flat strokes to tight and quick circles around your clit. 

His beard was scratching your inner thighs and outer lips in the most delicious way, adding a kind of texture that made your toes curl. “Robby… Oh fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, rolling your hips against his mouth. 

He hummed in response, pulling back with his lips glistening with your arousal just so he could speak to you. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart. I want to hear it.”

“So good… your tongue—oh god, your mouth, Robby. It’s driving me crazy. Don’t stop, please.”

“You’re being so good for me,” he praised, diving back in to suck your clit into his mouth, flicking it rapidly while applying suction with his lips. 

Before you could register it, he teased your entrance with two thick fingers, slowly sliding them inside you, letting your own greedy hole swallow them. Once he curled them upward to find that perfect spot, the sensation had you moaning loudly and arching off the bed. 

Robby pumped his fingers steadily, matching the rhythm of his tongue with his digits. A few moments later, he stopped again briefly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes and shiny lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Spread open for me, taking my fingers so well. This pussy is perfect, made for me. Keep moaning for me. Let me hear how much you love my mouth on you.”

You obeyed, your moans spilling freely as he returned to his task with renewed hunger. The pleasure built fast and faster, making your thighs tremble around his head and your feet dig into his back as you held him exactly where you needed him. Robby gripped your hip with his free hand, holding you steadily while he worked you closer and closer to the edge with expert skill. Every command, every praise, every flick of his tongue pushed you higher. 

Robby didn’t relent, he kept his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking with rhythmic pressure, devouring you like a man starved. “Robby—oh fuck, yes!” The pleasure was overwhelming, every single nerve ending in your body was alight as he worked you higher. 

“Keep those legs open for me, sweetheart,” he growled against your clit. “Don’t you dare close them. I want to feel you squeezing around my fingers while I eat this pretty pussy.” He added a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, the burn blending perfectly with the pleasure. “That’s it… take three for me. Feel how full you are? You’re doing so well. Such a good girl taking everything I give you.”

The wet sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping pussy and his mouth sucking hungrily on your clit filled the air. You were soaking his beard, his chin, his wrist, but he didn’t care. Robby slid a hand under you, grabbing a firm handful of your ass and lifting your hips slightly off the bed. The new angle let him bury his face even deeper, working your clit with more precision while he fingerfucked you harder. “Just like that,” he praised you between licks. “Grind on my tongue, baby. Use my mouth. Show me how bad you need to come.”

You obeyed helplessly once again, rolling your hips and bucking them against him as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The pleasure built in powerful waves until your thighs started to shake violently around his head. Robby kept talking you through it, pushing you closer to the edge.

“You’re getting so close, aren’t you? I can feel this tight pussy clenching around my fingers. Come on, let go. Cum all over my tongue. I want to taste it. I want to feel you fall apart for me.”

The orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity, making your back bow off the bed, a loud and broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy spasmed hard around his digits. Your thighs were squeezing his head tightly, your heels digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. Robby didn’t stop though, he kept sucking your clit through the peak, curling and thrusting his fingers to draw out every last shudder.

You came harder than you ever had. So hard that your vision went white for a moment as the pleasure bordered on overwhelming. Your moans turned into whimpers as the orgasm slowly ebbed, leaving you limp and gasping on the bed.

Robby finally eased back, gently lowering your hips and kissing softly along your inner thighs. He looked up at you with dark and satisfied eyes. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So beautiful when you cum for me.”

You lay there panting, your thighs were still twitching, completely wrecked and already aching for more of him. Robby climbed back up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. He was so close that his hard cock was pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants. 

“That was… amazing,” you whisper with your voice hoarse from moaning. “So much better than I ever imagined.”

Robby chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine against your neck as he pressed a kiss there. “Yeah? Better than your hand?” His eyes were sparkling with lust. 

You laughed breathlessly, nodding. “So much better. Your mouth… God, Robby. I’ve never felt anything like that.”

He hummed in satisfaction, grinding his still-clothed erection slowly against your bare, sensitive pussy. The thick ridge of his cock was being pressed perfectly against your clit, giving him some much needed relief while teasing you both. “I loved doing that for you,” he murmured. “You were so good for me, sweetheart. So responsive, so wet. The way you moaned my name and squeezed my head with those pretty thighs… fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”

Robby rolled his hips deliberately, the friction making you whimper and arch up into him. You could feel how achingly hard he was and how much he’d been holding back. You slid up your hands down his chest, feeling the soft flesh beneath his shirt.

“I want you,” you breathed, looking up at him with need. “Please, Robby.”

He stilled for a moment, as if to pulling himself together. “Tell me what you want. Be specific.”

You bit your lip, feeling the warmth invade your cheeks. “Your cock. I want you to fuck me. I need you inside me.”

Robby let out a groan, sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing out the anticipation. You sit up slightly, eager to help, moving your fingers to tug his pants down along with his underwear.

“I’ve been dying to see you,” you confessed as you pulled his pants down his hips. He caught your wrists before you could push his boxers down.

Robby looked almost nervous, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Wait… I, uh—” He cleared his throat, flicking his eyes away for a second. “I haven’t trimmed down there in a while. This whole night was… unexpected. I would’ve cleaned up if I’d known we were gonna end up here.”

He said it like it was something to be embarrassed about. Like it might actually make you want him less. It made you soft, you cupped his jaw, turning his face back to yours.

“Robby. Do you honestly think I give a damn about that? It’s just hair.”

He let out a self-conscious breath, still looking a little defensive. “I know. I know it’s just hair. It’s just… it’s probably a fucking jungle down there right now. You don’t have to— I mean, you don’t have to do anything if it’s too much.”

The way he was trying to give you an out was almost painfully endearing. You shook your head. “Just let me see you,” you whispered.

You slid his boxers down his thighs and freed his cock, it sprang out, thick and hard, the head flushed in a dark red with arousal. It was beautiful, so long, girthy, with a slight upward curve, prominent veins running along the shaft. Exactly like he’d warned, there was a thick, dark mat of coarse hair at the base, dense and untrimmed. He looked completely natural, it was so him, deeply masculine and unpolished.

A fresh rush of wetness slipped down your inner thighs. Your fingers twitched with the need to touch him there.

You looked up at him through your lashes “I love it,” you slowly carded your fingers through the thick hair at the base of his member. “You look so fucking hot like this. I like every single inch of you.”

Robby’s whole body shivered under your touch. “God…” he rasped as he stared down at you. “You’re gonna kill me tonight.”

Almost with instinct, you wrapped your hand around it, stroking the shaft slowly from base to tip, feeling the heat and weight of his member.

Robby hissed in pleasure, twitching his hips forward into your grip as he watched your hand move up and down his cock. “Fuck, your hand feels good,” he groaned, letting you stroke him for a while, savoring the sight of your smaller hand working his thick length, making a bead of precum leak from the tip.

After a few moments, he gently stopped you, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. “Lay back down for me, sweetheart. Keep those legs open nice and wide. Just like before.”

You obeyed, lying back against the pillows and spreading your thighs for him. Robby reached over toward the nightstand, stretching one arm past you as he pulled open the top drawer. He rummaged through it for a few seconds, before his hand closed around what he was looking for.

A moment later he sat back, a condom held between his fingers. He held it up, searching for your eyes with his. “I’ve got this if you want me to wear it.”

You shook your head, reaching up to touch his arm. “No. I want you bare. I’m on the pill.”

You both knew it might not have been the smartest option, doing it raw, with nothing between you. But there was a deep, unspoken trust between the two of you, forged through long shifts, that made you feel safe. And in that moment, that trust felt solid enough to lean on.

The hunger that had taken over both of you made anything else almost unbearable. The need to feel each other completely bare, skin on skin, heat on heat, with nothing separating you, was overwhelming.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” He tossed the condom aside, leaning down to kiss you deeply again. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want to feel all of you.”

He groaned, positioning himself between your legs and nudging the thick head of his cock against your slick entrance. The anticipation felt electric, this was the culmination of over a year of longing, of hours of texts, and now all that was left was this desperate connection. Robby gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he looked down at you with hunger.

The night is only beginning, and the way he’s looking at you promises he’s going to take his time ruining you in the best possible way.

As his cockhead was being rubbed up and down your folds, teasing your clit with every pass, coating itself with your juices, the sensation felt maddening, promising everything you’d fantasized about for so long. You whimpered, twitching your hips up instinctively to chase more contact.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Robby commanded you softly, the same authoritative tone that had guided you through countless procedures was now guiding you through this. He cupped your chin gently, tilting your face so your gazes locked. “Keep looking at me the whole time. I want to see you while I fuck you.”

You nodded shakily, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Robby continued rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness, drawing out the anticipation until you were squirming beneath him.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “So wet for me already. This pussy is going to take me so well. Breathe for me, relax and let me in.” He pressed forward slowly, breaching your entrance with only the tip. The stretch was immediate and intense, opening you up inch by inch as he sank deeper. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, but you forced your eyes open, locking them on his as he watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face.

“Easy, baby,” he cooed, stroking your thigh soothingly while the other braced beside your head. “You’re doing so good. Feel how you’re stretching around me? So tight and warm… fuck, you feel incredible.”

You moaned loudly as he continued sliding in, the deliberate thrust filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt, until his hips were flushed against yours. The fullness was overwhelming, his thick cock stretching your walls like nobody had stretched you before, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.

Robby stayed still for a moment buried deep, resting his forehead against yours as he looked straight into your eyes. “There you go. All the way in. You took every inch.” He started to thrust with deep rolls of his hips that drag his cock along your walls with exquisite friction. “Wrap your legs around me. Hold me close while I fuck you.”

You did as he said, locking your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his lower back. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and you cried out in pleasure, digging your nails into his shoulders. Robby kept talking you through it, just like he knew you liked.

“That’s my girl. Feel that? I’m hitting that spot inside you, huh?” He angled his hips slightly, grinding deep on every stroke. Robby slid one hand up to cup and squeeze your breast, rolling your nipple as he thrusted harder.

Robby moved his hand from your breast to cup your chin. His grip was gentle enough not to hurt, yet firm enough that you felt every one of his fingers pressing against the bones of your jaw. “Look at me. Don’t look away. I want to see how good my cock feels inside this tight pussy.” He tilted your face up and held it there, leaving you no choice but to meet his eyes.

And God… what a glorious sight he was. This handsome man, with his face flushed, his brow glistening with sweat, devouring you with his gaze as he kept driving his cock into you.

His face was only inches from yours, and he kept fucking you in long strokes while he held your chin like that, as if he were starving for every single expression that crossed your face. He loved watching the way pleasure wrecked you. The way your lips parted around helpless moans, the way you bit down on your lower lip only for it to slip free again with a broken sound. The way your eyes went glassy and pleading, silently begging him for more even as your body trembled around his cock. He drank it all in like a man who had been thirsty for years.

With his free hand, he gripped your waist, holding you in place so he could drive into you with more power. Every slide of his cock stretched you perfectly, dragging the fat tip along your g-spot like that was what it was made for.

“Robby—oh god, yes!” You moaned loudly, raising your hips to meet his thrust and tightening your legs around him. Your tits were bouncing with every powerful stroke, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth again, flicking his tongue as he continued fucking you.

“You feel so good,” he groaned against your skin, switching to the other breast. “So tight and wet around me. This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it? Taking me so deep.” His hand on your waist slid down to grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly to change the angle as he thrusted harder. “Lift your legs higher for me, sweetheart,” he said against your neck,kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there. Ronny held the back of your thigh, helping guide your leg up. “That’s it… over my shoulder. Let me get deeper.”

You whimpered as he assisted you, hooking your leg over his shoulder. He did the same with the other, folding you nearly in half beneath him. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, until he was pressing the head firmly against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, grinding against your g-spot relentlessly.

“Fuck—Robby, it’s so deep like this,” you moaned, fluttering your eyes shut for just a moment as the intense sensation washed over you.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he chided gently but firmly, cupping your jaw with his hand to tilt your face back to his. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Keep them open. I want to watch you while I fuck you like this. Don’t look away.”

You forced your eyes open, locking onto his hungry gaze as he continued hammering into you. The eye contact made everything more intimate and overwhelming. The feeling of his hand leavinf your jaw and sliding down between your bodies made you shiver. Robby found your swollen clit and began rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.

The combined stimulation was devastating. The pleasure was burning higher in your core, so close to finally exploding. Your body was arching and squirming beneath his frame as you scratched down his back and trembled over his shoulders. Every thrust, every rub of his fingers on your clit, every moan and grunt that escaped his mouth pushed you closer to the edge.

“That’s it,” Robby groaned, never removing his sight from yours. “Look at you taking my cock so deep. You’re getting close again, aren’t you? I can feel it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you cum all over my cock. Keep your eyes on me when you do.”

You bowed your back off the bed as your climax took over your body. A loud cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched rhythmically around his length. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders and you dug your nails harder into his back when the waves of pleasure crashed through you. Robby sekpt thrusting through it, drawing out your orgasm with deep strokes and continued pressure on your clit.

“You look so beautiful when you cum for me… that’s it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. You’re being so good.”

By the time he finally slowed and gently pulled out of you, you were still trembling and gasping. Robby layed back on the bed beside you, with his cock hard and glistening with your release. “Come here, baby,” he said. “Get on top. I want to watch you ride me.”

He helped you shift positions, gripping your hips firmly to guide you as you straddled him. “Easy, sweetheart. Take your time… that’s it. Feel me right there? Let me watch you take every inch.”

You positioned the head at your slick entrance and began to sink down, inch by inch. The stretch was intense all over again, his girth opening you up as you lowered yourself onto him. Robby kept his hands still on your hips to steady you, stroking your skin soothingly while watching every expression on your face.

“Fuck, look at that,” he groaned. “You’re doing so well. Keep going… take a little more. Feel how full you are?”

Louder moans left your mouth as you sank lower, the fullness was overwhelming in the best way. Bracing your hands on his broad chest for balance, you finally took him to the hilt, resting your ass against his thighs. Robby squeezed your hips encouragingly. “Ride me. Roll your hips like that… yes, just like that.”

Whn you started moving, rolling, and grinding your hips in a steady rhythm, the pleasure built quickly. His cock was dragging along your walls as you found a rhythm that made your tits bounce and your clit grind against his pelvis.

Robby kept moving his eyes are everywhere, watching where your pussy stretched around his shaft, sliding up to your bouncing breasts, then locking onto your face. He reaches up with both hands, cupping your tits and rolling your nipples as you ride him.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Keep going… faster if you want. Take what you need from me.”

Without a word, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward. He sat up just enough to help you pull it off, and the second the fabric cleared his head, your hands were on him.

God, you loved his body. Your moved your palm slowly over his chest, feeling the coarse hair and the thud of his heart beneath your fingertips. You dragged your hands lower, mapping the soft, rounded curve of his belly with desire. It turned you on more than any gym-honed torso ever could. As you pressed your palms into the softness, your fingers dag in gently. Then you smoothed your hands over it again and again, savoring the way it yielded under your touch.

You were mumbling praises and moans between gasps, completely lost in the sensation. “Robby… you feel so good… so deep… fuck, I love your cock inside me…”

At one point, Robby planted his feet firmly on the bed, bent his knees, and started thrusting up to meet you. The change felt devastating, he was now fucking you from below with powerful strokes that made you cry out loudly as he droveinto you. 

The slap of skin on skin grew louder when the slamming into you intensified. “Fuck—Robby!” you moaned, letting your head fall back as the pleasure overwhelmed you.

“Eyes on me if you can, sweetheart,” he growled, moving his fingers down to rub your clit again. “I’m getting close. You feel too good. You’re gonna make me cum.”

You were a moaning and squirming mess on top of him, riding and grinding as he thrusted up harder. His fingers on your clit and his cock hitting deep pushed you toward another peak, but it was his impending orgasm that had you focused on him.

“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, snapping his hips up faster. “Fuck—can I cum inside you? Please, I want to fill you up.”

“Yes,” you gasped, riding him desperately. “Cum inside me, Robby. I want it. Fill me up. Please—”

With a deep groan, Robby thrusted up hard one last time and came, pulsing nside you, flooding your pussy with thick and warm ropes of cum. He held you down on him, gripping your hips tightly as he emptied himself completely. The feeling of him cumming inside you, fully claiming you, triggered your own smaller orgasm, making your walls clench rhythmically around his pulsing cock.

You both stayed locked together, panting. Robby stroked your back and thighs as you came down from the high befor pulling you down against his chest, kissing your forehead, keeping his cock still buried deep inside you as his release slowly leaked out around him, so much that you could feel the hot nd sticky evidence of his climax.

There were no more walls, just the two of you, finally giving in to everything you’ve both wanted and repressed for so long. You stayed draped on top of Robby for a long stretch of time, both of you catching your breath as the intensity slowly ebbed. Eventually, you lifted your head and looked at him. “That was… amazing. I wouldn’t even have dreamed that it’d be that good.”

He hummed in agreement, continuing his soothing path along your back. “It was. Better than I let myself imagine. You felt perfect.”

The praise made a warm feeling bloom in your chest. After a few more quiet moments, Robby gently helped you sit up, easing you off his cock with a shared sigh. You both winced slightly at the loss of connection and the feeling of emptiness, but he pulled you down beside him on the bed, wrapping his arms around you again as you cuddled into his side.

“So… you don’t regret it, do you?”

He met your eyes as a small smile began tugging at his lips beneath the beard. “Right now? I can’t regret having amazing sex with you. My mind is still somewhere up in the clouds.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow when reality hits, but tonight… no regrets.”

You nestled closer, throwing one leg over his. The cuddling felt easy, natural, like you’d been doing this for years. For tonight, the outside world, the hospital, the guilt, the what ifs didn’t exist. There was only the two of you, and Robby might be right about reality hitting tomorrow, but right now, in the darkness of his room, everything felt right.

A/N: Two attempts at posting this fic, and two times Tumblr’s stupid AI mistakenly flagged it😭 I’ve spent days trying to figure out what was causing the problem and doing everything I could to finally get this fic posted for all of you. So if you’re reading this, it means it worked. Hopefully.

If you end up enjoying the fic, I’d really appreciate it if you could help me share it with a reblog (only if you enjoyed the fic) cause I’ve put a lot of work on it

Well, I hope you enjoyed this little something I worked on when inspiration finally struck me. I don’t know if I read it somewhere or if we all collectively decided it, but Robby absolutely feels like the type of guy who talks you through it. You’re telling me the man who spends all day teaching med students and residents how to do procedures wouldn’t also be guiding his girl in bed? It’s literally in his nature!!! This TikTok also got me inspired because, yes, he absolutely looks at you through it too.

I also think Robby’s canon texting style is weirdly inconsistent. In that scene in season one where he’s texting Jake, sometimes he starts messages with capital letters and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he ends sentences with a period, sometimes he doesn’t. In my head, he has perfect grammar but deliberately tries to sound Gen Z and chill when he’s texting someone younger than him lol. Anyway, I tried to replicate that here too.

Thank you all so much for your patience. I really appreciate it, and I hope I can stick around for good this time🩷

Well, not really. But he was ready for a nice and easy night with friends, then here you come along with nothing but sheer audacity and a tiny skirt that hardly covers much of your thighs at all! They just look so smooth and so soft and ready to be adored by him. But he can't because he has to keep his hands to himself. Which is ridiculous! Here you are, looking as pretty and lovely as you do, and he can't do anything to justify that.

“Spence?”

Nevertheless, he must endure.

“Hello? Anybody up there?”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah, sorry,” he clears his throat quickly and forces himself to keep his eyes firmly trained on your eyes and your smile and anything that doesn't make him seem like a weirdo horny perv that stops functioning any time he sees a nice pair of legs.

Or rather, just your nice pair of legs.

The both of you manage to make it to the bar, without Spencer spontaneously combusting into a million different flustered pieces, where you meet a pregamed Derek, Penelope, and Emily.

Your amassed group orders a round of drinks for the table until even Hotch is a little pink in the ears. Spencer, who doesn't drink, is content cradling his scarcely-touched Pepsi and staring at you dancing with the girls (and Derek), a light sheen of sweat on your skin from the warmth and exertion. His eyes are stuck on you like a fly on honey, mesmerized by the way you move and the way you laugh and the way you smile at him every time your gazes catch—which made him choke on nothing all over again and have to dodge the guys’ entirely unfunny callouts.

“So,” Rossi begins, a smug smirk poorly veiled behind a curious brow, “how goes it with you and lover girl?”

“Hm? Oh! Ah—It goes well. Yes, we're doing great,” Spencer smiles, busying himself wiping his napkin down the side of his glass to collect the condensation. “In fact, just the other day we were talking about moving in together.”

“Oh, I know all about that,” Rossi nods, his face playfully taking on a wise persona. “Let me know if you need any advice about the perils of living with a woman.”

“And tell me, Dave, which wife are you on?” Aaron's voice is teasing, more lilts in it than usual with the shots that have loosened his tie.

“None,” he says, quite matter-of-factly. If he'd been any clearer, he'd be wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and delivering a hefty sigh. Dodging bullets left and right, he'd say.

“And that's why you probably shouldn't listen to him, Spencer,” Will chuckles lightly.

“That, and the fact that you'd get dropped faster than a time bomb if you ever took his advice with me,” you say as you come up to the table with a smile and skin lightly flushed with warmth and sweat. You catch your breath in quiet puffs, your hand on Spencer's shoulder. He doesn't even flinch, just looks up at you like you're made of diamond.

“I'd never,” Spencer says, a little too genuine for Rossi’s taste.

“I'll have you know, you don't marry as many women as I have without knowing a thing or two about how to make them happy.” He's grumbling like a grandparent who no longer gets taken seriously, the senile old grandfather who went to war and came back a little crazy.

You chuckle, “And you don't divorce as many as you have without knowing a thing or two about how to infuriate us.”

The boys are laughing, even Derek and JJ, who'd come back for a quick drink.

“I didn't know we were frying Dave, is it my turn?” JJ wonders, long hair falling in front of her face as she guides it back to see. Her skin is pink from exercising beneath Will’s gentle hand on her arm, rubbing up and down.

Rossi wags his finger at you, shaking his head with a teasing glint in his eyes. “See, I always knew I didn't like you.”

You laugh, your hand rubbing gentle circles on Spencer's shoulder blade. He's losing his mind sitting there, your bare thigh pressing into his arm just from you standing so close, your hand on his back warm and soothing. He just stares at his soda to maintain whatever sanity and/or dignity he has left.

“Good thing it's not your birthday,” you smile gleefully. Rossi cracks up, saluting you and Derek with his drink.

“Okay, my turn!” JJ exclaims, eager to get her fill of Rossi burns in as she slides into Will’s side, his arm around her and his lips pressed into the side of her forehead.

Your voice would have startled him if he didn't find it so heavenly. It's a soft lull in his ear as you keep rubbing his back, even slower now as you bend down by his side. “Could you help me with something?” you ask, your voice so achingly genuine that he suspects nothing as he happily agrees with a gentle nod and lips slightly parted in wonder at looking at you.

You offer him your hand, and he takes it almost greedily, standing and following behind you like a puppy as you guide him away from the table and then the dance floor. When you find a dark spot away from prying eyes, you lift your hand to his chin. Your fingers barely brush the stubble beginning to form as you press your back into the wall and lift up on your toes.

Spencer isn't slow to understand what you want because he wants it all the time. He dips his head down quickly, swooping in to kiss you with all the adoration he can manage. Your lips lock together instantly, melding with his as he unconsciously steps into you to press you firmly into the wall. He's got one hand cradling your head and one hand holding your hip like a lifeline as you sigh into his lips.

He pulls away when he runs out of air, breaths mingling between you while you soak in the hunger radiating off of him.

“You've been staring at me all night,” you whisper, your lips so close that they brush every time you move.

“Sorry,” he pants, not sounding apologetic in the slightest.

You giggle. You're drunk on his kiss as you bounce up for another. “Don't be. I think it's hot.”

“Of course you'd find my suffering hot,” he shakes his head woefully, though he captures your lips once more.

“Suffering?” You laugh, throwing your arms over his shoulders to pull him even closer. “Whatever do you mean?”

His hand trails a bit lower, more out of instinct than anything else, as he brings your leg up his side. You hook it around him. “You know what I mean. You in this little skirt.” He makes this whining sound that makes you giggle—he sounds so dejected. “Drives me crazy, you know it does.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” You lift your leg slowly up his side, your skirt hiking slightly up your thigh in the process. He grabs it greedily and cranes his neck to capture your lips again. He sighs against your lips, pulling the smallest whine from you.

Spencer steps impossibly closer, pressing his body so close against you that you have no choice but to allow yourself to relax into him. His hand squeezes your thigh gently, and you can feel a hint of his growing bulge beginning to press into your lower stomach.

Your hands tangle in his hair, and you both become only more breathless as you find yourselves seeking the other out. He's so warm, and the plush of your thigh just feels so nice in his palm as he kneads it eagerly with the kind of greed they spoke of in the Bible.

You're nibbling on his bottom lip when you suddenly pull away, gasping lightly as your face suddenly shines in the dim hall. “I love this song!”

You take his hand, pulling him with you back to the crowd on the dance floor. You find Derek and Penelope, who find you just as quickly as you join them.

Penelope grabs your free hand, pulling you close with a giggly, bubbly laugh. “You're back, my precious girl!” You laugh happily as you dance with her, eventually joined by the other girls as the song plays in your bones.

Meanwhile, Spencer is completely flustered with red cheeks, scattered breath, and a raging hard-on he hopes no one sees.

Derek glances over, a knowing smirk on his lips as he takes in Spencer's dazed expression. “You alright there, pretty boy?”

He turns to Derek, nodding quickly with a harsh swallow. He looks down when you suddenly grab his hand, giving him an innocent look as you set it on your waist. His other hand finds refuge at the other side, he presses his body to your back. You lean into him, swaying your hips with his. Spencer leans into you, his nose buried in your hair where he inhales the scent of your shampoo.

Well…at least your body will hide his erection for now…

~

Spencer doesn't even let you fully step into the apartment before his hands are on your waist and he's got his head buried in the crook of your neck. He pulls your back into his chest just as he had on the dance floor, smothering your neck with lips and teeth and tongue. He kicks the door closed behind him without ever pulling away.

Spencer's back pushes roughly into the wall, knocking the air out of the both of you as you reach a hand up to tangle in his hair. His hands roam your sides eagerly, reaching down to squeeze a handful of ass beneath your skirt and pulling a deep moan from your throat.

“You've been driving me crazy all night,” he huffs, his voice strained with need. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You're breathless as your bag falls to the floor. His lips are hungry against your neck, and your fingers scratching at his scalp is only encouragement. You sigh shallowly, heavy-eyed as you try to keep your knees from giving out against your desire.

“What, nothing to say now?” he asks, his hand beneath your skirt tracing the edges of your underwear teasingly—far too teasing for someone who claims to be as pent up as he does.

You lean into him, moving your hips back against the hard outline of his cock through his pants. He groans, the sound ending in a slight whimper as his fingers tighten against you. “Please,” is all you whisper.

Spencer's desperate when his hips buck into you, almost like he's not even aware he's doing it. He holds on tightly to you, one hand moving inward along your thigh before hooking around your panties. You gasp at the slightest brush of his knuckles against your folds. “Spencer,” you nearly whine. “Shit, need you.”

“I know, baby, I know,” he says roughly.

He moves your underwear to the side, gliding his fingers along the seam of your pussy to gather the slick beginning to form there. Your eyes close, your breath uneasy as you struggle even now to keep up.

His finger slips inside with ease, long and slender and so deep as your legs momentarily tremble. His arm around you holds you up, smiling against the side of your head breathlessly. “Good?”

“Mhhm, yeah,” you whine. “Yeah, m’good. Jus’ please don't stop.”

He kisses the side of your head, his finger working you with a need that is not lost on you. He laps greedily at the juncture of your neck, tasting your skin and your lotion and the salty taste of sweat brought on by the hot club and your dancing. He inhales a lungful of your perfume so it swirls in his head and makes him dizzy, makes it just a little more difficult to stand properly when his knees feel weak and he's getting so hard, it hurts.

When he buries his second finger inside of you to the knuckle, you think your legs might actually give out first. He wraps one arm tightly around you, holding you up and steady, as he thrusts his fingers in a steady in and out until your breath is thin and gasping.

“S-Spencer, right there.” He smiles against your cheek, continuing to shower you in kisses as you squeeze around his fingers.

When he changes tactics though, you're pretty sure he really is the only thing keeping you upright. The pad of his fingers press against that sweet spot inside of you, curling deep and slow and making you just a little light-headed with how rich the pleasure feels. It's like it's festering somewhere in your abdomen and spreading out along your thighs, your knees, then up into the rest of your body.

Your jaw goes slack when he focuses on that spot. His mouth is at your shoulder and the back of your neck and the spot just below your ear. It's hot and heavy, the kind of hot and heavy you see in those fast-paced scenes in TV shows where it's all breath and shaky cameras.

There's a sharp pull in your abdomen that is only accentuated by the wet sound of his fingers and their thrusting. “Right there,” you huff, firmer this time. “Th–oh, god.”

“There?” he murmurs in your ear, half-teasing.

“M-hm.”

“Right there?”

Without being told, he works his fingers harder again. He moves them fast without sacrificing the precise angle he's reached. Your knees bend, and you only register him hoisting you up more than you register yourself falling. “You're—Spence, you're gonna make me–”

He suckles at a sweet spot, using the palm of his hand to press into your clit.

It never takes long to reach that delicious peak with Spencer. He's too eager to have you falling about in his hands. Too happy to make you feel good to take his time in making you cum—at least the first time. The first one is always a special treat for him, one he takes with open arms and very skilled hands.

You cum around his fingers, clamping down on him with a moan too high and pitchy to not be questioned for fabrication. But he doesn't, because he knows you by now and he knows the difference between your genuine (pornstar-level) moans and the ones you regrettably fake when maybe you've been at it a little too much and your clit is numb with overuse.

He enjoys you coming apart on him, enjoys the small leak it brings when he's brushed that spot in you just right. He keeps at it until your shuddering body feels sharp with pleasure and you're pawing at his hand in a different way from pleading.

He pulls his fingers out of you, his breath just as heavy as yours from just coaxing and witnessing your release. You listen to the suckle of his lips around those same fingers he'd just had shoved inside of you and moan.

“Fuck, Spence,” you smile. “Thank you.”

He shakes his head, still mouthing at your shoulder. “Thank you.” He groans keenly when your hips push back against him.

“Lemme help you,” you whisper breathily. “I'll do whatever you want. My hand, my mouth, inside me?”

He shakes his head, though he's already rushing to undo his belt and free the poor erection caged in his slacks. His other hand is still pawing at your thigh like his own personal stress ball, kneading and squeezing it like dough.

“Need this,” he huffs. Your hand cards through his hair, finding a grip and holding him tight as you moan sigh. “Been thinking about it all night.” He pulls your ruined panties down your legs, taking your skirt with them and abandoning the mission the moment they've fallen, not caring to help you kick them off, as he's already focused on lifting your shirt over your head to see you bare.

You feel his dick pressing against your lower back, a heat against your skin. One of your hands reaches back to circle around him, stroking just a couple times and finding reward in his moans in your ear. You nod happily, “Whatever you want, baby.”

He takes a couple small steps back, taking your hips with you as you lean against the door. He slips easily between the space of your thighs, your arousal offering enough wetness for him as he nudges your legs. “Close them again. Yeah, just like that.”

You squeeze your thighs together, earning yourself a nice little sound from him as he revels in the way it feels to be hugged by your thighs. Spencer loves your thighs. He loves the occasions he gets to see you in short skirts and tiny shorts or wearing one of his shirts and nothing else in the comfort of your home or his.

They're just so soft, so nice to lay his head on, to perch his head between, to play with, to kiss, to fuck. He loves them. He loves on them every chance he gets. God forbid you're out together with the team and he's close enough to get to touch them at dinner or the bar or really anywhere that exists when he sits next to you. He's sure the team is sick of seeing it by now, but he doesn't have the ability to care less about it.

He thrusts his cock into the safety of your thighs, collecting more arousal seeping out of your pretty pussy with each pass. You clench and unclench your thighs in rhythm with his hips, moan in time with his moans. You wish you could see the look on his face, the pretty way his brows furrow, the precious way his lips part to suck more air in and fuel the pleasure flexing in his muscles.

It feels strangely good, being fucked without actually being fucked. His cock rubs happily against your pussy without ever going inside of you. The lewd sound of it dances around your ears. His hands hold you so tightly at your thighs to guide you back onto his hips. Your legs are shaking, and not just from the aftershocks of your orgasm still lingering there in your veins.

“You're wearing too much,” you say clumsily. Although the occasional cool press of his belt into your skin is intoxicating, you think you'd prefer to feel his skin on yours unhindered. And once he relents with no protest, you've only confirmed your belief. He goes straight back to the task at hand while you try your best to remove his shirt from his body while still turned away from him.

He fucks your thighs like it's your pussy, with the clapping sounds it erupts to prove it. You nearly lose your footing when he's stepping even farther away from the wall, forcing you to bend over just a bit more for a different angle.

And that angle works perfectly in your favor because when you feel the head of his cock rubbing against your clit with each thrust, you're a goner.

“D’s s’that,” you puff heavily, “feel good?”

He nods, his eyes closed almost pathetically as whimpers fall from his lips (pathetically). “Yeah. So good, angel. Always perfect f’me.”

You smile, the praise going straight to your head and making it cloudy and happy. It sticks like sap to your tongue until all you want to do is show him just how much you really appreciate him and his love for you (and your thighs). But you hold it in because, right now, the only way to show him how much you appreciate him is by holding still and letting him fuck your thighs until his poor little heart can't take it anymore and he keels over where he stands.

Of course, if he keels over, you'll scream, and it will be a whole ordeal that would probably have your poor little heart giving out, too. But that's besides the point.

The point is, Spencer's face is buried in your neck as he laves kisses into your skin. He's whimpering something about marrying you in your ear, more emphatically when you reach a hand back to card through his hair with the gentlest of yanks.

“Gonna marry you, then ‘m gonna keep you in bed forever so that I can keep making love to you forever,” he huffs, shuddering when you clench your thighs and rub them idly together around his cock, still pulsing and pumping there. “I'm never gonna let you leave. We'll only ever get out of bed so we can…oh, god, so we can fuck on every other piece of furniture in the house.”

Now, Spencer is not an advent cuss-er. He likes to keep his mouth clean, he feels more comfortable that way. But here with you? With your precious thighs quivering around him from standing on your toes so long just so he can reach, too tall to fit otherwise? With your body flush against his, aching to be closer still? With your breaths and your stray whines filling the space of the entrance to the apartment? He couldn't care less. He'd say filthier things than he's ever said in his life in this moment if only you asked him to.

“Where–” you're interrupted by a brief gasp in response to nothing in particular, “Where would you fuck me next?”

He makes this almost choked sound in your ear that has your head spinning. His hands squeeze at your thighs like they're simultaneously driving him mad and keeping him grounded. “I'd turn you around and…and fuck you against this door, so anyone passing by will know what we're doing in here.”

You barely stifle a groan at the idea of it. The creaking of the door fighting against Spencer's needy thrusts, the sound of footsteps faltering when they hear you squeak a moan or whimper his name, it all makes it really hard to think straight.

“And I'd have you in the kitchen and on the couch and—fuck, maybe even on the floor.” He mouths eagerly against your neck and shoulder, his pace faltering as his thrusts become shallow where his hips smack the backs of your thighs. "God, I'm so close.”

You're nodding too fast, whimpering where the flushed head of his cock is rubbing insistently at your clit. The warm, wet feeling of precum leaking from his tip makes the glide against your nerves that much more enticing. “Want you to…want you to cum, Spence. Please, baby, make me all messy for you.”

He hides in your neck but makes no move to stop or slow down. “S’too soon,” he complains weakly, cock jerking. “Just started, angel.”

You shake your head. “Want it. Please, honey.”

Your eyelashes flutter, the knot that had been slowly forming in your gut is close to completely snapping. “Whatever you want.” His jaw ticks, locked tight. “My pretty girl gets whatever she wants. Gonna s-spoil you tonight. Just you—fucking wait.”

His breath is hot against your skin where he's panting. You squeeze your thighs tightly together and cry out when Spencer's teeth sink themselves into your neck. The pleasure explodes at the same time as his own, the both of you moaning and crying out each other's names. Yours is much softer than his own, but the way he's whining and panting in your ear is making you hot. 

He grinds himself greedily against you, a guttural moan choking him as your thighs flex and rub around his cock. Hot spurts of cum paint your thighs and the wet lips of your pussy. It dribbles down your legs in a lewd manner.

Spencer's pace slows. He breathes heavily on the crook of your neck, kisses apologies into your skin where his teeth have imprinted themselves. He catches his breath before he murmurs weakly in your ear. “Sorry.”

You smile lazily. “S’okay. It was hot.”

He shakes his head, groans. His body reluctantly steps away from yours. He sets his hands on your hips, turns you around and presses you back against the door to kiss you. Your hands find his shoulders as you breathe him in.

You feel his middle finger slide over your clit and whimper against his lips, your legs trembling. He almost whines, “M’sorry. Didn't mean to cum so fast, I just–”

You cut him off with another kiss. He's quickly distracted. “I love you.”

Those words soothe him. He smiles a little, nods his forehead against yours. He presses a quick kiss to your lips. “I love you, too.” He begins to kneel, holding you like you're something to be revered. To him, you are and more. “That’s why I'm gonna make you feel good.”

You watch him with lust-blown eyes, your breath uneven as your arousal spikes again. Spencer's lips kiss tenderly at your belly, dragging over your skin with the softest of touches. When his kisses trail down and find your mound, he pulls back to look at the mess he's made of you.

Your skin is sticky with his cum. He gazes in awe at the way it's continued to slide down your legs. Lifting one thigh over his shoulder, he leans in to kiss at him, tongue darting out to lick until he's too greedy and his tongue pressed flat against your skin to taste everything. The salt of sweat, the tang of his cum, the sweetness of your arousal. You're huffing above him as you try not to lose your senses at the sight of it.

He looks up at you after a moment, his eyes way too eager and adoring. You think he's going to say something as you card your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. He doesn't. Without a word, he delves into you like candy. He kisses and laps and sucks at your pussy with the happiest of moans. His tongue works you greedily, and you grasp at his hair as you throw your head back and try not to cry his name out too loud.

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God, he can still taste you on his tongue. He can still hear the way your sounds had filled the room, as sweet and musical as the song you were singing when he'd first seen you. He remembers how soft your skin was as his hands stroked your bare thighs. He remembers the way you sang his name like it was worth something. He remembers the way you smiled in the threshold of your dressing room, basking in the warm glow of the mirror’s light bulbs, the way your words had become a promise when you said, “I'll wait for you.”

“Hi, Spencer.”

Spencer is startled out of his thoughts by the sight of you in the doorway. You look up at him with pretty lashes that flutter like butterfly wings. Your face is clean and smiling, you're dressed in the loveliest set of pajamas (purple silk in his favorite color). You look like something from right out of his dreams. Like an angel blessing him with her presence in a form he can safely comprehend.

He forgot to respond.

“Hi. Hey.” He clears his throat, continues to stare wide-eyed at you as you try not to laugh at the look on his face. He's so pretty, so cute.

And he feels severely overdressed in his vest and tie.

“You get all dressed up for me?” you tease lightly, reaching a hand out to gingerly grab his tie. He almost forgets to keep breathing as you thumb the fabric.

If Spencer's skin isn't the brightest red known to man, he'll be completely and utterly shocked. His heart is a mess in his chest, and his skin is burning like summer heat. “Is it too much?” he murmurs nervously.

You shake your head, lightly tugging on his tie before you let it fall back to his chest. “Not at all.” You step aside, granting him his first look at your apartment, your home, a space so sacred to you that you're allowing him to impose on. Just looking at it feels like an invitation into Heaven itself.

“Come on, honey,” you hum.

Spencer holds his breath, bracing himself before he's lifting a foot to step into your home. The moment he's passed the threshold, he's enveloped in warmth and comfort and something sweet like sugar. He looks around in awe at everything—the pictures and paintings on your walls, the knick knacks and figurines on nearly every surface, the books and the binders, sheet music and bags and stray cups and the piano in the corner of the room.

“Are you hungry?” The door closes softly behind you, and he turns to watch you move through your space with a kind of grace and ease reserved for fairytale creatures.

Spencer nods dumbly. “Um, sure.” 

He doesn't know where to put his hands. They war between clasping together, resting at his sides, fiddling, and looking for any excuse to move. He shuffles on his feet like he's afraid standing too long in one place will imprint his presence into the room and disrespect the oasis that is your home.

You give him a gentle smile, slowly making your way toward the bundle of nerves in your living room. You stop just a couple steps away from him, not wanting to invade his space and scare him off, and definitely not wanting him to think you're just trying to seduce him.

Spencer looks at you like he's stunned you would even get this close (despite having already been much closer just a couple days before). He almost holds his breath, afraid to sully you with that alone, but the scent of you (something like shea butter and lavender) is much too endearing to lose.

You raise your hands slowly, like he's an animal you don't want to scare, and set them gently on his shoulders. “Relax, honey.” Your voice is slow and gentle, a soothing thing that has him obeying before he even realizes it. “I won't bite.” You pause, take a split second to think, and then a little smirk curls the end of your lip. “Not unless you ask me to, anyway.”

His face is burning, his glasses fogging terribly. He's worried his cheeks look like two red apples waiting for you to take a bite out of them. (He wouldn't mind you taking a bite, now that he thinks about it.)

Spencer gulps as his heart hammers in his chest. You're attentive and charming. You dazzle him with nothing more than a glittery look in your eyes. He fingers the seams of his pants just so he's not so obvious when his nerves make him restless.

“I'm relaxed,” he says, entirely unconvincing and unconvinced.

You level him with a look that makes him shuffle on his feet. His breath catches in his throat when your hands slide slowly down his arms, tracing the fabric so tenderly that he's suddenly upset he chose to wear long sleeves, as you grab his hands in yours to hold. Your touch is so light that he almost thinks he's imagined it. Then you squeeze his hands once, never once breaking his gaze.

He can't bear the look away, no matter how intense it feels to look you in the eyes. Your eyes hold a spell that is utterly captivating; your cheeks are pillow-y soft and they look warm to touch; your lips, though slightly chapped, are the ones that have been at the center of his mind since he first saw you.

He imagines all the ways he's seen them move: the smooth flow of them when you sing, the gentle but defining way that they curve when you smile, the way they stretch and even tremble a bit when you moan his name and tug him closer by the heel of your foot in his back when you beg him for more. God, you're so pretty. Like the stars themselves in the form of a mortal human, ready to burst in a brilliant shining of light and energy.

You watch him watch you. He looks distracted in the most engrossed way possible. He takes in the sight of you like you’re something ethereal, and it’s making you feel some kind of way that’s going to drive you crazy. This man is capable of a devotion that would shake the Earth, and the idea of him applying that devotion to you is a dizzying one. You can already see him begging for you to let him in the attention he gives you. To the end of the world and back, if only you ask. Please just ask.

You tug on his hands a bit as you take a small step back. “C’mere.” He obediently follows, letting you lead him farther into the living room. You stop him in front of the sofa, replacing your hands at his shoulders and gently guiding him down to sit. He drops with a plop, his gaze never once breaking yours.

You step into the space between his legs, and he happily welcomes you. His hands, timid but earnest, find sweet refuge at the dip of your waist where they hold you like something precious. He forgets to breathe, chokes on the one stuck in his throat when your hands come to cradle his pink cheeks, thumbs stroking until he's covered in goosebumps.

You expect him to startle a little when you tilt his head back and lean in close. He doesn't. He thrusts forward until he's meeting you in the middle. There's no hesitation, no timidity—only a lack of discipline that comes with fervent adoration. He kisses you with too much affection, too much urgency, too much feeling. He's not particularly gentle; he's delightfully bruising, like he needs this to survive.

Your knee comes up to steady you, settling in the space between his thighs as you resist the overwhelming urge to fall into him. Your fingers card through the hair at the back of his head, fluffy curls getting tangled and tugged as your bodies gravitate closer.

When you pull back, he chases your lips. You smile, both of your breaths mingling in the tiny space between you as you catch them. Your thumbs stroke his cheeks again before reaching up to fix his glasses, which had been skewed by his enthusiasm. You see his kiss-swollen lips and his heat-kissed cheeks and stifle a fond giggle at the sight of him.

“Relax.” It's a close-lipped murmur. Your insides are molten, softened by Spencer's honest affection. You feel it as he does, releasing a breath that had been lodged somewhere in his chest. “I'll be right back, and then we can start the movie, yeah?”

He nods dumbly. “Yeah.”

You smile and stroke his cheek again with your thumb. Your eyes dart between his eyes and his lips, and he seems to plead for another kiss. “Wait here?”

Another nod. “Okay.”

You glance at his lips one more, and then plant another kiss—much softer, much shorter, something more related to compulsion than seduction. He's got really nice lips.

You step away from him, and his body mourns the loss of you, made cold and lonely by your absence. You let him go and make your way back into the kitchen. His eyes follow every move.

~

Spencer's been rambling. He's trying to stop, but you're tucked into his side like you're trying to mold your bodies together. You watch him speak without an ounce of annoyance or fatigue on your pretty face. Your hands hold one of his, stroking each finger and rubbing his palm like a feather. He can't bring himself to care too much about germs—he'd be honored to contract germs from you. You're warm where you're curled against him, and the scent of your perfume and your lotion and your shampoo tickle his senses until he feels like there's a high buzzing in his head.

Neither of you are paying too much attention to the movie. In fact, all of your attention is on him, and it's making his rambling worse. He talks and talks and talks, picking up whenever you tilt your head and stumbling over his words whenever you smile. He's sure his cheeks are a bright red by now, and the gleaming in your eyes only makes it worse.

“The reason the architecture of Notre Dame is so refined and aesthetically pleasing is because of the use of the Golden Ratio in the construction—also known as ‘sacred geometry’.”

You hum, dragging your knuckles slowly up his forearm. “Which is?” You blink twice, and he imagines butterfly wings flapping in the spring air.

He weakly clears his throat. “The Golden Ratio is a sophisticated kind of mathematics where the ratio between the height of the facade and its width must be as close as possible to the number phi—around 1.618.” His pushes his glasses back up his nose, “It's very likely you've seen it before, it's the mathematical symbol that looks like a swirl.”

You hum again, something akin to an understanding “oh”. His lips tug in a little smile.

“Notre Dame’s facade has a ratio of around 1.725, and it's actually classified as a ‘Golden Rectangle’. The Parthenon and Acropolis structures in Athens are great examples that are similar to this.”

You smile, something sparking in your eyes. “I've always wanted to visit Athens.” Your thumb softly kneads the pad of his middle finger. “It'd be really nice to explore all that architecture and try the food and learn the history. If I had a bucket list, it'd be on it.”

His chest feels warm. One of your thighs shifts, moving farther onto his lap. By now, they're almost draped over it, a warm and comforting weight that he wants to stroke with his palm. He's nervous about touching you, like he'll be doing something wrong if you don't give him permission first. His free hand stays awkwardly balled on his thigh.

“Have you ever been out of the country before?” His voice is gentler, the high of his rambling easing with every moment he spends just taking in the sight of you.

You nod. “Brazil, birthday trip. It was really fun!” The way you smile sends his pulse racing. “I got to go swimming at a really nice beach, and I got this beautiful picture of the sunset over the water.” Your eyes close, something soft and serene gracing your features.

Spencer's heart hiccups, and he launches into another tangent to distract from it. “You know, in many languages, there are specific words to describe the shine of light on water? The Irish word for it is ‘loinnir’. In Korean, it's ‘yunseul’. Turkish is ‘yakamoz’. The closest thing we have to that in English is…”

He trails off, swallowing thickly as the sound of his voice becomes so obvious and almost obnoxious in his head. When your head straightens up at his sudden silence, he speaks quietly, “Am I talking too much?”

Your brows knit together, and you look at him like you cannot believe what he just said. “Absolutely not.” A pleasantness returns to your lips. “You're lovely.” It's gentle, like a confession and a comfort all in one.

Something in him melts. He feels like he's filled with pools of warm honey. “Really?”

You close your hands around his, bringing it to your chest in an absent-minded way. “Of course.” It's too genuine. He can't breathe right. “What was that English word?”

It takes him a second too long to respond. “Sunglint or sunglitter.”

Another hum slips from you, and Spencer marvels at the way it blends so smoothly with the song swelling in the background. You go back to caressing his fingers. “That’s not too bad.”

He shakes his head. “No, it isn't.”

You break his gaze. Nothing but the gentle sound of a lonely voice singing a hopeful motif is heard.

Suddenly an angel has smiled at me, and kissed my cheek without a trace of fright.

Your fingertips trace the lines of his palm, the tickling feeling replaced with nothing but soothing relief as he watches you intently.

You smile at his palm, humming to yourself in a way that is nothing but pleased. “Yeah…” You nod a little. “Your hand would be a perfect fit.”

Intrigued and enamored and clinging to every word, he wonders aloud in a voice afraid to break the peace, “A perfect fit for what?”

Your fingers line up with his, pressing your hands flat together before you're twisting your own slowly. Then they curl between his own until your hands are laced together like they belong. He looks at it like the sight of it has entirely stunned him.

When you look at him again, he's already disheveled and blushing. “Mine.” You say it like a secret, leaning in and lowering your voice to prove it.

I swear it must be heaven's light…

A small sound leaves you, a mix of a breath and a laugh as your eyes continue to travel along his face. Your free hand raises up to his forehead, where you brush a stubborn lock of hair that immediately falls back into place. The tip of your finger stays where it's barely touching his temple.

“You look so pretty when you're flustered,” you smile.

Spencer's response is far too genuine, far too natural. He says it like it's an obvious fact, like it's both a confession and common sense.

“You're beautiful.”

You smile too wide, dipping your head like you're trying to hide. “Thank you.” It's not necessarily bashful, you're not shy. You say it like it comes easily, like you're used to being told, but the words coming from him are more special than they would be coming from anyone else.

You're still holding his hand as the finger on his temple trails down the side of his head to rest beneath his chin. You lean in, and he doesn't have to be told before he's gratefully accepting your kiss, a little softer than before but no less needy.

When you pull back, it's only enough to speak. Your breath still caresses his lips, your noses still bump, his glasses hang low enough to tease you. “Are you still nervous?” you whisper.

Spencer swallows thickly. He's so muted that you hardly make out his words. “I don't want to mess it up.”

His eyes seem to shine in the same way a puppy's would. They stay glued to your face, as if searching for something—reassurance, permission, attention. Your lips part and your lips spread into a wider smile, something soft and warm.

When you shift one leg off his lap, you see him panic for a moment. You soothe him with the gentle squeeze of his hand in yours before gently letting it go. You reach over for the remote on the coffee table, picking it up to turn the volume to that of a low murmur as you adjust yourself to straddle him. You hold yourself up just enough to avoid putting your weight on him just yet. You figure if you do, he'll combust beneath you.

Spencer holds his breath, his hands hovering in the air like touching you would burn him. Your hands come up to his face, brushing gently before they find themselves holding the back of his head in your palms, your fingers tangling in his soft curls.

He looks up at you with a reverent kind of alarm. His lips are parted, his eyes are wide, and he's as red as an apple.

You lean in close, rubbing the tip of your nose against the tip of his. He waits with bated breath, tilting his chin to meet you and mourning when you pull back enough to thwart his kiss.

You smile, a mix between smug and adoring, your voice as light as a hum. “You're not gonna mess anything up, Spencer.”

The breath that leaves him deflates his chest. You watch the bulk of his anxiety escape him until he's not so stiff beneath you.

Still, his hands hover, his fingers tremble. “Are you sure?”

You tilt your chin up, push his glasses higher up his nose, and kiss the space right above where they meet. “Don't be nervous. It's just me.”

It's just you. As if you aren't heaven on Earth.

“Do you want me to talk you through it?” Your thumbs stroke his cheeks.

Spencer nods, dazed and desperate. “Yes.”

You nod back. “Okay.” One of your fingers comes to brush the hair from his face once more. This time, it obeys. “First, can I have a kiss?”

He doesn't even answer you. You just barely get the last sound out before his lips are crashing onto you once again. He's back to frenzied. Too eager, too aching, too much if he doesn't want to appear pathetic.

But he's not pathetic to you. He's something special, something you've never found before. He wants you in earnest. He wants you in a way that's almost a need (it is a need). His eyes don't stick to your chest, they don't linger where they don't belong. They're wide and bright and pleading. They're adoring, not preying. They're devoted, not greedy.

He kisses you like he's suffocating, you kiss him like air. And when you pull away, he's gasping for more.

“Hold my waist.” Your lips brush during each word. Spencer's arms wrap around you tightly, keeping your body flush against his and moaning at the feeling of it. His hands roam, respectful but eager to feel every last inch.

He tastes of butter popcorn and a hint of stale coffee. Swiping your tongue past his lips, you push a little closer and tilt his head back even more as your hands continue to tangle in his hair until it's a frizzy mess on his head.

A large hand strokes up your back along the center of your spine. It moves higher and higher until he's gently holding the back of your neck. Your breath shakes momentarily, and he breathes it in like life force.

One of your hands removes itself from his hair to draw a line down his neck, his chest, stopping to take hold of his tie before you're undoing it with a slow and careful movement. When it's loosened and discarded and your fingers are fiddling at the top button of his shirt, Spencer lets out this dreadful whine in an unspoken encouragement. It continues to ignite the feeling in your belly, spurring you on to undo each belt one by one, taking your sweet time in revealing more and more of his chest.

The hairs on his chest are sparse and light, drowned in the red that colors his skin. He's lean with smooth skin and a soft belly that you can't help but press your fingers to. It responds to your touch immediately as it flexes with the sensitivity you bring out in him.

Your hands find his once more, leading them teasingly slow to grasp at the bottom of your thin tank, the purple fabric silky at his touch. Holding his breath, his eyes flit hastily across your face as he carefully lifts your shirt up. He watches with a mix of anxiety and unwavering desire as he begins to unsheathe you from your clothes.

When he gets closer to your chest, he pauses when his knuckles continue to brush more and more skin. He feels them begin to trace over the curve of your breast bone and takes another breath before lifting it higher still. When he catches sight of your nipples beginning to peek out, all breath just gets stuck in his throat. His eyes flick up to yours, unwilling to continue without knowing whether or not he's done something wrong yet. When you give him nothing more than a smile and the raise of your arms, he lifts the rest of it off until your chest is bare.

He stares. He doesn't mean to, but he does. His hands frame your waist, light and much too respectful. It's like all that intensity, like that desperate need to be pressed up against you was spooked out of him by your permission to do so.

His thumb strokes your side like a feather, following the curve of your breast like it's precious art in a gallery that he shouldn't be touching. He looks up at you, his eyes wide, his mouth open, his voice timid and small.

“Can…” He licks his lips, letting out a shaky breath. “Can I–?”

“Yes, Spencer.”

He's making you a little crazy. He's adoring, reverent. The look in his eyes is nothing if not enchanted. The way he kisses you, like being apart from you would surely be his death, you're more than flattered, you're charmed. You hope to treat him with half as much worship as he treats you.

His hand cups your breast. You pull your bottom lip in, your teeth grazing it as his large hands sweetly hold you. His thumb swipes over your nipple, the touch so light that a shiver rushes up your spine enough to make your breath stutter. He glances up at you, taking in the sight of your eyes lidded in gentle bliss.

The sound he makes is almost a chuckle, almost a whine, but too quiet to tell which one. He recalls the sounds you made when he had you propped against the vanity in your dressing room, knelt between your legs as he tasted you like sugar. The look on your face takes him back, fills him with a boldness that has his fingers gently tweaking your nipples. Every breath is reassurance, every hum in encouragement, every shift of your body fuels his need to make you feel good.

“Good,” you hum, your voice a little higher than before. “Just like that, honey.” Spencer kneads your breasts and flicks your nipples and basks in the sight of your pleasure. His fingers trace patterns into your skin, the warmth of his palm has you leaning in closer. Your fingers comb through his hair, gently scratching his scalp with painted nails as you admire the blush of his skin that makes him look soft and sweet.

Your hands cradle his neck, and the way his lashes flutter have your lips ticking up. You graze your nails along the skin of his neck and enjoy his restless eyes and hastened breaths.

You lean in just enough for your breath to whisper against his jawline. His hands never let up their lavishing. “A hickey would look so pretty on you right…here.” Your thumb brushes the soft spot just below his ear until he shudders beneath you. “Can I?”

He shouldn't. Showing up to work with a hickey wouldn't be so great of an idea. He's got things to consider: professionalism, HR violations, the endless onslaught of torture he would have to endure the moment the team catches a glimpse of it.

But the thought of you marking his skin with your teeth, embedding yourself like you're saying, “This one is mine,” is just too perfect an idea. He imagines seeing it later on when he would catch the sight of himself in a mirror, a splotch of purple and red that would pulse your name in Morse code like his heartbeat had it memorized.

He nods, swallowing thickly as anticipation and nerves and something lovely continue to swirl in his gut. “Yes, please,” he says with all the politeness of being offered his favorite slice of cake. He follows it up with a grateful rub of your nipple.

You smile at him, still stroking skin. “Thank you.”

“Anything.” He says it too quickly and with too much passion.

You drop your head down to his shoulder, dragging your lips along his skin as you turn in, in, in. He shudders from head to toe at the feeling of your mouth on him, pulling a slip of skin between your teeth to nibble in a manner that could only be described as teasing. He makes this dreadful sound anyway, barely managing to hold back the reaching of his hips.

Dropping a little more of your weight onto his lap, you tilt his head to the side and suck at his neck with a precision that makes him restless. More and more driven by his squirming, your teeth continue to graze and your fingers press gently into the soft places of his neck that has his body relaxing into the warmth of you. Your tongue dragging wetly over nibbled skin has him whining.

You continue on, and he lets you without a shred of protest. One of his hands still cups your breast, his thumb working your nipple distractedly. Every time your nose nudges his earlobe, his breath hitches and his thumb flicks you enough to make your breath break.

You finish with a wet smack, pulling away from his neck to admire your good work. His skin is colored pink and red, splotchy with blood and arousal, ridged from teeth and tongue. Dragging the pad of your finger over the skin, you smile when his breath shakes like a leaf, a long whine falling off the edge of his tongue.

“There,” you hum, your hands steady on his shoulders as you look down at his flushed face. “It looks so pretty on you.”

He looks like he's wanting to respond, but no sound comes out. He stares at you with droopy eyes, like the sight of you and the weight of you on his lap is making his brain fuzzy with a comforting high.

You hold his gaze as you let your hands wander down his chest, down his soft belly, to where your fingers meet fabric instead of skin. You wrap them around his belt, slowly working it open as you continue to softly coo at him. “I've been really excited for you to come over, you know.”

He stares at you helplessly, lets you do as you please (and you do).

“The moment I saw you look at me?” You lean in, your lips hovering over his cheek. “I knew you were special.” He lets out this weak little sound that makes you smile. You pull his belt free.

You let your fingers tease the trimmed hair at the base of him, softer than you expected, dark brown and neatly kept. You have half a mind to climb off his lap and nuzzle your nose into the patch of hair that would be so utterly and intoxicatingly drenched in his scent that your brain would leak right out of your ears immediately after the first sniff.

You pull the fabric of his boxers down just enough to finally pull him out of the confines of his clothes. If you hadn't been guiding him up, his cock would have slapped against his belly, it's so hard.

“You're so pretty,” you breathe in an airy whisper, your eyes flicking constantly down to where he's straining in your hand. You can feel the pulse of him, hot and dribbling precum where your thumb idly traces around the flushed pink tip of him. His jaw is clenched tight, he's barely holding back the desperate urge to whine and buck his hips up into the warmth of your hand, too gentle.

Spencer's body is frantic with the panting of breaths that pull insistently into his lungs and back out into the quickly heating air. His solid cock twitches and leaks in your hand, long and full in a way that has you eager to feel how unexpectedly he'd stretch you out.

Your eyes take in the beautiful pathetic sight of him, flushed and flustered, shaking and swelling and still seeping steadily. Your voice is a little lower when you speak again, almost a purr, almost a hum—this low simmering thing that threatens to boil over into something much less controlled than Spencer needs right now.

“You have no idea,” you say slowly, barely restrained, “how hard it is not to just…”

You try to stop yourself, to leave the rest of your sentence as a thought, a note for later, but it's useless. “I wanna taste you so bad.” The words loose from you like an arrow. “I wanna know how deep you'd go in my mouth and…feel how you breathe when I'm down there, learn what you like best. I…” You have to stop yourself, pulling your bottom lip into your mouth to hold it in place between your teeth until you let it go with a cruel-looking bite mark indented into your flesh.

He leans in and catches your bottom lip between his, kissing it soothingly before relenting with a gasp. You sigh lightly, choosing to hold his yearning gaze before you lose track of your actual goal tonight. “Next time,” you murmur, a reminder for you, a promise to him. His stomach clenches at the idea of next time.

You stroke him lazily, your gaze glued to the way his face shifts and twitches. With your other hand, you brush the skin of his shoulder all the way down to the hand on your waist. You clasp your fingers just enough to guide his hand to the familiar space between your thighs, beneath the waist band of your pants, the elastic of your underwear. The moment he feels that warmth, that wet, his hand is charging forward and cupping your pussy like it has a duty there.

You gasp lightly at the enthusiasm, your thighs a little unsteady now that he's touching you. He pulls his hand back a moment later and lifts it to his mouth. He doesn't hesitate to stick two long, slender fingers past his lips, his eyes fluttering closed as he moans at the taste. His tongue licks and sucks around his fingers until it's probably the most lewd sight you've ever seen in your life. The sound he makes when the taste of you fades from his skin is nearly a whine, the smallest sob.

“Spencer!” you squeal quietly, delightfully surprised once again at the desperate need for you in him. His hand halts where the warmth of it pauses against your wet skin. He stares up at you through crooked glasses, a precious mix of worry and a needy plea taking over his face.

“Did I–?”

“No,” you insist before you even let him finish. “You're just so…needy.” The smile you give to him after you've said it prevents him from apologizing. In fact, he feels a strange sense of pride swelling in his chest at the way you look at him, like he's wonderful. You smile, your eyes darting to his pink lips. “Keep going,” you murmur.

He wastes no time. Despite his clumsiness, he manages to rid you of the rest of your clothes until you're hovering bare over his lap. He takes a moment to ogle before his grabby hands are on you again. He rubs his palm along the wet that slickens your pussy and delves two fingers into you until they're buried as deep as they'll go.

Your mouth hangs open slightly, a short gasp slipping like you've been shocked. His fingers stroke inside of you, curling like he's trying to coax something out. He watches your face like he's studying every twitch in your features, like he's mapping out your pleasure by every flare of your nose and every dip of your brows.

His eyes are lidded, his mouth open in awe, his every sense tuned to you. The way your pussy sounds, the wet squelching that comes with particularly nuanced movements and is generally followed by a delighted moan, leaves him utterly fixated on only you.

There's a certain way you look when you're like this. Spencer gets déjà vu watching you now. Your hooded gaze is hopelessly glued to him as your hips steadily search for more of his touch. Your arms come to rest over his shoulders, eventually giving in to the urge to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close. The scent of you soaks his senses until his brain is hazy with it, and he dips his face into the comfort of your shoulder, wasting no time in painting your skin with his kisses. He mouths at your skin like it's covered in honey, happily moaning and sucking and licking until he's pulling back with a weak whine.

“Can I…” a few puffs of air warm your skin. “Can I leave…marks…on you?” He's breathless as he asks through timid murmurs.

You just smile wide and nod as though you'd asked him and got a yes. He lets out a sigh that loosens his chest and wastes no time in fulfilling his desires. His lips and teeth and tongue paint your skin like pencil and brush as his fingers work inside you, a skilled musician plucking strings and tapping keys with startling precision.

Your hips buck into his hand. You can't keep your eyes open or your breaths steady. The feeling of him at your neck is an intoxicating one, a dizzying feeling that has you panting. His teeth scrape, rolling skin between them until it's sensitive and raised.

Spencer huffs between heated kisses to your skin. His fingers curl and pump inside of you, your arousal dripping into his palm and sliding down his wrist. It's wet and warm and filthy. His mouth waters where his tongue licks along the pulsing vein in your neck.

His fingers press intently into you, prodding until your thighs shake where you hover above him. You gasp into his ear as your body arches closer to him, igniting in him a growing need for your voice begging “r-right there” in his ear. Your fingers tangle in his hair, your moans vibrate beneath his tongue, heat coils in your gut and in your thighs and all the way up your spine until you’re whining.

When your hand caught his wrist, pausing his movements with a gasp, Spencer's gaze snapped to yours in an instant. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head quickly, your voice soft but pitched with pleasure. Instead of replying, you capture his lips with your own again to silence his worries as you regretfully pull his fingers from the wet heat between your thighs. He whines in response. 

Your thighs shake a little as you continue to hover over his lap. Your gaze stays glued to his like you're hypnotizing him, his focus sole and unbroken.

The smallest, slyest smirk begins to stretch over your lips. As he watches you, you bring his hand up and let your mouth fall open as you slowly guide his fingers into your mouth. Something in Spencer shatters as he watches your lips wrap lewdly around his fingers, licking and sucking yourself from his skin like candy. His mouth parts, his breath leaves him deflated, he watches on with hooded eyes dark with an unbearable desire.

“Angel, I–”

He doesn't get to finish before you pull his fingers wetly from your mouth. “I'm gonna put you inside of me now.”

All the air he'd managed to suck into his lungs is knocked out of him in an instant. He stares, wide-eyed and breathless. Then, wordlessly, he nods.

Your hand drops down to his cock, wrapping around and pumping just a few times. You don't let your gaze break from his as you slowly line him up to where the blunt head of his cock nudges against your pussy.

You hold for a moment, just looking at him as the both of you stall in the held breath between you.

He's so pretty up close like this. Hazel eyes are made dark and melting like caramel. The sparkling of his eyes is awed and pleading. He's got a few freckles dotted sparingly along his face—the darkest one sits on his cheek closer to his left ear, but your favorite is above his right brow. You let your free hand hold his head, your fingertips barely brushing a little freckle in gentle reverence.

“Are you ready, pretty boy?”

His lashes flutter, he lets in a thick breath. With a nod, he says, “Yes, please.”

You smile and brush his cheek again. “Okay,” you whisper. You kiss his brow where the freckle resides. “I'm gonna put you inside me.”

His breath shakes, and he nods again. His eyes focus intently on you, like the suspense is killing him.

The feeling of Spencer's cock slowly sinking inside of you, filling you, stretching you, is electrifying. Your lips part, your breath gets caught. His hands tighten where they hold you at your hips, shaky but enamored. Little whines crackle out of him at will.

When your thighs meet his, and he's deep and snug inside of you, the both of you let out two long breaths. Spencer's eyes, refusing to shut, watch you like he's gone drunk. He's breathing quickly, his muscles flex and relax like he's barely holding back.

You run your fingers through his soft hair. Your voice is gentle, partially a tease, “You're not gonna cum, are you?”

He shudders and shakes his head emphatically. “N-no. No.” He says it like he's pleading with you.

You nod, using the tip of your nose to fix his glasses again. “Good.” Fingers curl through his hair and guide his head back as you lean in close, your bodies pressed against each other. His eyes flutter shut when your lips brush his, smiling when he sighs and humming when he kisses you like he's devout.

You start to slowly grind your hips in his lap. Long and slow strokes make him gasp against your mouth, holding onto your waist for dear life. You watch his face, too blissed out to hold your gaze as his closed eyes flicker behind his eyelids.

He's so beautiful. His skin is red beneath your touch, he's utterly breathless, he starts whining like a puppy—worse when you scratch lightly along his chin. “Good boy,” you whisper under your breath, kissing the very tip of his nose as gently as you can, as though he'd suffocate if you distracted his mouth from breathing air.

He fills you up nice. He reaches deep inside of you, making every slow grind torturous for him as his hands paw at your sides, shaking and straining. His head is thrown back, and his jaw is clenched tight. Your thumbs stroke the muscles in his throat. His hips jerk upwards.

“C-can you…slow—slow down? I can't—Shit, please!” You can feel him pulsing inside of you. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when you swivel your hips.

As if that wasn't enough, you giggle at him as you slow your pace to something he might be able to manage a little easier. He's not sure how helpful it's going to be when you decide to clench around him while you do.

“Yeah, honey,” you murmur, kissing all over his face as you go. Your lips hover by his ear as you whisper in a smooth, loud voice, “Have you been thinking about this?”

His breath shudders when he sighs, jerkily nodding to your question. “Y-yes.”

You smile, kissing the freckle by his ear before whispering again. “Thinking about me on top of you?”

Again, he nods, this time with a lot more emphasis. Looking in his eyes, though slightly obscured by foggy glasses, you can see just how delirious he actually is. His skin is flushed red, a light sheen of sweat paints his body, and his soft hair falls in brown curls in his face. You guide some of his locks away from his pretty eyes. “Yes, ma'am.”

You bend down to kiss him, and he's capturing your lips easily. You moan into his mouth as his hips buck up into your own, eager for more of you but still too sensitive to take more.

“So polite, baby.” You're still so close, your lips brush with each word. His breath shudders against your own. “Should I reward you?”

His eyes flutter. The way you speak to him drives him insane, makes it hard to think, much less to speak. “W-with what?”

You smile, holding his face in your hands as you begin to grind your hips deeper, faster into his. He presses deep enough inside of you until you feel him with every breath. You squeeze around him once as his hands come to grip your sides, trying so hard not to hold too tight (he doesn't have it in him).

He chokes, shaking his head quickly as he struggles to handle you. “N-no, you can't. I’m gonna—” he gasps desperately, “‘m gonna cum if you do that.”

You tut gently. There's something about the way he breathes, the way he looks at you and pleads when you're up here like this. You can't help but to tease him, to get him to squirm and blush under your charm.

“You can hold it in for me, can't you, Spencer?” You clench down on him until he moans out into the heated air.

“I—I don't–”

“I know you can,” you hum as you kiss him again. “You've been so good for me.”

He can't think really well right now, but he knows for a fact that he wants you to feel good, and he wants to make you proud. He gathers the strength to bring a string of letters together enough to say, “Fuck. Okay. Okay.”

You press your forehead to his, scattering kisses all over his face. “Good boy.”

He lets out a deep, heavy breath, ducking his head beneath yours until it rests gently on your chest. Then you feel his lips press against the skin along your collarbone, trailing down more and more until he's licking patterns along your breasts. When he sucks your nipple into his mouth, a shudder rushes down your body and you're arching into him as you try to catch your breath. Your moans fill the air and only make him all the more eager.

His tongue swipes along your nipple as his teeth just barely scrape the skin, the vibrations of his moans sinking into your flesh all the while. You tangle your hand in his hair as you hold him there, and Spencer is more than content.

He feels so good inside you. It's a nice stretch that sinks deep, each roll a reward. Your eyes shut and your breaths are melodic moans that freely fill the air as you eagerly fuck yourself on his lap. You can hear the sound of your arousal coating the top of his thighs and adding a backdrop to the soundtrack of your pleasure.

Your hand drops down to where the two of you meet, brushing your finger over your clit and gasping at how sensitive you are. Spencer whimpers at the way you pulse around him.

He pulls off of your tit to look up at you, lips swollen and eyes wet with desperation. He's breathless when he speaks, sounding like he's fighting a sob at the back of his throat. “Can I cum? Can I cum please, please, please?”

He looks so pretty like this, aching and hanging on to your every sound. You can't fight the smile that spreads over your face as you slow your hips, the way you shake your head and whisper, “No.” You sound so sweet saying it, too, his angel.

His angel who won't let him cum. He lets out a heaving breath, his thighs shaking beneath him as he struggles to hold back. You bend down to give him another slow kiss, a little relief after being so mean.

It doesn't last long when your hips pick up speed again, grinding until he's bucking up into you again. You moan with every thrust, holding him, kissing him, riding him until he's whimpering with every other roll.

Your lips brush over his. “Faster.”

He shakes his head, his eyes struggling to stay open to behold you. “I can't, ‘m gonna cum.”

His hips falter, and you respond with a deeper roll. “You're gonna cum?” He moans his response. “I'm disappointed…I thought you were my good boy.”

He thinks he's going to shatter. Something in him panics at the notion of disappointing you, whether he knows if it's true or not. He can't fathom having let you down. How could he do such a thing?

He nods quickly, “Okay, okay.” His hands slide down your hips, holding tight as he moves you with him. Before long, his mouth is on your chest again as he keeps sucking faint marks into your skin.

Your hips move with his until you're both barely holding in the sounds of your moans and your whines. You swivel on his lap and shudder. Rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles has you fluttering around his cock, quickening his hot breath as it fans against your chest.

The blunt head of his cock kisses your cervix with every deep thrust he manages to give. Each one drives you further and further to the edge until you're barely holding on.

You fuck yourself on top of him until the room is filled with the sound of your thighs meeting his. You can feel the winding inside of you getting tighter and tighter, your back arching into his mouth.

You take his face in your hands, granting him the softest, shakiest of touches. His hazy eyes meet yours, adoring. “You ready?” you hum breathlessly.

It takes a moment for him to register what you're saying, trying to focus on evening out his erratic hips. “Huh?” Confusion looks good on him. You don't know why.

You lean in until your lips brush his ear with every word you murmur. “Are you ready to cum inside me?”

Spencer nods quickly, a new determination building within him as he moans underneath you. “Yes, yes!”

You smile against his mouth. A moan gasps out of you when his hips buck up right into the spot that makes you weak. He makes it harder for you to think straight, holding you and pulling you close to keep pumping his cock into you while you rub relentlessly at your clit.

His lips slide against yours in messy half-kisses fueled by the need to be as close as you can be. He hiccups on a breath. “Fuck, please can I cum? Needa cum for you, angel.”

The way he says it is nothing short of praise; needy, adoring praise. It has the last threads of control breaking loose as you nod your head quickly. “Yes, Spencer.”

He doesn't need to be told twice. The moment you say it, his body seizes and he sucks in an aching breath. Spencer's mouth falls open, and he's burying his face in the crook of your neck in search of your warmth and your scent. A string of moans and gasps and ‘fuck’s and ‘thank you’s fill the space between you as his hips snap up into you once, a strong thrust that has you staggering as you quickly follow suit.

You slam your hips down and keep yourself as close to him as possible. You swivel your hips to keep his cock pressing up against your cervix as you gasp. Your hands on his face, you pull him into a kiss heavy enough to get him drunk on it.

Spencer spills inside of you as his eager hands keep you pinned to him. You comb his hair from his face with your fingers, you let your broken, breathy moans fill his head. Every time you bite down on his lip, you feel him pulse inside of you in time with surprised whines. It doesn't help when you clamp down around him like you're trying to milk him dry.

The come-down is full of nothing but thick, uneven breaths and hands too restless to be still but too exerted to do more than stroke fingers on skin. You drape yourself against his body, let yourself go limp as you lay your head on his shoulder and drink on the scent of his cologne, his sweat, the conditioner in his hair. Neither of you realizes it when your breaths sync in the quiet between you.

When you do move, it's slowly as you lift yourself up just enough to slip him out of you. Spencer makes this stifled, strangled sound when some of his cum drips out of you and onto the couch. You just chuckle lightly and adjust yourself to sit delightfully in Spencer's lap. He welcomes you happily, his arms wrapping around you easily. You nuzzle into the space of his neck.

A moment passes, and in a quiet voice, Spencer mutters, “Thank you.”

You smile slowly, moving impossibly closer. “Thank you,” you hum. “You were amazing.”

That blush in his skin doesn't get the chance to fade as he hides away his face by looking around your apartment at anything but you. Your lamp, your television, a frame on the wall. Your fingers brushing along his face is what brings him back to you.

The way you smile at him makes him warm and sort of giddy. Your hair is a little messy, your eyes are still blown wide from your high. Spencer can't help but stare, even as this shy little gleam makes its way into your gaze.

“You're so pretty,” he whispers.

You turn away from him to hide the flustered grin that overtakes you. To distract him and yourself, you pull him in for another kiss, this one much slower and more tempered than all the last.

He breathes like your kiss is all the air he needs. His hand comes to cradle your cheek where his thumb strokes gently.

“Thank you.” You brush some hair out of his face just in time to see him turn shy again. Your smile grows, and you finally adjust the glasses that had been perpetually crooked and beyond saving by this point. “Pretty boy.”

He looks up at you like he can see a halo of light glowing beyond you. The wonder glitters in his eyes before he tears his gaze away, chuckling to himself in an attempt to save his thoughts. With another small kiss, he asks so softly, “Can… Can I see you again?”

You couldn't look more charmed by his question. You lean in close until your lips are just brushing. “You're not escaping me that easy, pretty boy.”

Spencer smiles like you've just given him the moon. He holds you a little tighter, pulls you a little closer. Instead of saying anything in return, he just kisses you once more.

Criminal Minds taglist: @queermaxwooo @mdanon027 @lilianhallee @hpstuff244444 @thegr8estpuff @niktwazny303 @bubbles2300 @hiireadstuff @chloelmao67 @feyresqueen @hbwrelic @princess76179 @hc-geralt-23 @hits-different-cause-its-you @liza-beth03 @carolina-angel @mournfuldeer @pinkpantheris @jackierose902109 Dr. Reid taglist: @swwanlake @imgonnaslurpu @i-live-in-spite @stevendenkiswhore @deltamoon666 @linda-park-arrow Feel free to send a message or ask to be added to the taglist!

Pissing Frank off is such an easy and enjoyable activity.

The way he gets all red faced, the way his knuckles clench and his jaw ticks as he fights the urge not to snap at you because he hates yelling at you.

It is, quite frankly, adorable.

You discover this on a Tuesday.

By nine in the morning, he's already regretting waking up.

He's making coffee when you wander into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. Without thinking, you wrap your arms around his waist.

"Mornin', Matt." Frank goes completely still.

"…Excuse me?" You blink innocently.

"Oh." A dramatic gasp. "Sorry." You pat his chest. "Morning, Frank." He stares at you for a long moment.

"…Very funny."

"I thought so." At lunch, he's mostly forgotten about it. Mostly. The two of you stop by Curtis's garage to drop something off. Curtis gives you a quick hug goodbye. You wave as he disappears inside. Then you slip your hand into Frank's.

"Curtis, say bye to Frank." You stammer. "I mean- Frank, say bye to Curtis." Frank snorts.

"You done?"

"What?"

"You're smilin'."

"I always smile."

"You got that look."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're about to become my problem." You squeeze his hand. The afternoon brings a trip to the grocery store. You're wheeling the cart, deliberately ramming it into his heels every few feet. He finally turns, grabbing the handle with a sigh.

"Give me that before you break my ankles."

"Whatever you say, Dave." You let go, watching his shoulders tense. He doesn't say anything, just grips the cart so tightly his knuckles are white. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. Later that evening, you're curled up on the couch, a blanket over your lap as you scroll through your phone. Frank comes in, having just finished a shower, his hair still damp. He leans over the back of the couch, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Whatcha watchin'?" Without looking up from your phone, you lean into his touch.

"Nothing much, Billy." He straightens up slowly. You can feel the shift in the air, the sudden drop in temperature. You risk a glance up at him. His face is a mask of controlled fury, his eyes dark and fixed on you.

"You think this is funny?" His voice is low, dangerously quiet.

"What? I was distracted." You try for innocent, but the smirk tugging at your lips gives you away. Frank doesn't answer immediately.

He just watches you. Really watches you. His jaw flexes once. Twice.

"You've called me Matt." Silence. "Then Curtis." Another beat. "Then Dave." His eyes never leave yours. "And now Billy." You shrug, still smiling.

"I've had a long day."

"Mhm."

"I'm tired."

"Mhm."

"So maybe I just forgot your name." He lets out a quiet laugh. It isn't amused.

"You forgot my name."

"It happens."

"No." He takes one slow step toward the couch. "It doesn't." You tuck your legs beneath you, still looking entirely too pleased with yourself.

"I've known a lot of men." His eyebrow lifts.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"So maybe I got confused." Another step.

"Confused."

"Mhm." Frank nods once. Slowly. "You know what I've been thinkin' about all day?"

"What?"

"Every damn time you said somebody else's name…" He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, like he's physically stopping himself from reaching for you. "…I wondered if that was the point." You tilt your head.

"And was it?"

"You wanted me jealous."

"I might've." He studies you.

"You succeeded." That catches you off guard.

"You were?" His laugh is humorless.

"You called me 'Matt' while your arms were around me." Another step.

"You hugged Curtis."

"He hugged me."

"I know."

"You thanked 'Dave' for pushin' a grocery cart." Your smile grows.

"And Billy?" His jaw tightens.

"You let me kiss your forehead…" He looks almost offended. "…and then you called me Billy." You can't help it. You laugh. Frank doesn't. Instead, he rounds the couch. The room suddenly feels much smaller. "Still funny?" You bite your lip.

"…A little." He plants one hand on the back of the couch behind your head.

Not slamming it. Just there. Close.

His other hand slips into your lap, gently lifting your phone away before setting it on the coffee table. All of your attention is on him now.

"All day." His voice has dropped lower. "You've been sayin' other men's names to my face."

"I was teasing."

"I know."

"You know?"

"I know." A beat. "But I still didn't like it." His eyes search yours. "I don't like imaginin' you with anybody else." Your teasing smile softens.

"Frank…"

"You're mine." The words land with the weight of a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. The playful tension that had been crackling between you all day curdles into something heavier, something primal. Your smirk is gone, replaced by a sudden, breathless awareness of the man caging you in.

"Frank…" you start, your voice softer now, the apology you hadn't realized you needed to make already forming.

"Shh." He leans in closer, his free hand moving from the back of the couch to cup your jaw. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, a possessive, grounding gesture. "I'm not done." His gaze is intense, burning with a raw, unfiltered emotion that makes your stomach clench. This isn't about the stupid game anymore. This is about the fact that you'd made him feel something he hated, something dark and sharp and ugly.

"You don't get to do that," he murmurs, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "You don't get to make me think about you with someone else. Not even for a second."

"I wasn't," you whisper, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, solid beat of his heart beneath your palms. "It was just a stupid joke."

"I know." His thumb presses gently, parting your lips. "But my brain doesn't always listen. It just… sees things. Sees you with Curtis. Sees you laughing with Micro. Sees you looking at someone else the way you look at me." His voice cracks, just a little, on the last few words, and it's that tiny crack in his armor that undoes you completely. He's not angry. He's scared. The thought is staggering.

"I only look at you like that, Frank," you breathe, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "There's no one else." He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he closes the remaining distance between you, his mouth crashing down on yours. It's not a gentle kiss. It's a claiming. A punishment and a reassurance all at once. It's deep and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to stake its territory, his hand moving from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you in place, making sure you can't escape. You melt into him, your body arching against his, a silent surrender. You let him take what he needs, let him erase the day, erase every other name, every other face, until there's only him. Only Frank. When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. His forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged.

"Say my name," he commands, his voice a low growl.

"Frank," you whisper, without hesitation.

"Again."

"Frank." He kisses you again, softer this time, but no less possessive. His hands slide down your body, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. You can feel his arousal, hard and insistent against your belly.

"You're going to remember who you belong to," he murmurs against your lips. "You're going to scream my name tonight until it's the only one you can remember." His hands drag the blanket off your lap and toss it to the floor. You’re wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and boxers. Frank lifts you up without warning, manhandles you until you’re straddling him, his arms caging you in, his grip bruising on your thighs. He makes you feel small. Even when you’re taunting him, running your mouth, you’re always aware of just how much bigger he is. How dangerous his hands can be. You’d be lying if you said that wasn’t a huge part of the appeal.Frank kisses you like he wants to fuck you with his tongue alone. He’s hot and wet and insistent, mouth opening wider when you try to keep up with him. His hands are busy, kneading the backs of your thighs, shoving you closer, grinding you down against his sweatpants-clad cock.

God, he’s already hard. Course he is. Your own breath stutters in your lungs as Frank rocks his hips up, a slow deliberate grind, all that heat and pressure focused right where you’re already aching for it. He mashes your bodies together, like he’s trying to brute-force your atoms into a single, messy unit. You cling to his shirt as if it’ll keep you afloat, like any second now the undertow of him might swallow you whole. His hands are everywhere, greedy and insistent: kneading your ass, palming over your back, clawing you closer even as there’s literally nowhere else to go.

“Frank—” It comes out half-whine, half-moan, your brain flickering like a dying lightbulb. He bares his teeth in a grin, all wolfish satisfaction, and shoves a hand under the hem of your t-shirt. His fingers splay out hot against the small of your back.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Somethin’ you need?” There’s a roughness to it, a cockyness that makes your body fire up with need. Frank shoves the t-shirt up over your ribs, not bothering to take it off. His hands are broad and greedy and everything he does is with total, singular focus—holding your waist, dragging your dick against the heat of him, grinding you down until you see little explosions behind your eyelids. One of his hands slips between your bodies, tracing the shape of you through thin, cotton boxers. His jaw works tight, like he’s biting back the urge to just rip the whole thing away and devour you in one go.

"You really think you want this?" His thumb rubs slow circles over your cock through the fabric. "If I fuck you now, I ain’t stoppin’. Not ‘til you remember only me." Your whole body draws tight as a bowstring. You can’t even summon words; you just nod, desperate and dizzy. Frank just stares you down, heavy-lidded, mouth bruised from kissing and still hungry. His thumb drags a slow line up your spine, making every muscle shudder. You try to look away, but he won't allow it; with a single fist in your hair he angles your head back, exposing your throat. His face softens for a split-second, amused. Then he bares his teeth and takes you apart. His mouth leaves a wet, vicious trail along your jaw, nipping hard enough to sting. Marking, claiming, like a dog with a favorite bone. You try to steady yourself, but there isn't a steady bone left in your body. You can feel his cock, a monster of a thing, bulging against your core. His hands ghost over your breasts and you shudder. Frank’s hand finds your throat in the next instant, thick fingers splaying over your pulse. Not choking, not really, but holding you still, pinning you in the moment. Your cock throbs in your boxers, every heartbeat a jolt in his palm. He licks a rough line behind your ear, teeth scraping your skin, and you gasp, everything in you going pliant and feverish.

He forces you to look dead at him, even as he grinds the sharp bone of his own hips hard against your ass. The friction makes you dizzy, makes you want to sob. You'd been taunting him all day for this. Toying with him, poking the animal until you forgot it might one day snap the leash.

“No more games?” He speaks low and clear, like a threat or a prayer. A noise leaves your throat, nearly a whimper. You want to say his name but your tongue won’t work, not with the way he’s caught you, not with hunger rolling off him like a heatwave. Frank shoves his own sweatpants out of the way with one hand, cock springing free, obscene in your periphery. You steal a glance, and the size of him makes your blood pressure spike—thick, demanding, angry-red and beading at the tip.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” he growls. “Take every goddamn inch. You got it?” His thumb presses under your chin, the grip in your hair unyielding. You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a choked little sound, equal parts awe and terror. You nod, because you can’t do anything else. You barely see it; Frank’s hand dips between your legs, knuckles pushing your boxers aside, two fingers already slick as they sweep through you. He doesn’t start easy. He’s not gentle. He stretches you, wide and demanding, opening you on his hand like he wants you to remember the ache and remember it’s his.

“Such a fuckin’ brat,” he says, like he’s explaining a math problem. His teeth are in your shoulder now, biting down hard enough to warn, to promise bruises tomorrow. “Wanted to get my attention all day. 'S that right?” Your breath is coming in shuddery little gasps. You shiver in his lap, barely able to hold yourself upright on trembling thighs. He gives you no time to answer, just twists his fingers until your whole body seizes up, pleasure and pain in one bright, fanged burst. He grinds his cock against you, the heft of it hot and heavy, like he wants you to feel what you’ve gotten yourself into.

“I should make you say it, but you got me too fuckin’ riled up. Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t even think about anyone else's name. Gonna fuck you til you forget your own.”

You believe him. You really do.

Frank yanks your hips down, seats himself into your pussy with a single brutal thrust. You swear, near scream; your whole body goes rigid on impact, back arching, mind blanking out to a white-hot buzz. There’s no easing into it, no slow burn. The soft Frank that kisses your hair line and inches you down slowly, asking if you’re okay, has taken a backseat spot this time around. There is a psychic sound in your head, somewhere between a car crash and a cathedral bell. Too full, too soon, too much. Your hands scrabble at his forearms, your nails digging in, and a small, incoherent sob punches out of your chest. He takes it as encouragement. Of course he does. He fucks up into you, hard enough that you hear the slap of his skin over your own blood-rush, hard enough that for a second everything is static. He gives you a second—just one—before his hands wrench you down again, pulling you open. Built for him. That's the thought glittering in your brain, the raw animal possessiveness he's always carried like a scar, now inside you, all the way up, right against your lungs. Every inch, every pink desperate nerve, stretched to the point of snapping.

He doesn't just move—he uses you. Fucking into you like you're his only tether, like there's nowhere else on earth for him to be. His hand fists in your hair again, dragging you down for a kiss that isn't really a kiss, just a brutal mashing of teeth and tongue. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time. Watching. Daring you to look away. You can't. You wouldn't if you could. Every pump rocks your whole body, the friction inside you close to unbearable, the cock splitting you open hotter and harder and more than you should ever be able to take.

"You feel that?" His voice is rough as gravel, chest heaving. "That's me. Only me. Say it." You try, mouth wide, soundless on the first attempt while he fucks you with relentless, punishing rhythm. Your brain is sliding to pieces, overloaded, every pulse and throb between your thighs building into tsunami.

"You—fuck—Frank—" It's a panic, a prayer, a surrender. You clamp down out of reflex, the sound of his answering groan instant and feral. His hand stays at your throat—reminding, not hurting—and you realize you love it. The sense of helplessness, of being owned and ruined and wanted so much it hurts.

"Good girl." He bites the words against your neck, hips rutting in tight, bruising snaps. "Take it. Take all of it. That's what you wanted, right? Wantin' me desperate, wantin' me mean." A sound leaves you that's not human; you don't care. You almost can't breathe, but every time you try to squirm away he drags you back down, impales you, makes you ride out every sharp stretch and relentless stroke. Your clit rubs against the base of him, every thrust hitting the spot that makes you see stars. There's a sick gratification in feeling how desperate, how fucking needy he is for you. You've never felt needed like this. Not by anyone.

Frank lets go of your hair only to grip your jaw, squeezing just enough to make you meet his eyes.

"You like this?" he hisses, spit-slick lips grinning. "How 'bout now? You gonna say someone else's name?" You shake your head, wild and eager. The orgasm builds inside of you at extreme speed, and just when you think it' might tear you apart- Frank stops. You jerk upright like a puppet with strings cut. The pressure, the friction, the delicious pain, it's all gone too soon—leaving your body trembling and your pussy fluttering empty around absolutely nothing. Your vision blurs, soaking your eyes, and a pathetic mewl bubbles in your chest. You can't believe he stopped. You can't believe you ever thought you were in control. Frank's hands slide up under your jaw, thumbs pressing into the hollows of your cheeks. He looks you dead on, pupils blown, lips slick and gritted with restraint, and you know, you know, he's doing it on purpose.

The bastard is grinning.

"You wanna come, baby?" His voice is silk now, mocking you, enjoying every ragged gasp you make. He keeps you perched on his cockhead, barely inside, just enough to make you feel the void, make you beg for it. You try to chase it, grinding down, but he's holding you up, strong as a dock piling, not letting you take what you want. Your whole body throbs, cunt slick and pulsing, insides gone molten with need. Your fingernails score the thick muscle of his shoulders and find no purchase. You're shaking. You're not even pretending not to whine anymore.

"Frank—please—" He kisses you, soft as a secret, and you hate him for it.

"You only come when I say. You wanna remember my name so bad, you can be a good fuckin' girl and ask. Say it." You do, choking on shame and relief—

"Frank, please, please let me—" He thrusts up, slow and mean, filling you in one greedy surge. There's no patience in him now. He's relentless, one hand fisting your hair, the other palming your ass, dragging you down in time with every slam of his hips. You see white, stuttering, every nerve lit and shorting out and crying for more. He fucks you hard, the kind of hard that would embarrass you if you weren't too far gone to care, if you weren't grinding your hips to meet his every thrust, if you weren't moaning, stupid and open-mouthed, into his shoulder. Your thighs start to shake. You can feel the way he splits you open, the way your cunt stretches and aches and hugs everything he gives you. You've never felt so full in your life. You're so close you think you might die. He pulls you down on a savage angle, and suddenly he's pounding your g-spot with every thrust. Your brain rewinds and hiccups. You can't remember your own name, let alone anyone else's. Hands in your hair, voice in your ear, every atom of him inside you: it's all just Frank, Frank, Frank. 

Frank's rhythm is merciless, every thrust a reminder and a punishment, driving your insides to raw, delirious peaks. The world narrows to the sound of his pelvis hammering yours, the thick, ragged breaths in your ear, the slap and glide and brutal fullness. You can't even pretend to want it gentle. You want to be ruined. You want to be his. You want to be nothing at all.m Your body is a pulse, a knot, a high wire about to snap. Frank fucks you through the first orgasm like it’s nothing, like every clench and spasm just spurs him on. Your cunt goes electric, muscles locking around him while you sob into his neck, gasping and choking on air and pleasure and the shame of being so easy, so desperate for it. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t let you coast down. He wants you undone, wants you trembling and pleading and slick all over his lap. The second peak comes on too fast, a static bombshell detonating low in your belly, and you hear yourself scream, just a ragged, wordless cry, your fingernails leaving angry arcs down his back.

Frank's hands are everywhere—one clamped over your mouth so you don't wake the neighbors, the other shoving your hips down, forcing you to take him to the root, like if he could crawl inside your bones he'd do it in a heartbeat. His sweat slicks your thighs. You taste salt and skin and the metal tang of your own blood where you bit your tongue. You’re limp in his arms, spent and shaking, and it’s still not enough for him. He grinds you down until you’re a soaked, shuddering mess, whispers into your hair, low and hoarse:

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. My girl, my fuckin’ good girl—look at you.” His voice is a gentle shock. You crack your eyes open, vision swimming, see him staring up at you like he’s proud, like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted in his life. You sob out a sound that might be his name, might be nothing at all. He grins, wolfish and tender at once.

“C’mon,” he says, “you got more in you. Don’t let me down now.” You shake your head, but your body says otherwise. He knows your tells. He pushes you until you’re riding him, until you’re fucking yourself on his cock, every bounce and grind a fresh humiliation, and you love it, you love it so much it’s like dying. The overstimulation is a live wire, agony and ecstasy in equal parts. Frank slows, changes angle, and suddenly you’re there again, everything going white, body jerking and clenching so hard you feel like you could break in half. He holds you there, trembling and on the verge of collapse, and slows the rhythm until it’s just a deep, rolling grind. You pant into the crook of his neck, hair matted to your forehead with sweat, the taste of him thick in your mouth. Everything inside is raw, edges sanded off by the relentless drag of his cock. The only word left in your head is Frank—Frank who holds you together when you’d rather come apart, Frank who knows exactly how to keep you on the knife’s edge, just this side of sanity.

He pets your hair, almost tender, but the next thrust is another deliberate punch deep inside. You find a whine in your throat, a wet, animal noise, and he laughs, the sound rough and sweet all at once. “You like that, huh. Look at you.” He moves you, bounces you slow and mean, the slick sound of it obscene in the open air. His hand drifts up your back, holds you steady at the nape of your neck so you can’t hide from him. He wants to see all of it—every twitch and gasp and flutter, every time your body gives up more than it means to. You try to fight it—clamp your thighs, ride it out, hold onto the last fragments of self—but Frank’s got your number.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice all grit and pride, “take it for me, take it all.” You do, because there’s nothing left in you but obedience, nothing but the need to please, to hear the pride in his voice when you fall apart again. He snaps his hips up, and the pressure detonates behind your eyes, another climax ripping through you without mercy. You collapse forward, chest to his, arms shaking, body empty and yet wanting more. He keeps you there, rutting up into you in short, savage bursts, cock still hard and thick inside your cunt. You sob into the hollow above his collarbone, beg a little, maybe say his name, but it all blends into a single sound: need. He waits it out, rides the waves of your aftershocks, then flips you with a single roll of his hips, bracing your shoulders against the couch. Your legs splay open, trembling and useless, and he just stares for a second—like he’s memorizing the mess he’s made.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, and kneels between your thighs. He lines himself up and drives in again, no warning, no mercy, just the solid, hot weight of him to the hilt. Your body seizes, then melts into the cushions, and he laughs—deep and satisfied, like the world finally makes sense. He fucks you in a slow, dragging rhythm, letting the brutal stretch of every stroke remind you exactly who’s in charge. There’s no end to it, just wave after wave, each one higher than the last. He leans down, palm cradling the side of your face, thumb tracing your slack jaw.

“You with me?” he asks. You must look wrecked, but you nod, dazed and grateful. “Good. Gonna make you come for me again,mama.” He says it soft, like it’s a favor, but you can hear the threat in it too: he doesn’t plan to stop until you’re boneless and emptied and barely a thought left in your head. The couch cushions creak under the force of him. Each thrust sets off a fresh tremor in your thighs, blunt shocks of sensation that make your vision swim. Frank’s thumb scrapes your cheek, smearing spit and sweat, and you realize you’re crying, maybe a little. He notices. Of course he notices. He slows, just for a breath—a single, tender second—then fucks you harder, the pace cruel and perfect.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he pants, watching your face for every twitch and flicker, “want you to make a mess for me. C’mon, show me.” You try to answer, but your body’s abandoned language. All you can do is clutch at his arm, dig your nails in, let the heat and stretch and pressure tunnel through you like a fever. Your cunt contracts around him and he groans, a low, ragged sound of approval. You shatter again before you can brace for it. Your back bows, toes curling, pussy fluttering around his thick cock. Frank hisses and bites your neck, not gentle. You grind up against him, greedy for the friction, the pain, the relentless stretch. You want him to hurt you; you want him to ruin every inch. You want to be so thoroughly claimed that you’ll never joke about another man’s name again. He keeps you pinned, locked to the couch by the weight of his hips and the clamp of his hand on your jaw. His mouth crashes to yours, tongue slicking inside, swallowing every gasp and whimper. He fucks you with a purpose: to erase you and build you back up in his own image.

When he finally slows, the edges of the world have blurred; your thoughts run like water. Frank gathers you up, arms under your knees, and hauls you higher, bracing your back against the armrest. You slide down, helpless, as his cock pops out and then pushes back in, deeper than before. You shriek. He muffles it with his palm.

“Shh. That’s right, honey. You take it for me. All of it.” His voice is so close, the words vibrating in your ribs. Your nipples brush his chest with every thrust, the heat of him soaking through your skin. You’re desperate, completely ruined, and his cock is the only thing holding you together. He pushes your knees up, folding you almost in half, and fucks you straight down, hitting a spot so overwhelming you think you might black out. You can’t even beg anymore. All you can do is sob and let him use you, let him drive you to the next peak and the next, each one burning hotter, brighter, until you’re molten and screaming and trembling everywhere. He seems to savor it, watching you, licking sweat from your jaw while he pistons in and out, every stroke a shockwave through your core. He’s close, but he won’t let himself finish. Not yet. He wants more from you.Frank's hands pry your knees wider, one beefy palm holding your thigh hard to the couch and the other angling your jaw so you have to look right at him, so you can see the scarred terrain of his face as he splits you open.

No room to hide, not from that look. Not from the power in his hips as he drives into you. The world is sweat and skin and bruises blooming under his fingers, and the endless, ragged sound of your own voice—crying, pleading, gone completely out of your control. You've never been this fucked, never been this taken apart. He keeps his eyes locked on yours while he fucks you. There is no pretense in it, no mercy.

"C'mon, baby, gimme one more," he pants, the words grinding out of him like he's hauling each one up from the bottom of a well. "Know you got it in you. Open up, that's it—show me." The angle hits so deep you almost fold in two. Pressure building, pressure breaking, white noise and heat. Your body bucks, tries to curl away, to get a single breath above the drowning tide of sensation, but Frank won't let you. He holds you there, fucks you through it, makes you take every goddamn inch. You hear yourself scream, see his face twist with satisfaction. He loves it. He fucking loves it.

"That's my girl," he growls, voice raw, "look at you, fuckin' perfect. You wanna come again, don't you? Say it. Tell me." He is relentless, the tempo brutal enough to make the couch frame creak. Your whole body is one raw, exposed nerve, and the pleasure borders on pain in a way that makes you sob. You don't even know what you're saying, just babbling his name, babbling anything that might keep him fucking you this good, this hard, forever. He slows, just for a second, like he wants to drag it out, savor every twitch and flutter. Then he slams in, three deep, punishing strokes, and you shatter. You come so hard you think you might pass out, clenching around him so violently your vision goes gray at the edges. Frank hisses, like you've bitten him, and keeps pumping, keeps you racked up high on the edge and then off it again and again.

The world comes back in pieces. You are limp on the cushions, legs thrown over Frank's shoulders, his weight crushing your hips to the couch. His cock still stuffed inside you, still rutting, like he's trying to find the bottom of you and then build a new low. He slides one hand under your back, arching you up, and bends over you until his chest is a wall at your nose, until you can inhale the salt-and-cologne heat of his sweat.

"You wanna be a brat, you better be ready for the consequences," he grunts, biting the words against your lips. "Fuckin' with me all day—" He snaps his hips on the word, sharp enough to make you yelp. "Thinkin' you can get away with it—" Another thrust, another yelp. "This is what happens." Frank goes feral, the tempo turning punishing. He braces your thighs wide, bends you in half, and hammers home with a rhythm that shakes the battered couch and sets every nerve in your body on fire. You're not even aware of your own voice anymore—a high, raw, desperate sound, punctuating every stroke as he fucks you deeper, harder, until the feeling of him is all you know. Your mind whites out at the edges; your skin is electric, slick and tingling and oversensitive. Each thrust rakes over a sweet spot inside until you're convinced you'll split on it, until you're ruined and remade in his image.

He doesn't give you a second to recover. Doesn't care that your legs are jelly, that your body is vibrating with every stutter and snap of his hips. He wants you on the edge, teetering, trembling, bratty little attitude wrung clean out of you. He wants you to never forget who fucks you this open. You can't even look at him—your vision is nothing but sweat and the flat planes of his chest, the bruising press of his hands pinning you down. Frank's face is a blur above you, but you know the look on it: hunger, pride, a little mean, a lot possessive. You love it.

You try to reach for his arm, to anchor yourself to something, but your hands flop uselessly against his forearm. He grunts, leans hard into you, and the new angle makes you want to scream. He's everywhere: in you, on you, under your skin, inside your head. Your own voice is sobbing out his name, a mantra, a plea, the only thing you can say.

"Yeah, that's it," he huffs, voice thick and wet with arousal. "Let everyone hear you, baby. Say it. Say who fucks you this good." He gives you a savage thrust for punctuation and you break, high and needy, the pleasure a punch to the gut.

"Frank—oh, fuck—Frank, Frank—" You're almost crying with it, the mess between your thighs slick and obscene. He loves it. He praises you, filthy, soft, relentless.

"That's my good girl. You take it so good—shit, look at you, takin' every fuckin' inch. This pussy's perfect, made for me." He palms your cheek, forces you to meet his gaze. "You gonna come again for me? Gonna show me how grateful you are?" You nod, whimpering, desperate for it. The heat in your belly is a live wire, every movement a fresh, white-hot spike of pleasure. He slows, just for a moment, grinding deep with a mean little circle of his hips that makes you see stars.

"You like makin' me crazy?" he asks, and you don't even know if it's a question that needs answering. Doesn't matter. You're beyond words, beyond anything but the feeling of his cock splitting you open. He slaps your thigh, a crisp, mean crack, and the sting fans the fire inside you. You clench around him, milking him, and Frank fucks you like the world's gone dark and hot and everything outside this moment's been blown to glass. He wants you split, spent, every sensation spiking until there's only him left in your skull, until if you ever tries to say anyone else's name again your body'll reject it like poison. You're a fucking mess—hair everywhere, tears on your cheeks and spit on your jaw, your voice gone strange and high and sticky from the way he keeps you right there, trembling on the couch, legs crooked up on his shoulders. He can hardly see straight for how much he wants you. It's a sickness, the kind that eats out everything that isn't need. That last orgasm knocked something loose in you, left you blubbering and gasping, and Frank grins like a fucking wolf at the way you clamp around him every time he grinds in deep. He sets a slow rhythm now, dragging it out, letting the stretch and heat build again. He wants you to remember this for a week. He leans in, crowding you, forearms braced on either side of your head. Your whole world's bracketed by his arms and sweat and the sharp, salty tang of sex. You're sobbing, little sounds he used to think meant stop but now he knows mean fuck yes, more, don't you dare stop. He drags his lips along your jaw, nipping and licking, then says it in your ear, quiet and mean:

"This all you got? I thought you were tough." You mewl, tries to squirm away, but he's got you caged. He wants you pinned and wild and shattered. He wants you to never forget his name again. "You like when I fuck you stupid?" he pants, voice breaking on the upstroke, "You like it when I make you cry?" He doesn't expect you to talk. You can't. Your nails dig into his biceps, desperate, searching for something to hold. He fucks you through the shakes, through the endless aftershocks, and the way your body milks him is going to destroy him if he's not careful.

He tries to wait it out. Tries to be good, to make you come again, but you're so hot and tight it's like a goddamn vise—he's never felt anything like it. You're whimpering, helpless, and the sound rips through him.

“Fuck- Say - Shit, mama, say my name.”

“Frank.”

The last of his patience unspools. He slams in deep, stays there, and his vision explodes. He comes hard as he's ever come, the pleasure mean and electric, his hips jerking with every pulse. He's still growling your name—your real name, goddamn it—like if he says it enough times it'll erase every other man who ever looked at you. He collapses on top of you, crushing you a little, and slides a hand up to cup your throat, thumb stroking the pulse point as your bodies cool. His cock stays inside you, fat and spent and still twitching. He feels you shiver as he shifts his weight. He should pull out. He can't. He needs you to know, to feel it for hours.

His cock’s still locked inside you, thick and swollen and leaking, even as every muscle in your body shudders with oversensitive aftershocks. The air’s sharp with ozone and sweat and the raw, animal edge of the two of you. You can feel him softening only a little, but the heat’s still there, the weight of him a constant, insistent throb inside you. He’s made a mess—a slick, hot flood that seeps out around the base of him, pooling out and streaking wet down the backs of your thighs and onto the couch.

You half expect him to pull out,to clean you up and cradle you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays buried deep, his body a wall against you, his hand heavy on your thigh, fingers digging in with a need to keep you exactly where you are. Your cunt pulses around him, desperate and hollow and full at the same time, the sensation so sharp it makes your eyes water. You try to shift your hips, to ease yourself off the impalement, but Frank grunts and tightens his grip, holding you still.

“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice rough and shredded. He sounds equal parts threat and plea. “Just—gimme a second.” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Every nerve sings, every clench sets off a fresh splash of slick between your legs. You’re not sure if you could stand up, even if he let you. Frank’s hand slides up, palm warm on your belly. He flexes his arm and pins you down, like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he lets go. He nudges his hips forward, slow and deliberate, forcing another inch inside you. You whimper, the sensation almost too much, but you want it, need it, love that he can’t stop himself even now. You feel the way his cock twitches, a slow, aftershock pulse, the slide of his spend leaking out and then forced back in as he gives a shallow thrust.

He’s not done. Not even close.

He pulls your hips up, finds a new angle, and grinds himself in again. You can feel every vein, every shift, the thick stretch of him carving you open. He moves slow, deeper than before, dragging the oversensitive seam of your cunt until it blurs the pleasure and pain together. Your walls flutter and clamp down, desperate to keep him, and Frank’s hand finds the nape of your neck, holds your face-down in the battered cushions.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he slurs, almost too quiet to hear. “Keep you plugged up, yeah?” His hips stay welded to you, cock still inside, and you can feel him—Frank's come, thick and hot, slowly leaking out and then forced right back in by the lazy clutch of your body and the thick, insistent length he refuses to let go. The mess of it drips from your cunt, sticky and slippery, trickling down your ass and pooling under the curve of your thigh. Frank's hand slides with you, guiding the slick back up, circling the rim of your overstretched hole and then pushing it in again with a gentle, careful thumb. He does it slow. So slow. Like he's pressing a memory into you. He keeps you folded, legs wide, the angle obscene and utterly helpless, and you can't move, can't even twitch. Every time you think he's done, that he's squeezing the very last drop of himself inside you, Frank drags his thumb down again, collects what's escaped, and traces it back up the seam of your pussy, watching it pearl and disappear where the base of his cock splits you open. He groans—quiet, like he's talking to himself—and gives a little grind, just enough to stir everything up, to make your insides ripple and push out another thick rope of spend around his cock. The sensation makes you sob. It’s almost too much, but the way he does it, so careful, so fucking gentle, is nothing like the bruising violence of ten seconds ago. He keeps you impaled, keeps you gaping underneath him, and just... admires his handiwork.

“Look at that,” he says, but his voice has gone soft, gone almost lost. “Made a mess of you.” He sounds almost reverent. He runs his palm up your thigh and presses the flesh until it dimples, like he needs the proof that you’re real. The couch shakes with every little shift he makes, every micro-thrust, every exhausted clench of your cunt milking him for more. You try to blink your way back into reality, but your body’s fried, nerves sparking and shorting out with every new sensation. The room is spinning, the taste of sweat and spit and salt thick in your mouth, but Frank is steady, an anchor in the haze. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll fall apart if he lets go. You expect him to snap back to the old Frank any second—rough, gruff, never sentimental—but instead he bends low, presses his forehead to yours, and stays there, breathing you in. His breath is hot and sour with effort. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t even soften all the way. He stays where he is, like if he stops, even for a second, the world will cave in.When he finally pulls out, you whine, instinctive and high, the emptiness a shock after all that relentless fullness. The mess is immediate—warm and thick and slick, his cum painting your thighs, smeared across every inch of you. Frank stares at the sight, breath ragged, chest heaving. There’s a wild pride in his face, his work here, the evidence of how thoroughly he’s ruined you.

But then it hits him what he’s done. That he’s made you cry, that your legs don’t work, that you’re so open and spent and marked by him. He crowds in close, hands gentle now, running down your back, smoothing out the ridges of your spine.

“Shit.” The word is rough and sticky, like his mouth doesn’t want to let go of it. He's never seen anyone look so finished. Not just tired—wrecked, splotched under the eyes, face swollen with tears. The sound in your throat isn't even a whimper, just a shaky, airless wheeze as you try and fail to move your leg, which is still flopped useless over his shoulder. The stark panic that hits him is visceral. He did this. He wrecked you. He spent all day thinking about it, but now that it's real, now that you're slumped under him all glassy and trembling, a cold trickle starts up the spine. He tries to shift back, but you flinch and he sees the fresh tears, the way your thighs clamp shut before he even moves.

“Hey, hey—shit, honey, I gotcha,” he mumbles, voice turned all thick and soft, nothing like the man from thirty seconds ago. His hands move gentle now, thumbs tracing soft circles in all the places he’d used to bruise. You can’t meet his eyes. You just lie there, cheek mashed to a throw pillow, the mess of wet on your face drying sticky and sweet. You blink at a spot on his chest, like if you look anywhere else you might float right out of your body. Frank feels the zip of guilt, a live wire through his sternum. He tries to nudge you upright, to cradle you, but you just curl tighter. He tugs the ruined t-shirt down to cover your chest, suddenly desperate to shield you from even the air.

“C’mere,” he says, voice wobbling in that way you only ever hear when he’s scared. “C’mere, I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry—I got carried away, I didn’t mean…” He can’t finish. He’s never seen you look so small. He pulls you into his lap, cradling you with arms that only minutes ago could have ripped you in half. You shiver, clutching at his forearm, nails digging in like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. He pets your hair, wipes the sweat from your brow, and presses his lips to your head. It’s not until you start to breathe again—really breathe, slow and deep and shaky—that he allows himself to speak above a whisper.

“Did I hurt you? Hey, look at me—tell me. Did I hurt you bad?” The panic is naked on his face, no armor left. You try to answer, but the words tangle in your throat. You shake your head, burrow closer, the heat of him grounding you. He waits, silent but vibrating, for the next breath, and the next. Only after a long minute do you force out a croak:

“Just—lot. Lot all at once.” Your laugh is bruised and wet, but it’s there. Frank holds you like you’ll break, palms wide and steady on your back.

“Baby, you gotta tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice so raw you almost don’t recognize it. "Jealous craze or not , I never wanna fuckin' hurt ya." You shake your head.

"S'exactly what i wanted." Frank's entire face softens. The panic doesn't leave. It just changes shape. He searches your face with frantic, guilty eyes, brushing damp strands of hair away from your forehead over and over, as if he can't stop checking that you're really here.

"You sure?" he asks quietly. You nod against his shoulder.

"'M sure." He exhales, but it's shaky. Not relief. Not completely. His thumb keeps tracing slow circles across your back.

"I lost my head."

"I know."

"I got jealous."

"I know."

"I should've reined it in." You lift your head just enough to look at him.

"Frankie. I did it on purpose. I wanted this to happen." He rolls his eyes.

"I'm aware." He huffs. "Doesn't change the fact I should've been more careful." He lets out a shaky breath, his forehead still pressed to yours. The tension in his shoulders doesn't ease, but something in his eyes does—like he's finally letting himself believe you.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he murmurs, but there's no anger in it. Just a raw, terrifying sort of acceptance. His thumb traces your jawline, then dips lower, brushing against the pulse in your throat. "Making me lose control like that." You manage a weak smile.

"You looked pretty in control to me." That gets a huff of laughter out of him, short and sharp.

"Yeah, well." He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle you too much. "We oughta get you some glasses, mama."

You snort, the sound small and scratchy.

"Glasses?"

"So you can tell the difference between me and every poor bastard whose name you decided to call me today." You let your head fall back against his shoulder.

"I knew exactly who you were."

"Oh, did you?"

"Mhm."

"And yet I spent the whole damn day bein' Billy, Matt, David…" He counts them off on his fingers with exaggerated annoyance. "Think you even threw Foggy in there at one point."

"I might've."

"You absolutely did."A sleepy smile pulls at your lips.

"You were cute when you got jealous." He gives you a look.

"Cute?"

"So cute."

"I was havin' a crisis."

"You were pouting."

"I do not pout."

"You do."

"I brood."

"You pout while brooding." He huffs, but there's no heat behind it.

"You've got a dangerous definition of entertainment."

"I had fun."

"I noticed." His hand slides slowly up your back, warm and steady, never rushing, never asking for anything. Just holding you.

"You still with me?" he asks quietly. You nod against him.

"Mhm."

"Tired?"

"So tired."

"Hungry?"

"Little."

"Thirsty?"

"Yeah." He kisses the top of your head.

"I'll fix both."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"You always say that."

"'Cause it's true." He shifts carefully, making sure you stay wrapped in the blanket he'd pulled around your shoulders before easing you off his lap just enough to settle you comfortably against the couch cushions. "Don't move." You smile without opening your eyes.

"Bossy."

"Damn right." He disappears into the kitchen for less than a minute before returning with a glass of water.

"Easy," he says, slipping an arm behind your shoulders to help you sit up. "Small sips." You obediently take a drink. He watches until you've swallowed. "Another." You roll your eyes.

"Yes, sir."

"Smartass."

"You love me."

"I do." The answer comes so quickly it steals your smile for a second. He notices.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"You got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're thinkin' too hard." You study him. His hair is still a mess. There's a faint crease between his brows that hasn't disappeared. His breathing is normal again, but every few seconds his eyes flick over you like he's checking you're really okay.

"You still feel guilty." He doesn't answer immediately. Finally, he nods once.

"Little."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"But I'm gonna anyway." You reach for him.

"C'mere."

He sits back down without hesitation, and you immediately curl into his side again. His arm comes around your shoulders. Instinct. Like it belongs there. You rest your palm against the center of his chest. His heart is finally beating at something close to normal.

"There," you murmur.

"What?"

"That's better." He covers your hand with his.

"You scared me."

"I know."

"I don't like seein' you cry."

"I wasn't crying because I was unhappy."

"I know."

"I was just… overwhelmed."

"I know." He presses a kiss into your hair. "I'm still gonna worry."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't." That earns a quiet laugh.

"You are impossible."

"So I've been told."

taglist !

The kitchen smells like heaven.

That's the easiest way you can describe it.

You hum as you sway your hips as you cook, a fat grin on your face.

Frank's been working for so long, staking out a client for Dinah and Micro, and he hasn't been home in hours.

Ergo, that means you're sure he hasn't been able to eat.

You taste the sauce one last time.

Perfect.

Maybe a little too much black pepper. Frank will complain. Then he'll eat every last bite anyway. You smile to yourself.

The kitchen is warm, moonlight spilling through the windows while steam curls lazily from the pot on the stove. You've packed everything the way you know he likes it—pasta still hot in a thermal container, garlic bread wrapped in foil, coffee in the battered green thermos he swears keeps it hotter than any expensive one ever could.

You even toss in a slice of pie from the diner down the street. Just because. You wipe your hands on a dish towel before checking your phone.

No new messages.

Last one was nearly four hours ago.

Stakeout. Might be a while. Love you.

You shake your head.

"Might be a while," in Frank-speak usually means I'll forget food, water and sleep until somebody physically drags me home.

Not today.

His truck isn't hard to find.

It's parked exactly where he said it'd be, tucked halfway beneath the shade of an old oak tree with a clear view of a run-down apartment building across the street. You park two blocks away.

He'll lecture you if you drive straight up to him. Something about compromising surveillance. You roll your eyes affectionately as you make the walk, balancing the insulated bag against your hip. The passenger door opens before you even knock, a gun shoved in your face.

"You got about five seconds to explain why you're sneakin' up on my—" Frank stops. His entire expression changes. "…Baby?" You grin, pushing the gun away.

"Hi, my love." He blinks at the grocery bag.

"…What's all that?"

"Dinner." He looks at his watch.

"…It's almost four in the morning."

"Exactly."

"I was gonna eat."

"Mhm."

"I was."

"You absolutely were."

"I had a plan."

"You had beef jerky in your cupholder."

"…Protein."

"And an empty coffee."

"…Caffeine."

"And…" You lean into the van, peering around dramatically. "…three candy wrappers." His ears redden.

"Those were tactical." You laugh.

"Tactical?"

"Emergency calories."

"Oh, absolutely." You climb into the back seat before he can stop you, setting the bag in front of you. The front seat is crowded with his guns, and attempting to move them so you can sit next to him would be perilous.The truck smells like coffee, gun oil, stale fast food… And Frank. It somehow feels like home. He watches you unpack containers one by one.

"…Jesus."

"What?"

"You cooked."

"I usually do."

"I mean…" He stares at the amount of food. "Enough to feed an army."

"You burn approximately twelve thousand calories a day being dramatic."

"I ain't dramatic." You raise an eyebrow. He sighs. "…Little dramatic."

"Thank you." You hand him a fork. He doesn't take it. Instead, he keeps looking at you.

"What?"

"You drove all the way out here."

"So?"

"'Cause you thought I forgot to eat."

"You did."

"…Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck. "I did." You smile softly.

"I know." His shoulders relax. God. Sometimes you make caring look so easy.

"So…" you say, nudging the container toward him. "Eat."

"You eatin' too?"

"I brought two forks."

"Smart."

"I know my audience." He cracks open the container. The smell hits him instantly.

Fresh garlic. Butter. Tomatoes. He closes his eyes for half a second.

"…Hell."

"What?"

"I'm gonna marry you." You snort.

"You're saying that because you're hungry."

"I'm saying it 'cause you made garlic bread."

"You've got low standards."

"I got perfect standards." He tears off a piece of bread before it has a chance to cool and immediately hisses as it burns his fingers.

"…Hot."

"I did tell you."

"Worth it." He takes a bite anyway. His entire face melts. You beam.

"Good?"

"Mhm." You lean forward from the backseat, resting your elbows on the center console as you watch him eat.

"You're a miracle worker, mama." He hums, tossing a piece of tissues paper into the empty tupperware. He leans backwards to kiss you, short and sweet- but your whole body flares up with need. You lean further against the center console to grab his face again and pull it towards you again. Frank deepens the kiss for a moment before pulling back, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Whoa, slow down there," he murmurs, his eyes darting toward the apartment building across the street. "I'm still on surveillance."

"You've been watching that building for eight hours," you pout, leaning further over the console. "I haven't seen you in almost a day."

"I know, baby, but—" He glances at his watch. "I can't right now. I need to stay focused."

"Five minutes," you plead, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "That's all I'm asking." Frank sighs, his resolve clearly wavering.

"You know I can't. What if something happens while I'm… distracted?"

"Nothing's going to happen," you insist, though your voice lacks conviction. "It's the middle of the night. Everyone's asleep."

"That's when things usually happen," he says firmly, though his eyes keep straying to your lips. "You should go home. I'll be there when I'm done." You pull back, your expression shifting from pleading to something more mischievous.

"Fine," you say, climbing over the seats into the back of the truck. "If you won't help me, I'll just have to help myself." Frank's eyes widen as he watches you settle into the back seat, making yourself comfortable among the blankets and pillows he keeps there for long stakeouts.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you say innocently, though your hands are already drifting to the button of your jeans. "Just getting comfortable." He turns in his seat to face you fully, his surveillance forgotten for the moment.

"Baby, don't."

"Don't what?" you ask, your voice dropping to a husky whisper as you slowly unzip your jeans. "Don't touch myself thinking about you? About how much I missed you?"

"Jesus," he mutters, his eyes locked on your hands as they slip beneath the waistband of your panties. "You're killing me here."You high moan slips past your lips, your body arching against his leather seats as your finger circles your clit. Frank turns around, hands clenched around the steering wheel, his jaw ticking as he tries very hard to look forward.

To not turn around.

To not stare at you through the rearview.

"Mama, i'm serious." He hisses, his chest heaving up and down. He grits his teeth and tries to pretend he doesn't hear it—your small, wet sounds, the tiny catch of breath when your fingers begin to circle, the way the zipper of your jeans still hisses open in his brain. His hands ache for something to do. His focus splinters and smolders. You bite your lip and make a show of it, knowing every movement is a private performance: the way you arch your back, pushing your ass into the pile of blankets, the way your knees fall open, denim tugged just enough to leave a strip of pale skin exposed. You glance up, catch his eyes in the mirror, and bring your other hand to your mouth, sucking your fingers slow and deep before sending it down to join the first beneath your waistband. Frank stares straight ahead, but you see his shoulders tense, the bulge of his forearms against the steering wheel. His head cocks, like he's listening for something, but it's not the building across the street—it's you, and the way your thighs hitch upward, the way the wet, slick sound of your fingers almost competes with the hum of the truck's engine.

You moan again, louder this time, and his knuckles go white.

“That's not fair,” he says, voice almost a growl. You can hear him swallow, like he's choking down a mouthful of gravel. “You know I can't—”

“You can't what?” you whisper, breathless and trembling. “Can't stand to watch me?” He doesn't answer. The tension ratchets tight. You know that face, know how much he wants to keep his promises, how much he wants to focus on the job, but you also know how fast his discipline melts under the right kind of pressure. You just keep pushing.

“I’m so wet, Frank,” you say, soft and sulky, like you're confessing a sin. “All for you.” You pull your hand out just far enough to let him see the shine on your fingers before you lick them clean, sucking hard, never breaking eye contact.

“Baby,” he hisses, half warning, half plea. You giggle, petulant and mean.

“You gonna make me finish by myself?” Frank slams a fist into the dash. The truck rocks. Then he’s out of the driver’s seat, yanking open the back door so hard it rattles on the hinges. He climbs in after you, all his weight and heat filling the tiny space. His hands are on you before you can say a word, pinning your wrists above your head, forcing you into the pile of blankets, his mouth crashing against yours and swallowing every needy whimper you give him. He groans into your neck.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy. You know that?” You tilt up your chin, daring him.

“Do something about it.” And he does. He twists your wrists in one hand, yanks your jeans and panties down with the other. The cold air makes you shiver, but you open your thighs wide, inviting, greedy. He slides two thick fingers inside you, fast, and you gasp. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, brutal circles.

“Goddamn, you’re so tight.” He pistons his hand, rough and practiced, until you clench around his fingers, frantic with need. “That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw, your cheek, your temple in sequence, like he’s marking you with his mouth. “Let me see you. Show me how much you missed me.” You writhe under his grip, wrists aching deliciously in his hold, and your hips twist up, desperate to ride his hand harder. He watches you, unblinking, like he’s memorizing every shake and shudder. When you come, you do it loud and messy, gasping his name, making the truck bounce on its tired shocks. Frank doesn’t let up. He works you through it, coaxing another aftershock out of you before finally slowing down.

He kisses you, sweet and ferocious, then releases your wrists and pulls you upright, tugging off your shirt with a snarl. You barely register the motion before he’s got you on your back again, this time flat, with both your knees pressed up toward your shoulders. His belt’s already undone. His cock is out, thick and flushed, the head leaking. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t waste a second—he lines himself up and pushes inside, stretching you so wide you gasp.

“F-fuck, Frank—” It’s too much, almost, after so long. You shake with it, the burn and the fullness and the way he’s everywhere at once.

“You got this, mama.” He huffs, nosing at your jaw, pressing your knees closer to your head.”Just relax.”

He’s big.

He’s always big, but tonight, crammed in the sweltering truck, the rest of the world erased by soundproofed walls and the stifling smell of sex and old coffee, it’s almost too much. Frank watches your face as he rocks into you, slow, careful, making you feel every inch. You bite your lip and try to breathe, but he’s got your knees locked against your chest and every thrust pushes the air out of you in high, embarrassing whimpers.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his hands cupping the backs of your thighs. “Yeah, that’s it. You take it so good, baby. Just a little more for me.” You nod, dizzy and full and so goddamn happy. He grins, that lazy, cocky smile he only shows you, and grinds in even deeper. The stretch burns but you love it—love how he always acts like you’re fragile and then splits you open anyway, like he can’t help himself. Your knees slip, and his grip tightens, dragging you right back up the seat so he can rut into you, balls slapping against your ass. He keeps his head tucked against your jaw, his breath hot and unsteady.

“Feel how deep I am?” He lets go of your thigh just long enough to palm your belly, pressing in, and you feel him, hard and thick, right there. “All the way inside. Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight.” You can barely answer, just clutch at his arm and nod, trying not to come again already. He must see it, because he slows down, rocking in long, punishing strokes. You both know how this works. You make a mess of yourself, beg for more, and he talks you through every second until you can’t think straight. He noses at your ear, lips grazing the shell, voice gone rough.

“Gonna let me fill you up? Let me fuck you full?” You nod again, frantic, and he huffs a laugh. Your hands scramble for purchase, gripping the door handle, your head tipping back. The truck is rocking so violently, the windows all fogged up. Frank’s hand shakes where it frames your thigh, the rough of his calluses scraping against your skin as he draws your knees tighter to your chest. The angle is obscene—your hips cranked up, your ass pressed into the heap of sweated-through blankets, his weight pinning you in place.

You can feel the pressure of him everywhere: in the sharp stretch that makes your whole body tremble, in the grind of his cock nudging deeper, deeper, until you’re sure you’ll split right in half. The stifled, desperate sounds leaking from your mouth would have embarrassed you once. Now you just want him to hear every one. His thumb strokes the edge of your knee, gentle, unhurried. You want to scream at him for it. For the way he always slows things down just when you want to go off the rails. For the way his hands, so brutal everywhere else, turn soft when he’s holding you open like this. He draws his hips back, just enough to feel the sticky friction, then rocks forward again, filling you all the way up. The rhythm is devastating—measured, patient, like he’s determined you’ll feel every inch. The truck creaks in time with him, a steady back-and-forth that makes your brain melt. He buries his face in your neck, breath hot as he mutters,

“Good girl, that’s my good fuckin’ girl.” You tighten around him, helpless, clutching at his bicep. Your nails dig crescents into his skin, and he laughs, thick and guttural, like your pain is the best thing he’s ever tasted. He presses his palm right above your pubic bone, and you jerk when you feel him, hard and solid, pushing up against your skin from the inside.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful ,” he whispers, and the words make you clench around him, every muscle going tight and hot. He grinds in slow, barely-there thrusts, letting you feel the pressure for a long, suspended moment before he finally picks up speed. The truck rocks harder now, every slap of his hips against your ass making the world shake. You can’t see anything but him, can’t hear anything but the wet, obscene sounds of bodies slamming together and the low rumble of his voice.

“Wanted you all night,” he says, and the words land heavy in your head. “Missed you so much, I couldn’t even fuckin’ breathe.”Frank is thick, and he knows it, the way it always takes you a minute to get used to him. The way your body fights and then gives in, each inch a negotiation you always lose and never regret. He loves it, the way you shudder and hold your breath, the way your thighs tremble. He tries to keep it slow, tries to be gentle, but it’s four in the morning and he’s been gone too long and you taste like salt and desperation. That first thrust, it nearly undoes him. You arch and whimper, and he curses, low and guttural, and his hand is suddenly on your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

“Oh, baby, you’re so good,” he murmurs, voice gone ragged. “So fucking good for me. Goddamn perfect.” He says it like a prayer, like you’re something sacred. You’d laugh if you could breathe. You throw your arms around his neck, holding on, nails dragging lines down his shoulder blades. Your legs go numb, pinned behind your ears, but you don’t care. You want to remember this. The way Frank’s eyes go black, the way he can’t stop muttering,

“good girl, good girl, look at you, so damn pretty when you take it.” You want to remember the feel of the stubble on his cheek, the taste of garlic bread on his tongue, the way his sweat mixes with yours until there’s nothing left but you and him and the hot, thick air. He kisses you hard, tongue greedy, and the angle shifts. Suddenly he’s so deep it’s like he’s touching your heart, and you can’t even make noise anymore, just open and close your mouth and hope he understands. He does. He always does. Frank doesn’t just hold you in place—he owns the moment, every flex of his arms and every low, throaty

“that’s it, fuck, look at you” branded into your nerves. He keeps you folded tight, your calves locked behind his back, his hips grinding so deep you swear he’s bruising your spine, and each time you gasp or cry out, he fucks you harder, like he wants to carve his name inside you. He pins your wrists above your head again, fingers threaded through yours, and stares down at you—barely a foot away, sweat dripping from his jaw to your chest, his lips curled in that filthy, hungry grin. You can’t look away. Not when he’s got you spread and raw, all your insides tugged taut around him. Your lungs burn; your legs prickle with pins and needles; your whole body feels like a live wire. But every time you think you can’t take more, he leans in to kiss your chin, your cheek, your temple, and the softness breaks you open even further.

“You’re perfect,” he croons, voice gone soft and hoarse, like he’s not splitting you apart, like he’s reading you a bedtime story. He releases one wrist just long enough to palm your cheek, thumb swiping under your eye, gentle as a lullaby.

“You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good, baby. So goddamn pretty stretched around me.” He rocks forward, slow, and you flinch at the ache, but his words, the praise, make you melt into the pain. “You can take more, can’t you? That’s my girl.” He’s not asking. He’s telling. And he’s right. You never really understood the difference between being ruined and being remade until Frank Castle started fucking you like he’d trade his soul for the taste of your sweat. He’s relentless. He shifts his grip, arms bracketing your head, and changes the angle—suddenly he’s pressing right against everything inside you, and you yelp, nails raking his back. The truck stinks of both of you now, so thick and rank it clings to the roof. Frank doesn’t care if you’re loud. He wants you to be. He wants the whole world to hear what he’s doing to you, and you want to give him that, every needy, high-pitched cry, your voice shredded and raw. He bends down, lips trailing over your ear.

“Fuck, yeah. You’re takin’ it so good, honey. You’re fuckin’ perfect.” The rhythm gets rougher—short, deep thrusts, every one a shockwave through your body. Something unravels inside you, and you’re coming again, sudden and violent, whole body clamped down on his cock. You howl, clinging to his arms, and he fucks you straight through it, never slowing, never letting you up for air.He wants to say your name but all that comes out is a groan, half your name and half a curse. He’s close, you know it in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his hips jerk with less control than he’d like. You clutch at his shoulders, dragging him down until your foreheads bump, sweat-slick and breathless, locked in a stare that says everything. The van’s too small for this, too hot, too full of the smell of you and him and the faint ghost of garlic and coffee, but you wouldn’t want it anywhere else. He presses his weight down until your knees nearly touch your chest. The stretch is insane; you gasp, digging your heels into the small of his back. Frank’s breath saws in and out, heavy and fast, but he never stops talking you through it.

“You’re good,” he huffs, mouthing your chin, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. “You’re so fuckin’ good, baby. Never seen anyone take me like this. Never.” He grinds in deeper, rolling his hips so slow, so deep you see stars. “Know it hurts. You can do it, pretty girl. Just a little more.” You cling to him, every muscle gone high and tight. The pressure is obscene, almost too much, but he keeps you right on the edge, working deep, measured thrusts until it stops burning and starts to feel like you’ll never get enough. You slam your hands against his back, leave welts for him to find in the morning. He grins, sweaty and proud, and leans in to suck a bruise into your neck.Frank’s hand slips from your thigh to your hip, holding you in place as he rocks into you with rough, hungry snaps. Every time you think you’re full, he finds a new way to make you feel even more stretched, more helpless against the weight of him braced over you. Sweat stings your eyes. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t loosen the vise of his grip—just drives you back into the seat, so your knees knock the driver’s headrest and your ass grinds into the matted blankets. The world shrinks to the smell of sex and the slap of skin and his desperate, greedy noises. You’re drowning in it.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” His voice is raw, strangled. He says it, but his hips are already rolling harder, pounding the air from your lungs. “Promise me, mama.” You laugh, half a sob, and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Don’t you fucking dare stop.” He grins, breathless, and changes the angle, lifting your hips up off the seat. Your whole body bows, locked tight between his hands and the ceiling of the van. He watches your face with that laser focus, the world outside the windows long forgotten.

“Look at you,” he rasps, thumb dragging slow across your cheekbone. “You make me crazy. You know that? Drive me outta my fuckin’ mind.” You reach down, greedy for more, and claw at his back, raking his skin. He hisses—a sound that’s all pain and pleasure—and pistons in even harder, rutting into you like something feral.

“God, Frank,” you gasp, thighs trembling. He’s so deep it feels like he’s splitting you open, but you want it, want every brutal, greedy inch. His belly slaps your clit, slick and overstimulated, and you mewl, writhing in his grip. He shoves your knees wider, one palm planted above your head, the other locked around your thigh.

“That’s it,” he says, voice gone hoarse. “Take it for me. Take all of it.” He bends to nuzzle your neck, breathing you in. “You’re so perfect, I don’t wanna ever let go.” You want to tell him yes, god, yes, that you’ll never let go either, but you can barely form words. Your vision blurs. He keeps you folded tight, his thrusts relentless, each one punching little sparks of sensation through your nerves. Your whole body shakes. You’re so close it hurts—every flex of his cock inside you drives you closer to the edge. You hang on, nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders.

Frank fucks you like he’s been denied air, like the only way back to life is through the place where your bodies meet. You want to taunt him, to tease some of that cocky control out of his voice, but he’s already gone, all the way gone, every muscle in his arms shaking with the effort to keep you bent under him. The windows are streaked with sweat and fog and you, and the truck is rocking hard enough that you’re surprised the suspension hasn’t given out. You don’t care. You want him to wreck it, to wreck you, to leave the memory of this pressed into your skin in bruises and soreness for days.

There’s a moment, after the second time he makes you come, when you lose track of everything except the way his cock keeps you stretched and trembling, the bright snap of pain that’s already turning syrup-sweet. You’re limp, gasping, but he doesn’t let up. He pulls out slow, almost gentle, and you whine at the empty ache, but he just flips you easy as a pillow, gets you on your knees and elbows, your face mashed into the tangle of blankets. He holds you open, stroking his cock just at your entrance, smearing slick over your thighs. His hand is heavy on the back of your neck, pushing your cheek to the seat. You barely move, the world gone hazy and all of you at the mercy of his hands.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He rasps just as he rams back in, and your whole body shudders forward. A low grown leaves his lips. “Shit, shit, i fuckin’ love you.” He gasps, shaking his head as he starts to pound his hips into yours. Frank shoves in deep, the sound obscene, your whole body jerking with the force of him. You scrabble at the blankets, but he’s got your hips locked in place, his thumbs digging perfect bruises into the softest part of your thigh. The way he fucks you now is all need—no plan, no self-control, just the frantic, rutting hunger of a man dying for you. He’s talking again, as if he can’t not, the words falling out in a hoarse, endless stream straight into the sweat-matted hair behind your ear.

“That’s it,” he croons. “You’re so good, baby, so fucking good, letting me in, taking every inch. You want it—yeah, I know you do, you’re dripping, fuck—” He sounds half-crazed, half-pleading, like he’s begging you not to vanish if he stops talking for even a second. You try to answer but your voice is dust, so you whine, pressing your ass back into him, greedy for more, always more. He bends over you, chest plastered to your back, hands flattening over your shoulders until you’re caged, the press of him everywhere—his cock splitting you, his breath burning your ear, his palms pinning you down. He’s all around you, every sense filled. You lose track of time, of the rhythm, the world shrinking to the slick, frictionless slide of skin, the little shockwaves in your belly every time he bottoms out, the bare, raw scrape of the carpet on your knees. He won’t let you fall, not even in this. His hand wraps under your ribs, pulling your body up, arching your spine.

“There you go, pretty girl, just like that, fuck—” He sounds so wrecked, every word jagged and ruined. “You feel me, baby? All the way?” As if you could feel anything else. He’s right there, pushing past the last edge of you, and all you want is to open up more, to let him pour himself in until something inside you breaks. You shake, the overstimulation bright and electric. The words pour out of Frank, the only thing keeping either of you together.

“You’re so tight, so fucking perfect,” he mumbles, biting down on your shoulder, rolling his hips slow at first, drawing it out, then pounding so fast it blurs the edge of pain and pleasure. You want to crawl away, you want to fuse into him, you want to scream his name until your voice breaks. You do all three. You’re sobbing now, the tears leaking hot and sweet, and he kisses them from your neck, one hand sliding down your belly to thumb your clit. He does it gentle, slower than the rest of him, and the contrast snaps you wide open. You come again, so hard it feels like you might never come down, your cunt fluttering around him. Frank loses it, then. He shudders, hips jerking erratic, and the growl he gives isn’t even human. He wraps his arms around your middle, crushing you to him as he fucks through the aftershocks, needy whines leaving his lips, his hips rutting against your ass. He’s still in you, twitching, the fat length of him pulsing and wet. You’re a mess, tears on your face, drool on your chin, and the ruined seam of your thighs glued together with sweat and come. Frank isn’t moving, just looming over you, his breath rough in your ear, arms shaking a little where they cage you in. You think he’s going to collapse right there, crush you into the blankets, but instead he slides out, slow, making you moan at the loss and the burn. You try to breathe, but your chest is full of static.

Your whole body collapses forward, your limbs shaking as you choke on a sob. Frank shifts immediately, his body moving with a gentleness that contradicts the roughness of moments before. His hands, which had been pinning you down, now carefully gather you up, rolling you onto your side as he settles behind you. The truck's cramped space means you're pressed flush against him, his chest to your back, his arms wrapping securely around your middle.

"Shit" he murmurs, his voice still rough but softer now, laced with concern. "Easy, baby. I got you." One hand strokes your hair, fingers combing through the sweat-damp strands while the other rests low on your belly, a warm, steady pressure that's somehow more intimate than what just happened. You're still trembling, aftershocks wracking your body, each one making you more aware of the pleasant ache between your thighs, the tender marks on your skin where his hands gripped you, the faint sting on your shoulder where he bit you.

"Frank," you whisper, your voice hoarse from crying out his name.

"Right here," he answers, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. "Not going anywhere." You lie there for long minutes, just breathing together in the dim light of the van. The air smells of sex and sweat and Frank, and you've never felt safer. His heartbeat thuds steadily against your back, a comforting rhythm that slowly calms your own racing pulse.

"Thirsty?" he asks eventually. You nod, not trusting your voice yet. Frank carefully disentangles himself, reaching for one of the water bottles stashed in the front. He returns, unscrewing the cap and holding it to your lips. You drink greedily, the cool liquid soothing your raw throat.

"Easy," he says again, pulling the bottle away when you try to gulp too fast. "Small sips." When you've had your fill, he takes a drink himself before setting the bottle aside. Then he's back, arranging you more comfortably against the pile of blankets and pillows. His hands move with purpose, checking you over—not clinically, but with the reverence of someone handling something precious.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks quietly, his fingers tracing the faint bite mark on your shoulder. You shake your head.

"No. Liked it." A small smile touches his lips. His hand drifts lower, gently parting your thighs to check the tender flesh there. You hiss as his fingers brush against your swollen, sensitive folds.

"Sorry," he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. "I'm sorry baby."

"I'm fine," you assure him, turning in his arms to face him. "More than fine." In the dim light, you can see the worry etched around his eyes, the way his brow is still furrowed with concern. You reach up, smoothing the lines with your thumb.

"Hey," you say softly. "I'm okay. Better than okay." Frank captures your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"I got… carried away."

"I wanted you to," you insist. "I always want you - in all the ways you have to offer me." His eyes search yours, and whatever he sees there seems to reassure him. He leans in, kissing you gently—nothing like the hungry, desperate kisses from before. This one is soft, sweet, full of affection.

"I love you," he whispers against your lips. "So damn much." He goes to kiss you again when-

"Frank ! Frank, come in !" The radio on the driverseat crackles as Dinah's voice fills the air. Pulling his boxers back up his pants in a haste, Frank scrambles for the radio.

"Yeah, Madani ?" He asks. The radio crackles.

"What the hell are you doing ? The target is on the move, Frank !" Frank cranes his neck to the window. He wipes away the condensation on it, only to see his target sauntering out of the house with his hands tucked in his pants and a hoodie drawn up to his head.

"Oh- Oh, shit !"

"That's what I've been saying!" Dinah fires back. "Castle, he's heading east. If you lose him because you fell asleep, I swear to God—"

"I wasn't asleep." You press your lips together. Frank shoots you a warning look. You innocently examine your fingernails.

"Nope," you murmur. "Definitely not." His ears immediately turn pink. Dinah's voice crackles again.

"...Why do you sound weird?"

"I don't sound weird."

"You sound winded."

"I'm fine." You fail spectacularly at suppressing a laugh. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, no," Dinah says slowly, realization dawning. "Frank..."

"No."

"...Frank."

"No."

"...Is she there?" Silence. "...Frank." He closes his eyes.

"...Yeah." There's a beat. Then another. Then Dinah sighs with all the exhaustion of someone who has worked with Frank Castle far too long.

"I leave you alone for one surveillance assignment..."

"It wasn't planned." You cough into your fist.

"He's lyin'." Frank glares.

"You are bein' profoundly unhelpful."

"I think I'm helping."

"The exact opposite." Over the radio comes another voice—Micro this time, barely containing his amusement.

"I've got fifty bucks that says the windows are fogged up." Frank's eyes slowly drift toward the windshield. Every single window in the truck is completely opaque.

"...Son of a bitch." You finally lose it. The laugh bursts out of you so hard you have to cover your mouth. Frank points an accusing finger.

"This is your fault."

"My fault?"

"You distracted me."

"I distinctly remember someone saying, 'Just five more minutes.'"

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I said somethin' similar."

"You negotiated with a federal surveillance operation."

"It seemed reasonable at the time." Micro is openly laughing now.

"Oh, this is better than television."

"Shut up, Micro."

"No chance." Dinah cuts back in before either of them can continue.

"Castle." Frank straightens immediately.

"Yeah."

"The target's getting into a blue SUV." Frank glances outside. The engine across the street roars to life.

"I see him."

"The SUV's pulling away," Dinah says. "Don't lose visual."

"Won't." Frank reaches for his jeans where they'd been abandoned somewhere near the driver's seat. You watch him dress with hurried efficiency, every movement practiced. Belt. Boots. Shirt. Holster. Like watching a switch flip. One moment he's the man who'd just whispered I love you against your lips. The next he's all sharp edges and focus. He catches you watching.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"You got that smile."

"I like watching you get flustered."

"I ain't flustered."

"You absolutely are." He snorts, shaking his head as he pulls his overshirt on.

"Hopeless."

"So I've been told." He bends to retrieve the blanket that had slipped onto the floor. Without a word, he unfolds it and drapes it carefully around your shoulders, tucking it beneath your arms.

"There."

"You wrapped me like a burrito."

"So you don't freeze."

"It's July."

"The truck's got lousy insulation." You smile.

"You're sweet."

"I ain't."

"You tucked me in."

"I contained you."

"Mhm."

"Different." He crouches in front of you, both hands settling on your knees through the blanket.

"You stay here."

"I know."

"Doors locked."

"I know."

"If anybody comes near this van—"

"I know."

"You call me."

"I know."

"You got your phone?" You hold it up.

"My pepper spray?" You lift the canister from the cup holder.

"My—"

"Frank." He stops.

"What?"

"I promise I'll survive the ninety seconds you're gone." He stares at you another moment before sighing.

"…Yeah." Then, unable to help himself, he reaches up and cups your face. His thumb strokes your cheek.

"You still sore?"

"A little."

"You need anything?"

"You." His whole face softens.

"I'm comin' right back."

"I know." He leans in. Kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then finally your lips. Slow. Gentle. "I love you."

"I love you too." He rests his forehead against yours for one brief heartbeat. "Stay put."

"Yes, sir." He rolls his eyes. "You enjoy bossin' me around way too much."

"I really do." He smiles despite himself. Then he's gone. The cool night air rushes into the truck as he slips outside, quietly closing the door behind him. The warmth disappears with him. You pull the blanket a little tighter. Through the windshield, you watch him become someone else. His shoulders square. His posture changes. Every trace of softness melts away. He moves along the line of parked cars, staying in their shadows. Across the street, the blue SUV idles at the curb. The driver glances in the rearview mirror.

Frank is already there. Hidden. Waiting. The radio hisses quietly.

"Castle," Dinah murmurs. "You've got a clean angle."

"I know."

"Take him before he merges." Frank doesn't answer. He simply steps out from behind the last parked sedan. The target barely has time to register the movement. There's a sharp crack. The windshield spiders. The driver slumps sideways over the steering wheel. The SUV rolls only a few feet before bumping harmlessly against the curb. Silence settles over the street. Frank keeps the pistol trained for another beat.

Watching.

Waiting.

No movement.

"Target's down," he says evenly into the radio. Micro's voice crackles back.

"Confirmed." Dinah follows immediately.

"We've got units en route. You don't need to stick around."

"I'm already leaving." He holsters the pistol in one smooth motion and turns back toward the van. The passenger door opens. Frank climbs inside, shutting it behind him. For a moment neither of you speaks. He lets out one long breath. Then looks at you.

"…Miss me?" You grin.

"It has been at least…" You check an imaginary watch. "…two whole minutes."

"Torture."

"The worst." He laughs quietly.

"You warm enough?" You lift one side of the blanket.

"Only if you get under here too." He shakes his head.

"Gotta drive."

"Boring."

"Responsible."

"Even more boring." He starts the engine. The heater hums to life. As he pulls away from the curb. You rest your head against the window, watching the city slide by.

"Tired?"

"Mhm."

"You can sleep."

"What if you need someone to keep you company?"

"I got you."

"I'm literally about to fall asleep."

"Still got you." You smile without opening your eyes. The truck rumbles through the late-afternoon traffic, warm now, smelling faintly of coffee, garlic, and the two of you. Frank glances over just once. You're already half asleep beneath the blanket he'd wrapped around you. He reaches over at the next red light and gently pulls the edge a little higher over your shoulder.

Without opening your eyes, you smile.

"You're tucking me in."

"Am not."

He chuckles, squeezes your hand once, and points the truck toward home.

taglist !

Frank was always happy to try anything for you. That random show you heard about online? Sure. A new dish you've concocted? Sure thing, doll. A position you read about in one of the many books you read? Hell, sign him up!

It started out small, you slipped something into conversation about one of the books you were reading and how out there it was but you wouldn't divulge in any of the details that made it "So out there!". He decided to let it lie not wanting to push you or make you uncomfortable, youd come around eventually, you always do.

A few days later you hit him with "have you ever ate someone's ass?" Now, it takes a lot to shock Frank but this stopped him in his tracks. Taking a few moments to actually process the question that was asked he lets out a nervous laugh "Uhh rock n roll girl.." rubbing the back of his neck to try ride the redness creeping up his face and clearing his throat. "Sooooo??" You ask expectantly. "Is this a trick question, sweetheart?" His head slowly turning to now make eye contact with you. "Youre not gonna get in trouble Frank, I know you've been with other people! Its a genuine question!" You quip in a matter of frank tone with your head tilted. "I meannnn, yeah?" His hands crossing under his arms with a shrug. Your face scrunches up "Why havent you ever done it to me?" Franks head leans side to side his answer coming out strangled "its not somewhere id really explore unless, I knew you wanted me to?" Without hesitation you chime in with "Could you do it to me?" Franks eyes bug out of his head as he gulps "Shit doll, now?" Rolling your eyes in response "No not now! But like next time we y'know?" You trail off in a whisper while making a circle with your left and and putting your right index finger into it, this earns you a bark of laughter from Frank. "Sure thing, kid." His mind now going a million miles an hour at the sheer thought of the act. Hes always been an ass man but never thought twice about actually putting you in that position (well sure hes fantasised about it in many many ways, I mean, how could he not?! Your ass is the thing of dreams!) Cock growing under his pants, trying to get the image out of his head, he crosses his legs and pulls you under his arm. Happy with yourself, you draw your attention back to the old Jackass reruns playing on the tv. Frank however, spent the rest of the evening day thinking about the possibilities.

Hes been stewing on the new request trying to wrap his head around why this new thing for you was so out there. It made no sense to him in the slightest considering youre an open book the majority of the time especially, when it comes to recreating scenes from something that youve read. But again, its not an area you have explored together, yourr young and to be fair hes never tried to move further than what he felt you were able for in the bedroom.

The next afternoon you're sitting on the porch reading your book quietly to yourself as the cattle in the next field graze on the pasture, its picturesque. You're blissfully unaware of your surroundings, something he loves about you, soaking in your beauty, you sit there one knee up, the other hanging over the arm of the chair youre sitting in. Cream sundress fluttering in the breeze mimicking the baby hairs hanging loose from the claw clip that was supposed to be keeping your hair out of your face. A basket of peaches sit on a stool close to hand, your hand gracefully reaching down to pick one up. Frank leans against the door way admiring the sight before him, you bring the fruit to closer to your mouth, teeth meeting resistance against the crisp skin until theres a soft pop and its juices leak down your chin and on to your chest. You dont even bat an eyelid, so engrossed in whatever is playing out in your book; you bring the back of your finger to you lip wiping and sucking the remaining juices off it. Franks cock jumps at the sight. "Need some napkins, sweetheart?" Your face drops and your cheeks turn beet red as you snap your book shut. "Oh my god, shut upp!" You giggle. "Must be a very interesting book" Frank chuckled as he waltzes over to pick you up like you weigh nothing and put you on his lap. "Mind if I read over your shoulder? Finished mine this morning" shifting in his lap you feel the ridge in his jeans and lay your head back on his shoulder offering a small kiss to his jaw, the smell of peaches invading Franks senses causing his dick to stir more. "No thanks baby, about a cowboy and his new nanny. You wouldnt like it. Seems like you have something better in mind." Applying some pressure to his crotch as you twist a bit more to get a good look at the man behind you. "You and these goddamn cowboys, girl." He half laughs to himself catching your jaw in his hand and envoleloping you in a searing kiss, the other hand now running up your crossed legs earning him a sweet whine. "Whattya say we get outta here, cowgirl?" Franks guumbles getting up from the chair and walking you back into the house. "Giddy up!" You squeel wiggling your eyebrows.

The sound of Franks heavy boots and both of your breathless pants is all that can be heard through the house as you make your way up the stairs and towards your bedroom. With his broad shoulder, frank pushes the door open and tosses you on to the bed, your hair and dress fanning out around you. Sitting up unable to wait any longer, you grab your dress by the hem and whipping it over your head discarding it somewhere to be found later. Frank shakes his head slowly and lets out a low whistles "wheeeew" taking in the gorgeous woman front of him. Reaching your arms out and opening your legs, you signal Frank to come here with a tint of pink on your face. Undoing his belt, Frank crawls between your legs caging your head in with his two arms, planting soft kisses over your face, down you collar bone and stopping to give some extra attention to your breasts, taking one in his hand he runs his nose along your puckered nipple and flicking it with his tongue, causing a rush of goosebumps breakout across your skin before leaving a trail of wet kisses and licks down your torso stopping at the edge of your underwear. Bucking your hips toward him you whine, "please, Frankie?" Running your hands through his hair. "Thats my girl, always so polite." He hooks his index and middle finger into them on each side getting rid of the last barrier between him and his prize. You can feel his hot breath as he starts to run his fingers through your folds, youre already slick with anticipation, needy and whining just aching to feel him, his tongue, his fingers. Cock jumping at the glistening piece of art on front of him Frank dives in, tongue flat starting from your hole and slowly working towards your clit, his nose bumping every nerve ending on his way up. Your back is already arching pushing yourself closer, desperate to feel the friction of his beard against your sensitive skin. Tightening your fingers in hair as your moans grow pornographic when he adds a finger curling it before pumping it in and out of your leaking pussy causing Frank to let out a low groan as he starts rutting into the mattress. "Can feel her getting close, sweetheart. You gonna cum for me?" All you can offer up are breathless nods as he adds another finger and begining a ruthless pace. "Yeah baby. I know, I know. M'gonna make you feel real good." With that, your walls tighten around his thick fingers. "There she iiis, thats my girl. Make a mess for me sweetheart." He coos his praises at you attacking your clit with his tongue pushing you to your climax. Your thighs snap up each side of his head as your orgasm washes over you. Frank begins to slow down, dragging every last bit of pleasure from youylr body before pulling away his fingers, flipping you over and pulling your hips up to arch your back.

On full display to the man behind you, youre glistening and panting as he strokes his leaking cock, leaning forward he licks another broad punishing stripe up your twitching pussy not stopping until he reaches your tight asshole making you gasp. "Y'kay sweetheart? Tell me to t'stop and ill stop." Shaking your head you push your ass back toward him. "Words, baby. I need to hear you say it." Panting and pushing your hair from your face, you look over your shoulder through your eyelashes "please dont stop, Frankie". Happy to continue Frank places one hand on your cheek opening you up more to him, he laps at your hole moaning with every stroke of his hand on his cock. Shivers run down your body from a mixture of the new sensation and the breeze coming in the bedroom window brushing over the new slick covering your asshole. Its everything you could've imagined, now making you more eager to go ahead with what you had in mind when it came to you asking Frank about this specific request.

Pussy tingling you reach between your legs and add two fingers adding the to pleasure and eliciting shaky moans from you. Frank pulls back to admire the scene playing out on front of him palming his cock and gliding it through your soaked folds and against your ass. "Fuck, you're so beautiful." Rolling your eyes you reach back and guide his cock into your pussy, making both of you sigh and the tight squeeze. Slowly letting out a shaky breath, frank pushes further embracing the way you stretch around him. "Frankie, faster, please. I- I need to feel you." Pushing back on Franks cock as much as you can, having lost all his restraint Frank places one hand on the bottom of your back, the other holding where your hip meets your thigh and gives you his whole thick length in one fluid motion. Gripping the bedsheets you let out a yelp as he pushes his public bone to your ass. "Keep going, baby, fuck me please. Stop being so careful. M'not gonna break." Hesitating at first Frank pulls back slowly but then snaps his hips back into you, watching you for any signs of discomfort. Repeating the motion, his vision is trained carefully on what he can see of your face smashed against the mattress between the way your pussy clenches around him and the blessed out smile, he takes it as his sign to keep going. Between sharp thrusts and panting breaths, Frank talking you through it is like music to your ears ."God you're so good sweetheart, takin' me so fuckin' well." "Shes so tight, suckin' me in." "Couldn't stop if I wanted to." Hes hitting that sweet spot deep in side you repeatedly, making the coil in your stomach tighten and your toes curl. "Frank, fraaank! I-I fee-eel like m'gonna pee!" Franks head is spinning between watching his cock push through your pussy, the sweet noises youre making and how your ass is bouncing back on him with every thrust. "Let it happen sweetheart, I got you" his hand now moved up to your shoulder driving himself deeper, you feel like youre going to explode, theres electricity in your veins and you all that you can hear is your blood rushing in your ears until you hear a squelch and the coil in your stomach snaps. "OH MY GOD FRANK!" Franks movements are getting fast and sloppy as he helps you ride out your orgasm before you know it hes pulling his cock out of your leaking pussy and blowing his load all over your ass with a loud "Fuuuuuckk".

You wince at the loss of frank when he gets up and disappears to the ensuite for a few minutes. Coming back with a warm wash clot he rubs you down with it, getting rid of any evidence of what had just happened. Frank lays down beside you pulling you in against his torso, his beard tickling your shoulder when he plants a kiss to it. "Shit sweetheart, dunno what came over me." Feeling brave, you decide nows your moment. You look back at Frank through your eyelashes relishing in the way hes looking at you; blissed out, rosy cheeks, you can still hear his heart beating in his chest. In the sweetest voice you can muster "Next time, can we try it in my ass, Frankie?".

He freezes. "Thats it!" he thought. That's why the damn book was so out there.

The air is so unbelievably thin.

Your chest feels like it's constricting every time you move, your limbs aching and groaning with every sudden movement.

Everything hurts.

The battlefield stretches for miles, painted in smoke and fire and broken metal. The sky itself seems wounded, split apart by ships burning as they fall back toward the earth.

Around you—

Screams.

Orders.

The crackle of energy weapons.

Someone is crying. Someone else is begging.

You can't tell who anymore.

Your sword hangs limp at your side, suddenly far too heavy to lift.

Across the ruined plain, you see Steve drop to one knee. Thor is staring at his empty hands. Natasha's face has gone completely white.

"…What…" The word barely leaves your lips. Thanos stands in the distance. Motionless. The Infinity Gauntlet hangs scorched and smoking from his arm. The stones are dim. His fingers are still spread from the snap.

"No…" The wind changes. You don't understand it at first. A strange current sweeps across the battlefield, carrying gray ash into the air. Then someone screams. You turn. Bucky Barnes looks down at his own hand. It flakes away beneath his fingertips. Like burnt paper. Steve lunges toward him.

"Bucky—" But he can't hold onto smoke. Within seconds… He's gone. Nothing remains but drifting ash.

"No…" Another scream. Sam. Gone.

Someone shouts Wanda's name.

Someone else yells for T'Challa.

The battlefield erupts into chaos.

"No, no, no…" You stumble forward. This isn't happening. This can't—

Movement catches your eye.

Peter. He's running toward you. Your heart leaps.

"Peter!" His mask is already off.His eyes are huge. Terrified. He runs and runs and runs- trying to reach you - until he can't anymore.

Until his legs fade to dust beneath him and he falls, face first onto the ground.

"No !" You screech, your heart jumping into your throat. you reach him just as his face starts to come apart like ash.

"No, no, no, Peter, please." You choke on a sob, looking up. "Tony ! Tony, help !" Your own tears start immediately.

"I don't wanna go." He starts crying. "I don't know what's happening." You pull him tighter.

"I've got you." His body trembles against yours. He looks at his hands. Ash drifts from his fingertips.

You grip him harder.

His fingers clutch desperately at your shoulders.

"I don't wanna go."

"I know."

"I don't wanna go."

"I know."

"I'm sorry." His body begins to come apart in your arms. Not all at once. Slowly. Cruelly. His shoulder dissolves first. Then his arm. You desperately try to hold together someone turning into dust. It doesn't work.

"No!" He looks at you one last time. Eyes wet. Terrified.

"…I'm scared."

Then— He is gone. Your arms close around nothing. Ash slips through your fingers. Silence. You stare at your empty hands.

"No…" Your voice cracks. "No." The tears come all at once. Violent. Uncontrollable. You sink onto your knees in the dirt, clutching the handful of gray ash that slips through your trembling fingers.

"No…" It blows away on the wind. "Peter…" Your entire body folds forward. You sob so hard you can't breathe. Around you, more people disappear. More screams. More ash. The battlefield is ending. The world is ending.

And there is nothing— Nothing— You can do.

A voice comes from behind you.

Soft.

Almost lost beneath the chaos.

"…Baby?" You know that voice. Your heart stops.

Slowly— Too slowly— You turn.

Your husband stands twenty feet away.

His rifle hangs forgotten at his side. He's staring at his own hand. Confused.

"…Frank?" He looks up. Your stomach drops.

Gray ash drifts from the tips of his fingers.

"No." He frowns.

"…Huh." Another piece of him crumbles away. He watches it almost curiously. "…Guess…" His voice catches. "…Guess that ain't good."

"No." You scramble toward him, tripping over broken concrete. "No, no, no, no—" He reaches for you. His hand is already disappearing.

"…Hey."

"No!"

"It's alright."

"It is not alright!" You throw yourself into him. Your arms wrap around his waist. He hugs you back. As tightly as he can. But already… You can feel him becoming lighter. Less solid.

"No." His chin rests on top of your head.

"I'm here."

"You are not allowed to leave me." A sad little smile touches his lips.

"Wasn't plannin' on it." His shoulder begins to dissolve beneath your cheek. You clutch harder. As though you can hold him together by sheer force.

"You promised."

"I know."

"You promised you'd always come home."

"I know." Your tears soak into his shirt.

"I can't do this without you." His remaining hand cups your cheek.

Warm. Familiar. The touch you've known a thousand times.

His eyes glisten.

"I wish…" He swallows. "…God… I wish I had more time."

"Frank, stop it."

"I wanted…" Another piece of him drifts away. "…one more mornin'."

"Stop."

"One more coffee."

"No."

"One more kiss." You kiss him before he can finish. Desperate. Shaking. He kisses you back with everything he has left. When you pull away, half his face is already becoming ash.

"I love you."

"No, no- Frankie."

"I love you."

"Frank—"

"You hear me?"

"Stop!"

"I love you." His voice is fading. "So damn much." His arms weaken around you. You try to hold him up. Instead… He slips through your embrace. Like smoke. Like dust. His fingertips brush yours one last time.

Then— Nothing.

The wind catches him. Carries him away. You collapse forward into empty air. Your hands slam into the dirt where he'd been standing only seconds before.

"No…" The battlefield doesn't stop. The explosions continue. People keep shouting. But for you… Everything has gone silent. You curl around the place where he'd vanished, clutching a handful of ash to your chest as it slips, grain by grain, through your fingers. And for the first time since this war began… You scream.

You don't remember making it back to earth. Back to New York.

Back to the apartment that smells like him, the bed that's still ruffled from when he slept in it last.

You vaguely remember Tony being there.

He's talking to Matt.

At least you think he is.

Their voices reach you like they're underwater.

"…can't leave her alone."

"…she hasn't slept."

"…she hasn't eaten."

"…Tony."

"…I know."

You don't look at either of them. You just stand in the middle of your apartment. Frank's boots are still by the door. One of them tipped over. You stare at it for almost five minutes.

Finally— You kneel. You set it upright.

Then you burst into tears. The funeral never comes. There are no bodies to bury. No caskets. No gravestones. Just photographs. Just names. Just empty chairs. Someone gives you a folded flag anyway. You don't remember who. It sits untouched on the kitchen table for almost a year. The first night, you sleep on Frank's side of the bed.

The second night too. By the third… You stop sleeping altogether. You lie awake listening for the sound of his keys in the lock. For boots in the hallway. For the familiar grunt he'd always make as he shrugged out of his jacket.

Sometimes— For half a second— You swear you hear him.

Your heart leaps. You run to the front door. It's never him. Three weeks after the Snap, Karen brings groceries. You don't answer. She lets herself in with the spare key Frank insisted someone keep. She finds you sitting on the kitchen floor. Still wearing the same sweatshirt you'd worn the day the world ended.

The coffee mug in your hands is empty. Cold.

"…Honey?" You look up.

"…I forgot how to make coffee." Karen kneels beside you. The coffee maker is already full. Ready. You'd just… Forgotten to press the button. She cries harder than you do.

Matt visits every Thursday. He never announces himself. He simply knocks twice. Lets himself in. Makes dinner. Leaves. Some Thursdays, you don't speak. He doesn't mind. He just sits across from you while the apartment echoes with a silence that used to belong to Frank.

Month three.

Steve asks if you'll come back.

"We need everybody." You shake your head.

"No."

"They need you."

"They're dead." His face falls.

"So are we." You close the door. You stop answering your phone. Natasha leaves voicemails anyway. Tony sends texts. Bruce stops by. Rhodey too. Eventually… They stop asking. Not because they've given up. Because they know. Some wounds don't close because someone tells you to keep living. The apartment becomes a museum. Frank's jacket remains hanging by the door. His shaving razor stays beside the sink. His coffee mug never gets washed. The indentation on his side of the mattress slowly fades.

That one hurts the most. You start sleeping there. Not because you want to. Because you can't bear watching it disappear.

Six months.

The nightmares begin. Sometimes Peter is reaching for you. Sometimes Frank. Sometimes both. Every dream ends the same way. Ash slipping through your fingers. You wake up grabbing empty sheets.

One year.

The city has learned to be quiet. There are fewer cars. Fewer lights. Too many empty apartments. The grocery store closes two aisles permanently because there aren't enough customers anymore. Children stop asking where their parents went. They already know. That hurts worse.

You stop being an Avenger. Not officially. You simply… Never come back. Your armor gathers dust. Your communicator dies in a drawer somewhere. The world keeps spinning.

Without you.

Some days… You don't get dressed.

Some days… You forget what day it is.

Some days… You stand in front of the bathroom mirror and think—

It would've been easier if I'd gone too.

The thought frightens you. Not because you want to die. Because you don't care very much whether you wake up tomorrow. There's a difference. It doesn't feel like one.

Year two.

Karen convinces you to walk outside. Just once. The coffee shop on the corner still remembers Frank's order.

"Large."

"Black." The barista starts making it automatically. Then freezes.

"…I'm sorry." You smile. The first genuine smile in nearly two years.

"It's okay." You buy it anyway. You carry it all the way home. You set it on his side of the kitchen table. It goes cold.

Year three.

Steve comes again. This time… He looks hopeful.

"We found something." You don't answer. "There might be a way." Silence. "Time travel." You laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's cruel.

"You think you can outrun this?"

"We have to try." You shake your head.

"I already watched him die once."

"This would undo that."

"Or I'll watch him die twice." Steve has no answer. When he leaves… The apartment feels even emptier than before.

Year four.

The panic attacks become quieter. More dangerous. They don't make you cry anymore.

Instead… You simply stop. Standing in grocery aisles. At crosswalks. In the shower. You stare into nothing until someone says your name. You forget entire afternoons. Matt notices. He starts staying longer. Neither of you mentions it.

Year five.

The calendar still has Frank's handwriting on it. Dentist - Tuesday. Pick up dry cleaning. Movie night. You never change it. Then… One rainy afternoon…

Tony Stark knocks on your door himself. Not in armor. Just Tony. Older.

More tired. He looks at you for a long moment.

"You look awful."

"So do you."

"Fair." Silence. He doesn't smile.

"I think…" He rubs a hand across his beard. "I think we figured it out." You stare at him blankly.

"What?"

"A way."

"No."

"A real one."

"No."

"We can bring them back."

"No." Tony's brow furrows.

"You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"I know enough."

"You don't believe me."

"I don't believe in miracles anymore." He flinches.

"I don't need you to."

"I watched him turn to dust in my arms." His eyes soften.

"I know."

"I held Peter while he begged me not to let him die."

"I know."

"I buried people who didn't even leave bodies."

"I know."

"My husband disappeared."

"I know."

"My kid disappeared."

"I know."

"My world ended."

"I know." You look away. Voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm tired of hoping." Because hope… Hope is what made you listen for Frank's footsteps every night for months.

Hope is what made you leave his side of the closet untouched.

Hope is what convinced you, for just one impossible second, that every knock at the door might be him.

Hope had become another way to lose him.

Tony doesn't argue. He simply walks farther into the apartment. His eyes land on Frank's boots. Still by the door. Five years later. Exactly where he'd left them. Tony closes his eyes. Then quietly says,

"…I'll bring him home to you, kid." You don't answer. Not because you don't hear him. Because somewhere deep inside yourself- In a place grief buried years ago— A tiny, terrified part of you is suddenly more frightened of hope than it ever was of despair.

Tony leaves.

The apartment falls silent again. You don't call him back. You don't even watch him walk away. The front door clicks shut. And you stand there…

Staring at Frank's boots. Exactly where he'd left them.

You don't join the mission. You don't help build the machine. You don't suit up. You don't answer another phone call. If they truly can change time… You decide you'll find out afterward. You can't survive another promise.

The nightmares get worse. Not louder. Quieter. Some nights Frank doesn't disappear. Instead… He comes home. He drops his keys in the bowl. Calls your name. Wraps his arms around your waist while you're making coffee. You laugh.You kiss him. He asks how your day was. You tell him about Peter. About Karen. About Matt. About absolutely nothing.

It feels…Perfect.

Then— Ash begins falling from his hair. You scream before he even notices.

"Frank—" He looks confused.

"What?" His hand disappears.

"No." His smile falters.

"Baby?"

"No, please—" His face crumbles apart. This time… He isn't even afraid. He simply watches you.

"I'm sorry." Then he's gone.

Every.

Single.

Night.

You stop sleeping in the bed. The dreams are waiting there. Instead you sleep on the living-room floor. Sometimes in the bathtub. Sometimes sitting upright against the wall with a pistol in your lap. If you never really sleep… The dreams can't catch you.

One night… You hear a woman scream.

Real. Not imagined. Outside. Three blocks away. You don't think. You move.

The mugger never sees you coming. One punch. His jaw breaks. He reaches for a knife. You take it away. Break three fingers. Leave him crying in an alley until the police arrive.

When you get home… Your hands are shaking. Not from fear.

For the first time in years… Your mind is quiet. You sleep six straight hours. The next week… It's another scream. Another alley. Another gang. Another fight. Another night without dreams. You begin to understand. Violence doesn't make you happy.

It makes you… Empty.

And empty is infinitely better than drowning. It becomes routine. The city sleeps. You don't. You patrol rooftops. Subway stations. Construction sites. The neighborhoods Frank always insisted on checking twice. You wear no colors. No Avengers insignia. No shield. No emblem.

Just black. Just blades. Just bruises.

The newspapers invent names.

"The Ghost."

"The Widow."

"The Wraith of Hell's Kitchen."

You never read them. Criminals begin whispering. Not because you're theatrical. Because you're efficient. You don't make speeches. You don't threaten. You simply appear. And when it's over… You disappear again.

Matt finds out first. Of course he does. He hears your heartbeat from two rooftops away. Hears the broken ribs. The knife entering someone else's shoulder. The way you stop breathing entirely before you strike.

One night- He lands beside you.

"You need to stop." You keep cleaning blood from your knuckles.

"So stop me." He says nothing. Because he knows. He probably can't. Karen sees you six weeks later. You answer the door with a split lip. Bruised cheek. Fresh stitches across your ribs. She doesn't ask. She already knows.

"You look like him." You freeze.

"What?" She swallows.

"From years ago." Silence. "You look exactly like Frank did." You close the door. You don't speak to her again for three months. The bruises become familiar. The cuts. The broken fingers. The cracked ribs. You patch yourself up the same way Frank used to. Needle. Thread. Whiskey.

Silence.

Sometimes… While sewing your own shoulder closed… You laugh. A small, humorless sound.

"So this is what it felt like." You stop fearing death. Not because you want it. Because it stops feeling important. If someone finally gets lucky… Fine. Maybe you'll see him again.

If they don't… Tomorrow is another rooftop. Another gang. Another night your head stays blessedly quiet. Steve comes looking for you once.

He finds three unconscious traffickers zip-tied to a lamppost. A fourth is coughing blood. You're wiping your knife clean.

"You've changed."

"So has the world."

"This isn't you." You finally look at him. Eyes hollow.

"You don't know who I am anymore."

"I know who Frank would've wanted you to be." That one lands. Hard. You don't answer. You simply walk away. Tony sends Happy. Bruce sends Natasha. Natasha sends Clint. Nobody reaches you.

Not really. You're always somewhere else. Always chasing the next emergency. Because if you're fighting… You're not remembering. If your fists hurt… Your chest doesn't. If your lungs are burning… You're not hearing Peter say,

"I'm scared." You're not feeling Frank dissolve in your arms. Pain has become medicine.

Violence… Anesthesia.

By the time Tony finally calls to say,

"We're ready." Your apartment is almost empty. Frank's boots are still by the door. Everything else… Has been packed away. Not because you've moved on. Because looking at it all finally became impossible. You stand in the doorway for a long time before leaving. Your hand brushes the leather of one boot.

Still dusty. Still waiting. Just like you. You whisper into the silence—

"I hope you're wrong, Tony." Not because you want him to fail. Because you've spent five years teaching yourself how to survive a world without Frank. And somewhere deep down… The idea that he might actually come home feels more terrifying than believing he never could.

-----

The night is quiet. Too quiet.

Hell's Kitchen always sounds different after midnight. Distant sirens. Traffic. Arguments drifting up from the sidewalks. Tonight… Nothing. You stand on the edge of an abandoned warehouse roof, the city spread beneath you in a sea of yellow lights.

Five years. Five years of fighting. Five years of bleeding. Five years of waking up disappointed that you hadn't died in your sleep.

Your suit is torn.

Your knuckles are split open. There's dried blood under every fingernail. Some of it's yours. Most of it isn't. You look down. It's a long way to the pavement. High enough. Probably.

Maybe not.

You don't particularly care. Your fingers loosen around the edge of the rooftop.

"…Frank." The name disappears into the wind. "I'm tired." No answer. Of course not. You laugh. Small. Empty. "You won." Not Thanos. Grief. It won. You close your eyes. One step. That's all it takes. Just—

"Don't." The voice hits you like a gunshot. You spin. Impossible. A man stands in the doorway leading to the roof. Long hair. Metal arm. Blue eyes.

"…Bucky?" He stares at you. Not with confusion. Recognition. Pain. Relief.

"You remember me." You blink.

"…No." He takes one careful step forward. "You…" Your voice catches. "No." His expression crumples.

"I know."

"No." You shake your head harder. "I watched you."

"I know."

"You disappeared."

"I know."

"I watched you turn into dust."

"I know."

"So you're not…" You take another stumbling step backward. "You're not real." His jaw tightens.

"I am."

"No."

"You are."

"No!" Your heel reaches the edge of the building. You don't notice. Bucky does. His entire body goes rigid.

"Don't move."

"I already buried you." His eyes fill.

"You didn't bury anybody."

"I watched you die."

"I know."

"You can't be here." Another careful step.

"I am."

"No!" Another.

"You gotta breathe."

"I'm dreaming."

"No."

"I'm dead."

"No."

"I'm finally dead."

"No." He moves. Fast. Faster than your exhausted body can react. The metal arm hooks around your waist just as your foot slips backward into empty air. You gasp. Suddenly you're no longer falling. You're pinned against a solid chest. Held. Hard. The way someone holds another person when they're terrified of letting go.

"Let me go!" you scream, struggling weakly against him.

"No."

"Let me go!"

"No."

"I have to—I have to be with him- I have to join him-"

"No!" The shout echoes across the rooftops. For a second… Everything stops. His breathing is uneven against your temple. His arms are shaking. Not from effort. From fear. "You don't get to do this."

"I have nothing left! Let me go ! I want to be with my husband!"

"You've got me."

"You were dead!"

"I was."

"You disappeared!"

"I did."

"You—"

"I came back." Silence. You stop fighting. Very slowly… You look up at him. Really look. There's new stubble. A fresh scar near his eyebrow. His heartbeat. You can hear it. Strong. Steady. Real.

"…How?" His throat works.

"Tony." You frown.

"What?"

"He figured it out." Your brows knit together.

"…No."

"He did."

"No."

"We went back."

"No."

"We got the Stones."

"No."

"He snapped." Your stomach drops.

"…Tony?" Bucky closes his eyes.

"He saved everybody." Silence. "But…" His voice breaks. "It killed him." The words don't register. You simply stare.

"He…" You swallow. "…Tony's…" Bucky nods once.

"He saved us.We don't... remember anything. It feels like five minutes ago Thanos did his snap but... it's been five years." The rooftop tilts beneath your feet. You grip the front of his jacket.

"…Peter?"

"Alive." Your breathing catches.

"…Sam?"

"Alive."

"…Wanda?"

"Alive."

"…T'Challa?"

"Alive." Each answer lands like another impossible heartbeat.

"…Frank?" Bucky doesn't answer immediately. Instead… He reaches up with his flesh hand. Very gently… He brushes a tear off your cheek.

"Yeah." One word. That's all it takes. The dam breaks. You fold. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Your knees simply give out beneath you. A sound tears out of your chest that you've been holding in for five years. You sob. Violently. Your whole body convulses.

"I couldn't—" The words dissolve. "I tried—" Another sob. "I couldn't save them." Bucky lowers himself to the rooftop with you still in his arms. He doesn't try to stop the crying. He just holds on. The way Steve held him after HYDRA. The way someone holds another human being who's forgotten how.

"I know."

"I wasn't there."

"I know."

"I didn't believe Tony."

"I know."

"I wanted…" You choke on the confession. "…I wanted to die." Bucky's grip tightens.

"I know."

"I almost—"

"I know."

"I couldn't do it anymore."

"I know." His own voice starts shaking.

"None of us blamed you."

"I blamed me."

"I know." You cry until there are no tears left. Until you're just shaking. Breathing in broken little gasps against his shoulder. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Eventually… Bucky speaks again. Very quietly.

"He's been looking for you." You don't respond. "The first thing he asked was where his wife was." Your breath catches. "He thought…" Bucky smiles sadly. "He thought maybe Thanos had gotten to you. He has no idea how long it's been."

It hurts.

God… It hurts.

You stare out across the city. The sunrise is beginning to stain the horizon gold.

"I don't…" Your voice is tiny. "I don't know how to see him." Bucky looks at you.

"What?"

"I spent five years learning how to survive without him. He thinks it's only been a few seconds." Another tear slips free. "What if…" You can't finish. "What if he looks at me and doesn't recognize me anymore?" Bucky's expression breaks.

"He'll recognize you."

"I've changed."

"So has he."

"I became…" You look down at your blood-covered hands."…something awful." Bucky reaches over. Without hesitation… He takes one of those stained hands in both of his.

"I know exactly what it's like…" He squeezes gently. "…to think the person you love will only see the monster." Your eyes lift to his.

"And?" A small smile.

"The people who love us…" His gaze drifts toward the rising sun. "…they usually see the parts we forgot were still there." He stands first. Then offers you his hand. Not pulling. Just waiting.

"You wanna go see your husband?" Your lips part. For the first time in five years… Hope doesn't feel like a knife. It feels terrifying. Fragile. Beautiful. With trembling fingers… You place your hand in his.

"…Yeah." Your voice cracks around the word. "So bad." Bucky helps you to your feet. The way to the compound feels surreal. Almost like a sick version of deja vu.

Five years since you stepped foot in this building.

Five years since everything fell apart.

You half expect Tony to greet you, arms wide open. But he doesn't.

The halls are brighter than you remember.

Cleaner.

Someone rebuilt this place while you were busy trying to survive. You don't recognize half the faces that pass you. Some of them smile. Some of them stop dead when they see you. They've heard stories.

The Ghost. The woman who refused to stop fighting after half the world disappeared. None of them say a word. Bucky stays beside you. Never touching. Just close enough that if your knees give out again…

He'll catch you.

"You alright?" he asks quietly. You almost laugh.

"No." He nods.

"I figured." The elevator doors slide open. The medical wing.

Clint is already waiting.

He looks older. More gray at his temples. More tired around the eyes. But he smiles the second he sees Bucky. Then he sees you. The smile disappears.

"…Oh." His eyes travel over the old scars. The fresh ones. The bruises blooming across your knuckles. The exhaustion carved permanently into your face. He doesn't ask. He doesn't have to.

"You found her." Bucky nods. "Almost too late."

Clint closes his eyes for one long second. Then—

"He's in here. Peter and the others already went home." Your heart stops. Clint reaches for the door handle.

"You don't have to—"

"I'm ready." You're lying. He knows it. Still… He opens the door. Frank is sitting on an examination table. Bruce has electrodes stuck to his chest. A blood pressure cuff squeezes one arm. Someone has clipped a pulse oximeter to his finger. He's arguing.

"I told ya, I'm fine."

"You were dead for five years."

"I was dead for five seconds."

"You don't actually know that."

"I feel fine." Bruce sighs.

"Frank—" Then… Frank looks toward the door. His entire world stops.

"…Baby?" You freeze. He's… Exactly the same..

Same hair.

Same eyes.

The same tiny scar above his eyebrow from years ago. He looks like he walked out of your apartment yesterday. He looks… Home.

Frank doesn't even think. He rips the pulse oximeter off his finger. The heart monitor leads come away with it. Bruce opens his mouth.

"Fra—" Too late. Frank is already moving. He crosses the room in three long strides. Then he's there. His hands cup your face.

Warm. Solid. Real.

"Oh, thank God." He laughs. Actually laughs.

"I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought maybe he got you." His forehead presses against yours. "I've been askin' everybody where my wife is." He smiles through wet eyes. "There you are." He pulls you into him. Hard. Like he always does. Like he's terrified you'll disappear too. His arms wrap around your back. He buries his face against your neck. "I gotcha."

Silence.

He waits for you to hug him back. You don't. Not because you don't want to. Because… You can't. Your arms hang uselessly at your sides. Your body refuses to believe he's real. Frank notices almost immediately. He leans back just enough to see your face. The smile slips.

"…Baby?" You stare at him. Studying every line. Every freckle. The way his beard hasn't grown in. The warmth coming off his skin. Your fingers rise slowly. Almost fearfully. You touch his cheek. Your hand trembles violently.

"…You're warm." He gives a confused little laugh.

"Yeah…"

"You…" Your thumb traces the scar over his eyebrow. "…You're really here."

"I'm here." Your breathing begins to shake.

"No…" His smile falters.

"What?"

"You can't…" You shake your head. "This isn't…" Your chest caves inward. "I buried you." Frank's brow furrows.

"What?"

"I buried you." His confusion deepens.

"What're you talkin' about?"

"You were gone." His eyes flick toward Bucky. Then Bruce. Neither of them says anything. Understanding begins to dawn. Slowly. Painfully. He looks back at you.

"…How long?" You can't answer. Bucky does.

"Five years." Frank goes completely still.

"…What?"

"To them…" Bucky says quietly. "It was five years." Frank looks back at you. Really looks. Notices the scars. The weight you've lost. The dark circles beneath your eyes. The way your hands won't stop shaking.

"…Baby." His voice is barely there. "What happened?" That question— That stupid, innocent question— Breaks the last thing holding you together. You throw yourself against him. This time your arms wrap around him so tightly he actually stumbles backward a step. A sob tears out of you.

Violent. Animal.

"I tried." Your fists bunch in the back of his shirt. "I tried so hard." Frank's arms lock around you immediately.

"Hey." He stares at you. Not speaking. Just … Looking. Looking at the woman who used to steal fries off his plate. Who laughed too loudly. Who danced barefoot in the kitchen while making coffee. Who kissed him every morning before work.

She's still here.

But she's buried under five years of grief.

Five years… That, to him… Never happened.

"Hey, mama, c'mere." he whispers, pulling you in, lips pressed to your temple as you sob. You hear the door close softly behind you, telling you Bruce and Bucky have left the room- and your whole body just gives up.

You go crashing to the floor, sobbing hard as Frank follows, tucking you against his chest.

"I'm sorry." You cry. "I'm so sorry." Frank shushes you, rocking you back and forth.

"Shh..Shh.. what are you sorry for , pretty girl ?"

"I-I was gonna-" You hiccup."I was gonna try to join you."

Frank stills. Not physically. Physically, he keeps rocking you, one broad hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. But inside…

Everything stops.

"…What?" Your face disappears deeper into his chest.

"I couldn't…" You can't catch your breath. Every word is ripped apart by sobs. "I couldn't do it anymore." His arms tighten instinctively.

"Hey…"

"I tried so hard. I fought." Your fingers clutch at the front of his shirt like you're afraid he'll disappear again. "God, Frankie, I fought so hard." His chin rests on top of your head.

"I have no doubt you did."

"No…" You shake your head violently. "You don't." Because he can't. How could he? To him, he'd kissed you goodbye. Then Thanos snapped. Now you're here. Three heartbeats later. He never lived the years in between.

"I waited," you whisper. His brow furrows.

"What?"

"I waited for months." Your voice has gone distant now. Like you're watching someone else's memories. "I kept your coffee mug by the sink." Frank's throat tightens. "I washed your clothes because…" A broken laugh escapes you. "…because they smelled like you." His eyes close. "I couldn't let the smell go." Your shoulders shake harder. "I slept on your side of the bed."

"You…"

"I thought…" Another hiccupping breath. "Maybe if I slept where you slept…" You squeeze your eyes shut. "…I'd dream about you." Frank's vision blurs.

"…Baby."

"I talked to you." Every word lands like another knife. "Every morning." His hand cups the back of your head. "I'd make coffee." Another sob. "And I'd tell you about my day." He can't speak. "I'd leave your boots by the door." Your voice cracks completely. "…In case you came home." Frank lets out the smallest, most broken sound. "I never stopped waiting." Silence. Then— "It got harder." You stare somewhere past him. Past the room. Past today. " God, Frank, it got so hard. I stopped hearing your voice." His heart splinters. "I couldn't remember your laugh exactly."

"Baby…"

"So I started listening to old recordings." Your breathing catches. "Over." A swallow. "And over." Another. "And over. I was scared…" Your lips tremble. "…that I'd forget you." Frank buries his face in your hair.

"You never would've."

"I almost did."

"No."

"I remembered pieces." You smile through tears. "The way you'd steal my fries." A watery laugh. "The way you snored."

"I do not snore."

"You absolutely snore."

"I breathe aggressively." Despite everything… You laugh. It's tiny. Broken. But it's there. Frank almost cries harder hearing it. Then your smile disappears.

"And then…" Your voice empties. "People stopped saying your name." His chest aches. "They stopped asking how I was. They thought…They thought I was better." He shakes his head. "They were wrong."

"Sweetheart-"

"I smiled." You shrug helplessly. "I went grocery shopping. I paid bills. I washed dishes. I even laughed sometimes." Your eyes meet his. "But every single day…" A tear slips free. "…I wanted to come home to you." Frank's face crumples. Your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek. "So I started fighting." He notices your knuckles again. The scars. The old fractures that healed crooked.

"You see these?" He nods slowly. "I stopped caring if I got hurt." His stomach twists. "I hoped somebody would eventually be faster."

"No…"

"I hoped I'd lose."

"No."

"I wanted somebody to kill me." His entire body jerks.

"No."

"So I wouldn't have to do it myself." The room goes deathly quiet. Frank just… Looks at you. At the woman he loves more than breathing. Who'd spent five years slowly disappearing. Because he'd disappeared first. His eyes overflow.

"Oh, my love…" His voice is shattered.

"Tonight.. I found the tallest building. I was going to-"

"I'm so sorry." You blink.

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't—"

"I left you."

"You couldn't help it."

"I know." His thumb wipes away another tear. "But I still left you."

"You didn't choose—"

"I know." His forehead presses against yours. "I know." He takes a shaky breath.

"But while I was gone…" His voice breaks completely. "…you carried all of me by yourself."

You start crying again.

"I was so tired. I didn't want to be brave anymore."

"I know."

"I didn't want to wake up anymore. I missed you."

"I know." The words come out almost like prayers now. Small. Fragile. You curl closer, until you're practically folded into him.

"I kept thinking…" You sniff hard. "…if I could just hold you one more time…" Frank wraps both arms around you so tightly that you can barely breathe.

"I'm here."

"I know."

"I'm not going anywhere." Another nod.

"I know."

"I mean it." His hand slides into your hair. "You hear me?" You close your eyes.

"I hear you."

"I ain't leavin' again." His voice shakes. "I don't care if I gotta haunt God himself." A tiny, watery laugh escapes you. "I'll find my way back." Another laugh. Smaller. Realer.

"I believe you." He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye where tears keep collecting.

"So listen to me now." He waits until you look at him. Really look. "If you ever get that tired again…" His thumb strokes your cheek. "If you ever think about doing that again…" His own tears spill freely now. "You tell me." You swallow.

"I couldn't."

"You do."

"I don't wanna burden you." His expression twists.

"You are never a burden."

"I—"

"Never." He says it with such certainty that it steals the next apology from your mouth. "I carried guns." He brushes your hair behind your ear. "You carried grief. I think yours was heavier." You shake your head.

"No." He smiles sadly.

"We're done carrying things alone." Your lips tremble.

"…Promise?" He doesn't hesitate.

"Promise." He hooks his little finger around yours, the way he'd done years ago over stupid things like remembering milk from the grocery store. It almost makes you laugh.

"You still do that?"

"Always worked before." You curl your pinky around his. The gesture feels impossibly small. Impossibly normal. After five years of surviving. It feels like the first piece of home you've touched. Frank presses one last kiss to your knuckles. Then gathers you back into his arms. This time, neither of you says anything. You simply sit together on the medical room floor, holding each other while the impossible truth slowly settles between you.

taglist !

The waiting room looks like hell.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

Too bright. Too loud. Too many people packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath fluorescent lights that wash everyone the same sick shade of exhausted gray. A toddler screams somewhere near triage. Somebody vomits into a plastic bag near the reception desk. EMTs burst through the ambulance bay doors every six minutes carrying fresh disasters like offerings.

And over all of it: the constant overhead paging.

The ER never really sleeps. It just bleeds into the next catastrophe.

“You got a room for a possible bowel perf?” a paramedic barks, already wheeling the patient forward.

“Trauma Two,” You answer automatically without looking up from your chart.

“Trauma Two’s occupied.”

“Then hallway bed six.”

“That guy’s psych hold.”

“Then put him literally anywhere with oxygen and a pulse ox.” The paramedic grins tiredly.

“That’s why I like you.”

“Yeah, well, poor judgment’s a recurring theme around here.”Behind you, a familiar voice cuts through the noise immediately.

“She flirts with everybody before midnight. Don’t take it personal.”

You don't have to turn around to know it’s Dr. Robby. Still, your stomach betrays you anyway.

Stupid thing.

The paramedic laughs.

“Damn, Robby. Possessive tonight.”

“That’s not what this is,” Robby mutters immediately.

You finally glance up. Big mistake. He looks exhausted. Not regular exhausted. Hospital exhausted. The kind that settles into the bones after too many double shifts and too many people dying under your hands no matter how fast you work. His dark curls are damp at the temples from hours under harsh ER heat, scrub top wrinkled, stethoscope hanging crooked around his neck. And still— still unfairly handsome. You hate that about him.

Hatesthat after fourteen hours on shift he can still look across a trauma bay and make your brain briefly stop functioning like a licensed medical professional. The paramedic wheels off laughing. Robby steps into the space beside you immediately, eyes dropping to the chart in your hands.

“You re-order the labs on Bed Nine?”

“Mmhm.”

“He needs another lactate.”

“Already done." Robby’s mouth twitches faintly.

Of course it is.

Working with him became dangerous months ago.

Not because he’s difficult. The opposite.

Because somewhere along the line the two of you became… this.

Too synced up. Too aware of each other. Too comfortable.

You know how he takes his coffee. He knows when your migraines start before you say anything. You hand him instruments before he asks during procedures. He automatically moves people out of your path during traumas without even looking.

Nobody misses it. Especially not Dana.

“You two are way past appropriate,” she muttered three shifts ago while watching you two argue over a chest tube placement like a divorced couple.

You laughed.

Robby didn't.

Now he leans slightly over your shoulder, scanning the chart.

“You eat yet?” There it is. Every damn shift. You keep your eyes on the paperwork.

“I had coffee.”

“That ain’t food.”

“It has nutritional value emotionally.”

“Cute.” His tone flattens immediately. “Eat somethin’.” You scribble another note onto the chart.

“Yes, dad.” Robby sighs through his nose. Not annoyed. Worse. Concerned.

“Seriously.”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that six hours ago.”

“And look.” You gesture vaguely at yourself. “Still vertical.” His eyes flick over your face briefly. Too briefly for anybody else to notice. Long enough for you to feel it anyway.

“You got that headache again?” he asks quietly. You blink.

“How the hell do you always know that?”

“Because you rub your temple every thirty seconds when it starts.” your hand drops immediately away from your face. Robby’s expression shifts just slightly.

Victory.

Tiny.

Private.

Dangerous.

Before either of you can say another word, the overhead speakers crackle violently:

“CODE TRAUMA. MULTIPLE GSWs EN ROUTE. ETA THREE MINUTES.”

The entire ER changes shape instantly. Everybody moves. Nurses sprint toward trauma bays. Stretchers reposition. Gloves snap on. The easy rhythm of conversation disappears beneath adrenaline and practiced chaos. Robby is already moving.

“So much for food,” you mutter.

“You’re still eatin’ after this,” he throws over his shoulder.

“You can’t legally force me.”

“I know where your locker is.”

You snort despite yourself and follow him into Trauma One. Three minutes later the ambulance bay doors explode open. And suddenly nobody has time to breathe anymore. The first patient crashes before the second stretcher even clears the ambulance bay.

“Twenty-three-year-old male,” the paramedic shouts while helping transfer the body over. “Multiple GSWs to the chest and abdomen, lost pulse twice in transport—”

“We got him,” Robby cuts in immediately. And just like that, he changes. Not physically. Something else. The warmth disappears first. The dry humor. The tired little almost-smiles he only really gives staff he trusts. Everything narrows into sharp-edged focus so complete it almost feels frightening to witness up close.

“Tube him,” he orders. You’re already moving before he finishes speaking.

“On it." The room erupts into controlled chaos around you. Monitors screaming. Gloves snapping. Blood everywhere. The patient looks young. Too young. Baby-faced beneath the oxygen mask, skin already going gray around the lips. Robby climbs onto the side rail slightly to get better leverage while assessing the chest wounds.

“No breath sounds left side.”

“Tension pneumo?” you ask.

“Looks like it.” He points instantly. “Needle.” You slap the decompression needle into his waiting hand before the nurse beside you can even react. Robby doesn’t look at you when he takes it. Doesn’t need to. That’s the problem. You work together too well now. A hiss of trapped air escapes the patient’s chest.

“Pressure’s tanking,” Langdon says.

“How bad?”

“Seventy systolic.”

“Blood now.” You move automatically, cutting through clothing while Robby barks orders over the noise. Another stretcher bursts through the doors behind you.

Second GSW. Teenager this time. Jesus Christ.

“Trauma Two ready?” Dana yells.

“No,” you answer immediately. “Use Three.”

“We need you in there too.” You glance toward Robby instinctively. Big mistake. Because he’s already looking at you. Just for a second. Long enough for that familiar awareness to pass silently between you both beneath the chaos.

Go.

You peel away instantly toward the second trauma bay. The teenager is conscious at least. Barely. Crying. Blood soaking through both hands where he’s trying to hold pressure against his own stomach.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” you say firmly while climbing beside the stretcher. “Stay with me.”

“I don’t wanna die,” he chokes out immediately. God. You hate when they say that.

“You’re not gonna die.”

“You promise?” You don’t answer fast enough. Because nobody smart makes promises in an ER. Behind you, through the open trauma bay doors, you can still hear Robby running his room like a battlefield commander.

“Push epi.”

“Again.”

“Clear.” The defibrillator cracks loud enough to echo. Your own patient starts crashing ten minutes later. Then everything becomes movement again. Blood transfusions. Suction. Pressure. Yelling.

At some point somebody presses a protein bar into your scrub pocket without explanation. You already know it was Robby. You don’t even have to look. Two hours pass like that. Then three. The teenager survives surgery. The first patient doesn’t. You know the exact second Robby loses him because the entire energy of Trauma One changes. The noise drops. Voices lower. A silence settles that only really exists in hospitals after death. You finish dictating notes at the nurses’ station forty minutes later with aching shoulders and blood dried stiff across your scrub sleeves. The ER has calmed slightly. Not quiet. Never quiet. But survivable. You rub at your eyes tiredly while signing discharge paperwork.

“You didn’t eat that.” Your head lifts immediately. Robby stands beside the desk holding the untouched protein bar from your pocket. Shit.

“I forgot.”

“You forgot for three hours?”

“It was busy.”

“It’s always busy.” You sigh dramatically and reach for the bar. He doesn’t hand it over yet.

“Robby.”

“You get dizzy again?”

“No.”

“You lyin’?”

“…maybe a little.” His jaw tightens. Not angry. Worried. Again. You hate how much that affects you.

“I’m fine,” you insist more quietly this time.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That phrase means absolutely nothin’ when it comes outta your mouth anymore.” Before you can answer, Dana walks past carrying charts and immediately stops dead seeing the two of you standing too close again.

“Oh my God,” she says flatly.

You blink. “What?”

“This.” She gestures vaguely between you both. “Whatever weird emotionally repressed slow-burn nonsense this is.” Robby pinches the bridge of his nose immediately.

“Dana—”

“No, seriously. It’s painful.” She points at you. “You look at him like he personally hung the moon.” Your entire soul leaves your body.

“Excuse me?”

“And Robby looks at her like somebody put a live grenade in his chest.”

“I’m literally standing right here,” Robby mutters.

“You two have been divorced-married for like six months.”

“We are not—”

“You shared fries yesterday.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You remembered her migraine medication before she did.” Robby opens his mouth. Stops. Closes it again. Dana looks vindicated immediately.

“Oh, my God.”

“Dana,” you warn weakly.

“No wonder the whole department thinks you’re sleeping together.” Silence. Complete silence. A nearby nurse actually turns around trying not to look interested. Robby stares at Dana like he’s reconsidering several HR policies simultaneously. You can physically feel heat crawling up your neck.

“We are not sleeping together,” you say tightly. Dana snorts.

“Honestly that’s worse. The tension in this department could power the city grid.” Then she walks away before either of you can recover. You stare at the floor. Robby stares somewhere over your shoulder. The protein bar gets silently placed into your hand at last. A wave of nausea fills you head to toe as your migrain pounds against your skull, and you wince and push away from the desk.

"Eat it." Robby pushes. You nod, turning away from him.

"Yeah, i will. Later-" You barely finish your sentence when your vision tunnels and you stumble. You sway a little in place before gravity does it's job and you go crashing for the floor.

"Shit !" Robby catches you before you have the chance to crack your skull open on the linoleum, fingers pressed to your neck to check your vitals. A stupid reflex. He looks up at Dana, who is walking away. "Dana ! A little help here !" He calls. Dana stops and spins around on high alert, and her eyes blow wide.

"Oh for pete's sake." She breathes, slinging her stethoscope off her neck as she runs forward. "What the hell happened ?" Robby shifts you in his arms, one hand supporting your limp neck.

"She's dehydrated. Only had coffee." He explains, his voice rough. Dana swears under breath and looks up.

"Perlah, get me some saline !" She shouts, "Santos, Whittaker, get me a bed !" Everything moves at once after that. The ER shifts shape around emergencies automatically, instinctively, like a living organism responding to injury. Nurses break into motion. A gurney appears from somewhere down the hall. Somebody lowers the volume on the television overhead. And through all of it, Robby doesn’t let go of you for even a second.

“She hit her head?” Dana asks quickly, already checking your pupils while Robby keeps you upright against his chest.

“No,” he answers immediately. “I caught her.” The speed of that answer makes Dana’s eyebrows climb. Interesting.

“BP?” she asks.

“Couldn’t get one yet.”

“She breathing okay?”

“Yes.”

“Pulse?”

“Fast.” His jaw tightens. “Too fast.” You lie limp against him completely unconscious, cheek pressed against the navy-blue fabric of his scrub top. One of your hands is curled loosely against his chest like your body just gave up trying to hold itself upright. And Jesus Christ— Robby looks terrified. Not visibly to most people. But everybody here knows him. They know the difference between Dr. Robby handling a crisis and Robby barely holding himself together through one. Langdon skids to a stop beside Mel and Samira, who have stopped in their tracks to stare at their friend passed out on the ground.

"Jesus, what happened ?" He asks, his tone wuipped.

Robby looks up, incredulous.

"The fuck does it look like Frank ? She's unconcsious !" He swears under his breath. "Whittaker ! Where the fuck is that bed ?"

“Coming through!” A stretcher rattles around the corner at full speed. Whittaker wheels a bed over fast while Santos helps clear space beside the nurses’ station.

“We got her,” Santos says carefully. Robby doesn’t move.

“Robby,” Dana says slower this time. Like she’s talking him down off something. His eyes flick up finally. For half a second he genuinely looks like he forgot anyone else was there. Then his face shutters immediately back into professional composure.

Right.

Doctor mode.

He carefully transfers you onto the bed, one hand still bracing the back of your head even after you’re safely down against the mattress.

“She’s burning up,” he mutters. Dana presses a thermometer against your forehead.

“Low-grade fever.” She frowns. “Probably running herself into the ground.”

“Shocking,” Santos mutters under his breath. Robby shoots him a look sharp enough to cut steel. Santos immediately raises both hands. “I’m just saying.”

“Get fluids running,” Robby says flatly. Dana watches him for a second too long. Then:

“How long’s this been going on?” Robby doesn’t look away from you.

“What?”

“This martyr complex of hers.” Dana gestures vaguely toward your unconscious body. “She’s looked like hell all week.”

“She said she was fine.”

“Oh my God.” Dana actually laughs once. “And you believed that?” His expression darkens immediately because— No. He didn’t. That’s the problem. He knew. He knew you were overworking. Knew you were skipping meals. Knew the migraines were getting worse because he memorized your tells months ago without meaning to. And somehow he still let this happen. The guilt crawls visibly across his face. Dana sees it instantly.

“Hey,” she says, voice softening slightly. “This isn’t on you.” Robby exhales sharply through his nose.

“She passed out standing next to me.”

“Because she’s an idiot.” A beat. Then quieter: “And because this place eats people alive.” Nobody argues with that. Perlah arrives with saline while Princess hooks you up to monitors. Your pulse flashes too fast across the screen immediately. Robby stares at it like he personally offended the laws of medicine.

“She’s gonna wake up pissed we made a scene,” Dana says knowingly. That almost gets a smile out of him. Almost. Instead he reaches down absentmindedly and brushes a strand of hair back away from your face. The entire room goes still for exactly one second. Because that— That was not a coworker gesture. Robby realizes it immediately after doing it. His hand stills. Dana’s eyes widen slowly like she just found proof of life on another planet.

“Oh,” she says very quietly. Robby straightens instantly. Professional again. Too late. Way too late. “You are so screwed,” Dana informs him with the calm certainty of someone announcing a weather forecast.

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“You’re in love with her.” Whittaker nearly chokes in the background. Robby’s face hardens immediately.

“Dana.”

“No, no, this is actually insane now.” She points between him and your unconscious form. “You looked two seconds away from coding yourself when she hit the floor.”

“She fainted.”

“And you caught her like a grieving Victorian widower.” Silence. Santos turns around entirely to hide his laughter. Mel and Samira pretend to be busy with a chart as Mckay walks by, her brows furrowed at the scene. Langdon whistles and turns around, walking off his his hands in his pockets. Robby rubs both hands down his face hard enough to leave red marks behind.

“This conversation is over.”

“Mhmm.” Dana crosses her arms. “You gonna tell her before or after the next time she collapses from neglecting basic human survival needs?” His eyes drift back toward you automatically. Unconscious. Pale. IV running steadily now. Something in his expression shifts again. Softer this time. More dangerous.

“Soon,” he says quietly before he can stop himself. Dana goes completely still. She sighs, and her face breaks into a grin.

"Great. Abbot owes me a hundred bucks." Robby goes still.

"What ?"

-------------

The world is bright.

God, it's so bright.

You crack your eyes open and immediately regret it, groaning as the bustling sounds of the ER flood back in.

"Ah. Rise and shine, sleepy-head." You tilt your head to the side. Langdon and Mckay are in your room, Mckay down by the computer, checking your chart while Langdon is sat by your bed, adjusting the drip flow in the IV.

Wait.

Why are you in a room ?

Your voice is rough with sleep when you speak.

“…what?” Langdon grins immediately.

“Oh, she’s alive. Shame. I was just about to steal your locker.” You blink at him slowly, brain still buffering.

“…why am i in a room?” You croak. "Why are you guys in a room.. with me ?"

“Visiting hours,” McKay says dryly without looking up from the chart. “We brought flowers.” You glance around blearily. No flowers.

“…you’re both assholes.”

“Correct,” Langdon says pleasantly. Then your brain catches up.

Room.

IV.

Monitor.

The realization hits all at once and you groan, dragging a hand over your face.

“Oh my God.”

“There it is,” McKay mutters. “The embarrassment. Nature is healing.”

“How long was I out?” Langdon checks the watch on his wrist dramatically.

“Long enough for Robby to threaten three residents, snap at a nurse, and hover outside this curtain like a divorced father at a middle school dance recital.” Your stomach drops instantly.

“…what?” McKay finally looks over at you then, expression dangerously entertained.

“Oh, yeah. It was bad.”

“He scared Santos so badly she almost started crying,” Langdon adds.

“That’s not true.”

“She absolutely thought she was getting fired.”

“I did not snap at Santos,” Robby’s voice cuts in sharply from outside the curtain. Both of them immediately grin like sharks scenting blood. And then Robby steps into the room carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and an electrolyte drink in the other. He stops the second he sees your eyes open. Every inch of tension in him visibly shifts. Not gone. Just redirected.

“Oh, there he is,” Langdon says smugly. “The grieving widow.”

“Frank,” Robby says flatly.

“You were pacing.”

“I was working.”

“You checked on her seventeen times.” McKay snorts into her coffee. Robby ignores both of them completely, eyes already on you instead.

“You with us?” You nod weakly.

“Unfortunately.”

“Any dizziness?”

“Yes.”

“Nausea?”

“A little.”

“Headache?” You just stare at him. He sighs. “Right. Stupid question.” Robby looks like he wants the earth to physically open beneath him.

“Okay,” he says tightly. “Everybody out.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Langdon says immediately.

“Frank.”

“Nope. This is the best day of my life.” Robby points toward the door with terrifying calm.

“Get out.” McKay is already cackling as Langdon lets himself be physically shoved toward the curtain. The curtain swings shut behind them amid open laughter from the hallway. Then it’s quiet again. Well. Quiet except for the distant ER chaos and your own heartbeat trying to escape your body. You stare determinedly at the blanket over your lap. Robby stares somewhere over your left shoulder. Neither of you speak for a full five seconds. He sighs, pinching his nose.

"We put you on IV Saline. You were dehydrated." He explains, walking over to the seat Langdon had previously occupied. You gulp, nodding.

"My bad." He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah, it is your bad. I can't have you collapsing like that in the middle of a shift." You groan, shaking your head.

"What, would you rather I do it before ? Or after ? I'm sorry, oh ER overlord, i'll try to control my unconscious state from now on." Robby lets out a short, incredulous breath through his nose.

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“I’m not getting smart,” you say, already pushing the blanket off your legs. “I’m getting out of here.” His head snaps toward you instantly.

“…no, you’re not.” You pause mid-movement.

“Yes,” you say slowly, like he’s missed something obvious, “I am.” Robby stands up so fast the chair behind him scrapes the floor.

“You just passed out.”

“And I woke up.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It’s exactly how it works.” You swing your legs over the side of the bed anyway, ignoring the slight sway in your balance as you reach for your shoes on instinct. Robby’s voice drops.

“Stop.” You freeze for half a second. Not because he told you to. Because of how he said it. But then you shake it off and pull your shoe on anyway.

“I’m going back to work,” you repeat. Robby moves closer immediately.

“You’re not cleared.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” You glance up at him sharply.

“I didn’t ask for a second opinion.”

“And I’m not giving you one,” he snaps back. “I’m telling you, as the attending who just watched you hit the floor—”

“Because I forgot to eat,” you cut in. “Not because I’m dying.”

“That doesn’t make it better!” The words echo harder than either of you probably intend. Silence hits for a beat. Your fingers still on your shoe. Robby drags a hand down his face, breathing out through his nose like he’s trying not to explode.

“You don’t get to just—” He stops himself, jaw flexing. “You don’t get to walk back out there like nothing happened.” You stand up fully now. A little too fast. The room tilts slightly.

“I’ve got patients,” you say more quietly. Robby’s voice goes lower.

“So do I.” A beat. Then: “And as of right now, you are on of them. Now, I’m telling you to sit back down.” You stare at him. He stares right back. There’s no humor in it anymore. No teasing. No banter. Just that same pressure from earlier—too much concern packed into too little space. You exhale through your nose.

“…you don’t get to order me around.” Robby laughs once, sharp and disbelieving.

“Apparently I do, considering I just watched you hit the floor and scare half the department into thinking we were gonna lose you.” That lands. Harder than it should. You look away for a second. Then back at him.

“I’m not fragile,” you say again, quieter. Robby’s expression shifts instantly.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You’re acting like I am.”

“I’m acting like you’re someone who almost cracked their skull open because they refused to take a break.” That makes you go still. A beat passes. Then you grab your badge from the bedside table. Robby’s eyes widen slightly.

“…don’t.” You clip it onto your scrub top.

“I’m going back to work.”

“No,” he says again, sharper now. You step around him. He moves with you immediately, blocking the exit. You stop. Look up at him.

“…move.” Robby doesn’t. For the first time since you woke up, he looks genuinely frustrated in a way that isn’t controlled anymore.

“You’re making a stupid call.”

“And you’re not my keeper.” That hits something in him. You see it. The flicker. The crack.

A pause. Then softer—but no less firm:

“I’m still not letting you walk out there like that.” You stare at him for a long second. Then, very deliberately, you step sideways. Not pushing past him. Not fighting. Just… going around. Robby turns instantly.

“Hey—”

“I said I’m fine,” you cut in, already heading for the curtain.

“You’re not—”

“I am,” you repeat, not stopping. Robby follows you out into the corridor. Langdon and McKay are still visible down the hall, both of them immediately clocking what’s happening and exchanging a look.

“Oh no,” Langdon murmurs. “She’s upright.” McKay winces.

“That’s worse.” Robby catches up to you.

“Seriously—stop.” You don’t.

“I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“You don’t get to just leave.” You finally stop in the middle of the hallway. Turn back to him. People move around you. A stretcher rolls past. A monitor alarm bleats somewhere in the distance. Life keeps going. Even when you’re both frozen in it.

“I have a shift,” you say calmly. “You have patients. We are both adults.” Robby looks at you like he wants to argue and can’t find the right angle anymore.

“You’re still dizzy.”

“I’ll sit if I need to.”

“You shouldn’t be standing.”

“And yet I am.” A beat. Langdon quietly mouths, this is insane, to McKay. Then you turn and keep walking. You wrap your arms around yourself, walking over to the nurse's station and picking up the chart you had left there. Your teenage patient. You sniffle and walk over to his room, pushing the curtain aside. Robby follows.

Of course he does.

You feel him before you even hear him—heavy footsteps that don’t belong to the usual ER rhythm, too deliberate, too controlled, like he’s forcing himself not to close the distance in three strides and drag you back by force.He stops just outside the curtain.You don’t look at him. You can’t afford to. There’s a chart in your hands and a patient who actually needs you upright, even if your skull still feels like it’s full of cotton and static.

“Vitals stable,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

“You don’t get to just—”

“Robby,” you cut in, sharper than you intend. A warning. Or maybe a plea. “Not here.” Silence. Then, quieter, dangerously controlled:

“You think I care where it is?” That finally makes you look at him. He’s standing half in the curtain light, half in the hallway chaos, scrubs wrinkled, hair slightly messed from running his hand through it too many times. He looks like he hasn’t stopped moving since you collapsed. His jaw is tight. Not angry anymore. Past angry.

“You passed out,” he says. “In my department. In my ER. In front of my staff. And you woke up and decided the appropriate response was to go back to work like nothing happened.”

“I am back to work.”

“No.” One step closer. “You are standing on adrenaline and spite and a saline bag that’s barely had time to do anything.” You let out a short breath, half laugh, half exhaustion.

“You always this dramatic with every patient, or am I special?” That lands. You see it hit him—right under the ribs. His expression shifts, like something in him finally snaps into place instead of being held together.

“No,” he says. Then he reaches for your wrist. Not hard. Not rough. But decisive.

“Hey—Robby—” He doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks you backward—not dragging, not forcing, but absolutely not giving you the option to argue your way out of it. You stumble once, annoyed, and he adjusts instantly without even looking, like he already knows exactly where your balance breaks.

“Seriously?” you hiss. “You’re doing this now?”

“Yes,” he says flatly.

“You can’t just abduct your attending in the middle of a shift.”

“I can when she’s about to drop again in front of Trauma One.”

“That is not—” He opens a door you didn’t even see him key into. On-call room. Small. Dim. Too quiet compared to the screaming outside. He guides you inside and shuts the door behind you. The click of the lock is loud. Final. He draws the curtains shut. For a second, neither of you moves. The room feels wrong in a different way—no monitors, no alarms, just the hum of the hospital through the walls and the two of you trapped in a space that suddenly feels way too intimate to be professional. You turn on him immediately.

“Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.” You stare at him. He stares back. Then he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for hours and finally gave up.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Sit,” he repeats, voice lower now. Not loud. Not angry. Final. Something in it makes your irritation falter for half a second.

“I don’t need—”

“You almost face-planted into a hallway cart,” he cuts in. “So forgive me if I don’t trust your assessment right now.” That stings. You hate that it stings.

“I told you I’m fine.”

“And I told you to stop saying that like it’s a magic spell that makes it true.” Silence snaps between you. You cross your arms. He runs a hand over his face, dragging it down like he’s physically trying to keep himself from losing control again. Then, softer—dangerously honest: “Do you have any idea what it looked like?” Your voice drops a fraction.

“No worse than what we see every day.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” He looks at you. And whatever restraint he’s been clinging to finally slips just enough for you to see what’s underneath it.

“I thought I was going to lose you in my own department,” he says, quiet and raw. “While I was standing ten feet away.” That shuts you up. Not because you don’t have a response. Because suddenly you don’t trust your voice. Robby steps closer again, slower this time, like he’s approaching something that could still break.

“You don’t get to decide that it’s nothing,” he says. “You don’t get to walk it off because it’s convenient.” Your throat tightens.

“I wasn’t trying to make it convenient.”

“Then what were you doing?” he asks immediately. A beat. Your answer comes out smaller than you want it to.

“Working.” He lets out a humorless breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what scares me.” You frown slightly.

“What?” He looks at you like he regrets the words the second they leave him—but not enough to take them back.

“That you’ll always pick the job over your own body,” he says. “Even when it’s failing you.” Something shifts in your chest. You don’t like how seen that feels. Then he steps right in front of you. Close enough that the air changes. A pause. The hospital noise outside feels miles away. You swallow.

“This is inappropriate,” you mutter automatically, because your brain is scrambling for something safe to hold onto. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “We passed that a while ago.” You scoff, backing away from him.

"God, Robby - Why do you care ? I'm an adult, i can handle myself-" He moves with you instantly. Not chasing. Not grabbing. Just… matching you step for step until your back meets the wall and there’s nowhere left for you to retreat without admitting you’re retreating.

“You call that handling yourself?” he asks quietly. Your jaw tightens.

“I didn’t ask for a performance review.”

“I’m not performing,” he says. “I’m telling you you scared the hell out of me.” That lands harder than anything else so far. Because it’s not clinical. It’s not Dr. Robby. It’s just him. You force a short laugh, brittle at the edges.

“You, scared?” you repeat. “You? You run trauma codes like it’s any other Tuesday and you’re telling me I scared you?” His eyes don’t move from yours.

“Yes.”Simple. Unapologetic. That shuts you up for half a second too long. Then anger finds its way back in—because it’s easier than whatever is sitting underneath it.

“You don’t get to do this,” you say, voice sharper now. “You don’t get to pull me into a room, lock the door, and act like—like—”

“Like what?” he cuts in. You gesture vaguely between you.

“Like this matters more than everything else.” Robby goes still. That’s the wrong thing to say. You see it immediately.Something in his expression tightens, like he’s been holding something behind his teeth for too long and you just forced it open.

“It does,” he says. Quiet. Flat. Absolute. Your breath catches slightly.

“No, it doesn’t,” you say automatically, because that’s safer.

“It does to me.” Silence. You stare at him, trying to find the angle where this becomes a misunderstanding you can fix with sarcasm or distance or anything familiar. But there isn’t one. Robby exhales through his nose, frustrated now—not at you, but at himself.

“You really think I’d be doing this,” he gestures between you again, sharper this time, “if it didn’t matter?”

“You’re my attending,” you say quickly. He laughs once, humorless.

“That’s what you’re going with?”

“It’s a boundary.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”Your pulse spikes.

“Excuse me?” Robby steps closer again, and this time you don’t move fast enough to stop it.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” he asks. “You think I don’t know exactly how this looks? How long this has been going on?” Your throat goes tight.

“Robby—”

“I’ve been watching you almost pass out for weeks,” he snaps suddenly, voice rising. “I’ve been watching you run yourself into the ground, and I keep telling myself it’s just work, it’s just stress, it’s just—”He stops. Jaw clenches. Then quieter, but sharper somehow: “And then you collapse in front of me and I realize I don’t care if it’s ‘appropriate’ anymore.”

Your breath stutters.

“Stop,” you whisper.

He shakes his head once.

“No.” A beat. Then it comes out—rough, unplanned, like it slips through a crack he didn’t know was there. “I can’t do this pretending I don’t—” he cuts off, swallows hard, eyes flicking down for half a second like he’s annoyed at himself for losing control. “I can’t stand there and watch you walk yourself into the ground and pretend it’s nothing to me.” Your voice barely works.

“Robby…” He looks back at you. And whatever restraint he had left finally breaks cleanly.

“I’m in love with you,” he says. No softness. No buildup. Just truth, thrown into the air like it’s been suffocating him. The room goes completely still. Even the hospital noise feels distant now, like it’s happening to someone else’s life. You don’t speak. Not because you don’t have words. Because you have too many and none of them fit right. Robby watches your face change like he’s bracing for impact. And then, almost immediately, regret floods in.

“Shit,” he says quietly. One step back. “No—forget I said that.” Your stomach drops. His jaw tightens like he’s trying to physically shove the words back into his chest.

“I shouldn’t have—” he starts again, voice rougher now. “That’s not—this isn’t—”

“Robby,” you say, finally. He stops. Doesn’t look at you immediately. That alone says everything.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” he says, almost bitter now, like he’s punishing himself. “I just—”

'Robby."

Your voice is quiet, but it cuts through his frantic backpedaling like a scalpel. He finally stops, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. He still won’t meet your eyes, staring at a point on the scuffed linoleum floor like it holds the secrets to avoiding this exact moment. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, filled with everything he just said and everything you haven’t.

“Robby,” you say again, softer this time. You take a half-step forward, closing the tiny gap he’d created. “Look at me.” He hesitates, a war playing out across his face. The urge to flee warring with the command in your voice. Finally, slowly, he lifts his gaze. The raw vulnerability in his eyes is a punch to the gut. It’s the same look he had when you were on the floor, but magnified, stripped of all clinical pretense. It’s just him. Scared. Exposed.

“I…” he starts, then stops, his throat working. “I know I shouldn’t have said that. It’s out of line. It’s—” You don’t let him finish. You surge forward, grabbing the front of his scrub top in both fists and yanking him down to you. The movement is clumsy, desperate. Your mouth crashes against his. It’s not a kiss of gentle revelation. It’s a kiss of frustration, of relief, of months of unspoken tension finally detonating. It’s all teeth and desperate pressure, a clash that’s been brewing for longer than either of you would admit. He makes a sound against your lips, a harsh, surprised groan, and for a second he’s frozen. Then his hands are on you, not gentle, not asking. One hand clamps onto the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place with a grip that’s just this side of painful. The other arm bands around your waist, lifting you slightly, pulling you flush against him until there’s no air, no space, just the frantic hammering of his heart against yours through the thin fabric of your scrubs. You kiss him back with everything you have, pouring all the fear from the hallway, all the annoyance at his overbearing concern, all the traitorous warmth that’s been pooling in your stomach every time he looks at you for months. You bite his lower lip, hard, and he groans again, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming yours in a way that’s possessive and demanding and utterly, completely Robby. He walks you backward, and your back hits the wall with a soft thud that doesn’t break the kiss. He pins you there, his body a solid, warm weight, one of his thighs wedging itself between yours. The pressure is intoxicating, a dizzying contrast to the lightheadedness from before. This is a different kind of spinning out of control. One you don’t want to stop. His hand slides from your neck down your side, tracing the curve of your ribs before coming to rest on your hip, his thumb digging in, holding you captive. You can feel the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his breathing, a mirror to your own. He finally breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. Both of you are breathing hard, chests heaving. The room is silent except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the distant, muffled hum of the hospital that feels worlds away.

“Christ,” he rasps, his voice thick and wrecked. His eyes are still closed, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear, and a shiver runs through you. “You can’t… you can’t just do that.”

“You’re the one who said you were in love with me,” you manage to get out, your voice shaky. “And then tried to take it back.”

“I wasn’t taking it back,” he says, lifting his head. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with a mix of adrenaline and something else, something hungry. “I was trying not to fuck everything up.”

“Too late for that,” you breathe, and then you’re kissing him again. It’s just as rough as before, maybe rougher. His hands are everywhere, roaming over your back, your sides, gripping your ass and pulling you harder against him. The wall is hard and unyielding at your back, and he’s solid and unyielding at your front, and you’re trapped in the best possible way. He rolls his hips against yours, a slow, deliberate grind that sends a bolt of heat straight through you, and you gasp into his mouth. He takes the opportunity to kiss a trail down your jaw, his scruff scraping deliciously against your skin. He nips at your collarbone, his hand sliding up under your scrub top, his palm hot and firm against the bare skin of your stomach.

“Robby,” you pant, your head falling back against the wall as his mouth finds that spot on your neck that makes your knees weak. “We’re… we’re in the on-call room.”

“Mhmm,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Locked the door.” His thumb brushes against the underside of your breast, and you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. He chuckles, a low, smug sound that vibrates through you. “Someone could knock.”

“Don’t care,” you gasp, as his other hand tugs your scrub top out of your pants, his fingers finding the waistband of your pants. “God, don’t stop.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. There’s a question there, a final check-in, but it’s buried under layers of raw want. You answer it by grabbing his hand and guiding it further down. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, and then his mouth is on yours again. He tastes like burnt coffee and the faint metallic tang of hospital air, but there’s something else, something bitter and sweet and rawly, desperately Robby that makes you want to climb inside his chest and break his ribs open from the inside. His hand is already down the front of your scrubs, palm hot against your hipbone, fingers trembling just enough to betray everything he won’t say aloud. You fumble at the drawstring on your own waistband, frustration clawing up your throat in a low, angry whine when the knot won’t loosen fast enough. You stare up at him—mess of dark hair, sweat on his brow, pupils wide enough to swallow the brown—and wonder absently if this is what it feels like to code. For a minute nobody says anything. You just breathe, harsh and hungry and desperate, noisy enough that if anybody is in the hallway they’d know exactly what was happening in here. It’s Robby that breaks first. He makes a strangled sound, forehead dropping to yours, so hard your noses smashed together. His voice comes out low and shredded and nearly begging.

“You gotta let me know if you want me to stop.”

You don’t.

Fuck, you don’t.

You want him to break you down to single-celled organisms. you turn your head and bite the meat of his bicep, just to feel him jerk.

“Shut up and do it, then,” You mutter. Your hands drop around his shoulders, pulling him down, and the next kiss is more teeth than lips. You don’t even notice his other hand has made it to your waistband until you feel the cool slide of his hand against your skin. You’re so far gone, you don’t even feel the fear or shame anyone normal would. Can’t bring yourself to care that you’re half-pinned to a drywall partition and the edge of a cot, moaning into your supervisor’s mouth like you’re both undergrad idiots caught in a blackout at frat formal. His hand is relentless, moving fast and clever, not even bothering to be delicate. You nearly lose your balance when he presses a thumb down just right over your scrubs, and your center of gravity hops about a foot left.

“Fuck—Robby, fuck—” You hiss it against his jawline, legs starting to shake. He gets a hand under your thigh, hefts it up, then hooks your knee on his belt so all you can do is hang there and let him wreck you. Somewhere in the back of your awareness you’re listing all the ways this is the worst idea you’ve ever had, but your body refuses to stop. He’s cursing too, breathing your name into your neck, voice so rough you can feel it vibrating in his chest. You want to put a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet but you know if anyone comes in, you’re both dead anyway. He fumbles at the drawstring with clumsy, single-handed urgency, finally manages to get it untied. The relief when his fingers actually slide past the waistband is so intense your vision goes white at the edges. He doesn’t even tease—just buries his hand against you and makes a noise so dark and satisfied it spikes something hot and relentless at the base of your spine.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re fucking soaked.” He says it like he means it as both a compliment and a diagnosis. Then he pushes his palm harder against you, finding every sensitive spot and working you with unerring, almost clinical precision, like he’s taking inventory of every way you can be taken apart. Your head thunks back against the wall with a little hollow sound. You want to tell him to stop, or slow down, or just breathe for maybe two seconds, but you don’t. You can’t. Instead you let yourself fall open and let him see it. The fact that you’re wrapped this tightly around him is not new information, but this—exposed, desperate—is a new evolutionary stage. He leans in, mouth back on yours, and you taste sweat, salt, and faint chemical hospital on his skin. The wall is cold at your back and his hand is molten at your front and your whole body is nothing but contrast and overload and hunger. You barely register your own hands, but they’re on him, pulling up the hem of his shirt, searching for bare skin, something to ground yourself. You feel the heat of him even through layers, alive and pulsing and real. He holds you still, fingers working in brutal, short pulses, driving you mercilessly toward the edge. It’s not careful. It’s not gentle. It’s like he’s making a point. Like he’s proving to you, to himself, to God, that you’re not going to scare him off, not ever.

You come like a detonation.

It rips through you so hard your vision whites out again and you clench around his hand. He groans, slowly slipping his fingers out of you before taking a step back away from your and pulling down your scrub pants. You gulp as you watch him undo the drawstring on his own pants, your mouth watering with need. The cold air against your exposed cunt is making you clench involuntarily, and the only thing you want right now is to have him inside of you. He pulls his pants down, only enough to free himself, and the air feels like it’s knocked out of your chest. His cock slaps up against his stomach, flushed dark, thick and heavy with blood, and the sight alone is enough to make you squeeze your thighs together in anticipation, shivering even though the room is sweltering. He spits in his palm, slicks himself, then walks over to you. His hands hook beneath your thighs and you jump up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he presses you against the wall. He pushes your hair back from your face, kisses your nose. He doesn’t waste a second.

The first thrust is brutal, messy, all pent-up frustration and months of not acting on impulse. He’s thick—bigger than you’d let yourself admit in all those late-night, shamefaced fantasies—and the stretch steals the air from your lungs. Your jaw drops open, eyes rolling back as you lock on to the faces he’s making: mouth slack, eyebrows knit, a bead of sweat at his temple that you want to lick off more than you want to live. He’s got both hands under your ass, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, holding you up so all you can do is take it. And you do, with everything you have, bearing down on him so you can feel every inch, every twitch. He huffs a shaky, humorless laugh, the kind you only make when you’re so overwhelmed you can’t do anything else.

“You okay ?” He rasps, kissing his way up your neck. The sound that comes out of you isn’t even a word. He pounds into you with another deep, brutal stroke and your body locks up so tight you’re glad he’s the one holding you or you’d have fallen flat. Every thrust slams your spine into the drywall and it should hurt, it should, but all you can do is claw at his shirt, nails catching the rough cotton, dragging it up over his ribs so you can feel him—real, alive, so much hotter than any fever you’ve ever run in the hospital. The slap of skin, the hiss of your breathing, the mangled noises you’re making—all of it so loud, vulgar, so perfectly, awfully public even behind the locked door. He’s whispering shit into your neck. At first you think it’s curse words, but then you catch your own name buried in there, and then more, like instructions, like hymns.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, the words punching out of him like he’s angry about it. “God, you’re unreal.” His hips snap again, harder, and your shoulders knock back against the wall, sharp bite of drywall dust filling your nose. Each time he thrusts in, your vision smears around the edges, the pleasure so hot it borders on pain. It isn’t like you pictured, not really—it’s better. The angle, the rush, the way he bullies all the air out of your lungs with every movement. Your hands are in his hair, clawing tight, pulling him down so you can mouth at his neck, take the taste of him into yourself. He shoves your scrubs up higher, rough hands leaving trails of heat on cold skin, then fists one hand in the fabric at your shoulder, pinning you harder to the cinderblock. There is nothing gentle, nothing careful, nothing but his body taking yours apart, and yours letting him, wild for it. He keeps muttering, a string of filthy reverence against your ear:

“Can’t believe it’s you, can’t believe you let me—fuck, you’re so—Jesus, clench again, just like that—” The words run together, get lost under the wet slap of skin and the broken sounds you’re making. You can’t answer except to dig your heels into his lower back, desperate to keep him as close as possible, to force him deeper, to make certain it’s real. This has to be real. For months you both acted like this wasn’t going to happen, like you didn’t live your whole life in inches, waiting for the day the rules would break and you’d get to see what would actually happen if you let go. Now you’re against the wall, and he’s inside of you raw and fast and a little bit mean, and every expectation is dissolving in a haze of salt and friction and heat. You want to tell him he can do anything to you, that there is nothing off-limits, but all that comes out is a shattered little whine, just his name, again and again. He bites your collarbone, sucks a mark there, and the pain is almost enough to bring you back down, but you’re already spiraling. Robby’s voice is a chant in your ear, weirdly reverent, filthy and devotional all at once. He’s running hot, sweat trickling down his neck, the muscles in his forearms taut as bowed steel where he brackets your hips. Each thrust slams you against the wall hard enough to rattle the fluorescent hum down to your teeth. You know you’ll have drywall dust embedded under your nails, maybe even in your hair, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Your world is reduced to the vicious, deliberate drag of his cock inside you, the scratch of his stubble jaw against your cheek, the gasp-and-hitch cadence of your own lungs. His hand slips, finds your jaw, thumb prying your mouth open.

“Look at me,” he grates. It’s not a request. You do, eyelids dragging heavy, drool stringing from your lips. He shoves his thumb inside and you clamp down on it, tongue greedy, and watch his resolve ripple and snap at the edges. “Fuck, you love this,” he hisses. A hot, shameful thrill blooms in your gut. You can’t even nod; your brain’s gone chemical, all instinct and nerve and the urge to let him ruin you properly. He pulls his thumb free from your teeth, then brings his hand back to grip your jaw, rough, almost cruel.

“You gonna come for me like this?” His pelvis snaps up, grinding you against concrete. “You gonna soak me, right here, where anybody could walk in?” He means it as a threat, but the promise makes something deep in you uncurl and spiral tight. You dig your nails into his back and feel the give of his skin, the helpless rocking of your own hips. You’re close again—embarrassingly, stupidly fast—and he can tell, because he starts fucking you even meaner, chasing the edge with all the subtlety of a gunshot.

“Jesus,” he says, “you feel so good, I can’t—fuck. I can’t stop.” Like he’s ever going to. You snarl something incoherent, probably his name, and you feel the tension crest, shatter, and pour out in waves so intense you lose track of your own body. Robby keeps moving, not letting up for a second. Everything’s too much: the raw thud of your shoulderblades grinding cinderblock, the way your ankles have locked behind his back, the friction and heat and static spit-glue between your skin. You try to tell him you’re gonna lose it but only manage a wild, choked keening that doesn’t sound like it could belong to you. He drops his head to your shoulder, teeth scraping, and groans your name so low and honest it makes your toes curl. There is nothing in the world but this. Nothing but him pinning you, holding you, fucking you like he’s lost count of where the rest of the world even is. Your hands are in his hair, wrenching, and you yank his head up so you can bite at his bottom lip. He lets you, gives a little gasp, then locks eyes with you and pours all that manic, frantic reverence right into the next kiss, mouthing at your skin and then burying his face in your neck like he’s drowning. The pace gets relentless—body-shocking, staccato, sharp even through the haze of it. He fucks through your aftershocks as if it’s a challenge, like the goal is to keep your body from ever regaining equilibrium. When you come again it’s so loud you’re sure the ward must hear; he clamps his hand over your mouth, eyes blown so scared and wild, but the pulse of his cock inside you says he’s not really trying to stop you so much as channel every iota of your body back into his. His own rhythm gets jerky, sloppier, and his mouth drops open against your jaw as he pins you tight and starts to lose it.

“Fuck, oh fuck, gonna—” His body locks, hips jammed flush against you, and you feel him pulse hard, the warmth spilling inside you like he’s pumping more heat into an already-overloaded core. He’s breathless, shaking, still pressed in deep as if he can’t trust gravity to hold you together otherwise. You stay like that, tangled, your cunt still rippling around him, both gulping at the hot, sick air, until your numb legs make you both slide down the wall in a graceless heap.

You’re both wrecked. Sweaty and glassy-eyed, scrub shirts sweat-stuck to your ribs, bodies still twitching in the late echoes of what the fuck just happened. There’s a sheet of drywall dust on your back and your own fingernail crescented into his skin; he’s smiling, shit-eating, delirious, and you’d punch him if you weren’t still shaking like a defibrillator just went off under your sternum.

He leans in, a gentle press of lips to your forehead, and you want to tell yourself it’s just an autonomic reaction, that the only thing happening here is a literal pressure release after months of idiotic, unyielding need. But you know better. The way he holds your face, the way he says your name soft into your hair, the way he’s still—still—inside you, hips slotted to hips, like he can’t bear to break the circuit.

You roll your head to stare at him. He meets your gaze, a thundercrack of worry, awe, and something else you don’t have the energy to name. You want to say something pointed and clever, but you can’t ; all you manage is a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a whimper.

It should be awkward.

It should be so fucking awkward.

He kisses your face as he slips out of you and shoves himself back inside his pants before dropping you slowly to the floor, hands braced at your waist as your legs wobble. He slips your own pants and underwear back up your thighs, looking up at you.

“You okay ?” He asks, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s weird, how true it is. You blink, vision still dazzled and dopplered, and catch Robby’s hand trembling where it rests on your hip. The shake is microscopic, like a skipped frame in film, but it’s there, and it’s only then you realize you’re vibrating too. You try to laugh, and the sound cracks, warbles, but he mirrors it, leaning in until your foreheads tap, bone on bone. He smells like fresh sweat and latex and the antiseptic tang of someone who’s spent an entire adulthood hunched over sterile trays. He rubs his thumb slow circles at your waist, and the gentleness is so unexpected, so at odds with the way he just had you, that you almost start crying on the spot. You swallow it back and close your hand over his, try to will him not to let go just yet. You listen together to the radiators pop and the wild rattle of your pulse. He keeps his head dipped, mouth resting on the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. Neither of you moves. He’s still breathing you in, slow, like he’s afraid if he does it too fast, it’ll all be over.

“Didn’t hurt you, did I?” he whispers, so low you almost miss it beneath the thonk of your heart in your ears. You want to make a joke, something flippant, but you’re too raw. It all comes out honest, whether you like it or not.

“No. You could’ve hurt me more.” The silence after feels like a dropped glass; sharp, fragile, ready to split the air. Robby closes his eyes. You see every microflinch, the way his throat sticks around the swallow, how he steadies himself before answering.

“‘Kay. Just—” He hesitates, and you sense it’s the kind of pause he’d usually grease over with a quip. Not now. Now he’s counting on you to stay, just a little, and not run. “I’ll be gentle next time. Or not. Whatever you want.” He tries to smile, but it turns lopsided, uncertain. You grab him by the collar, tug him in for a kiss that’s less a collision and more a hinge opening, slow, like letting light into a dark corridor. You can taste the apology before he says it. You hate that you love it. Robby pulls away, eyes shiny in the half-light. He nudges your nose with his, then plants a kiss at the corner of your mouth, softer than anything he’s ever done. It feels as reverent as a benediction.

“You should lie down,” he says. “Your legs are—” he gestures with a shrug, then glances down and grins sheepish. “Sorta toast.”

“My legs are awesome, thank you,” you say, but you lean your full weight into him anyway, allowing yourself to be steered to the bed. He maneuvers you down with surprising care, one arm looped around your back, the other smoothing your hair off your sweaty forehead. He smiles down at you, sighing.

“I’ll go get you some saline. You are on bedrest for the next two hours.” You frown, gasping.

“Oh you devious fuckwad.” You mutter. "This was your plan all along.' You grumble.

"No." He says, and then winces. "Okay. Maybe. I was initially planning to just lock you in here.. I didn't play on telling you I love you and coming inside you. That... was a slight hitch in my plan." You roll your eyes.

"You're an asshole."

"An asshole who doesn't want you to run yourself into the ground." He mutters, brushing your hair away from your face. You sigh annoyedly.

"Fine. You win. Two hours." Robby grins, triumphant.

"Ah. Look who finally is listening to reason." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'll go get the Saline from Perlah. Don't move." You roll your eyes, swatting at him.

"Ha-Ha."

“And water. And probably something vaguely edible that passes for food in this place.” You reach out and catch his wrist before he can leave. He stops instantly.

“Robby.”

“Yeah?” You look at him for a second—really look. Tired. Stressed. Still half in doctor mode even after everything. And completely, unapologetically here.

“I love you too,” you say quietly. Something in his expression breaks open again. It’s not dramatic.It’s worse than that. It’s steady.

"I know.” You let go of his wrist. He holds your gaze one more second, then forces himself to move—because he still knows how to function even when his entire emotional life is on fire. The hallway is chaos again the second Robby steps out. He’s halfway to the supply station when he sees him. Abbot. Clocking in. Standing dead still. Staring straight at the on-call room door like he’s just witnessed a miracle or a crime or both. Robby doesn’t even slow down. He walks past him, grabs the saline bags, and says flatly, without looking up:

“You owe Dana a hundred bucks.” Abbot blinks.

A beat. Abbot stares at the door again. Then lets out a long, defeated breath.

“Son of a bitch.”

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