𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: smut , dads!bestfriend!russell x reader , fauxcest if you squint , secret relations , blow job , 18+
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 315
#𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: this is so bad bc it’s late but enjoy ¿¿ getting me to write lately is like pulling teeth :(
dads!bestfriend!russell always made you promise it was the last time , but he never stopped looking for a reason to break that promise.
standing in the kitchen , nursing a beer while your father rambled on about a project in the garage. but underneath the tight fabric of his greyed jeans , he was reeling. mind trapped in the claustrophobic , humid air of the laundry room from twenty minutes ago. a sensitive ache , a phantom weight of your mouth refusing to leave him.
it had been dirty of you both. the moment his strained cock escaped his boxers , one soft ‘slap’ and his drooling tip escaped its confines. thick , watery precome ran in rivulets down the dense hair on his abdomen.
what really made him keep coming back to you , was when you paid extra attention to his sensitive tip. those small firm licks to the head of his purpled shaft. letting out a soft giggle when his breathing stopped and his cock started to twitch.
russell would try and press your head back, his knuckles white , a hiss the only warning he had left. “quit fucking doing— that sweetheart. ‘m gonna come too quick.” and you’d take every desperate, greedy bit of him in your mouth , your goal was to make him come harder than the last.
"you still with us?" your dad laughed , clapping a hand on russell’s shoulder.
"yeah ‘course i am," he cleared his throat, a register that felt like a secret confession. "just need a drink." and he’d let his gaze flicker toward you , where you stood by the sink , your lips still slightly wet and puffy.
as he swallowed , the faint taste of salt on his tongue. a reminder of taking his thumb , gliding against your lower lip to catch the lingering trace of his own release , and bringing it back to taste himself.
"this gotta be the last time, kid," he had whispered, lowly.
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Summary: He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.
AN: This can be a stand-alone one-shot, but it fits well in the Every Second Counts-verse — between Bubbly and Breaking Point. (Inspired by 3x22 but not set in that episode.)
Posted on Patreon: May 29, 2026
Word Count: 2.7K
Tags & Warning: Angst, blood, “last words,” Colter sighting, hurt/comfort, tinge of spice and implied smut
You were really gonna kill him this time.
A grunt passed between his lips as he moved his hand back an inch, catching a gnarly glimpse of oozing blood and raw flesh under the soaked bandage square.
Yep. Smothered in his sleep, that was his bet. Or maybe a little Raid sprayed on his food—that would be creative. Because you knew he couldn’t resist your cooking.
Russell groaned and tried to push himself off the wall, but his body wouldn’t budge.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
He was a sitting fucking duck here. Literally.
A labored breath escaped him, along with another rivulet seeping through his shirt. His free hand itched for the cell phone lying beside him on the cement. Backup was on the way, taking a bit long though.
Time was always the question and the challenge. The decisions in between were what he was usually good at, even in moments like these.
He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.
The line rang so long, he was losing hope that you’d answer.
Until your voice finally greeted him, with a raspy clearing of your throat and sleep-laden confusion.
“Hello?”
His lips raised toward a smile. “Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I woke you.”
“Russ? Hey…what’s this number you’re calling me from? You okay?” you asked. He heard the shifting of fabric.
He could imagine you sitting up in bed, leaning on your elbow as the sheets slid down your body a little. He closed his eyes. He could pretend he was there with you, sliding in from behind and burying his face in the familiar hollow of your neck and shoulder. Your hair would tickle his forehead, but he’d get the flowery mix of your soap and body lotion stuck in his nose, rather than the copper tang of blood.
“Yeah, everything’s cool,” Russell said. He bit the inside of his lip as the gray ceiling momentarily turned charcoal in his vision. There was numbness in his fingertips. “Just had a minute, wanted to check up on you.”
“I’m good,” you said. “Miss you though.”
He was trying to keep his breathing shallow, but he needed a deeper one then.
“Miss you too, baby.”
“When will you be home?”
“Soon as I can,” he said, stifling another pained grunt as he shifted against the wall. “Keep the lights on for me.”
“Yeah? Last time you said that, you were held up for three weeks," you said wryly. "Think I need to collab with Dory and invent a virtual lie detector."
“You know what, maybe you should just tell me what you’re wearing. Give me some ideas on how to make it up to you when I get home,” he teased, though it ended on a shallow cough.
His gaze wandered the warehouse. It looked like it hadn’t been in use for a while, but he could smell the remnants of sawdust and mildew in the air. The only light came from the slivers filtering in through the closed exit doors, and a small window for ventilation near the ceiling.
He didn’t think he’d go out in a fucking backwoods middle of nowhere place like this, but it was as decent as any he could expect in this line of work. Good enough, if he got to talk to you first.
But you didn’t laugh like he expected.
“Baby,” you said. Concern crept back in. “For real, are you okay? You don’t sound right.”
“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just a little tired. Waiting on someone to get here, so we can get this show on the damn road.”
Just then, he heard the sound of wide tires pulling to a stop outside the warehouse. Russell didn’t relax just yet. That could've either been his backup, or his target's delayed reinforcements. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder on his right side, wincing at the pain the movement caused as he reached for his gun.
“Actually, they just got here. Gotta let you go,” he said.
“Russ, wait.”
“I love the sound of your voice, you know that?” he said, flickering at a smile. “And I love you.”
“…I love you too,” you said, on a slightly unsteady breath.
He knew he hadn’t convinced you that everything was fine. You were too smart, knew him too well by now.
Regardless, he had to hang up. Then he raised his gun at an angle that still kept his elbow steady, resting against his side.
The door scraped against the ground as it opened. The man’s tall gait came in swiftly, then picked up speed. Russell’s vision might've been blurring on the edges, but he recognized that blonde head. He was able to relax, lowering his gun.
“Russ,” Colter said, grabbing his brother’s shoulder that didn’t have a hole shot through it, just inches below. “Hey, you with me?”
“Mhmm,” Russell said, as his eyes closed on him for a second. He forced himself to stay awake through sheer willpower. “Not goin’ anywhere, little brother.”
“That’s right,” Colter said more firmly. The worry was clear in his brown eyes, but he smiled anyway, digging into the small duffel he brought with him. He went for the antiseptic and the bandages first, then the pliers. “You’re lucky I wasn’t too far.”
He moved back Russell’s jacket, then tore at the collar of his grimy, blood-stained shirt.
“Who me? I’m fine,” Russell said. “I’ve had way worse than this.”
“You don’t look fine,” Colter said, trying to gently pry Russell’s hand away from the wound. “Here, let me see.”
“I’m good.”
“No, you’re not. Move your hand so I can see?”
Russell smirked. “So bossy.”
Despite himself, Colter shook his head in amusement.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. You should see the other guy.”
“Right. That’s why you called me, because you have this all handled.”
Russell’s body seized up with a flinch at Colter’s pliers seeking the fat piece of bullet still lodged inside his chest.
“Hey, have a heart, huh?" Russell complained. "Some anesthetic, please.”
It was another 18 hours before Russell’s Chevelle Malibu crossed the threshold of Wyoming’s state line, and another two before he stopped in the driveway outside the modest house he now called home.
He was slow moving as he hefted his duffel bag. Every step was a calculated trudge up the wide, white stones of the pathway. The neighborhood was quiet after dark, but the porch light was on. It was his target, and his beacon.
He unlocked the front door with his keys and found mostly darkness, except for the warm glow of the hallway light. He didn’t have time to make it there though—not when you were already hurrying out from the master bedroom to meet him.
He smiled at the sight of you in a tank-top and your most well-worn sweatpants, but you looked more relieved than happy. The kind of relief that wasn’t calm, even when your hands were on him, gripping his leather jacket like you were making sure he was actually there. He let his duffel fall those few inches to the hardwood floor.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, though he stiffened and grunted in pain when your hands landed on his shoulders. Specifically, his left.
You pulled back on reflex, gasping softly. You stared up at him in worry. He looked so pale...
“It’s okay,” he said, holding you by your waist. “It’s just—”
You didn’t wait for his inevitable lie. You were verging on angry as you carefully pulled down the zipper of his jacket.
“Uh, wait a minute,” Russell said, but you couldn’t be placated. You wouldn’t let him stop you from finding whatever he didn’t want you to see.
Soon, you almost wish you had.
“Oh my God,” you breathed, though it was choked by tears as you took in the blood covering the entire left side of his gray plaid.
He had a red-tinged bandage covering the area just above his heart. It was held in place by medical tape and stretchy gauze that wrapped around his shoulder and under his arm. His chest and stomach were stained with crimson blotches leading from the wound. He smelled like rust and antiseptic, grime and sweat.
He watched every shade of your reaction, from shock to dismay. In hindsight, he should've at least tossed the shirt.
“Russell, what the fuck?” you said shakily.
His hand raised to cradle your cheek, earning your attention back up to his face rather than his body. His thumb caressed your skin, brushed away some tears.
“It looks worse than it is,” he said.
You shook your head. “You need to go to a hospital."
“I already got patched up. It’s okay, just need to sleep it off,” he replied. Colter had stabilized him enough to take him to the closest ER for the stitches. Colt even stuck with him until the doctor was done, probably to make sure Russell actually sat through the whole process.
“It’s not okay,” you snapped. “It’s not fucking okay.”
You stepped away from him and retreated back into the bedroom, holding a trembling hand to your mouth as you went.
He didn’t exactly know if he was welcome, but he really needed a shower and a solid night’s sleep, and he never slept better than when he was beside you.
But you avoided looking at him as you got ready for bed, haphazardly ripping off throw pillows and pulling back the comforter. Russell noticed your laptop on the nightstand, no less than three half-drunk mugs of coffee pushed back by the lamp, as well as a small hoard of candy wrappers and a bowl of popcorn on the floor. It was near four in the morning, and you hadn’t even tried to go to sleep. Or more likely, you couldn’t.
Russell carried the weight of that guilt into the adjoining bathroom, where he started by slowly trying to take off his jacket. He got halfway through peeling the sleeve off his left shoulder before the sharp pull of his wound forced a hiss from between his teeth.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath. There were more grunts and struggles, though he tried to keep it quiet. Once the jacket was a useless pile on the floor, he got a better look at his tattered shirt and released a steadying breath, almost shrugging at himself. All right, here goes.
He pulled back the collar of his shirt, but dried blood had adhered the fabric to the sensitive skin around his wound.
“Goddamn it,” he said lowly.
The bathroom door slid open. You paused in the entryway and crossed your arms, taking in every ridiculous part of this.
For once, Russell didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to upset you (anymore), and he had a feeling you’d appreciate a you should see the other guy joke even less than Colter had.
“Sit,” you said, pointing at the closed toilet lid.
“I got this,” Russell said. But you pinned him with a sharp look.
“Russell, sit down.”
He quirked his head. “Okay. Yes, ma’am.”
Your lips almost curved upward, but you remained firm. Your hands were gentle though; they grasped his arm and helped him sit. You started with the easiest part, kneeling down on the tile floor to unlace his boots.
Russell wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to do it, but he also didn’t want to rile you up again. Instead, he steadied himself by grabbing the edge of the counter. Guilt twinged more heavily in his heart as he watched you slide off his left boot. He tried to help you with the right one, hooking his foot behind the heel, but you laid a hand on his knee.
“I’ll do it,” you said, your gaze flicking up to his. “Just stay still.”
Russell paused, but he conceded. Soon you’d worked off his boots and socks, then slowly, his shirt. He held you to him afterward, by your hips. You saw that even his hands were stained pink. Either he’d scrubbed them raw or hadn’t scrubbed them hard enough.
“What happened?” you asked.
“Just…you know, got clipped,” he said. “It’s no big deal. As you can see, I’m fine.”
You shot him a flat look. “How did it happen?”
He sighed. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
That you did, but you hated it anyway. Your gaze once again drew to the web of bandages wrapped around his right shoulder. Your fingertips landed just beside the thickest padding above his heart. Russell’s hand covered yours.
“Thank you...and I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”
Your lips pursed. You took his face in your hands, a touch softer as you stroked his bearded cheeks. He was still too pale, but nonetheless, unfairly handsome.
“Please don’t do this to yourself anymore,” you said. “Don’t do this to me. You promised you’d be done with Horizon by now.”
Russell nodded. “I know.”
“You know?” Your brows rose. “Do you know what the past 24 hours were like for me since you called me in the middle of the night like that? I could hear it in your voice. You weren’t sure you were going to make it home.”
Your voice wavered as tears welled up in your eyes again, despite your attempts to blink them away with a sniff.
Russell didn’t have a clever retort this time. No way to downplay or tease. He had come back with a few scrapes and sprains before, but this was different. That look on your face when you opened his jacket, saw the blood and bandages, probably picturing a horror show underneath...
He wasn't ever going to forget that look. And it was better he didn't. He had to remind himself that you were a civilian. You weren't used to all this shit, the hazards of the job.
“You’re right. It’s not fair to you,” he said. “Just uh…give me a month or so to wrap things up. I already signed on for a couple more contracts.”
“You better mean it, Russ,” you said. You tilted his face upward, making sure he met your eyes. “You gave me your word.”
“I know, and I’m gonna keep it,” he said, squeezing your hips. He smiled. “To prove it, how about we reseal the deal, huh?”
You stared down at him, heaving a more exasperated sigh.
“Come on,” he said, biting his lip on a smirk. “We both know you wanna kiss the hell out of me.”
You wanted to slap him, more like.
You shook your head and pressed his face between your hands, grunting in sheer annoyance. But you still bowed your head and kissed him.
He smiled against your lips. His arms slid around your waist and trapped you against his body. He hummed at the feeling of you, of every soft curve that fit just right against him.
Your fingers slipped through his hair, gently at first. But you reminded him of your resolve with a tighter grip.
“I'm serious,” you warned, between kisses. Each one meant something different—relief, fear, yearning, passion, love, and long-suffering all at once.
He nodded, though he groaned, palming your ass as your tongue slipped against his.
“I got it, sweetheart,” he said. "Not happening again."
His hands then wandered down your back, dipping under the waistband of your sweatpants. He found you bare underneath, no panties. He was pleased at the thought as he pressed a line of open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, earning your soft moan. His fingers trailed under your tank top next, pushing the fabric up higher and raising goosebumps in his wake.
“Take a shower with me?” he asked, with lips pressed to your skin.
“Hmph. You definitely need a shower,” you said through slightly panting breaths. You helped him stand so you both could work on getting off his jeans.
He grinned. “So that’s a yes?”
Your lips threatened a smile in return.
“That’s a, get your ass in there,” you said, but you grabbed his elbows to steady him when his broad frame teetered on his feet. “Be careful.”
His hand fell to your shoulder gratefully.
“Yes, ma’am.”
AN: lol what are we gonna do with him? 😅 I think this helps make even more sense why reader's so mad at him in Part 1 of Breaking Point.
And I seriously hope Russell comes back more regularly for season 4. That twist at the end of 3x22 is more interesting than any other episode/arc in S3 imo. Until then, hope you enjoy some angsty hurt/comfort!
Let me know what you think in the reblogs/comments! 💙🩵💛
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Summary: Russell's been coming to your clinic for months now – always with a charming smile, food in his hands, and a question on his lips. You've always successfully thwarted his advances and stuck stubbornly to your professionalism till one night, he finally makes you listen to your heart.
Warnings: 18+ due to language and smut (oral f, fingering, cardiophilia 🤍), fluff
Word Count: 1.8k
Posted on Patreon June 7, 2026
A/N: Written for one of my sweetest readers and probably the first one who ever commented on a story of mine five years ago. You're one of the biggest reasons I'm still here, and I know tons of other writers in this fandom feel the same way about you!!! Cheers to you! You fully have my heart! @deans-spinster-witch 🤍🤍🤍
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You’re already half in love with the rich and deep timbre of his voice – not that you’d ever admit that to him (or anyone else for that matter). Call it professionalism or even self-preservation because every time Russell Shaw strolls into your VA clinic, you feel like you’re slowly losing your grip on sanity.
And it’s not just the voice, either. No, it’s that damn shit-eating smile that would make even nuns sin.
The former soldier has been coming into the clinic for a few months now for sleep therapy sessions – always with a grin and always with a flirtatious glimmer in his mesmerizingly green eyes. You’ve never taken his flirting seriously and always giggled off his advances with heat in your cheeks. But the past few weeks, he’s upped his ante and started bringing you experimental takeout food, asking you out more directly. You’ve always said no, though. And not even that – you usually don’t even take him seriously when he says stuff like that at all.
Why?
Because a guy as handsome and charming as Russell surely couldn’t be interested in someone as simple as you. You’re just a nurse who’s used to eating vending machine trail mix for dinner, drinking awful hospital coffee, and smelling like antiseptic. It’s not exactly what most people would call sexy or desirable.
Tonight, it’s four minutes past eleven o’clock, which means Russell is fashionably late again. Probably because he stopped somewhere to bribe you with more food he either got from a gas station, a questionable food truck, or an obscure friend’s kitchen.
Last week, it was candied jalapeños and a thermos of coffee so strong it could power a freight train. The week before, he brought a peach hand pie from a Mennonite market and something called ‘midnight curry burritos.’
Tonight? You’re bracing yourself.
“Evenin’, Nightingale,” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe with a plate in hand, a smile on his face, and a soft glint in his eyes that never quite leaves.
“Russell,” you sigh – one part exasperation, two parts affection. “You’re late.”
“I was delayed by destiny.” He lifts the plate with a wink that would make your knees buckle if you weren’t sitting. “Beignets. Still warm.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Bribing me with fried dough and powdered sugar?”
He grins broadly. “Tell me it doesn’t help.”
Damn it. It does. You hate how it does.
Still, you give him a flat look, trying not to show the little flicker in your chest that always sparks the moment he walks in.
He saunters closer and sets the plate on the counter in front of you. “I’m just tryin’ to spoil you a little.”
“Russell.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
He pretends to look wounded, which makes you want to roll your eyes. “I don’t flirt – I court.”
“You’ve asked me out eight times,” you point out and lead him straight to the examination room.
“Nine,” he corrects with a smirk as he follows and closes the door behind him. It’s routine by now. “I asked you out on that sticky note I left in the breakroom, too. Remember that one?”
“Right,” you snort, shaking your head. "You drew a stick figure of yourself holding a flower.”
“With a heart. Don’t forget the heart.”
You roll your eyes for real this time, picking up the clipboard to start his check-in. “You’re lucky I don’t report you for harassment.”
“You’re lucky I don’t report you for theft,” he counters.
Your brows quirk. “I’m sorry – what?”
“You’ve been stealing my breath since day one,” he replies cleverly. Then his irresistible smile kicks in again, which is way too charming for his own good.
You let out a long, deep sigh.
“I know that one was bad,” he quips. “But I promise I’ve got better material. Just say yes to dinner and you’ll hear it all.”
You turn away before he can see the color rising in your cheeks. “Shirt off.”
“Now we’re talking,” he mutters with a grin, tugging the black fabric up and over his head.
And just like that, you’re confronted with the ridiculous reality that Russell Shaw is unfairly built. Broad chest, warm golden skin dusted with freckles, scars like constellations across the canvas that is him. You try not to stare and ogle him like he’s God’s greatest gift to mankind, but you’ve got a stethoscope in your hand and barely any willpower left.
You place the bell against his sternum and inhale.
Professional. Stay professional.
Truly, that’s been your mantra for months now. Surely, a guy like him only flirts because he can. It’s like second nature to him. But the beat beneath your fingertips is already quick.
lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub
His heart gallops like it’s trying to outrun enemy fire. And God help you – it’s a fucking beautiful sound. It’s raw and real, like something primal is trying to claw out of his chest.
“You always listen longer than you need to,” he says suddenly, his voice softer than before.
You freeze imperceptibly for a half a second. Shit. Did he really notice that?
“I’ve noticed,” he adds casually, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.
“I–I’m just checking for arrhythmia–”
“No, you’re not.”
Well, damn. Now your own heart is beating like it’s trying to outrun enemy fire. Then, he lifts his large hand and gently curls his fingers over your wrist.
And fuck, before you can process it, he leans forward and presses his lips to yours.
A kiss. Slow and damn deliberate. It’s not demanding. It’s not rushed. It’s the kind of kiss that cradles you in softness, somehow still crumbles walls, and rearranges fucking stars into new constellations unknown yet to mankind.
Your heart jumps in your chest so hard the stethoscope nearly flies out of your hand.
He pulls back just enough to smile a little, watching your face closely as he guides your hand back to his chest – right over his pounding heart.
thump-THUMP thump-THUMP thump-THUMP
“See what you’re doing to me?” he murmurs.
And it hits you – he’s not flirting anymore. He’s showing you. This isn’t a game to him. His heart tells the truth.
You close your eyes, your breath stuttering.
Then his fingers slip around the stethoscope, guiding it from his chest to yours. He slips the earpieces into his own and leans in closer, lips brushing your ear.
“Now let me hear you.”
And he does. He listens – carefully and reverently.
And God, your heart is racing wildly and unapologetically, thundering against your ribs like it’s begging to be finally felt.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s the sound I want. God, listen to you. That all for me?”
You whimper – literally. Man, you’re going to die of embarrassment.
But before you can squirm away into the deepest, darkest hole in the floor, he leans in again, kissing down your neck now, murmuring between kisses, “You sit here every night listening to me. You think I wouldn’t notice how you breathe differently? How your cheeks get hot? Your hands always linger right here.” He presses his palm flat to your chest, right over the cool bell. “Like you never want to stop.”
Your thighs squeeze together instinctively before his eyes drop, gaze darkening.
Then, in a smooth, almost graceful motion, he lifts you, spins you, and sets you down on the edge of the exam table. You gasp, your scrubs shifting slightly, body adjusting to the new angle.
He kneels between your thighs, right on the linoleum, forest green eyes solely locked on you like you’re the only damn thing that matters in this world. “Still think I’m not serious?”
You open your mouth, but no fucking sound comes out.
Because his hands? His hands are already on your hips, slow and steady, drawing your scrubs and underwear down with one fluid movement. He doesn’t break eye contact. Not once. And every inch of skin he reveals is worshipped.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he says. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You can barely breathe as his lips brush your knee, then the inside of your thigh. He’s still listening to your heartbeats like music in his ears.
Kiss.
Thump.
Another kiss. Higher. Slower. Warmer.
Thump-THUMP.
“Heart’s racing,” he says, grinning like the devil. “You like me down here, huh?”
You choke on a laugh that melts into a moan as his mouth finally meets the ache between your thighs. He starts slow, agonizingly so, tongue gentle and reverent all at once, each stroke on your clit a new promise.
Honestly, you might be experiencing a heart attack at this point. Luckily, you’re already in a hospital.
Then he speaks again, breath hot against your core. “You know what I’m gonna do?” he murmurs wickedly, two fingers sliding inside your wet pussy without resistance while he still listens. “I’m gonna make you come to the sound of your own heartbeat. I want you to listen to yourself. To what I’m doing to you.”
And just like that, he swaps the stethoscope again, fits the earpieces back into your ears, and places the bell over your chest.
Your heartbeat explodes. It’s fucking deafening.
thump-THUMP thump-THUMP thump-THUMP
Every lick. Every breath. Every teasing pass of his tongue or flick of his fingers – your body, your heart responds like a symphony composed just for him.
He hums against you, the vibration making your thighs tremble like Mount Vesuvius before it took down Pompeii.
“Let go for me,” he says, deep voice velvet-thick. “Let me feel it.”
And Jesus fucking Christ, you don’t need to be told twice. When you come and fall apart, it’s with his name on your lips and your own heart roaring in your ears like a drum of holy thunder.
THUMP–THUMP–THUMP–
He licks you clean, takes every drop of you like it’s the best thing he ever tasted – damn the experimental food he’s brought you for weeks on end.
Afterward, he eases you down gently, kissing his way up your shaking body slowly and goddamn thoroughly. He presses his lips to your collarbone, your throat, your cheek, and then finally to your mouth again.
This time, you kiss him back like you damn well mean it – because you fucking do. God, you do. Word by word. Nerve by nerve.
“You gonna say yes to dinner this time?” he quips, grinning against your lips.
You exhale a breathless laugh. “I think I’d be an idiot not to.”
And Russell? He grins widely, proudly, and smugly in the way only he can.
“Told you. You gotta listen to your heart,” he says with a wink. And because he’s the worst, he adds, “Next time, we’re doing this at my place. With two stethoscopes.”
And your heart skips another beat.
Thump.
Hope you guys enjoyed this heartfelt little one-shot 😉
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