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It takes Robert exactly two seconds to make a doomed decision. Stimulus, response: the universe dumps temptation on a locker-room bench and, before his neocortex can tag it as ‘irrelevant’ and walk on, the lizard brain has already redirected his legs off-course to inspect the heap of clothes.
On the surface, it’s nothing conspicuous: standard SDN Dispatcher uniform. Blue shirt stained with coffee, the colours together forming a particularly unattractive shade of grey. Pants that look like someone just yanked them down in haste and walked out of them. There’s a bra strap peeking from underneath it all and, yes, that’s mildly exciting. A name tag hangs sadly on the shirt’s breast pocket, but truth be told, Robert doesn’t need it to know the mound is yours. He doesn’t need it because on top of the heap there’s the thing that lured him in here in the first place—knickers. And it’s shameful, really, that he’d bet every bill in his wallet on them being yours. It wouldn’t even be a gamble.
He knows, because he hunts the scraps the universe’s mercy throws his way. When you crouch down to scratch Beef’s belly, he’s treated to the precise section of your lower back that haunts him. Nothing scandalous—just a strip of skin and, if he’s lucky, a centimetre of lace peeking above the waistband. On very lucky days he gets the full set: dimples of Venus, the neat vee of your spine, enough to spend his lunch break fantasising about slotting his thumbs there. Harmless at best. Life-altering at worst.
Sometimes you reach for things on the higher shelves and treat him to front-row anatomy: a sliver of stomach, the suggestion of hip. His tongue does a strange, treacherous thing in his mouth when he has to swallow the sigh that wants out. He’s learnt your laundry cycle purely by underband variation—plain white cotton on standard days (which he is deeply fine with), and then the outliers: a tiny satin bow, a strip of patterned lace, a colour that has no business sitting that low and that smug on your hips. Somewhere in there he realises he might, regrettably, be a lower-belly fanatic.
The rest of the time he just has to withstand your stretch breaks. You arch in your chair, arms over your head, and flop back until the polo rides to your ribs and your pants slip a few unforgivable centimetres down. Robert has developed a set of secretive breathing exercises for those moments—inhale professionalism, exhale every instinct that tells him to drop to his knees and see what the waistband’s hiding.
Truth be told, he doesn’t even have a strong preference on style. Lace, cotton, bows, nothing. All that matters is that narrow strip of fabric hugging the territory he’d most like to hold. Preferably with his mouth.
It’s late; everyone’s gone already. Lights off, screens in sleep mode, the floor holding its breath until morning. Water runs in one of the shower stalls and he knows it’s you in there, scrubbing latte off your chest. He was about to go home. He should probably continue on that path.
He blinks once, and somehow his fingers are already there—reaching, brushing, lifting the garment close to his face. “What is wrong with me?” Robert mutters, sighing like the answer might be hiding in the tiles. Then he loses the fight with his common sense and takes a good long whiff.
It hits him instantly.
Not some romanticised haze—just a clean, specific punch to the brainstem. Warm cotton, detergent, and underneath it the part his imagination has been trying to fake for months and never quite managed. His inner archive of invented scents shrivels on the spot. This is better. This is yours.
His pants register a formal complaint at once. Blood abandons long-term projects like rational thought and career stability to go fund the emergency in his crotch. By the time he drags in a second breath, he’s uncomfortably, unmistakably hard.
“This is bad,” he tells the ceiling under his breath.
He does the worst possible thing and presses the gusset closer, nose and mouth mashed into the patch of fabric privileged enough to touch you exactly where he wants to. His hips give a tiny, treacherous jerk. Reflex; even the shadow of contact is enough. He drags his free hand down, palms the bulge in his pants like he’s checking for structural failure. If aneurysms could start in dicks, he’d be a prime candidate.
It doesn’t last long. Logical brain is mostly offline, but some small, wiry piece of self-preservation that grew from years of ducking punches kicks in. The shower turns off. Tap squeaks. Curtain rings. Wet feet smacking on tile.
He moves on instinct. Step back, turn, exit. First idea: flee. Fast, quiet, no witnesses.
The plan is not perfect. He realises halfway to the doorway that the underwear is still in his hand. There is no time to go back and fold it respectfully on the pile; he just fists the fabric, praying to every god on the SDN holiday rota that you don’t step out in time to see him.
He’s almost out. Two more strides. One.
“Robert?”
He stops dead.
“What are you doing here?”
There’s a narrow, panicked second where he considers spontaneous combustion as a viable exit strategy. Failing that, he improvises.
He looks at the balled-up evidence in his hand. At the open corridor. No chance. Then he clears his throat, turns slowly, and as he does he stuffs the knickers into his back pocket with the kind of exaggerated casualness that would get laughed out of a heist film.
“Hi,” he says, brilliantly. “I’m just… heading home.” The words trip over each other. “Wrapping up. All that.”
He finishes the turn and immediately regrets every decision that led him here, because you are standing there in nothing but a towel. Hair wet, rivulets of water tracking over your shoulders, calves bare, skin flushed from the heat.
“And what, uh… what happened here?” he asks, because his mouth is on autopilot and it hates him.
“The usual,” you say. “Me and big cups of hot coffee are at constant war.”
You look so pretty he almost says fuck you and walks straight out of his own life.
Instead he forces out, “Are you alright?”—because if you’d actually burned yourself, he would personally babysit every drink you ever touched, blowing on your coffees until retirement.
“Yes, Bob. Are you?” you ask. Your gaze travels down, then back up, brows already knitting in scrutiny. “You seem… distressed.”
He nearly chokes on his next breath. “What? No, I’m—” He gestures vaguely at nothing. “I’m great. I’m cool. Just, you know… on my way.”
“Alright then, weirdo.” You roll your eyes, the smile merciful but edged enough that he knows you know something’s off. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“Great. Thanks,” he exhales. “Have a… have a good… one. Uh.” He turns, gearing up to bolt, takes one step, two—
“Wait,” you mutter. His spine locks. Head twists on his neck, rest of the body follows. You pad towards him and crook a finger in a little turn back around gesture that would be playful in any other context. He just stands there, frozen, like a man waiting for a firing squad.
“Was that my underwear?”
“What—that?” He palms his back pocket. “No, that’s… that’s crazy. It’s… mine.”
“Really,” you say.
You reach round him, fingers hooking into the back of his pants. Your hand brushes the flat curve of his ass on the way—this is, objectively, a serious contender for one of the worst days of his life—and you pluck the crumpled knickers free like a magician producing a rabbit.
You hold them up between you. It is absolutely, unmistakably your pair. He can see the damp patch where his mouth has drooled over it. Hopefully you can’t.
“Those are no briefs, Robertson,” you say mildly. Then, because you are cruel, you yank two fingers into the front of his trousers and tug the waistband out just enough to reveal the perfectly ordinary elastic of his actual underwear. “Do you wear them only on special occasions?”
His brain bluescreens. “S-something like that,” he manages.
Silence stretches. His heart does the samba. Finally he blurts, “I… don’t know what came over me, okay? I—I will save you the trouble and report myself to HR. It’s wildly fucked up.”
You huff out a short laugh through your nose. Not derisive; more… baffled. “Can I interrogate you a bit first?” you ask.
He closes his eyes briefly. “Okay. Hit me. I deserve it.”
“Do you steal everyone’s underwear,” you ask, tilting your head, “or am I getting a special package?”
“I thought we established it’s mine,” he mutters, because if he doesn’t lean on sarcasm he’ll collapse.
“Robert.”
He swallows. The knickers dangle between you, damning. You’re close enough now that he can smell your shower gel under the locker room stink—something clean, fresh, absolutely nuclear—and his body, traitor that it is, perks right back up.
“Just yours,” he says, quietly. “You’re… special like that to me.”
That earns him a look. Something flickers over your face; not disgust. Definitely not indifference.
Thank fuck, you think. I thought I was making it up.
“That’s good to know,” you say, and slowly bunch the knickers in your fist. “And what have you been doing with them?”
“Admiring the lace work,” he mumbles, still trying. “Up close. My eyes are going, you see. Computers and all.”
“That so,” you murmur, smirking.
You don’t look horrified. You look like you’re turning something over in your mind, weighing it. The towel shifts when you fold your arms under your chest, pushing your tits up a fraction; his gaze drops before he can stop it, then snaps guiltily back to your face. You clock it and of course you fucking do, because he’s not miserable enough yet.
You sigh, softly. “You know,” you say, “if I really felt harassed, you wouldn’t still be standing.”
“Fair,” he says. “Still, this is… not a great look for me.”
“It’s not,” you agree. Then, after a beat: “But thankfully, I don’t feel harassed.”
His head jerks up at that. “No?”
You shake your head once. “Mildly surprised. Pleasantly,” you say. “A bit flattered. Very curious.”
“Curious,” he repeats, wary.
“Mhm. About the purpose of this unsuccessful theft,” you say, eyes dropping to the front of his trousers and then back with clinical precision. “Sell them? Frame them? Burn them, because you secretly hate me?”
“Incorrect buzzer sound.” He makes a strangled noise. “I—really wish you wouldn’t make me say it though,” he says, hoarse. “Trust me.”
“Oh, that’s not my intention,” you say. Your voice has gone soft around the edges, dangerous. “I’m standing here half-naked in a towel you’ve seen me wear exactly never. You’ve just admitted to nose-robbery.” A tiny smile curves your mouth. “I don’t want you to tell me stuff.”
He swallows a thick lump of phlegm. “What are you… suggesting?” he asks, because his brain has decided to play dumb as a last-ditch safety measure.
You step into his space, close enough that his back hits the cool tile with a thud. The towel brushes his shirt. You smell clean and warm and freshly shampooed and he is, genuinely, doomed.
“I’m suggesting,” you say, very calmly, “that I am not going to HR.”
“That’s merciful,” he says, weakly.
You’re not stupid; you know exactly how badly this could blow up in your face. There is, generously, a one-percent chance this could all be explained away without a sexual undertone—a tragic misunderstanding involving static cling and poor eyesight—and that one percent could be your undoing if you’ve read him wrong. But the remaining ninety-nine is standing in front of you, ashamed and flushed, with a barely concealed hard-on that seems entirely dedicated to the way you smell. You’re willing to bet on that.
“And,” you add, trying for brave and bold and all the other things femmes fatales are supposed to be, “that if you’re going to be a creep about my underwear, the least you can do is let me see exactly what kind of problem you’ve been having over it.” A deep breath. “If you’re cool with it, of course.”
He looks at you, and something in his face unspools—terror loosening by degrees into hope. Still testing, still searching. “That would be… quite cool,” Robert says, voice dropping to match yours. “I think I can do that.”
“That’s great,” you murmur, lifting the forlorn fabric back to his face. You brush his cheek with it and he closes his eyes, lashes dark against flushed skin. His fingers wrap around your wrist, gentle but definite, and steer your hand where it should be. You watch the way he does it, wide-eyed, weirdly fond, and can’t help yourself; your other hand is already wandering lower. “Can I… touch you?” you ask.
“Mhm,” he hums into the cotton. “I think it’s imperative that you do.”
You swallow thickly. “Awesome. We’re on the same page, then.”
“Same page, paragraph, letter, it would seem,” he says, one hand finding your hip and tugging you closer, inhaling his personal oxygen mask like it’s going to be rationed.
“Yeah, that’s a nice surprise,” you say, fingers sliding around his waist, hooking shyly behind his belt.
“You have no idea how nice it is, ah—” He cuts off when you cup him through his pants and press.
He’s straining against your hand, hard and aching; the fabric gives a little, the zipper doesn’t, and the seam digs in like it’s personally offended. You rub the heel of your palm along the length of him, slow and rich, and watch his eyes squeeze shut as he bites down on your knickers to keep something indecent in.
“Wow,” you say, delighted. “You really like me, don’t you?”
“Fuck, I do,” he breathes. “I really do.” A laugh slips out of him then, all frayed edges—relief mixed with exasperation, like his emotional control just tripped over its own feet.
“Good,” you say, genuinely glad. “I like you too.”
“That’s… amazing,” Robert says, and it really is. Some part of him wonders if this could’ve been perfect in a less insane way—if he’d brought you flowers instead of committing textile theft. “I just wish you’d found out in a more dignified way. Like, say, I could’ve just asked you out.”
“Mhm, I don’t know,” you hum. “I’m quite enjoying this… situation.”
You hand the knickers over entirely, then drop your focus to his belt. Buckle, button, zipper—the holy trinity—come undone under your hands, and his pants slide down the lean hips. You take him in both hands—balls cupped, the base of his cock wrapped in your fingers—and he shivers from the back of his neck all the way down to his toes.
He makes a strangled sound. “Yeah, me too, in case you couldn’t tell,” he manages, trying to skate over it with a joke. He glances down at your towel, brushes his knuckles over the edge. “Can I?”
“Sure,” you whisper, wicked. “Let’s make this even worse for you.”
He tugs, and the towel pools at your feet. He actually sighs, fully, like something in him has been waiting its whole stupid life for this exact view.
You’re there, suddenly, and for a second he just stares like an idiot. Your breasts sit lower than his brain kept drawing them under the bra—soft, weighty, swaying the tiniest bit when you breathe—and he wants to apologise to gravity for ever resenting it. Your lower belly, the strip he’s been piecing together from glimpses and guesses, is right there in whole: skin he’s been mentally editing into various shapes and getting wrong every single time. It’s smoother, prettier, more real than anything he’s sketched in his head. He realises, with a kind of dazed respect, that he’s apparently terrible at imagining you.
Cock cradled just right in your hand, your thumb tormenting the notch beneath the head, eyes blessed with the sight of your tits he’s had to make up so many times and now finally gets, he does the only thing his body can come up with: twists you both around and presses. You into the wall, cock into your fist, his face into your chest.
It makes it harder for you to reach him, but you manage—arching your back so he can bury himself properly, one hand working the heft of his balls in slow, generous circles while your wrist strokes his length in slow pulls.
“I really fail to see,” he rasps into your skin, “how this is worse.”
Whatever you answer, he doesn’t catch it. He’s too busy trying to see how far will his jaw go to fit your breast in.
He mouths at you with the desperation of someone who has been politely not-staring for months and has just been handed retroactive permission. Open, messy kisses over the swell, tongue catching on the edge of your nipple before he closes his lips around it properly. Each suck tugs straight down to where your fist works him, a neat little loop of cause and effect.
His hips have given up on dignity entirely. He thrusts into your hand in short, controlled jolts, like he’s trying very hard not to, and failing by millimetres. The weight of him drags hot in your grip; slick’s starting to gather at the head, easing your strokes, making everything sound faintly vulgar.
“Jesus, Robert,” you murmur, carding one hand through his hair. “Look at you.”
He just groans into your skin; a vibration on sternum.
You let him have a few more strokes, then tilt your head down. “How are you doing?” you ask, voice soft enough that it sneaks through whatever fog he’s in.
He tears himself away from your boobs with visible effort, breath sawing. His face comes up to yours, flushed and wrecked, hair damp where it’s stuck to his forehead. “Good,” he pants. “Really good.”
You keep your hand moving, unhurried and so infuriatingly precise it takes everything in him not to whimper. “Is this good,” you ask, thumb sweeping over the underside of the head, “or do you want more?”
His eyes flutter. “More,” he says, no hesitation at all. “Fuck me harder. Please.”
“Damn, that sounds really nice when you say it,” you tell him, and it does—please in that particular voice hits somewhere very specific.
“Yeah?” he breathes. He leans in, lips brushing your ear, and his hands climb back to your chest, thumbs rolling your nipples with a care that’s at odds with how ragged he sounds. “Please,” he repeats, right into the shell of your ear.
His tongue licks against the edge of it, then he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, teeth catching softness. Each muffled please is punctuated by a twitch of his hips into your fist, by the steady, careful pull of his fingers, and you can feel yourself starting to sweat right alongside him.
“Brat,” you tell him, all fond.
You tighten your grip and give him what he asked for. The strokes get shorter, meaner, your wrist doing most of the work now. He presses in for every pull, chasing your hand like that’s where oxygen lives.
The closer he gets, the less coordinated he becomes. His hips try to keep their little rhythm and then just… give up. He stiffens instead, every muscle on pause—stomach rippling tight, veins standing out along his throat. You can feel his heartbeat through his cock, hot and insistent against your palm, and you find yourself matching your breath to it without thinking.
“Fuck, yes,” he mumbles. “Yes, yes—yes,” the last one breaking when you pick up pace and add a twist that pulls him a fraction away from his belly. The extra distance makes the stretch sharper, edges the cramp toward delicious.
There’s a split second where everything in him holds—lungs, thighs, jaw. Then it hits.
His cock jerks in your hand and spills, thick and hot over your fingers, striping your knuckles and his own shirt in uneven pulses. Each spurt punches a tiny noise out of him, half-swallowed in your collarbone; his toes curl in his shoes, his grip on your tits goes from grabbing to clinging.
You work him through it, easing the stroke but not stopping, thumb still smearing through the mess at the tip as his orgasm tapers off into aftershocks. He feels fuzzy behind the eyes, like someone’s turned the saturation down on the room and left only the feeling of your hand, your chest, your exhale.
You don’t quit immediately. You let your hand drift into slower, lazier pumps, riding that narrow line where pleasure gives way to complaint. The slide is slick, whorish and easy, every upward tug yanking a flinch from him.
He huffs out a breath that’s a laugh wrapped in an involuntary whine. His thighs start to twitch; hips try to jerk away and fail. “Okay—hah—okay,” he gasps, a little breathless chuckle shredding the word. “Too much. Too much.”
You finally let him go, fingers slipping free, palm sticky and warm. “Sorry,” you say, and it’s sweet on the surface, poisoned nicely underneath.
He eyes you up and down, then smiles, helpless. “You’re evil.”
“Only a little.” Your mouth softens. “Only with you.”
On impulse, Robert leans in and kisses your nose, then brushes your hair back from your face and gathers you in, warming the body gone cool against the wall. “I just want to say,” he murmurs, “I’m not a complete degenerate. I have a sweet side too.”
With his lizard brain finally sedated, the rest of him remembers that beyond being the girl who stars in his late-night fantasies, you’re also the girl who makes his chest go warm every time you compliment his work or ask how his day is going. When you text him goodnight. When you smile at him or bring him coffee. When your hand rests on his back, even briefly. Suddenly the need to just fuck you or get fucked by you, he doesn’t care which, gets overridden by the whole complicated network that makes decisions and releases dopamine and makes him laugh at your jokes a bit too loud. He realises he might be fucked, just in a completely different way.
“Sweet side?” you ask, head tucked into his neck. “If you’re going to say Beef, I’m leaving even though I’m naked.”
“No,” he laughs. “Beef is my stinky side. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Awesome. Let me show you I can behave in public.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” you say and he’s certain he not only might be, but is fucked.