Ok, Gatsby.

Family surprise birthdays are the best.

Companionship | pt. 3

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

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Summary: A few moments where Michael is finally honest and a few where he is not.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: y’all are so lovely!! I’m so glad that you guys are enjoying this as much as I am lol Thank you for all the likes, comments, and reblogs!! and shoutout to all my new followers, like omg hi💜

I caved and posted to AO3 with a f!oc so I could explore a character more in depth without imposing too much on the reader, so if you’re interested: AO3 Companionship

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: age gap, foul language, death mentioned (a patient), Robby still trying to bottle up his feelings, alcohol

not beta read

that damn smile

The days passed slowly considering how busy they had been. Between projects, homework, the office, and your half-assed chores, you were beat. That Friday morning was uneventful, a foggy start where you ran from your two classes, hoping it wouldn’t rain. You regretted not signing up for online classes, foolishly thinking being present would make you more productive. Maybe it did, but you longed to be home. As selfish as the thought was, you missed the time when you worked from home.

A weird thing happened around lunchtime: you were sitting at you desk with a homemade sandwich, lunchtime ticking away far too quickly. Your phone rang, and half expecting a scam call, you were surprised to find Michael’s name lighting up your screen.

You swallowed a bite of your sandwich before answering, “Hello?”

“Hello, hi.” His warm voice greeted her.

“I’m sorry. Did I forget we had a call right now?”

“No, no.” He suddenly sounded awkward again. “I, uh, I only have a few minutes, but I was hoping we could talk tonight? My shift should end at 7, but they never end on time.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” You said without thinking about it. “Usually you text me.”

A moment of silence passed. “I usually don’t have time to check my phone, and I just wanted to make sure you could talk tonight. You know, make sure you had a decent amount of notice. I’m sorry, I should’ve—”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped, clearing your throat, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

In his silence, you picked up on the array of beeps that grew louder on his end.

“I’ve gotta go, but I’ll call you tonight? 8:30, maybe?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “That works.”

“Good, uh, okay. Yeah. Talk to you later.”

“Talk to you later.”

—

In a rare lull of the Emergency Department, he had had his phone out before he had even thought about it, stepping into the staff lounge, and clicking on your contact. Usually it was a quick text sent in between patients, but then the phone had been ringing, your voice on the other end.

Michael stared at your contact after the call ended for a long moment, the chaos around him that had been quiet while talking to you slowly becoming louder and louder. Stuffing his phone back into his pocket and ignoring the feeling churning around his stomach, he jumped back into it. Dana had been the one to alert him of a car crash incoming, and he hoped she had not caught him staring at his phone.

Despite the fact that his shifts usually blurred together with how quickly they seemed to go, this one had seemed to slam on the brakes. It was no less busy than normal, but each minute ticked away like an hour, driving him mad.

It was a relief when Jack Abbot walked into the ED to take over. Not wanting to seem too off, Dr. Robby lingered, helping out with a few more critical patients before Jack finally shooed him out.

His watch read 7:39 when he collected his things from behind the charge desk.

Part of him really wanted to open up to you — the anonymity was tempting, but so was your voice — but the other part hated being so vulnerable. Not talking about it had worked out pretty well so far, but it left his chest feeling so tight and made his nights nearly always restless. Or maybe it was the grief. Or the stress. Or the loneliness.

Maybe not so much the loneliness anymore, Michael thought to himself.

Michael walked into his apartment and discarded his backpack by the door, along with his shoes. His entire body sagged, exhaustion running through his system. He realized how hungry he was and knew there was not much in his apartment to eat.

Before he knew it, it was 8:31, making his heart jump. Reaching for his phone, his finger hovered above the call button before he took a deep breath and pressed it.

You answered after two rings, ever reliable, “Hi.”

His lips turned upwards at the sound of you. “Hi.”

“How are you?”

He digested the question. From your handful of calls, it seemed to be your way of judging if he wanted to talk or just listen.

“It wasn’t a bad shift,” passed his lips before he had the chance to think about it. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t feel bad or stressed about it.” You said, not missing a beat.

“I lost a patient.” He told you. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

You went silent on the other end and guilt ate away his insides. It wasn’t about this patient in particular, or how he lost them, not really. Sure, that weighed on his mind, but nothing compared to Adamson, or the pandemic.

Despite the fact he didn’t want to talk about it, he kept going, “There was nothing we could do. I tried—we—”

“It’s not your fault.”

That struck down his spine, making him sputter. Maybe he was looking for a reason it was, maybe it wasn’t about this patient at all. He had a hard time distinguishing sometimes.

“I’m sure if you could’ve saved them, you would’ve.” You told him, and everything around him was completely silent. “I won’t pretend to understand the weight you carry, or how hard that has to be, but I know you did everything you could. You’re a good man, Michael, and god forbid anything were to happen to me, I know I’d be lucky to have a doctor like you.”

You said it like it was nothing, like the weight of your words did not scoop up the weight on his shoulders and carry it for just a moment. For a single minute, he felt okay. Then, the thoughts crept back in: but you don’t know me.

But maybe I want you to. He shook that thought off just as quickly as it came.

“I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“What?”

What? echoed in his own head, and he quickly started rambling, “You know, maybe talk in person. Might be nice. Only if that’s okay with you? We don’t have to, I—”

The weight of it burned heavily in his mind, churning his stomach. Would you want more money for that? Would you just consider it your weekly talk? Would you—

“That would be nice.”

His racing mind screeched to a halt. “It would?”

“Yeah, did you have a place in mind?”

Fuck! “...no.”

“Well, dealer’s choice.” You told him, your tone light like you were smiling again.

He sat on that for a minute. Did he take you somewhere fancy? Someplace miles away to ensure no one caught you? He still wanted to make sure you stayed far away from his professional life, and he certainly did not want to answer any questions if anyone he knew saw you.

“There’s this Italian place just outside the city. I’ve been meaning to go back.”

“Italian sounds good, actually.”

He smiled.

—

This isn’t a date. This isn’t a date you repeated to yourself over and over again, trying to quiet the anxiety raging through your system. You weren’t all that surprised when he had asked to meet in person, it had been part of the conversation at the cafe. Phone calls had just been easier for him to fit into his schedule up until this point. Or maybe it was easier for him to talk when it wasn’t face-to-face.

According to Google, the Italian restaurant was more of an upscale place, which led to your anxiety on what to wear. Their menu was on the expensive side when you browsed their website. You felt guilt rise in your chest, knowing he was going to be paying.

How the hell did Erin do it? Let those men spoil her with things much more expensive than a nice Italian restaurant with zero feelings of owing them?

Erin’s arrangements are different, you told yourself, sighing deeply through your nose. This is still well in line with what we agreed to. So why on earth were you overthinking it?

Staring into your closet, you weighed your options. There was the knee-length navy blue dress you had worn to the interview for your job, or the pretty black dress that complimented your figure that you wore to graduation, or your most recent splurge: a dress in your favorite color with a flowy skirt. It wasn’t fancy by any stretch, but you certainly would not wear it out for a casual night either.

It seemed like a happy medium between something modest and something you would wear out with your friends.

After fixing your hair, you started your ‘get ready for a night out’ routine. Your mind wandered to what he would wear; would he dress up? Simple shirt and slacks? Would he wear cologne, or—

This isn’t a date, you reminded yourself, why does it matter?

Taking a long look at yourself in the mirror, your eyes took in your appearance. The dress was flattering in all the right ways. You took a breath, smoothing out the dress.

You took your purse from the table by the door, putting on your black heels and light jacket before walking out the door. You left early, stuck between wanting to be early and not wanting to be there first.

The drive did little to soothe your nerves, traffic proving to be as frustrating as usual. You tried to coach yourself through it. This was two acquaintances getting dinner, nothing more, looking to simply talk. Your standards were not high — he would either want to talk or listen, and you had plenty you could still tell him about your week. This was just going to be like a phone call…just in person.

When you pulled up to the venue, you parked your car and sat there — anxiety eating you up. You debated waiting a little longer, eyes flickering to the time: 6:25. Biting your lip, you gathered your purse, tucking your phone away before getting out of the car.

Michael was waiting for you once you reached the lobby, greeting you with a warm smile. You drank in the sight of him in the dim lighting of the restaurant, your cheeks heating. He was wearing brown chinos, a soft grey-blue sweater and a blazer — and your heart nearly stopped just looking at him.

The host walked you both to your table. As you walked past, you took notice of several of the other women, noting you were not overdressed and relief washed through you. Your table was tucked away near a corner of the restaurant, next to a window.

When you were seated, you looked over at Michael across from you and smiled. The lines on his face were softer in this lighting, but he was remarkably handsome regardless, with his lips in a soft smile.

“How—”

“I—”

You both laughed, before Michael gestured for you to start.

“How are you?” You asked, figuring it was as good a place as any to start.

“I’m okay,” he told you, but it looked like he was trying to convince himself more than you. “Uh, how was your day?”

His voice sent shivers down your spine, so used to hearing it on the other end of a phone call. It did so many things in person.

You sipped the ice water in front of you. “I’m well, thank you.”

“How’s that fraud project going?”

You smiled, finding it nice that he remembered some of your ramblings. You had wondered how much he actually listened to vs just needing a voice on the other end of his call.

“It’s going really well, actually. I’ve been really enjoying the course.”

“Good, that’s good.”

The waiter came by to take your drink order, and Michael surprised you by allowing you to order for both of you.

“I’ll have whatever the lady is having.” Michael said, turning his attention back to you.

“Do you like reds?” You asked, deciding wine would be the safest bet, shoving away the thoughts of him not liking wine at all.

He gave a simple nod, and you turned back to the waiter to order a simple pinot noir for each of you. You waited for any sign from him that you had made the wrong choice, but he was sitting happy as could be across from you. You looked down at the menu, weighing your options. You could try to be cheap and order something simple, or forget about the price next to the dishes and allow yourself to be spoiled.

“Tell me about your day.” He said.

That felt as easy as breathing, “I slept in, a rarity for me, but then I got caught up on studying. Between that and some of my reports, that ate up most of my day. My laptop is on the fritz, but as long as it’s plugged in, it’s been fine. Not an impossible work around, but thankfully I didn’t really need to be anywhere with it today. I bring it to classes with me sometimes, but hand-written notes are just as reliable, though they sometimes just look like chicken scratch.” You chuckled.

“Oh, please,” he laughed, “I bet yours are worlds better than mine. There’s a stereotype about doctors' handwriting for a reason.”

“At least I’m the only one who needs to read mine.” Smiling, you continued, “Why’s it so bad anyways? Is legibility an offense to you, or something?”

“The name of the game is speed, unfortunately. I’m so busy I’m lucky to sit down at all. Charting on the computer helps, but those physical files are not going anywhere.” He laughed. “You get used to it.”

You continued like that, jesting and enjoying the company of each other. The waiter came back to take the food order, Michael settling on a pasta ragu — you quickly glanced at the price of his item and found your second choice was just below how expensive his was. It made you feel better when you ordered it.

When dinner came, you settled back into small talk, trading conversation about the cooling temperature and the most recent Penguins game. After taking a sip of wine and placing it back on the table, you let your left hand rest next to the glass. Absentmindedly, you brushed your fingers softly against his, his hand beside his own wine glass. Your mind halted, your eyes taking in your hands touching — his fingers were warm beneath yours.

There was a clang! of his fork hitting his plate and your hand quickly retreated from the tabletop back into your lap with a jolt. Your eyes looked up, catching his flustered face, and anxiety invaded your stomach.

You swallowed, “Did you want to talk about your day? Or work, perhaps?”

He blinked at you, before clearing his throat lightly into his fist and grabbing his fork again. His eyebrows furrowed inward, but he was silent as he slowly chewed his food.

“Yeah,” he started, finally meeting your eyes. “I finally got some pesky chores done around the house that I’ve been putting off.”

With each word he spoke, he sounded like he was avoiding anything with substance. You accepted it regardless, mildly frustrated that he had a hard time opening up — but who were you to demand any more from him?

Taking in your raised eyebrow, he sighed, “I’m not good at this, I’m sorry.”

Blinking several times, “Why are you apologizing? You’ve no need to. I’m enjoying our conversation. I’m just ensuring I don’t talk your ear off.”

His lips flicked up, “Definitely not.”

You laughed, “Good.”

After several more bites between them, Michael sipped his wine, “Actually, I would like to be honest.” A long sigh escaped his nose while he avoided eye contact. “My job is…my job is stressful. I used to think I was good at compartmentalizing, but...” He shook his head, shrugging, “I don’t know. It’s been tough lately.”

You waited, watching him.

“You know, most days, it’s just trying to keep our heads above water. Some days there’s hope…others…” He was shaking his head again, taking a careful sip of his wine. His eyes looked far away, his face scrunched together.

Your thoughts flickered back to the other day when he had mentioned losing a patient and your heart ached. He was struggling to carry the weight of all of it, what possibly could you say to make it better?

You sat like that for several minutes in tense silence. You kept overanalyzing what to say, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

He suffered a small smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s been nice to talk to someone outside of that environment, you know? To talk about anything else, or listen to you talk about your days, even when I don’t say anything.”

A tiny smile graced your face, “I’m glad I can do that for you. I’m glad I haven’t been boring you.”

He exhaled, lips turning upwards, “Not at all. I’ve enjoyed our conversations.”

“I have too.”

You held each other’s gaze for a long moment, before the waiter came by to offer dessert. Your gaze lingered on Michael’s face before you glanced down at the dessert menu. You thought perhaps dessert was too much, so you went to say “I think I’m just too full.” but Michael beat you to it.

“Make it two of whatever she wants.” He was grinning again, mood slightly lifted, watching you with an amused glint to his eye.

You raised an eyebrow at him, but did not question it, quickly deciding on one of the options.

Dessert came with coffee, decaf for him, and lighter conversation. As the night wound down, you found you wished the night had been longer, enjoying his company. You wondered if you would be seeing more of him in person after this. You hoped so.

He paid the bill without allowing you to even glance at it, which after a few seconds of thought, you were thankful for. You knew it was not likely to be an outlandish amount, but you were glad to not have a number in your head to overthink.

Getting up from the table, you walked close together, arms brushing until you made the split second decision to grab hold of his arm. To avoid bumping into any tables or other patrons, of course. He had not been expecting it, by the way he glanced at you, but you kept your eyes forward. He didn’t say anything. Once back in the lobby, you loosened your hold, but he did not let you go.

“Let me walk you to your car.”

“Oh, thank you.”

You walked in the direction of your car, anxiety bubbling back up. This was usually the bit where your past dates tried — or succeeded — in kissing you. This isn’t a date this isn’t a date this isn’t a date, echoed loud in your head. Did you hug him? Just say goodbye?

“This is me.” You said awkwardly, stopping in front of your car.

He nodded his head, turning to look at you again.

“I’ll—”

“I—”

You smiled at each other, and you gestured for him to go first.

“This was…nice. Thank you.”

“Thank you, I had a good time.”

He shuffled his feet awkwardly, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Have a good night, Michael.”

“You too.” He said, turning to go, before turning quickly on his feet. “Let me know when you get home safe, yeah?”

Opening your car door, you looked back at him and grinned, “Yeah, I will.”

Offering a final smile before you got into your car, Michael walked in the opposite direction.

The drive home was much better than the drive to the restaurant. You felt warm on the inside, going over the dinner in your head again and again. You smiled the entire drive.

Walking into your apartment, you set your things down before pulling out your phone and pulling up Michael’s contact.

Home safe :)

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want to join the taglist? shoot me a message!

Companionship Taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @clementine111002 @virgomillie @emily-b @kaygilles @lt-jakeseresin @imonmykneessir @kniselle @cannonindeez @gabsgabsvaz

All Dr. Robby content: @cherriready

that damn dinner scene gave me trouble for some reason — sorry it took awhile!

Also?? Hozier’s Too Sweet is so Companionship coded

To combat the rise to fascism & purity culture. I want everyone who sees this to take up to 10 minutes and write the most messed up poem, micro fiction or draw the most unhinged doodle or put together a truly absurd collage with what you have on hand.

Don’t censor yourself. You might feel it happening. Like this invisible critic keeping you from going too far, being too strange. Keeping you boxed into what’s acceptable, morally correct.

& just keep practicing - until you can shake that little morality police free.

And for bonus points spend some time getting to know surrealist artists and activists who were doing this during the rise of fascism in the 1930s

And if surrealism isn’t your style- if it’s too serious & you like things a little more absurd check out Dada

a pro-palestine group has vandalised parts of donald trump's turnberry golf resort in scotland.

RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY SALAD??? 😭😭🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

little luxuries [j.a.]

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader Word Count: 2.2k Warnings: Smut (18+). Fingering. Unprotected Sex. Banter. My own special brand of prose, fragments, and italicization. A/N: First full length fic I've read in a hot minute. Just can't get the image of slow morning sex with Jack Abbot out of my mind.

Oh, you’re a sight for sore eyes this morning. Tangled in his sheets, hair all in disarray against the satin pillowcase. The shirt you’ve stolen from him rides up over your hips, exposing lavender cotton panties with daisies splashed across them. Cute.

The sight turns him on instantly. More than it should. He can’t help it. Something about you at ease in his space. Completely twisted up in his home, in his bed. In his life. 

Coming home to someone wouldn’t have been a possibility 5 years ago. Seeing you after a long shift, like an oasis after a long trek in a desert, is a luxury he’s still getting used to. And one must take advantage of, and savor, little luxuries whenever they can. 

Perhaps he should feel a little bad for wanting to wake you up so early, when even Phoebus Apollo still hasn’t fully roused himself from sleep, and the Pittsburgh towers stand in black silhouettes against the indigo sky.

Perhaps he should feel guilty for peeling back the twisted sheets to get an eyeful of your prone body. Eyes trailing up your legs, snagging on the curves of your thighs, the supple bend of your ass. 

Maybe he should feel apologetic for reaching out and grabbing a handful. Hand running under the hem of the stolen shirt and up your tummy to cup your breast. For rolling your nipple between his fingers and pinching it gently.

But after the night he’s had, he can’t even muster a smidgen of regret. And the sound you make, and the way you arch your back into his touch strikes any trace of repentance from his mind. And when you slowly blink yourself awake and beam at him like he hung the stars in the sky by hand, he can’t help the way his heart skips violently in his chest and all the blood in his body pools straight to his cock. 

“Mornin’, honey.” He gives you a breathtaking smile of his own, fingers still lazily playing with your nipple. 

“You’re back.” You bite the words out around a yawn. You roll onto your back, nudging a foot into his lap. 

“In the flesh.” He switches to your other breast, showing it the same attention. 

“Sun’s not even in the sky, and you’re already feeling me up,” you tease, toes brushing over his hard cock. 

“Sorry.” Jack shrugs with a sheepish grin. “Couldn’t help myself when you look like this.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “When I look like a sleepy mess?”

Jack shakes his head. “When you look like you’re mine. Wearing my shirt, in my bed. A man can only be so strong for so long.”

“Something tells me that apology’s not genuine.” You try to be coy in your response, but there’s a small tremor in your voice from his words.

Mine. Oh don’t you love being Jack’s. 

His hand glides down to the crux of your thigh. “Somethin tells me you don’t really mind.” Jack rubs at the growing damp between your legs. “Barely touched you, honey.”

You spread your legs lazily. “I missed you.”

“That right?” He tugs at the waistband. 

You nod, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “Really missed you.”

“Well, shame on me for leaving you all alone. Ought to apologize for my actions.” His thumb nudges your clit. “Why don’t you come over here and show me how much you missed me, darling, and I can show you how sorry I am.” 

The words barely finish leaving his lips before you’re already moving towards him, much too turned on to bother with the facade of apathy. 

You crawl into his lap, lips hungrily seeking his own. Jack slings an arm low around your waist, fingers already digging into the curve of your ass. He squeezes hard, molding your pliant body against his own.

Not that you give him much choice, almost knocking him back with the force of your kiss. Your fingers twine through his grey curls, tugging sharply just as your teeth rake over his bottom lip. Jack hisses, equal parts pleasure and pain. And it’s not long before he’s grabbing a handful of your own hair, angling your mouth so he can push his tongue between your lips. Easily dominating you with one gesture. 

Your hips rock against his slowly, languidly. He slaps your ass sharply, urging your stilted rhythm. You’re greedy this morning. Rubbing your clit down on the rough fabric of his jeans. Taking your pleasure with hungry moans pressed against tongue and teeth. 

“Poor baby,” Jack groans against your lips. “Was only gone for 12 hours.” He slides his hand between your legs once more.

Your hips buck, chasing the sweet pressure of his thumb on your clit. “Too long.” You tilt your head back, a whimper choked in your throat.

“I can see that.” He mouths at your pulse. “Can’t even do my job without you jumping on me as soon as I get home.” His middle and forefinger push your panties to the side to play with your cunt. 

“You started it,” you pant, angling your hips so his fingers slip into you shallowly. 

“Hm, did I?” He nips at your throat. “Not how I remember it.” With a crook of his wrist, Jack’s fingers fill you. A poor substitute for the real thing, but you can’t find it in your heart to care. “See, I’m just a tired old man, comin’ home from a grueling 12 hour shift. And you seduced me, wearing my shirt and that underwear I love. Sleeping in my bed. Then you climbed in my lap and started kissing me.”

You mumble something under your breath, half moan, half breathless whisper. 

“What was that, honey?” He asks, fingers still playing with you, ratcheting up the intense storm inside of you. 

“You’re bein’ mean.” You clench around his fingers. 

Jack’s arm locks around your waist, stopping your frantic hips. “Oh?” He asks with raised eyebrows. “Am I?” Mischief dances in his green eyes. 

You nod, against your better judgement. 

“Oh, baby, you don’t know mean. If I was being mean, I wouldn’t let you come. But I’m a gentleman, honey.” His fingers fuck into you, a hard pace that leaves your body boneless. “So I’m gonna make you come with my fingers, and then you’re gonna ride my cock until you come again.”

Jack holds you in place, wanting you to save your energy for later. His deft fingers play the chords of your body. Curling and angling just right. Each thrust of his fingers devastating in its accuracy. Filling your body with the golden light of ecstasy. Your head swims with it. And when he adds his thumb back into the mix, nudging your clit with each pass of his fingers, you’re a goner. 

Your legs try to close on his fingers, but he keeps them open as he works you through your orgasm. 

“Just like that, baby,” Jack’s voice is a husky whisper in your ear. “So pretty when you come.” He slides his fingers from your cunt, groaning at the wetness that coats his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous.” His tongue laps at the digits. 

You watch his movement, pupils blown wide with lust. 

“Want a taste?” Jack asks. His cock throbs painfully when you nod and stick your tongue out. He pushes his fingers deep into your mouth, only stopping when you gag. “Now was that mean?” He pops the buttons on his jeans. 

“No,” you admit reluctantly. 

“Gonna ride my cock? Make yourself come again?” He lifts you slightly so he can free his aching dick from his pants. He rubs his spit-slicked hand over himself, taking the edge off slightly.

You nod, tongue curling over your lips, tasting the remnants of yourself. 

“Say it.” Jack’s eyes burn into yours. 

You wrap your hand around his, stroking him slowly in tandem. “I’m gonna ride your cock,” you whisper, eyes still locked on his. “And I’m gonna make myself come. Like a good girl,” you add, just to watch his lust filled pupils blow wider. 

“My good girl,” he corrects, nudging his nose against your own. 

“Your good girl,” you amend, knocking his hand away to line his cock up. 

Jack busies himself by removing your shirt. His hands find your tits immediately, his lips follow soon after. Tongue laving at the sweat beading on your chest. He presses reverent kisses to the side of your breasts, before mouthing at your nipple. 

He looks up at you, mouth still pressed on your skin. “C’mon, honey. What are you waitin’ for?”

You hook your panties to the side, rub your slick cunt over his cock. Jack lets out a huff of impatience. His hand comes down on your ass harshly, quickly rubbing the sting away. 

“Darling,” he says through gritted teeth. 

You hum, still rocking against him. 

“Now who’s being mean?”

“Am I?” You look down at him through heavy-lidded eyes. 

“Yes. Why?” 

“Cuz it’s fun.” You shrug. “Payback’s a bitch, baby.” You press a light kiss to his lips, pulling back with a smirk before he can deepen it. 

He groans. “You gonna make me beg?”

You nod, lips dancing across his jaw. “How badly do you want me?” Your teeth rake against the shell of his ear. 

Jack shudders, warmth rushing across his face. “You know how bad,” he mumbles, hips rocking his hard cock up against you. 

“Wanna hear you say it.” You nip his earlobe. “Tell me.” 

Jack cups your jaw, fingers rubbing absentmindedly at your cheek. “Want you bad, baby.” His voice is a low, husky whisper. “So bad it hurts. Need to be inside your sweet pussy to take the pain away.”

“Yeah?” You slip the tip of his cock inside of you and Jack groans. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice muffled by your breast. “Please, honey.” He presses an open mouthed kiss to the skin, and then the gentle skate of teeth as he bites teasingly. 

You feign deep consideration for a moment, balanced above him. Hips rocking shallowly to coat him with your warmth. Jack’s breath comes out in labored pants against your collarbone. It must be killing him to be patient. To not take control, grab your hips and yank you down on top of him. Put you on your back and fuck into you. 

You might as well reward him. 

“Relax, baby. Let me take care of you,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair to cup the back of his neck. “Take care of my old man after his grueling 12-hour shift.” 

Jack looks up at you, a smile on his face. A smile that morphs into a slack-jawed mask of ecstasy as you slide down onto his cock. His groan so full of relief, it’s almost painful. Bubbling up inside of him until it rumbles out of his throat into the quiet room. 

He holds your gaze, whispering quiet praises as you move your hips forward slowly. Savoring the fullness of him within you, the subtle stretch and tightness with every roll back and forth. It’s good. So achingly good. 

“Shit, baby. You feel fucking amazing,” Jack whispers. “Feel like home.” 

You bite your bottom lip, a moan on your tongue. “Want me to move faster?” 

“Nah, honey. Take your time. Just wanna feel you.” One of his arms wraps around your waist, the other splays across your back, holding you close to him. 

So close, your body slides against him with every undulation of your hips. So close he can feel your heart beating in your chest, keeping time with the frantic pace of his own. So close your breaths mingle and twine. Honeyed moans and adulations dripping from your tongues. So full of love, full of worship, they fill his chest with light and warmth. Building and building. Until he’s so close to that wonderful edge he could burst. 

And in any other case he might feel embarrassed to last so briefly. In any other bed, in any other place, he might put it off as long as he could. Fight through it. But not here. Not in this safe space, this home that you’ve both created. Where connection and pleasure is the goal. Where the little death is one to be savored, and not staved off. This hedonistic dance that leads to more and more. 

A different pace. One he’s still getting used to. 

And so when the sensation of your warm cunt grows to be too much. When the waves of pleasure slam against the dam of self-control and it starts to crack and crumble. He comes without warning. A firecracker in the dark early dawn. Filling you until he’s spent and boneless. 

Jack collapses on the bed in sweaty rapture. That bright smile on his face once more mirrors your own. 

You lean over him, fingers tracing the lines of his face. Nails playing in the stubble that lines his jaw. “Doing okay?” 

He gives you a thumbs up in answer. “Never better.” 

“Just checking. I know heart attacks are common for men in your age bracket. Especially after such vigorous activity–”

Jack silences your teasing by rolling you swiftly onto your side, and you laugh sharply in surprise. “Honey, I’m healthy as a horse.” He wraps your leg around his waist. “In fact, since I still owe you one.” His thumb nudges your clit, and your body arches into his. “Let me show you.”

HOUSE M.D (2004 - 2012) I 1.05 - Damned If You Do

Immature

pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Senior Resident!Reader

wordcount: 1.8k

warnings: angst, reader is purposefully petty, mentions of robby being an asshole, age gap, mentions of injury (care pile up, car crash), mentions of death

synopsis: Robby loses his temper on you, and you're not quick to forgive, then tragedy strikes, and Robby's not answering his phone

note: some of you may notice that I took down the smut drabble I posted yesterday, I wasn't happy with it, so I took it down, but please accept this in its place. there will be a part two!!

!! not proofread so apologies for any mistakes !!

I’m your attending, and you’re my resident. Act like it.

Robby had spoken those words over a week ago.

It had been in the middle of a close to mass casualty event, a blood soaked emergency room crowded with victims from one of the worst car pile ups you’d ever seen.

You had never performed an emergency c-section before, especially not on someone who had been actively bleeding out. It would’ve taken too long to call an attending in for help, so OB walked you through it over the phone, Garcia assisted, and both the mother and the baby had made it through (relatively) safe and sound. It had been a victory, a save worthy of celebration in the form of too many cocktails, until Robby found out.

He’d given you the grace of scolding you away from prying ears, but that hadn’t lessened the burn. 

Robby had been too harsh, way too harsh.

You lacked discipline, didn’t respect the chain of command, didn’t respect him. When it came down to it, you were too much of a cowboy, too flexible with the rules of medicine. You were ‘too much like Abbot in the worst ways’.

Tears had threatened to spill, burning and insistent, but you’d blinked them back. 

You had avoided his eyes when you’d told him that you had saved more patients today than any other doctor, that you had been the one to pick up the slack when others had faltered, that he had no right to pick and choose when he thought you were qualified enough to handle things on your own.

You had successfully avoided him for the rest of your shift.

Day One

Meet me out front before your shift. Please.

The message comes through just as you leave your apartment building. 

You scare the living daylights out of a flock of pigeons with how hard you slam your door.

You don’t respond to his messages, but you do wait outside the doors to the ED, ten minutes early to your shift, pacing back and forth like a mad woman.

Robby walks up five minutes later, headphones in and sunglasses on. Usually that sight would make your heart flutter, but in this moment, it infuriates you.

“Do you need something, Dr. Robinavitch?” You keep your voice clip, painfully professional.

He flinches, but tucks his sunglasses into the front of his hoodie. “I owe you an apology.”

“Yes, you do.”

Robby sighs. “Tensions were high, I was struggling to keep it together, and I took it out on you. It was completely unfair, and I’m sorry.”

It’s completely genuine, almost heartbreakingly sincere. Somehow, you still don’t completely forgive him.

“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate it.” Not really. “I guess I’ll see you inside.”

You brush past him before he can get another word in.

Robby follows you through the ER, hot on your heels, but you don’t turn around. You ignore the strange look from Lupe, let the door almost smack him in the face on the way through, skip past your usual morning debrief with Dana and head right towards the nearest patient.

You should forgive him, you know you should. It’s not reasonable to stay so angry about something that had been spoken in the middle of a crisis, but in this moment, you don't care.

You were beyond capable, better than most that had come through this program. Abbot had known that the moment he’d met you, and you thought Robby knew, but maybe he didn’t. He deserved to be ignored, shown the error of his ways, at least for the rest of your shift.

Maybe it’s cruel, but you’re feeling cruel today.

Day Three

He walks through the door with two coffee’s. One completely black, his order, and one with two creams and two sugars, your order.

“Abbot told me you came in early this morning, figured you didn’t have time for a coffee.” It’s a casual lie, an excuse to talk. You never drink coffee before noon.

“Thank you, Dr. Robinavitch.” You don’t take the cup from his hand, don’t even look him in the eye.

Once again, it’s cruel. But you’re still feeling hurt, inadequate. 

Robby pushed his way between you and your desk, nudging your chair back just far enough to step between your knees.

“What can I do to earn your forgiveness?” His eyes are unbelievably warm, and it’s almost enough to make you crack.

“You’re forgiven.” You shrug, reaching around him to grab your coffee. “I’m just working on my ‘respect problem’ you had so much to say about.”

“Buttercup, I-”

“It’s Doctor,” You interrupt, pushing up from your chair till the two of you are almost nose to nose. “or my first name, or nothing. Respect goes both ways”

Robby doesn’t back down, and neither do you. It’s tense, probably awkward for many of the nearby bystanders, but it’s the closest he’s been to you in days. He smells incredible, spices, leather, and the slightest hint of antiseptic . He always smells good, but something about being upset with him seems to elevate it.

“Pull it together, you two.” Dana calls out, a phone pinned between her ear and shoulder. “Incoming trauma, two minutes out.”

“On it.” Robby responds, his eyes not once leaving yours. “Buttercup’s leading.”

You all but stomp towards the ambulance bay, annoyance weighing down your shoulders.

“Am I actually leading this, or are you going to take over the minute the patient comes through?”

“Oh, this is all you.” Robby hands are harsh as they tie the back of your gown. “I’m not even gloving up.”

“Let's see how long that lasts.”

Robby, surprisingly, stays true to his word. He hovers by the door, hands behind his back, and doesn't question your decisions. You stabilize the patient in record time, handing them off to the nurses with a strange sense of satisfaction boiling in your stomach.

You turn towards Robby, a cocky smirk on your lips as you tear off your gloves. “See how incredible I am when I’m not being pestered by questions?”

Robby laughs, rough and deep. 

“Believe me,” He whispers under his breath, his eyes locked on you as you practically strut out of the trauma room. “I’m well aware of how incredible you are.”

Day Five

“I’m covering Parker on the night shift for the next couple days.”

Robby pauses. “And who’s going to be covering you?”

“You have Langdon, Collins, Mckay, and Mohan, not to mention King, Santos, Javadi, and Whitaker. You don’t need me here.”

“Sure, but I want you here.”

You frown. “No you don’t. I’m not being nice to you this week.”

“No, you’re not,” Robby agrees. “But that doesn’t mean I want you gone.”

“I appreciate that,” You do, really. “But I want to be gone for a little bit.”

“If Abbot were here he’d be telling us to talk out our problems.”

You laugh. “Then let’s be glad he’s not.”

Day Seven

Two days later, you’re somehow back where you started, covered in blood, surrounded by patients in need of treatment, but Robby’s not there, unreachable, actually, and it’s driving you insane.

Abbot tells you a transport crashed through a nearby cafe, decimated the entire building and grievously injured around thirty people. You ask the name of the cafe out of pure curiosity, and Abbot says The Filter. It’s ridiculously overpriced for drinks that aren’t even that good, but it’s Robby’s favorite.

Every sunday night since you met him, Robby has sat in one of the window seats of that cafe, drinking a cup of expensive tea, and decompressing before heading home. And tonight is sunday night, Robby  just handed his patients over to Abbot, and bid you both goodbye before heading for the same cafe that had just been taken out by a transport, and he’s not answering his phone.

You’ve been unbelievably immature all week, taken out your frustrations on him, and now he might be gone. He might’ve died thinking you hated him.

Medical work is done through deep breaths and the threat of tears. You check every patient's face for too long, hoping not to recognise his features beneath the blood and debrief. He doesn’t come through the ambulance bay, and he doesn’t call.

Once all the patients are stable, Abbot sends you out for air and you don’t fight him. You shed your gown and gloves, slipping your sweater back on, and wander through the maze of gurneys till the fresh air hits your face.

Your throat is so tight you can hardly breath, and still, the screen of your phone is blank. No missed calls, no texts, not even an email.

You can hear the sound of feet scuffing on pavement, but you don’t look up. It’s probably a paramedic returning to their rig, a nurse coming out for a smoke break, a-

“Did you guys get everything handled, or do you still need help in there?”

It’s Robby’s voice, rough, and warm, and so familiar it makes you want to cry, and you do.

“You’re…” Your voice breaks. He’s in front of you, standing tall and completely intact, his brows furrowed in concern and confusion when he catches sight of the tears streaming down your face.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

You can only respond in sobs, your chest aching as the tears you’d been forcing back all night finally come free. Robby pulls you against him, his face buried in your hair as he whispers quiet hushes. You cling to him, press your head to his chest and cry even harder when you hear the steady beat of his heart.

“I thought you were dead.” Your words come out in a hoarse whisper, muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

“Why would I be dead?”

“The transport crashed through the cafe you go to every Sunday, and you weren’t answering your phone.” You choke back another sob, desperate to get your words out. “I thought you were going to die thinking I was mad at you.”

“Oh… Oh, I'm so sorry.” He holds you tighter, running a hand through your hair in an attempt to calm you, but it only makes you worse.

“You have nothing to apologise for, I was being ridiculous.” You pull away, wiping your nose on your sleeve.

“That’s not ridiculous, I would’ve gone down the same road.” Robby keeps his hands on your shoulders, reluctant to let go of you.

You look up at him, tears brimming your eyes, but you blink them away. “I’m sorry.”

Robby smiles, far too fondly for how you’re guessing you look right now. “I know.”

You stare at each other in a few seconds of comfortable silence before speaking again. “Everything’s mostly handled inside, we just have to get our shit together and prepare for the rest of the night.”

“I’ll come inside and help.” 

“You don’t need to.” You try to argue, but it’s half-hearted.

“I know,” Robby nods, his hand lifting to wipe a few stray tears from your cheek. “But I want to.”

My collection for Black is Beautiful.

Companionship | pt. 5

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: After a brief mention two weeks ago, Michael gives you a gift, making your feelings all the more complicated.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: y’all are so amazing!💜thank you for all the comments, reblogs, likes and follows! I’m so grateful you all are enjoying this as much as I am!! over 300 followers?? That’s crazy, thank you!!

Someone on ao3 said there needed to be more Robby pov and you know what? I agree! I tried my best lol

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: age gap, foul language, feelings angst, slowburn

not beta read

Butterflies invaded your stomach at the mere thought of him, the memory of his fingers on you — soft and fleeting. How warm his skin had been against yours, seared into your mind.

This is so stupid.

You thought to call Erin and ask her if this had ever happened to her, but there was a fear in saying anything. In calling attention to your feelings. Aside from the fact that he was not looking for anything, your arrangement was a glaring obvious fact that nothing truly could happen between you. Wouldn’t that break all the boundaries you had set with each other at the start? That was not even getting into your age difference, and the uneven balance it could create. He was so much older, it could never work.

Trying to distract yourself with work and studying and late nights with your friends, you still eagerly accepted any of his calls. He still planned a weekly one, but an unplanned call late at night became more frequent. You enjoyed those late night conversations, they were typically more raw and revealing than when he had time to think about what to say.

He had told you more about the hospital administration hounding him, and the third year resident he had taken under his wing some years past.

Toward the end of the conversation, he had asked to hang out.

“Maybe get take-out again, or something.” He suggested.

You contemplated it. Your laptop was giving you a headache, and you were half-tempted to throw it out a window. A little food and conversation might do wonders to make you feel better.

“I’d still like to try that Thai place.” You told him, playing with the hem of your sweater.

“That can be arranged.”

You laughed, “Tonight?”

“Yeah, meet me there at 7?”

—

Michael really had no excuse for the nerves that flooded his system. They nearly always did in your company, but the calm that would wash over him just a little bit later was bliss. It was nice to have someone to talk to — someone interested in his days without wanting to pry. It was freeing, almost, knowing you would still be there for him the following week even if he revealed his harrowed feelings.

There was a hopeful optimism, too — like it was all good practice for human connection. Yet, the thought of someone else on the other line or the other side of the table, it soured.

He was being stupid. He was being reckless.

The feelings in his chest were just simple, calm familiarity. It could never be anything more.

You were nearly half his age, and the thought of embarrassing himself at believing the feelings could ever be anything more made him tense up. The walls around his heart remained steadfast and strong.

Perhaps the whole arrangement was bleeding into something it shouldn’t be — and he thought to perhaps call the whole thing off.

He thought that, but he was already reaching for the phone to hear your voice.

The Thai place was crowded, but you were able to get a table. You were dressed in business casual, coming from work, and your top did wonders for your eyes. He admired you for a few moments in the lobby while you waited for a table, desperately trying to be subtle about it.

When you sat, you looked over the menu with interest and the quiet that settled over you was warm. Your orders were taken and you smiled, eyes roaming around the new restaurant.

“Have you still been pretty busy?” Michael asked.

“Never too busy for you.” You commented effortlessly with a smirk. “But yeah. Getting down to crunch time. Soon I’ll have to worry about getting my license.”

Your first comment made his heart stutter. I’m too old for this. But he was grinning.

“At least you’ll have school off your plate.” He said.

You gave an agreed nod, “I’m looking forward to that fact, oh my god.”

Michael chuckled.

“How was work yesterday?” You asked, looking genuinely interested.

You were good at that — making him want to open up, but some of his days were just too gruesome to tell you about. Too painful to share. You always had an ear open for him, regardless. Part of his mind whispered you were just doing as their agreement dictated, but he shoved that back down.

“It was…” A thousand words floated through his mind: Bad. Good. Terrible. Short-staffed. He settled on, “...fine.”

It was easy enough to see in your eyes that you did not believe him. Pretty eyes framed with long lashes, flickering from his face to your meal and back again. He hated how it felt not opening up all the way, but he feared he would swallow you whole.

He let out a long sigh through his nose, refusing to look at you. A thought was bubbling in his head, half-tempted to tell you about Adamson, feeling guilty for shutting you out. Not yet, I can’t yet, echoed in his head, memories burning in his mind of Adamson on the ventilator.

“Hey, hey, Mike.” You snapped him out of the images that haunted him, reaching across the table to hold his hand. “You got lost there for a minute…are you okay?”

He cleared his throat and you removed your hand, much to his disappointment. He covered it easily, smiling back at you.

“Well, I’m out with a very beautiful woman, so I’d say I’m okay.”

You stared at him, eyebrows raised, eyes wide, before quickly looking away from him. His heart picked up at your reaction, hope blooming. No—

“That’s—well—uh—thank you.”

He smiled, trying to brush all the thoughts swimming in his head aside. “I got you something.”

You sputtered, “What?”

“I got you a gift. I left it at my apartment, figured we could head back that way after we finished eating.” He explained, thinking of the box sitting on his couch. It had sat like a heavyweight in his living room all week.

“You…got me a gift?” Then, “You really didn’t have to do that, Michael.”

He shrugged sheepishly, “I wanted to.”

“Well, thank you. Really. That…you really didn’t have to.”

Michael tried to read all the emotions flickering across your face—shock, confusion, red eared embarrassment, and finally, gratitude.

He called for the check.

—

Warm feelings were swirling around in your stomach. The cool night air did little for your cheeks, or the heat that had crawled up your neck or wrapped across your chest, holding you tight.

A gift. He got me a gift. A gift. A goddamn gift.

Why the fuck had he gotten you something? A nausea rolled in, feeling like you owed him — even if his only intention had been to be kind. What was it? Did he see something simple, think of you and buy it? Did he go out searching for something to buy?

The possibilities ate away at your insides.

The walk into his apartment building was filled with quiet banter, which helped pull you back out of your head. You registered the look on the woman’s face as she had stepped off the elevator, giving Michael a side-eye, while you both stepped onto it. You swallowed thickly, turning your attention back to the man beside you.

“Maybe they just need a few games to get into the swing of things. I still have hope.” You told him, referencing the game the Penguins had played the day before.

Michael chuckled, “They’re a disappointment, but they’re still my team.”

“Sometimes I feel lucky when I’m too busy to watch them lose.” You laughed, moving beside him when you got to his floor.

You were nervous to be in his apartment again, but a part of you also enjoyed being surrounded by a space that was purely him.

“If it makes you feel any better, it can’t technically be a gift. I didn’t wrap it.” He said, glancing at you.

Your eyes moved around his apartment until they settled on the brown paper bag on his couch. Your heart started racing.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” you said with a small chuckle, looking over at him.

He had his hands in his pockets, side stepping to his couch to grab the gift. Seeing the size of it, you began guessing in your head as to what it could have been — a clothing box? Too big to be a book.

“Here you go.” His voice was so soft as he handed it over.

You lowered yourself onto his couch, taking it from him. It was heavy. Not unbearably so, but it had some weight to it. You smiled up at him before putting your hand into the bag, feeling the box inside.

He moved to sit next to you…impossibly close. Close enough to feel his body heat, feel the shadow of his form hovering.

Gut twisting, you pulled out the box, blinking down at what now laid in your lap. HP was written on the cardboard in large black lettering, and your heart completely stopped. The cardboard had been opened so it was easy enough to peek inside, all your thoughts stalling in your head at the sight of it.

An HP ProBook 460 G11.

A goddamn fucking laptop.

“Michael,” your voice squeaked out, heart hammering against your ribcage. “I can’t accept this. This is too much.”

“I know you were saying yours was giving you trouble.” He said, like it explained everything.

You finally removed your eyes from the box to look at him. He had a soft smile on his lips, but it still reached his eyes, crinkled in contentment. His brown eyes held an emotion you did not recognize, but it crept into your chest and curled up.

“I really can’t take this.” You breathed out, quiet since he was so close.

“It’s bad luck to give a gift back.”

“I thought it wasn’t technically a gift.”

He smirked, eyes flickering down to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes. “I want you to have it.”

And that seemed to settle it.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “This was really, really nice of you. Thank you so much.”

He rubbed his hands down his legs, letting out a long breath, “Yeah, of course.”

You grabbed his wrist, forcing his attention back to your face. “I mean it, this…this was incredibly thoughtful. Thank you, Michael.”

“You’re welcome.” And there was your name, so pretty on his lips.

[ Next ]

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hahah I love a good build up, BUT KISS HIM

they’re so bad at feelings lol

sorry this chapter was shorter, I wanted to get some Robby pov in there. But surprise! the next part is already out🤗

⭐️💙⭐️Blue Royal Stars⭐️💙⭐️