sometimes i get sad about the fact that the fandom is so wrapped up in made-up drama with no basis in reality and discourse about fanon that there is almost NO conversation about the ACTUAL political parts of the pitt. so much criticism and no actual discussion of the pitt’s points about ice, about misdiagnosis of women and poc, about the fucked up insurance systems in the us, about deportations, about child abuse, about mental health, about suicide, about addiction, about federal funding cuts towards programs that benefit people of color, LIKE. you wanna talk about the pitt’s politics but instead of talking about ANY of that you wanna make shit up instead oh okay
"does Noah Wyle really expect me to watch five seasons of Robby's ~mental health journey~? 🙄"
no, i think he expects you to be normal and choose not to watch the show that's about the main character played by him if you fucking hate him and/or the main character he plays. because literally no one is forcing you to do so
werewolf!michael robinavitch x reader
summary: it seems like michael will always seek you out. luckily for him, you don't plan on sending him away.
warnings: afab!reader, a little subby robby, unprotected piv, biting, a little bit of bickering while fucking (as a treat), slightly switch!robby (this is as clean as my settings go, guys. it's relatively tame by my standards lol)
a/n: thank you @brandycranby for making this header!!!! holy cow it's so sick i'm very very happy to be able to use it!!! LOVE!!!
wc: 3.4k
Getting a call from your elderly neighbor about a naked man sleeping on your porch is not how you expected this weekend to start. Luckily, it was only Mr. Greene, a queer fellow on his most lucid days, so you're sure he's not too perturbed by the sight. Still, you rush to slide on a robe, padding down the stairs as you tie it taught around your waist.
There's no hesitation before you throw open the door. While you weren't expecting company, there's nobody else who would be at your door at this hour. Especially not on the night of a full moon.
Lo and behold, when you swing your door open, it's Michael. He's nude, just as Mr. Greene promised, curled in the fetal position on your doormat. Wary, you glance up at the sky covered in thick clouds. A quick google search tells you that the moon set about half an hour ago, so you reason it's safe enough. The only thought that runs through your head as you drag his unconscious body inside is that you should have left the door unlocked.
You get him situated on the couch. It's not exactly easy, but Michael wakes up enough to lift himself off the ground and onto the cushion. He's quiet, half-present as you get him dressed in something other than his birthday suit. He was always like this after he transformed, groggy and barely able to string together a full thought. You'll question him about this all tomorrow, when he can tell which way is up.
Before you go to bed, you drape a blanket over Michael sleeping body. He doesn't stir.
*****
"Is that a–?"
"A steak. Yes. Eat it."
You toss the plate unceremoniously on Michael's lap. The slab of meat you found in the back of your freezer (something you had tucked away from before) bounces brilliantly as the plate hits his lap. You fear for a moment that it'll bounce right off and onto the ground. Your worry is only soothed by the thought that Robby would still probably eat the floor-meat. The dirty mutt.
"Thanks."
That's all Michael says before diving in. He devours the meat like it's the only food he's gotten in weeks. Apparently, transformations are taxing. It's once a month, more if you can muster the energy, and it nearly wipes out the individual. He told you as much when he first disclosed his condition to you.
Of course, he shared this with you once you finally stopped screaming in his face. You were with Michael for only two weeks at that point, knowing him longer thanks to work. He showed up to your house in the middle of the night. Unlike last night, you were awake to witness it all. He wasn't naked then, no, not yet. You found him as a beast, prowling the small length of your yard back and forth.
It terrified you. You locked every door and window and double, then triple checked it.
Then, when the moon disappeared and plunged the evening into the closest thing you can get to darkness in the city, that's when you found him.
It was the same ritual, the first occurrence. You took Michael in, clothed him, and fed him. There was so much fear then. Though, that's because you simply didn't know what was happening. It changed after that morning, when Michael for the first time spoke of his lycanthropy.
You're always amazed by how willing he was to trust you then. It wasn't like he had a choice. Apparently, transformed-Michael seeks you out. He has an urge to protect, something about territory and animal instincts. Still, he sat you down an explained everything to you. Everything. Even the scary shit, the stuff you should have turned and ran when he shared it.
You think about that trust a lot now, when the air in your house is too stale, too heavy for just you. They're your low moments, times where you regret ever having turned your back to him. It's not productive. After all, you left Michael because of nights like these. You would stay up, terrified of what would happen to him out there, whether or not someone would find him, hit him with his car, or, God forbid, call animal control.
When your worry became too much, when you began to spend even the nights when Michael was by your side in bed anchored to consciousness by your fears, that's when you knew something needed to change. To end.
"This is good," Michael says around the last mouthful of steak. He sets the plate down on the coffee table. "You made th's?"
"Yes," you purse your lips.
"Nice," Michael nods. "Nice."
Michael looks better than he did when he woke up and miles better than he looked last night. The steak has given a healthy flush to his cheeks. He'll need increased nourishment throughout the day, even the upcoming week, but that's not your problem because once Michael can stand on his own two feet, you will be kicking him out of your home.
"So, uh, is this gonna happen every month?" You ask.
Michael shrugs, his face utterly solemn as he confesses, "I don't know."
"The, uh, the big guy likes me, huh?" You try to joke. Not even you find it funny. Just the thought that there's some primal part of Michael that is drawn to you is enough to fill you with dread. This was supposed to be a clean break. Michael wasn't supposed to show up at your house three weeks after you dumped him.
"I guess," he chews the inside of his cheek. Shaking his head, Michael adds, "I suppose he is me."
"What does that mean?" You perch on the arm of the couch, swinging your legs so your feet rest on the cushion.
"The big guy isn't as… removed from me as you make it sound."
"So you came here?" It comes out as an accusation. You cringe.
Michael pauses, his brows furrowed as he thinks.
"No. No, I don't think I did. Not consciously, at least." Michael shakes his head, "It's hard to explain."
"I have nowhere else to be, considering that you're in my house."
Michael shuts his eyes, shaking his head slightly. You think for a moment that he won't answer you, that he's come to the same realization that you did a long time ago– that he's your ex and that you two shouldn't even be talking let alone playing some fucked up version of werewolf house. Just when you're ready to just bite the bullet and tell Michael to go, he speaks.
"I'm not human."
"Yes you–"
"No," Michael cuts you off firmly. "I'm not. I'm like a human. I look like a human most of the time. Speak like one, too. But I'm not. When I'm… When I'm like that, I don't think like you do. There's no rationalization or morals. No relationship or breakup. Just you. I didn't think that– that I should find you or go looking for you. It was instinct."
A great silence falls over the house.
He's asking you to understand the absence of all you've ever known. Your brain, your consciousness, is entirely you. Just attempting to picture an existence without the complexities that make up your inner being is enough to make your head hurt.
"Oh," is all you manage.
"I'm sorry," he says.
You frown, "For what?"
Something warm wraps around your calf. You look down. It's Michael's hand. His thumb traces gently back and forth over the bare skin of your shin.
"For not being what you need me to be."
You suck a breath through your teeth, "Michael–"
"It's true," he mutters. "I'm not human. Not stable. Not someone you could love."
"No," you say emphatically. "I can love you. I do. That's… That's why I had to leave."
Michael hums. His gaze slides from you as his hand slides down your leg. He wraps his fingers around your ankle.
"I love you, too," Michael says, gaze still somewhere far away.
"I know."
Then, Michael shifts his body, turning to face you fully. His head tilts up at you. You're too busy looking into his eyes to really register how the hand that was on your ankle is now creeping around to rest on the nape of your neck. Michael pulls slightly at the same moment that he leans in.
"You didn't need to let me in," Michael says. "Thank you."
"I didn't," you barely muster the words. "But I wanted to."
Michael hums. He's no more than a hair from you now. You hold your breath as you attempt to convince yourself that you don't want his lips on yours. Luckily, that decision doesn't sit only on your shoulders.
"I'm going to kiss you now," Michael whispers.
"Okay."
Michael wastes no time. Neither do you. The hand at the back of your neck barely twitches before you're catapulting his way.
His mouth is just like you remembered, soft lips nearly hidden by the angry scratch of his beard. Your lips part for him, savoring the taste of him as Michael invades your senses. He's overwhelming, always have been. You don't think you would have sought him out if he wasn't. Though, while Michael may be a force of nature, you're the only one who can tame him.
Could.
You could tame him. Before you– shit.
With every bit of courage you have left in your body, you push Michael away. "We shouldn't," you mutter. "Shit, we really shouldn't. Michael, we… we broke up."
Michael shakes his head, "No, you broke up with me."
"Which means we broke up."
"Agree to disagree."
"I don't need your permission to break up with you," you scoff.
"No, you don't." Michael leans back in, lips brushing yours, "But you need to actually want to break up with me."
"I–"
Michael presses his mouth to yours, groaning. Against your lips, he growls, "Baby, if you fucking say you don't want this after telling me you still love me, I'm gonna lose my shit."
He grabs you by the waist, tugging you down from your perch on the armrest. You tumble downwards and the world tilts. All the while, Michael hasn't parted from you for a second. He's desperate in the way he pulls you against him, his breath stuttering at the way your clothed cunt sits on top of the growing bulge in his sweats.
You part for only the briefest moment for him to tug your shirts off. It takes no longer than a second for your nipples to pebble in the cool air.
"Baby, come on," he whines in your ear. His bare chest is already plastered to yours. "Please let me fuck you. Please."
You laugh. Michael tenses, pulling away slightly so he can look you in the face.
"Did I do something?" He asks, brown eyes wide as he scans your face. "Say something?"
"No, no, it's just…" You bite your lip, "You're like a dog begging for a treat."
His face falls, unamused. "That's not fair."
"Is it?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Michael cocks his head, helping you up with two hands around your waist. He lowers you gently back on the couch next to him and yanks your thin sleep shorts off.
"Sit back," he orders. Michael stands, pulling his pants just low enough to free his cock. It drools thick beads of precum. Your tongue swipes out instinctively as you stare in something akin to wonder. "Hold your knees to your chest."
You obey, scrambling to sit yourself up and fix yourself just how he likes. As you hold your thighs, you let one hand slip high enough on your leg to rub your clit, swollen, aching, and still covered by the thin layer of your panties. You moan softly, drawing Michael's attention down between your legs. He snorts.
"You're bad."
You smirk, "What are you gonna do about it?"
Michael shrugs. His cock hangs between his legs, barely supported by the bunch of fabric underneath his heavy balls. "I don't know," he makes a show of thinking as he approaches you, "Maybe I'll have to fuck that attitude out of you."
Michael grabs his cock, stroking himself. His cock is a sight to behold with its generous girth and length. You always wonder if it would have been sized so impressively had he been born like everyone else. Thank goodness, you don't have to worry about that…
"Pull those aside," Michael instructs. His tip hovers over your clothed cunt. "Quickly, baby, unless you don't want me to fuck you."
You hook a finger around the gusset of your panties and pull. Michael drops his cock, lets the wet tip of him hit your clit before it slides down, agonizing slowly, to your dripping pussy. He wastes no time pushing in, but stops just as soon. He barely breaches your walls, forcing you to clench around nearly nothing.
You want to whine. You want absolutely nothing more than for him to pound into you, make up for lost time. Three weeks is too long. You need his cock, need him to fuck you, and fill you with his–
Oh. That won't do.
"Wait! Wait, Michael, don't!"
With his tip no more than an inch in your cunt, Michael freezes. His chest puffs up, shoulders spreading out and back as sharp eyes sweep the room before landing on you. It's strange– predatory. A glimpse of the beast you just barley missed last night.
"What's wrong?" He asks, voice nearly a snarl.
"Nothing, nothing!" You quickly answer. "I just… we don't have a condom."
"That's okay." Michael clears his throat, "W–With me, I mean. I'm clean."
"Great, so am I," you scoff. "We still need a condom."
Michael shakes his head, "We'll be fine."
"You might be fine," you retort. "I'll be pregnant."
"No, you won't."
"Michael, you are a doctor. There's no way in–"
"You're not fertile right now."
Your mouth snaps shut. You blink. You blink again.
"What?"
Michael sighs. His tip is still barely nestled past your entrance, just sitting there and no-doubt oozing precum in you.
"I said," Michael slowly pushes in until you're entirely speared onto his cock. You're too busy thinking about his revelation to fuss about a condom anymore. "You're not fertile. I can tell. I– It's a werewolf thing."
"Nuh-uh," your voice wavers as he starts to fuck you. "'It's a werewolf thing,' is code for, 'I'm too embarrassed to tell you the truth'. Spill, Robinav– oh fuck!" Michael's calloused thumb on your clit nearly wipes you out. You recollect yourself, not ready to let him win this battle, "Spill."
Michael's other hand sits next to your head, bracing himself as he fucks into you. "I can smell you," he mutters.
"You can… smell it?" You try to laugh, but it comes out airy and undetermined, "Smell my fertility?"
"Something like that," Michael grumbles. He lifts one leg onto the couch, getting better leverage as he fucks into you faster, "Now can I go back to fucking you or would you rather we stick to the lecturing?"
The wise-ass retort on your tongue dies quickly when Michael's head dips down to your chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth. As he fucks you, Michael's tongue swirls around the hard nub. Then, his teeth graze the sensitive flesh and you moan. The pain cuts through the pleasure, amplifying it as you arch your back.
You hum, nodding desperately, "Yeah, yeah, baby. That's–" The playful graze of teeth quickly turns into something harsher as Michael bites your nipple. "Ow!"
Instinctively, you grab Michael by the hair and pull him. He gasps, letting go of your nipple while his hips keep snapping into yours.
"Bad dog," you click your tongue. "Bite me like that again and I'll muzzle you, got it?"
Michael nods frantically, and you let go of his hair. His head drops down to the crook of your neck where he whimpers, "I'm sorry, baby. So sorry."
After his apology, seemingly just to spite you, Michael drags his teeth along the skin of your bare shoulder. It stings, and you can feel the distinct cut of his canines. They're dangerous enough when he keeps them to himself, long, distended, and impossibly sharp in order to cut through meat, even when he's not in his beastly form. Now, against the delicate plane of your flesh, they're nothing less than a knife. He glides them along the side of your neck and up to your ear, nibbling softly at your lobe.
"I'll be a good boy," Michael whispers. "I promise."
You hum, "Then make me come. Maybe I'll let you clean me up afterwards as a treat."
That gets his hips to stutter.
"Fuck yes, baby," Michael gasps.
His thrusts pick up pace. The stabilizing leg on the couch works overtime as Michael pounds into you with a newfound passion. You try to meet his thrusts as best you can, but it's difficult, especially as your orgasm approaches.
Above you, sweat drips down Michael's chest, through the thick layer of hair on his stomach, where it disappears somewhere in his happy trail. Your mouth parts, tongue sliding out as you imagine the salty taste of his perspiration on your tongue.
"Shit, baby," Michael grunts, "I missed this. Missed you."
"Mhm," your voice is high. "Missed you, too."
"Yeah, you did. So fuckin' tight it's like you're scared I'm gonna run off." You clench around Michael. He groans, head falling back, "Fuck, baby. Don't do that 'less you want me to come."
You moan, and the thumb on your clit starts rubbing faster. "Come," you say. "Come, baby, I'm right with you."
"Yeah, yeah, okay," Michael's hips stutter. He barely gets another three thrusts in before he sinks all the way, filling you entirely with him.
With his orgasm, Michael's fingers fail on your clit. You're nearly left there, hanging over the edge of your orgasm. Desperation clouds your brain, and before you know it, you're grinding against him. Michael has given up on fucking you proper, no doubt overwhelmed by pleasure. So, you take over, grinding against the hairs on the base of his cock. The needed friction sends you tumbling over the edge, joining Michael as he floods you with his seed.
When Michael collapses on top of you, you're still coming. He kisses your neck, lets you ride the waves of your pleasure until there's nothing left. He waits there, slumped half on you, half on the ground. Just when it seems like the stillness is going to drive you crazy, he moves, pulling out of you with a soft curse.
He rearranges you to lay on the length of the couch, then crawls on top of you. His body is heavy, tired, but nothing you haven't had on top of you before. You massage the back of his neck while you two lay there. Decidedly, it's nice, really nice.
Michael breaks the silence, "We can never break up." He shifts, resting his chin on your chest so you can see eye-to-eye. "You know that, right?"
Your brows furrow, "Why?"
"We know too much about each other. You know that I'm a– you know." Robby laughs quietly to himself, "And I know that you have a thing for strays."
"Ha!" You throw your head back, "Those are not the same. Not even close."
"No, maybe not." Michael kisses your cheek and hums, "Then why else are you keeping me around, baby? Why haven't you kicked me out yet? And don't say you weren't, because I know you were thinking about it before you even let me in."
You chuckle, "You got me. I do have a reason…"
"Yeah? What's that?"
"Well, it's just that I do have a pussy full of cum, and…" You bring your thumb to Michael's mouth. His lips part for you. Perhaps less-nicely than you intended, you grab the tip of Michael's tongue between your first finger and thumb. Slowly, you drag the soft pink flesh out of his mouth, pulling it taught. "Nobody else has a tongue as good as yours to lick it up."
Michael attempts to speak. It comes out as warbled nonsense. You laugh.
hold my hand when i say chubby alpha!robby (f!reader)
For alphas, size is a big part of identity. It's a leftover biological urge to be large, be able to protect an omega from possible threats, specifically other alphas. It's their biological imperative to put on as much muscle mass as they can.
Omegas also tend to have an underlying bias towards larger, muscular alphas.
Enter Robby, an alpha who was never very good at putting on muscle in his younger days, which lands him here: a middle aged, chubby man. Sure, he's tall and has a decent amount of muscle, but most of it is buried under fat. When people look at him, they don't think he's buff, they think he's chunky.
As if that's not bad enough, Robby has his sights set on an omega. The same omega that Jack is pining after.
Day after day, Robby has to watch as Jack hits on you, pulls out all the stops. Robby doesn't stand a chance. He doesn't even try because, the thing is, you seem to like Jack. You laugh at his jokes, accept the coffee and pastries he brings you every morning before he goes home. If there was any alpha in this department that you'd go after, it's Jack.
Or so Robby thought.
His shift has barely started when Robby finds Jack shuffling awkwardly away from you with his proverbial tail tucked between his legs. Robby doesn't even need to ask what happened before Jack spills.
"I asked her out," Jack says like it's the only explanation needed.
Robby blinks. If Jack asked you out, then why does he look so upset?
Unless...
"She said no?"
Jack nods, "Didn't even think about it."
Apparently, Robby is a glutton for punishment, because he pats Jack on the shoulder and says, "Don't worry, brother. I'll go talk to her."
"Good luck," Jack grumbles, already retreating to the lockers.
Robby doesn't need to do much looking. Your scent alone, strong even despite the scent patches you wear, is easy enough to follow. Robby finds you charting, typing away and looking too nonchalant for someone who just turned down a perfectly fine alpha.
"Hey there," Robby says, pretending to read over your chart. "How's it going?"
"If he sent you here to change my mind, it won't work."
Robby bites back a smile. You're a strong-headed omega, always have been. "I offered to."
"What a mensch."
He chuckles, “Dr. Abbot’s a good guy. You should give him a chance."
"I know." You shrug, not even pausing as you type up the chart, "But I'm not interested."
“Really?”
“Yeah. He’s too… uh,” you clear your throat, shaking your head. “Not my type.”
Robby snorts, “What, too muscular for you?” His words are sharp and mean, an unfair projection of his insecurities onto you.
“Actually,” you chuckle nervously. “Yeah.”
Robby doesn't remember much of the rest of the day, his mind is too busy turning your conversation over in his head.
What omega doesn't like a muscular alpha? Maybe you prefer someone skinnier, someone like Mohan. Or maybe Garcia, still muscular, but much leaner than Jack. That must be it, Robby decides. Surely you just prefer a leaner alpha.
Robby accepts that as the truth. Just like before, he resigns himself to keeping his distance, telling himself there's no world in which you'd go for him.
How wrong he is.
You're frustrated, to say the least. You've been working at PTMC for the last three years, and each and every day you've been here, it's been a struggle not to throw yourself at your attending and beg him to claim you.
You drop every hint. You push your scent when you see him outside of work. You always pour him a coffee when you're in the staff lounge (with two cubes of sugar, even though he's a stubborn alpha who lies to everyone and says he prefers it black). Hell, you told him that you don't prefer musclar, cut alphas and still this man doesn't understand that you want him.
For fuck's sake, you've stolen a sweatshirt from him for your nest. That was last fall, and while the scent faded quickly (thanks to the fact that you spend every single heat with your face buried in it, imagining that it's him), the idea of returning it has on multiple occasions made you cry.
Finally, you decide to confront him. It's two days before your heat and you're sick and tired of dropping every goddamn hint that Robby is your walking wet dream. If he's not going to court you, then you just have to take matters into your own hands.
You corner him by the lockers. You've already taken your scent patches off for the day. Typically, you wait to do it until you're finally home, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
"Robinavitch," you bite. You're caging him against the lockers, "Put in for PTO starting Tuesday."
Robby gulps. His pupils are blown, the brown of his eyes almost entirely disappeared thanks to the scent of pre-heat flooding his senses. He stutters, "W-Why?"
"My heat."
"I don't see why I need to–"
"You're spending it with me," you say like it's law. Frankly, it might as well be. You know that with this option on the table, Robby would be remiss to pass it up. "Unless you have a problem with that," you add, just to see him panic.
"No! No! I–" Robby blinks. What'd you give to know what he's thinking right now... "I haven't courted you."
You scoff, "Yeah, believe me, I know. This is your chance to make it up."
"Are you sure?"
"One hundred percent. I'm sick and fucking tired of waiting for you to wake up and make a move."
"But I'm..." Robby clears his throat. Quietly, he finishes his thought, "I'm fat."
"Good," you say quickly, because the thought of making him feel bad for his body makes you ill. In no word will you allow him to be insecure about one of the hottest parts of him. "I look forward to seeing your fat self in my nest."
Robby's jaw drops. You smile.
"I'll text you my address." Ignoring the obvious tent in his pants, you wink, "See you soon."
My controversial opinion is that some of you don’t have enough lived experience and maturity to be watching a show like The Pitt.
You don’t know what it’s like to have systems working against you systematically, to be caught in situations where black and white don’t exist, where there is no saving someone, where you can be the victim but still be perpetrating your own misery, to know that no matter what you do, you’re still incapable of fixing something perfectly.
You want clear lines drawn in the sand of this is the bad guy and this is what mental health should look like and this is what should be done in XYZ situation when the reality of it is so much more difficult and shaky and impossible. You want characters that are Good and ones that are Bad and the Bad ones don’t get to redeem themselves or fix themselves or have rocky reconciliation.
You shouldn’t be able to form hard opinions because this show constantly tells us that the real world is so much messier than that. People are messier than that. You think you understand characters perfectly but you show that nuanced and complex characters with flaws AND strengths are beyond your level of comprehension.
If you want a happier TV show where people aren’t hurt, aren’t hurting themselves, hurting the people around them, where people are the villain from the beginning to the end with no chance at redemption, go watch a cartoon or something.
Not understanding that Robby felt a wave of panic because during Covid he watched co-workers he cared for get sick and die is appalling.
Not understanding that he was 1000% heightened by panic when he burst into that room is appalling.
Not understanding that what he ends up seeing is literally HIMSELF is appalling.
He has taken each of them under his wing and has shown care and catered to their education in individualistic ways. Robby has given each of them what they needed as unique individuals. THAT'S why he's so 'pressionable'.
The issue is that Samira Mohan is, quite literally, a young Michael Robinavitch. (And if he hated women, he wouldn't see himself IN A WOMAN.) We are seeing this more and more with his warnings to her. And why is he warning her? Why is he lashing out and trying to stop her from completely turning into him?
Because he hates himself and what he's become. And that's a guy with C-PTSD and severe depression and anxiety. He doesn't WANT that for her; he wants BETTER for her.
To add to the nuance, he's effectively in the 11th hour of a severe mental health crisis, and was not only lashing out at her (and a case can be made about him burning bridges all over the place because hey, if they hate me, it won't hurt so bad when I do it), but yelling at HIMSELF for letting it get this bad to begin with. He's telling her to control herself because he couldn't. Compartmentalize. Set boundaries. He couldn't do that and now look at him. LOOK.
Mental illness isn't fucking cute. We squee and aww over sad bois and girls and draw adorable fan art but the real truth is that's it's fucking messy and often leaves a lot of disaster in its wake. This show has been applauded for its realism; why the fuck would they stop now?
If you can't handle a person's mental illness because it's no longer cute or appealing to you, that's perfectly fucking fine. You're valid in that because this shit is hard. But walk the fuck away. Making posts that he should die and attacking the character IS that fucking deep because there are real people out there that are seeing this and feeling represented, maybe for the first time fucking ever, and the response they're seeing in this is that everyone will hate them if they aren't fucking ✨perfectly✨ mentally ill and that they should die.
And to those of you who are like me and have these fucking co-morbidities: You are valid. You are seen. Just like Robby, you are still worthy of love and respect, and I hope you stay. 🩷
Robby ran in there, worried for his doctor. A heart attack is serious and he cares for his people. He looked frantically at the paperwork, snatched it from her, saw no abnormalities and raced to check her out with a stethoscope himself not trusting anything but his own senses. Then he recognized the signs. A panic attack. And he immediately saw himself in her. He saw how he broke ten months prior and never really pulled himself together. And instead of reacting out of compassion he reacted the same way he reacted to himself. Out of hatred. He treated Samira Mohan, at a very vulnerable moment, the same way he treats himself every day because in that moment she was too similar to himself. And he hates himself enough to contemplate leaving and never returning
i'm probably gonna say very little about fandom discourse around this ep because spring break starts next week and i'm running out of sanity but actually. i love everyone on the pitt being flawed and fucked up and nasty sometimes. i love robby being a hypocrite and repulsed by samira's anxiety because he's repulsed by his own. i love that, alternatively, samira is repulsed by her mother's loneliness because she's repulsed by her own, too. i love santos blaming langdon for her ostracization at the ED and her unwillingness to see that, separate of the langdon issue (however separate you can make it), if you go around being an asshole to your peers all the time, some people are just not going to fucking like you. i love that its garcia specifically who checks santos for the lack of decorum she's displaying in front of their patients in this ep because garcia herself could arguably stand to have a bit more decorum when talking about patients and she's also treating santos like a dogggg right now. i love that mel is overstepping boundaries with becca and coddling her in a way that doesnt allow becca the space she deserves to be an autonomous adult with autism who should be respected on her own terms because mel's also struggling with what it means to be an autonomous adult with autism who should be respected on her own terms. i think there's a difference between a show depicting characters behaving badly and cosigning their bad behavior. i think a good character and a good person are separate categories. i love that this is a show that isn't so obsessed with likability that it keeps its characters from behaving badly.
frankly, i hope these characters keep fucking up, and i hope they keep getting checked by their fellow fuck ups, because that's life, brother. there is no divine priestly class of sinless people who exist to tell the "bad" people off for their missteps. and i hope that, as the show progresses, we see robby, santos, mohan, langdon etc make more mistakes and better mistakes. and i love that this show, for all its flaws, is (imo) still holding true to its premise that people are not wholly defined by their best moments or their worst. no matter how uncomfortable it is to sit with that nuance or how tense that makes an episode of television lol.
Michael always starts with his hands. Palms firm on your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your lower back as he guides you into position. He’s a doctor—he knows anatomy too well. Knows exactly where to touch, how to angle you so your spine curves just right, ass up, thighs open, back arched until you feel exposed and aching.
He’s quiet at first, breathing deep like he’s trying to stay calm. But you feel the tension in his grip. His restraint. The way he slides in slow, then just stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving behind you.
“God,” he murmurs, low and shaking. “You feel unreal like this…”
Then he moves—hips snapping forward, deliberate, controlled. He fucks like he thinks he’ll break you if he goes too hard, too fast—but it only lasts a few strokes before he loses composure.
Before his hands tighten. Before the sound of skin on skin starts echoing through the room and he’s groaning your name into the nape of your neck like he’s never needed anything more.
He leans over you, panting, mouth hot against your ear. “You’re so fucking good like this. Taking me so well.” One hand slips down to your clit, two fingers circling expertly, coaxing you to fall apart while he grinds in deep.
You swear he’s trying to make you feel everything all at once—pleasure, pressure, fullness so intense it makes your legs shake.
And when you do come, hard and gasping beneath him, Michael growls—deep, desperate—and follows right after, pulsing inside you with his forehead pressed between your shoulders, whispering your name like a prayer.
somebody sedate me @cryingindaclub - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
