— disco | he | 18+ | gay/ace | audhd
— writer; student script sup + coordinator
— ship and let ship; no drama
ao3 + latest
currently...
obsessed with:
the pitt - rabbot
animal kingdom - pope cody
in love with:
shawn hatosy, noah wyle
fandoms + favs...
baldur's gate 3 - halstarion
critical role - vaxilmore
detroit: become human - hankcon
heated rivalry - hollanov
the pitt - rabbot
red dead redemption 2 - vandermorgan
stranger things - harringrove
Jack finds a photo album of Robby as a teenager. In most, he's all punk/grunge with cigarette burns on his fingers and dyed hair.
But he's always smiling. His eyes crinkling, nose scrunched, rabbit teeth pulling his lip.
He's wearing eyeliner, black feather earrings, and a The Cure t shirt, helping carry a couch into a tired looking house. The photo lopsided and blurry with the caption "Mikhail, dearest grandson."
Or
"My growing boys " next to a photo of a mohawk, plaid covered Robby, holding a scruffy looking dog.
Jack flips through pages and pages of a young man that looks like the world is weighing on his shoulders, but for the person behind the camera, he'll always have a smile.
It makes him fall even more in love.
When he asks Robby, he blushes, mumbling about getting his Bubbe a new camera one year with his meager summer savings. She loved taking photos, and he could never tell her no, or to stop.
Robby then pulls out another album, all of his grandmother.
Her laughing, her dancing, her holding up a plate of food or an unpotted plant.
He tells Jack about taking as many as he can once she got sick because he realized why she loved taking photos.
"Memories are all we have of each other in the end." He whispers, thumbing a picture of a gap toothed kid holding the hand of a soft smiled woman.
Jack selects a few to hang on the wall, despite Robby hemming and hawing about how embarrassing it is.
(Robby's favorite photo is of an eighteen year old Jack wearing a bright orange crop top, holding a football, and laughing with his brothers. Red hair wild and curly, looking for all the world like he'll be this happy and free forever.)
Anyway shoutout to John Williams, amazing composer and probably the one who made the other 50% of "holy shit amazing" soundtracks (Jurassic Park, Star Wars, Superman, and incidentally the original Harry Potter theme and score) who famously worked closely with the first openly transgender woman to be nominated for an Academy Award, Angela Morley. He respected her, and so far as I can see, has never made transphobic remarks.
med school rabbot + established relationship
1.3k | ao3 | part 1 | second installment of acespec baby rabbot!! please enjoy <3
Robby reveres him.
| mine l8r?
More than Jack knows.
| yes :)
More than he, himself, understands; it’s a miraculous thing to be loved.
“Later” means around six or seven, after class, after work, when restaurants fill and streets teem with rush hour traffic that means it’s never certain when Robby will hear a knock on his door, but it’s always much sooner than he guessed. Tonight, however, is different. The hours drag. He worries his lip, smokes too much, paces the imaginary worn line in the rug from all of the other pacing he does to quell the frayed, overlapping sources of noise in his head.
When the knock does come they fall silent.
When he sees Jack he remembers that they’ve shared in this comfort for many months; it’s easy to be kissed in the open doorway, greeted by way of a playful squeeze to his side as the words—hi, baby, sweet like summer—get lost in his mouth. Jack brought him coffee. There’s a heart drawn on the lid. “You don’t have to be all cute about it, you know, I’m already won.”
“What’s a few extra points?”
Well-built arms wrap dutifully around his midsection as Jack lumbers them both inside, Robby to the desk where he’s guided to sit on the surface. Jack stands between his knees, leans in as Robby’s hands slide into his back pockets, and Robby asks, “Were you at the gym?”
“Yeah. Why, do I look as sore as I feel?”
“Your hair’s still damp.” His fingers slip through Jack’s curls to make a point, pull away cool and carrying the scent of eucalyptus shampoo.
“Figured I’d go a little earlier so I could get back here and see you,” Jack says, eager and knowing how to turn Robby a new shade of red every time. “What have you been up to all day?”
“Uh. I tagged along with Manny and Jack on their bike trail, so that was fun. It loops kind of around the reservoir. Did lots of thinking.”
Curious eyebrows. “Oh, yeah? What about?”
Robby’s heart somersaults and fails the landing.
“You?”
“Goober. What about me?”
“Well. Um. Actually what we’d talked about… before. About the—the trying things… thing.”
“Oh,” Jack says, and he sounds pleasantly surprised, a lilt in his tone to match straightened posture. When he responds it’s slow and careful. “What did you have in mind?”
Robby’s lips purse then press into a thin line, his lungs inflate, and flashes of Jack’s body invade his memory, nothing he’s not seen before, up close, but not in bed the way he’s dreamt; deliberately, excruciatingly bare. His hands speak before his voice has the chance to give out, quickly from waist to Jack’s face, neck, tracing the collarbones with both thumbs and flicking the opened top button. Jack moves to take off his shirt, but Robby stops him. “Let me,” he says and thinks Jack’s smile could nourish the trees.
“What’d you work out today? Legs, chest…?”
“Chest, yeah,” Jack says, breathy. “Arms.”
Robby slides his hands to feel Jack’s shoulders and biceps; they’re hard with enough give to sink in his nimble fingertips under short sleeves, skin hot, soft. The same is true for his pectorals, sculpted over years of physical discipline that Robby just doesn’t have, and so he runs his nails down, back up, drinks in the way Jack shivers. “Oh, you liked that,” he teases. Jack groans, drops his head over Robby’s shoulder and bites it tenderly, to which Robby giggles like a smitten schoolboy—which, he supposes, he is. “Go sit on the bed.”
It’s a gentle effort to push Jack that way until he’s sitting, looking up, their hands interlaced for another second until Robby dips down to his knees, still watching, searching blindly for the end of a shoelace to pull and let the shoe come with it, then the other, then both clammy socks. Jack leans on his hands. “You’ll tell me to stop if—”
“Don’t stop, Mike,” Jack tells him with the fondest gleam, a sweet little smile. The words flow through Robby’s brain like a song and sooth his heart. As he finds the hem of Jack’s shirt, when their skin connects there, knuckles to the Adonis belt, he dares to look down again, watch the fabric lift, Jack’s abdomen tense, and now the shirt is thrown over a pillow, a clear path for jeans and briefs to follow; Robby tries to take his time. Jack lets him. Buckle; belt; button; zipper; jeans, with which Jack helps; and Robby’s hands are searing on his thighs.
“Jesus,” Robby says, stomach fell like he’s watching Michelangelo’s David come to life right before him. He clears his throat. He stands up, brings Jack’s hands to his waist, and, “Do me,” breathless himself, liquefied as his shirt buttons are ignored and the whole thing is pulled off in one movement that feels like Jack has already touched him everywhere, hands up his torso and gone just as quickly. He’s in a pair of sweatpants that drop to the floor, enshrouding his bare feet.
Robby bends for a kiss. It’s different somehow. He rakes through Jack’s hair, massages the scalp, drags his hands down those freckled cheeks he loves so much and sees up close how they dapple all the way in an even coat down Jack’s shoulders and arms. He kisses there too, everywhere his mouth will lead, softly, slowly, cheek pressed to listen to every frantic heartbeat so he knows Jack is in the same reverie. Lower, his lips meet Jack’s belly, and when he looks up again Jack blushes, doesn’t stop him from sliding down his briefs and letting them fall too. Robby does off his own, standing yet again, his knees warm and pink from the floor.
“You can look,” he says, “it’s okay,” and the hesitance dispels. Jack’s eyes follow the long line of his body, also not unfamiliar, grateful maybe. They linger at the height of his thighs for a time. Maybe he’s curious. Robby’s breath hitches when his kiss is matched, and Jack’s hands are on his hips, nose first to his happy trail, then lips for a long, arduous moment that sends a shiver up his spine.
“Okay?” Jack asks, still pressed firmly to his torso.
Robby chuckles. “God, I love you.”
“Mmm… and I”—kiss—“love”—kiss—“my Robby.”
He’s pulled onto the bed, mouth sought after once more, seized and freely given. His heart sticks the landing this time—and it’s nice. Jack kisses him like it’s the first and the last, deep and slow, holds Robby against his chest, twists their legs, and Robby thinks he’ll burst at the seams. Soon the fervor slows. They lay still, Robby’s head on Jack’s shoulder as a lazy finger circles the smooth expanse of his chest where once in a while he’ll press another kiss just to remind himself of the taste.
Eventually he moves to put Joni on, coffee in the mini fridge, then slots himself right back where he was with his groin against Jack’s thigh. This is the part he falters with—can’t talk about or doesn’t know how, has said as much to Jack but finds it still makes him squirm with unease. They’re both looking. It’s the natural focus of their eye line, the point at which all angles meet, Jack to the open air and Robby half obscured but equally present. Nothing in him stirs at the sight. Not really. His heart swells the way he thinks his nethers are supposed to if only because it is Jack who holds him until their sides stick with sweat and far longer.
“Hey, Mike?”
“Yeah?”
Jack’s chest lifts his head with a long, steady breath.
“Thank you,” Jack says. “For trusting me.”
Robby grins, pulls himself up to press a kiss under Jack’s ear and wistfully tells him, “You make it easy.”
When they get cold, they slink under the covers, asleep before the CD ends, carried by the night through endless, effortless pleasures of soul, twin flames alight and steady.
