About me!!: mel / 20’smth / isfj / chronic fanfic reader /I’m into fandoms & shows that ppl don’t think I’m into or know about 🙃/she-they/ 💖💜💙/I draw, read, and game a lot in my free time!✨
Have you ever had a fictional crush on a character, and it's always been there, but suddenly you're obsessing with them more? Like, somehow, you're even more feral towards them and they consume your mind even more. I believe the new term for it is hyperfixation^2
The best thing about being a Wattpad reader back in the day was reading the comments people left on certain paragraphs within the story. That shit had me on the floor laughing in tears.
Idk what this thing he does when he smiles is called, the little thing where he pouts and then presses his lips together, but it makes me wanna kiss him silly please I love him so much
I can just imagine him doing this when he tells you a little joke that he's not sure of, but then you laugh and his eyes light up and he does his little smile again while looking proud of himself because he made his favourite person smile.
Also he makes this face right after he makes you come so hard you black out for a bit and he's just so earnest about it
pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader
summary: Lazy Sunday mornings. You in his shirt. Him wearing—glasses? What could be better?
genre/notes: domestic, tooth-rotting fluff, banter, implied-but-not-explicit smut, steamy and fluffy like the perfect scrambled eggs (or tofu), beard scruff, you being down so bad for your man in glasses, age-gap relationship
word count: 1.8k
a/n: happy sunday! I worship those damn 1x01 gifs that live in my head rent free
It was a sleepy Sunday morning. You’d stayed over the night before—his place, not yours—because he made a surprisingly excellent omelet and your apartment was a barren wasteland save for one expired can of soup and half a granola bar. You were planning on moving out soon anyway—leases expiring, schedules syncing, toothbrushes and charger cords already blurring the lines—and in with Robby.
One cold morning not long ago, you’d rushed into the hospital just a few minutes late, hair still dripping and teeth chattering from the walk over. Robby had looked up the second he saw you, eyes narrowing in concern, about to ask what was wrong.
You’d beat him to it. "My apartment’s basically falling apart," you said, breathless as you rubbed your arms. "No hot water, the heater’s busted, and I'm pretty sure there's black mold. I’ll call the landlord later. It’s fine."
He didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at you for a second longer, then quietly shuffled through the papers on the counter.
"You should move in with me," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You blinked. "What?"
So he repeated himself, just as casually. "Move into my place."
He said it like it was nothing—like he was asking you to grab coffee, or teach the interns how to perform proper chest compressions. Calm. Nonchalant. Then, as if to prove his point, he started listing the benefits: less commuting, better water pressure, warmer blankets, shared groceries, an actual place to hang your coat that wasn’t a pile on your chair, cuddle cards redeemable for forehead kisses and back rubs, and—most importantly—no more freezing walks alone or in the dark. He even threw in something about matching mugs and leaving notes on the fridge like it was a feature, not a fantasy.
You opened your mouth, prepared to deploy every avoidant tactic in the book—because even after dating for a couple of years now, there was still a part of you that worried about taking up too much space, too much of him. But before you could spiral into worrying about boundaries, permanence, or him getting sick of you, he looked up again and softened.
"Hey," he said gently. "If you’d rather find a new place, I’ll help you. Really. I just want you safe, healthy, and not at risk for mold poisoning or hypothermia."
Then, with the same ease as his offer, he pressed a warm kiss to your cheek. "See you in five," he murmured, as if he hadn’t just tilted your entire world off its axis, and walked away.
You stood there, frozen—and slowly, a small smile formed at the corners of your lips.
And that was it. No grand declarations. Just a calm, matter-of-fact offer that left no room for protest. So you said yes.
Robby had frozen for a second like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. And then—he lit up. That slow, rare smile spreading across his face like sunrise. He pulled you into a tight hug, spinning you once in the middle of the hallway, laughing against your temple. He kissed you—your cheek, your forehead, your lips—soft and quick and too many times to count, like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like he didn’t want to waste a second not holding you.
"You're going to regret it," you teased.
"Never," he said, kissing you again. "Not in a million years."
Now your things were already half there anyway—socks in drawers, your favorite mug on the drying rack, your name scribbled under his on the mail by the door. And every morning like this only made it feel more like home.
You’d rolled out of bed in one of his soft, worn-in T-shirts—the one with the hem that just barely skimmed your thighs—padding barefoot toward the kitchen in search of coffee, warmth, and maybe a kiss if you looked pathetic enough.
You’ve seen Robby in a dozen different states—bloody scrubs, half-asleep during pre-dawn rounds, in command in a trauma bay, soft and half-melted in post-call cuddles. But you’ve never—never—seen him in glasses.
Until today.
You weren’t expecting it. And there he was, standing at the kitchen counter, hair still a little tousled, wearing black, round-framed glasses while flipping through the newspaper like it was the 80s.
You froze.
He glanced up. "Good morning."
You stared. Mouth agape. Said nothing.
"What?" he asked, wary.
You pointed. "Since when do you wear glasses?!"
He blinked, then winced, lifting a hand to take them off. "I—only for reading. Usually. I forgot I had them on."
"No. No, no, no, no." You crossed the room like a woman possessed. "Do not take those off."
He paused, hand halfway to his face. "Why?"
You stepped closer, practically beaming as you drank him in with eyes like saucers. "Because that—is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life."
He stared at you like you’d just said you were into spleens. "You’re joking."
You weren’t. "Robby," you deadpanned. "You look like the hot professor everyone has a crisis about in college. It's a rite of passage."
"I’m decades older than you."
"Exactly! And only by a decade and a half. It’s working for you." You took a step closer and lowered your voice in the hopes of enticing him. "And totally doing it for me."
He squinted, expression unreadable for a beat. "They make me look old." But his voice was softer now—like he wasn’t entirely put off by the idea. Like maybe, just maybe, his interest had been piqued.
"They make you look like you read poetry before bed and know how to ruin someone emotionally and intellectually."
He blushed—actually blushed.
You wrapped your arms around his waist, tugging him close. "Why have you been hiding this from me?"
"Because," he mumbled, suddenly very interested in the crossword puzzle, "I thought you’d think they made me look... I don’t know. Grandpa-ish."
"You’re out of your mind," you said, tugging the paper from his hands. "This is my Roman Empire now."
He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder. "You’re never letting this go, are you."
You grinned into his hair. "Not a chance."
His fingers skimmed under the hem of his shirt on your thighs—the one he always liked seeing you in, the one he claimed looked better on you than it ever did on him. His rough thumbs brushed against your bare skin in slow, reverent passes, toying with where the fabric met the soft curve of your hips. Goosebumps followed in their wake, your skin tightening under his touch.
He lingered there, gaze locked on the contrast between cotton and skin, the intimacy of it. The way you wore his shirt like it belonged to you—like he did. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his eyes darkened behind the lenses.
"You wore this on purpose, didn’t you?" he asked, voice low, one thumb brushing just beneath the hem like it had every right to be there.
You shrugged, playing innocent, but your smile was all heat. "It's pretty cozy."
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes soft but hooded, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or pin you to the nearest surface. "That’s not an answer."
You leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. "What are you going to do about it, sir?"
His breath hitched, gaze dipping to your lips before dragging back up to your eyes, hungry and tentative all at once. You felt the shift in the air—warmth curling low in your belly as his grip tightened, just slightly, like he was reminding himself you were real. And here. And his.
"You are unbelievable," he murmured, voice low and slightly hoarse, each word curling around the edges of a smile he couldn't quite suppress. There was awe behind it—fondness and a hint of reverence, like he still couldn't believe you were his.
"And you're absurdly attractive in those frames," you murmured, fingertips sliding up the back of his neck and into his hair, curling gently as you tugged him down to meet you. The kiss you gave him was slow, thorough, but it carried heat—a teasing sort of promise beneath the softness.
His hands spanned your waist, thumbs brushing bare skin with growing intent as he kissed you back, deepening it until your breath hitched against his mouth. The glasses stayed on, slightly askew, and it only made your pulse race harder.
You gasped softly when his lips left yours to trail along your jaw, then just beneath your ear, the scruff of his beard dragging deliciously against your skin. It was just long enough to rasp, to make you shiver, to remind you that this wasn't just soft Sunday morning, off-duty Dr. Robby—this was all of him. "This what does it for you?" he murmured, voice husky, lips brushing your pulse point, beard scraping lightly as he spoke.
"God, I want you to ruin me," you whispered, lips ghosting the shell of his ear, your voice low and just shy of reverent. The grin on your face was wicked, but there was no mistaking the heat behind it—the way your breath caught, the way your body leaned into his like gravity had given up pretending.
He stilled for a moment, like you’d short-circuited something vital in him. Then, wordless and driven by something primal, he kissed you again—hungrier now, hands roaming, touch reverent and desperate all at once.
You giggled against his mouth, breathless. "Race you to the bedroom. Winner gets bragging rights and top position."
His eyes flared with something dangerous and amused. "Is that a challenge?"
"I’m just saying," you murmured, backing out of his arms with a wicked grin, "you’re not the only one with stamina, Dr. Robinavitch."
The next second, you bolted.
Robby cursed softly, then took off after you with a kind of urgency that had nothing to do with competition and everything to do with getting his hands back on you.
Your laughter echoed down the hallway—right up until he caught you halfway to the bedroom, spun you around, and pressed you back against the nearest wall like he’d just won gold.
"Called it," he murmured into your skin, beard scraping, lips insistent. "I can’t wait until this is every morning. Waking up to you, going to sleep with you…" he trailed kisses along your jaw, voice low and reverent as though he were citing a prayer.
You smiled against his mouth, fingers curling into his hair. "Then don’t let me go. Not tonight. Not ever."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and tender all at once. "You’re it for me."
The omelet could wait—left forgotten on the counter alongside the crossword and cold coffee. And the glasses? They stayed on. Fogged, slightly crooked, and forever etched into your memory.
