❦ synopsis. jack abbot was your father’s best friend, fifteen years your senior, and entirely off limits. you slipped him your number anyway. bad idea? probably. worth it? absolutely.
content. 18+. jack abbot x fem!reader. dbf!jack. age gap (reader is in her mid 20s, jack is early 40s). sneaking around. oral (f!receiving). protected p in v. car sex. mirror sex. finger in mouth (brief).
wc. 10.7k
an. it's a longgg one. so enjoy !!
the almost-summer insects are loud the evening of your dad’s annual memorial day bbq. you’d taken the train up from the city that morning, a bag packed for a few months rather than a few days, needing the suburban quiet more than you’d admitted to yourself. a few hectic months of finishing your masters while working full time had left you wrung out in a way only a proper break could fix.
you step out into the backyard and the warm air hits you, voices mixing in with the cicadas, the smell of charcoal and something sweet. your parents are well off, the backyard expansive and manicured, fairy lights strung between the trees already glowing gold in the early evening.
and that’s when you see him.
silver haired, broad shouldered, standing with your father and another man you don’t recognize. he’s not loud about it, the way some men are at parties like this, drink in hand, laughing too hard. he’s just there. a steady presence. like the room arranged itself around him without him asking.
he looks up and catches you staring.
you give him a small smile. he holds it for a beat, returns it, quiet and unreadable, and then turns back to the conversation like nothing happened.
“there you are, darling.” your mom finds you before you can register what just happened, pulling you into the huddle. “come meet jack. this is dr. jack abbot, remember? i told you about him. he’s the one who was at the gym with your father when he had that small stroke. kept him stable until the ambulance came.”
you did remember. vaguely. your mom had mentioned him a few times over the phone during those scary first few days, always with this tone like she wanted you to know he was one of the good ones. she’d also, at some point, let slip that he was quite handsome for his age which had made you curious enough to look him up.
you’d found almost nothing. a blurry photo from some hospital gala where he was younger, dark haired, barely recognizable. another from an award ceremony, grainy and poorly lit, his face half turned from the camera. you’d closed the tab and thought nothing more of it.
the man standing in front of you now had not been adequately prepared for.
you reach your hand out. his is warm, large, engulfing your palm easily. the touch moves through you faster than it should.
“nice to meet you,” you say, and you mean it more than is appropriate.
he looks at you the way men his age sometimes do when they’re trying very hard not to. “you as well.”
your dad says something about jack being a veteran, about it being a meaningful weekend for him too. jack doesn’t smile at that. just something solemn moving behind his eyes, confirming that whatever he’d seen hadn’t left him clean.
you think about that look for the rest of the evening.
---
you run into him at the farmer’s market three days later.
you’re standing at a stall debating between two bunches of peonies when you feel someone stop beside you. you glance over and there he is, in a grey henley and dark jeans, looking entirely too good for a saturday morning farmer’s market in suburban new york.
“dr. abbot,” you say, a little surprised.
“just jack,” he says, eyes moving to the flowers and then back to you. “visiting your parents for the weekend?”
“for a little longer than that,” you say. “you live around here?”
“ten minutes that way.” he nods vaguely in a direction. noncommittal. like he’s already deciding how much to give you.
you buy both bunches of peonies just to have something to do with your hands.
he walks with you for a bit, not quite on purpose, or at least that’s how he plays it. the conversation is easy in a way that feels unfair. he asks about your masters, what you studied, what you’re doing now. he listens like he’s genuinely curious about you, takes his time without interruption. you learn he’s been in suburban new york for a few years, that he left his practice in the city after his wife passed, that he has his own little clinic now because apparently that’s what you do when you’re trying to build a quieter life.
he says it nonchalantly and you don’t press for more.
when you reach the end of the market he stops and you stop with him.
“i’ll see you around,” he says. not a question exactly. more like something he’s hoping for.
“probably,” you say.
he almost smiles. almost.
---
you see him twice more before the dinner.
once at your parents’ house when he stops by to drop something off for your dad, catching you in the kitchen in an oversized tee and sleep shorts, hair still messy from bed. he looks at you for exactly one second longer than he should before fixing his expression back to neutral and asking if your father is home.
and then once at the pharmacy, where he’s picking up a prescription and you’re buying face wash, and he ends up standing in line behind you and making a quiet comment about the brand you picked that makes you laugh, and then looks almost annoyed at himself for making you laugh.
he’s trying. you can see it clearly. the deliberate neutrality of him, the way he keeps his eyes from lingering, the way he keeps things brief and polite.
it makes you want to push.
---
the dinner is your mother’s idea. a small thank you, she says, for everything jack did for your father. nothing formal, just the four of you on a friday evening.
you wear a dress that you’d packed for no real reason. silky, short, the kind that sits just high enough on your thigh to be a problem. you tell yourself it’s because you felt like it.
you know that’s not entirely true.
jack arrives at seven. you watch him from the top of the stairs as your dad lets him in, see the moment he looks up and finds you coming down, see him look away just as quickly. his jaw goes tight, a muscle flickering there briefly before he smooths it over.
dinner is pleasant. your mom talks too much, your dad laughs too loud, and jack sits across from you being perfectly polite and perfectly composed and absolutely not looking at you any more than is necessary.
which somehow makes it worse.
you excuse yourself after the main course, slipping down the hall toward the bathroom. you’re washing your hands when you hear him in the hallway.
you step out and find him already there in the narrow hall, and neither of you move. the dinner sounds feel far away. the space between you is close enough to feel the warmth of him, and his cologne reaches you before anything else, something quiet and warm, and he’s looking at you the way he’s been carefully not looking at you all evening.
your pulse does something it has no business doing.
you reach into your pocket slowly, pull out the folded slip of paper you’d put there before dinner, hold it out between two fingers. your eyes stay on his.
he looks down at it. back up at you. and for a second, just one, his gaze drops to your mouth and stays there long enough to make your breath catch.
“i’m your father’s friend,” he says. his voice comes out lower than intended.
“i know,” you say softly.
he should walk away. you can see him thinking it. the war behind his eyes.
he reaches out and takes the paper instead, fingers brushing yours, and then he steps back and clears his throat and goes back down the hall without another word.
you lean against the wall for a moment before you follow.
---
you go back to the table and finish dinner and make conversation and laugh at your dad’s jokes and do not think about the hallway.
you do not think about the way he’d looked at your mouth.
you do not think about the way his fingers had felt brushing yours when he took the paper.
jack stays another hour, polite and easy and perfectly composed, and when he leaves he shakes your dad’s hand and thanks your mom for dinner. he glances at you once on his way out, brief and unreadable, the kind of look that gives nothing and takes everything.
“lovely to meet you properly,” he says.
“you too,” you say.
the door closes and you help your mom clear the table and go to bed and do not think about it at all.
---
a week passes.
you work. that’s the honest answer for what you do with the silence of your phone. you open your laptop early and close it late and fill the hours in between with emails and decks and calls that run long, the familiar rhythm of it steadying in a way you hadn’t expected to need.
it helps, mostly. you’d taken this break to breathe and somehow you’d gone and complicated it spectacularly within the first two weeks, so throwing yourself back into spreadsheets feels like a reasonable correction.
your mom keeps finding reasons to bring him up at dinner. jack mentioned he might come to the farmers market this weekend. jack was asking after your thesis topic, isn’t that sweet. you nod and eat your food and say nothing.
your phone stays quiet.
you start to feel that particular kind of silly that you really hate feeling. the kind that makes you want to be annoyed at yourself more than at anyone else. you’re not a girl who waits around. you’d handed him your number because you’d wanted to, not because you were expecting anything, and it had meant nothing, and you are completely fine.
your phone buzzes on thursday morning and you pick it up embarrassingly fast.
it’s your landlord about a leaking pipe in your city apartment.
you put the phone face down and open another email.
---
you go for a walk thursday afternoon because you need air and because staring at a laptop in your childhood bedroom is making you feel sixteen in a way you don’t appreciate.
the neighborhood is quiet and warm, someone’s sprinkler ticking in a front yard, birds doing their thing in the trees. you have your earbuds in and you’re almost feeling like yourself again when you turn a corner and nearly walk into him.
he’s coming back from a run, slowing to a stop, a little breathless. grey tee, dark shorts, the outline of his prosthetic visible below the hem, silver hair slightly damp. looking entirely too good on a thursday afternoon.
you look straight ahead and keep walking.
you hear him pause then fall into step beside you.
“hey,” he tries.
nothing.
“you’re ignoring me,” he says. there’s a quiet amusement to it that makes it significantly harder to maintain your expression.
you pull one earbud out and look at him with the most neutral expression you own. “can i help you?”
“you walked right past me.”
“i didn’t see you.”
“you saw me,” he says simply.
you stop. turn to face him fully on the pavement, squinting a little in the afternoon sun. “you didn’t text.”
he holds your gaze. “i know.”
“okay,” you say pleasantly, and put your earbud back in.
he reaches out and touches your elbow, gently, and you stop again.
“it’s not right,” he says, when you look at him. his voice is low and even, like he’s explained this to himself many times already. “your father is one of my closest friends. you’re his daughter. there’s an age gap that—”
“i’m aware of my own age,” you say.
“i know that.”
“and i’m aware of yours.”
“that’s not what i—”
“jack.” you say it quietly but clearly. “i have a masters degree. i have a career. i pay my own rent in one of the most expensive cities in the country.” you hold his gaze without flinching. “i don’t need you to decide what i can and can’t handle. i don’t like being put in a box, especially not by someone who looked at me the way you did in that hallway.”
something shifts in his expression. he looks away briefly, jaw working.
“one drink,” he says finally, still not looking at you. “there’s a place on 4th avenue. friday night.”
you look at him.
“no,” you say.
he blinks. looks back at you. “no?”
“dinner,” you say. “and then a drink.”
a beat.
“you’re negotiating.”
“i’m clarifying,” you say pleasantly.
he looks at you for a long moment. you watch him try very hard not to smile and almost succeed.
“dinner,” he says. “and a drink.”
“and you’re paying,” you add.
he exhales through his nose. “obviously.”
you put your earbud back in and start walking. “friday works,” you call back.
you don’t turn around but you’re fairly certain he’s standing there watching you go and doing that almost-smile again.
good.
---
he texts friday morning.
jack: should i pick you up or are you meeting me there.
you stare at your phone for an embarrassing amount of time.
he confirmed. he actually texted to confirm, which means he’d been thinking about it, which means he hadn’t spent the week being perfectly unbothered the way you’d assumed he had. and he’d offered to pick you up. like it was a real date. like he was going to come to your parents’ front door and walk you to his car and—
you put your phone face down on the bed.
get it together, you tell yourself.
you pick it up again.
but he’d offered to pick you up. that’s a thing a gentleman does. a thoughtful person. and he’s thoughtful, you’ve noticed that about him, the way he listens, the way he remembers small things you’ve said, the way he—
and he’s so annoyingly attractive. how does that happen. how does someone get to be that age and look like that and also be like that. it should be one or the other. it’s unfair is what it is.
you realize you’ve been staring at the ceiling for five minutes.
you: i’ll meet you there.
you put the phone down and go get ready and absolutely do not smile at yourself in the mirror.
you smile at yourself in the mirror a little bit.
---
the place on 4th avenue is small and warm, the kind of bar that moonlights as a restaurant. dark wood and low lighting and a chalkboard menu above the bar. he pulls out your chair and you sit and pretend that doesn’t do anything to you.
he orders without looking at the menu. you notice that but don’t say anything.
it starts careful. he already knows the broad strokes of your masters from the farmer’s market, so he asks something different tonight. what you actually want to do next, now that it’s done. where you see yourself going. you tell him honestly, more honestly than you expected to, about the job you’re good at but aren’t sure you love, about the version of your career you’re still trying to build toward. he listens with his glass resting in his hand and his eyes on you and doesn’t once look at his phone.
“and now you’re here,” he says.
“now i’m here,” you agree. “taking a break. or trying to. i’m still working remotely so it’s not quite a break.”
“doesn’t sound like much of a rest.”
you think about it honestly. “it’s getting there.”
he nods like he understands that specific kind of tired. you get the feeling he does.
you ask about medicine, what made him choose it, whether he ever wanted something different. he thinks before he answers, which you like about him, the absence of automatic responses.
“lost a close friend when i was young,” he says simply. “couldn’t do anything. felt like i should have been able to.” he turns his glass once. “so i decided i’d learn how.”
“and the army?”
“enlisted after my first year of pre-med. served as a combat medic for two tours.” a brief pause. “finished my degree when i came back.”
he says it with the flatness of someone who has made peace with something that didn’t deserve it. you don’t push. just let it settle between you the way it needs to.
you talk about other things after that. easier things. he asks about the city, whether you miss it yet, and you tell him honestly that you miss the noise more than you expected to. he tells you he grew up in boston, that new york had always felt like someone else’s city even after years of living there. you ask what suburban new york feels like and he thinks about it for a moment.
“quieter,” he says. “in a way i needed.”
you ask him what he does with the quiet and he says he reads, mostly. medical journals, some fiction. runs in the mornings. you tell him that sounds very disciplined and he looks at you with something dry.
“you say that like it’s an insult.”
“i say it like it’s very you,” you say, and he looks at you for a moment like he’s trying to decide what to do with that.
the conversation moves like that all evening, one thing leading naturally into the next, barely any effort. you forget to check your phone. you forget to be nervous. you just talk, and he talks, and at some point you realize you’re leaning forward with your chin in your hand and he’s leaning forward too and the space between you has gotten smaller without either of you deciding it.
at some point the bar fills in around you. the dinner crowd thinning and the drinks crowd arriving, louder, livelier, music turned up a notch. someone laughs too hard at the bar. a group spills in through the door bringing the warm night air with them.
you and jack don’t notice any of it.
it’s only when he glances around and then back at you that you realize how late it’s gotten.
“i’ll just use the bathroom,” he says, pushing his chair back. “be right back.”
you watch him stop at the bar on the way back. a quiet word with the bartender, something slipped across the counter without a word to you about it.
he comes back and picks up his jacket.
“ready?” he says simply.
you smile a little without meaning to. “yeah,” you say. “let’s go.”
---
the night air is warm with a slight breeze when you step outside. you pull your jacket loosely around your shoulders and say “i had a really good time” and mean it completely and then immediately start wondering if it sounded too eager. you fall into step beside him on the pavement and the silence is comfortable but your brain is doing that thing where it replays the whole evening looking for something to be anxious about and finding too many candidates.
did it go well. it felt like it went well. he paid without making it a thing which was. god that was sweet. but he hasn’t said anything since we left and maybe that means—
“you’ve gone somewhere,” he says.
you blink. look up at him. “what?”
“just now.” he glances at you, steady. “where’d you go?”
your mouth opens. closes. “nowhere,” you say.
he looks at you for a moment in that way he has, like he can see straight through the word, and almost smiles and says nothing and you feel your face go warm.
“do you want to take a walk,” he says instead. “there’s a park just around the corner.”
“yes,” you say, maybe a little too quickly.
he definitely notices. doesn’t say anything.
---
the park is quiet, just the sound of your footsteps and the distant hum of the street. the trees are full and dark against the sky and the path is lit by old iron lampposts and the air smells like cut grass and something floral.
you spot the ice cream stand before he does. a small cart tucked near the park entrance, fairy lights strung around the awning.
you stop walking.
he follows your gaze. looks back at you. that almost smile already happening.
“come on,” you say, already heading over.
he shakes his head slightly and follows.
you get strawberry cheesecake in a cup. he gets dark chocolate pecan, which somehow suits him completely. you both stand under the fairy lights eating ice cream while the warm night moves around you.
“here,” you say, holding your spoon out toward him.
he looks at it. then takes the taste, and his expression does something reluctant and impressed at the same time.
“that’s actually good,” he says.
“i know,” you say smugly.
he holds his own spoon out without a word. you lean in and try it and the dark chocolate hits first and then the pecan and it’s rich and warm and very him somehow.
“okay,” you admit. “that’s also good.”
“i know,” he says, and you laugh, and this time he actually smiles. quiet and real and just for a moment.
you look at him in the lamplight and feel something settle warm in your chest and think. oh. okay. this is a problem.
---
you start walking again when the cups are empty, slower now, no particular direction. the park is mostly yours at this hour, just the occasional dog walker passing with a nod.
you’re not in your head anymore. somewhere between the ice cream and the smiling you’d stopped replaying the evening and landed back in it.
he’s walking close enough that your shoulders brush every few steps and neither of you moves away.
you stop near a lamppost where the path curves and turn to look at him and he’s already looking at you, that careful composure doing very little at this particular moment.
you lean up and kiss him.
he goes still. one second. two. then his hand comes up slow and cups your jaw and he kisses you back, deep and sure, and you forget about the warm night and the lamplight and everything else.
he pulls back first. steps back slightly. shakes his head.
you groan softly. “i’ve never had to ask for things, you know.”
that flicker at the corner of his mouth. “so you’re a spoiled brat.”
“what will it take,” you say, looking up at him. “for you to just give in.”
“i’m not—” he stops. jaw tight. “i’m not relationship material. you should know that going in.”
you hold his gaze. “i’m not looking for a relationship either. it doesn’t have to be more than what it is.” a beat. “we’re adults, jack.”
he looks at you for a long moment. the last argument behind his eyes going quiet.
then he kisses you again. different this time. his hand gripping your face, consuming, and you grip the front of his jacket and let him.
he pulls back just enough to speak, voice low.
“the townhouse is two minutes from here,” he says.
you didn’t know that. you file it away for later.
“okay,” you say.
he takes your hand and you go.
---
the door barely shuts behind you.
his hands find your waist before you’ve taken a step inside, walking you back against the entryway wall, mouth on yours, and the kiss is nothing like the one in the park. that one had been careful, him dipping his toe in. this one is hungry, open mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours slowly, like he’s tasting something he’s been thinking about for a long time. you make a sound against his mouth and feel him exhale hard through his nose like it costs him something.
your fingers find his shirt buttons. his hands push your jacket off your shoulders and it hits the floor somewhere. something knocks off the entryway table, neither of you flinches.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, hair slightly messed from your hands, and the composed dr. jack abbot of dinner and parks and careful measured distance is completely gone. what’s left is just him, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room he’s done being good about.
he takes your hand and walks you backward through the darkened living room and sits down on the couch, pulling you down onto his lap in one smooth motion, hands settling on your hips.
“jack—”
“here,” he murmurs, guiding your hips forward, then back, slow. “like that.”
your breath catches. his jaw is tight, eyes dark, watching your face with an intensity that makes it hard to think straight. his hands grip your hips and move them again, that same slow roll, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it.
“you have no idea,” he says, low, almost to himself. his forehead drops to your shoulder for just a moment. “how long i’ve wanted this.” his mouth finds your jaw, your neck. “wanted you.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, chest heaving, lips swollen. his eyes meet yours, dark, pupils blown.
“fuck me,” you breathe against his mouth. “please.”
a groan tears out of him.
he flips you in one smooth motion, your back meeting the couch cushions, him over you, and his hands find the zipper of your skirt, fumbling with it in a way that is deeply satisfying coming from someone so usually composed. you reach down to help and he bats your hands away gently.
“i’ve got it,” he mutters, jaw tight, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling.
he does.
---
you wake up to the smell of coffee.
for a moment you just lie there, ceiling unfamiliar, sheets softer than yours, the morning light coming in through curtains you don’t recognize. then it lands. right. jack’s townhouse. you sit up slowly and push your hair back and look around the room.
it’s neat in the way of someone who lives alone and likes order. dark furniture, minimal, a small stack of books on the nightstand. a glass of water on your side that wasn’t there when you fell asleep.
you stare at the glass of water for a moment.
you find his shirt at the foot of the bed and pull it on and pad downstairs.
he’s in the kitchen. grey tee, dark pants, barefoot. you can hear the faint clink of his prosthetic foot as he moves around the stove with that same leisured pace as always. coffee already poured, two cups. eggs in the pan. toast just popped.
he glances over when you appear in the doorway.
“morning,” he says simply. like this is normal. like you wake up in his house all the time.
“you made breakfast,” you say.
he just smiles in return.
you slide onto the stool at the kitchen island and wrap both hands around the mug he pushes toward you and watch him cook and try not to feel too much about any of this.
you mostly fail.
he plates the eggs without ceremony and sets it in front of you and sits across with his own and you eat together in the quiet morning, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling. outside birds are doing their thing in the backyard. somewhere a lawnmower starts up distantly.
“did you sleep okay?” he asks at some point.
“really well actually,” you say, and mean it. the peaceful dreamless kind you’d been craving for months.
---
you leave just after nine. he walks you to the door, and just before you step out he cups the back of your head gently and presses his lips to your forehead.
your insides melt.
“i’ll see you later,” he says.
you look up at him. “yeah,” you say softly. “you will.”
you walk to your car with his shirt smell still on your skin and the ghost of his mouth on your forehead and think. oh you are in so much trouble.
---
it becomes a pattern after that.
stolen minutes, mostly. a look across the room that lasts a beat too long. his hand finding the small of your back when he passes you in the hallway at your parents’, gone before anyone could notice. a text at odd hours that starts as nothing and becomes something by the time you put your phone down.
---
it was gathering at your parents’. a few neighbors gathered in the living room, some rosé for the women, beers for the men, your mom moving between guests with a platter of something she’d spent the morning making. it fills up fast the way your parents’ house always does, loud and warm, someone’s kid running through the hallway.
you’re in a sundress, yellow, the kind that sits light on your shoulders. jack is there when you arrive, talking to one of your dad’s colleagues, and his eyes find you once across the yard, darkening just a fraction.
you go inside for ice an hour in.
the kitchen is quiet after the noise of the backyard, just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of someone laughing outside. you’re pulling the ice tray when you hear the door behind you.
you don’t turn around. you already know.
his hands find your hips from behind, turning you, and then his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like the usual careful composed kisses. one hand slides into your hair, the other flat against the small of your back pulling you in, and he kisses you the way he does when he’s been watching you from across a yard for an hour and has run out of patience for it. open mouthed, his tongue sliding slow against yours until your fingers curl into his shirt and you forget what you came in here for.
his hand moves under the hem of your dress, palm dragging slow up the inside of your thigh, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.
“is my girl wet for me?” he murmurs, low, meant only for you.
your breath stutters. you don’t answer. he finds out anyway, fingers pressing against the thin fabric of your underwear, and the quiet sound he makes against your temple is deeply unfair.
“jack,” you warn softly.
“shhh,” he says, and drops to his knees.
he pushes your dress up and hooks your underwear down in one smooth motion, tucks it into his pocket, and then his mouth is on you and the world narrows to the warm press of his tongue. your hand flies to your mouth. the other grips the counter behind you hard enough to whiten your knuckles, the noise of the party bleeding through the walls while he takes you apart quietly on the kitchen floor.
he doesn’t rush. that’s the thing about jack. he never rushes.
by the time you come you’re biting down on your own fist, eyes squeezed shut, shaking.
he stands up and fixes the hem of your dress back down like nothing happened. looks at you once, the corner of his lips tilted up in a smirk, while you’re still trying to remember how to breathe.
“i’ll give those back later,” he says, patting his pocket.
“you’re unbelievable,” you manage.
he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. presses a single kiss to your cheek and walks back outside.
you stand in the kitchen for a full minute before you follow.
---
he keeps his eyes on you for the rest of the day. not obviously. just enough that you feel it every time, that quiet heat from across the yard. enough to know he hasn’t forgotten.
you don’t get the underwear back.
what you get instead, after the last guests trickle out and your parents call it a night, is his hand finding yours in the dark hallway and him walking you to the downstairs bathroom and clicking the lock behind you both.
you’re quiet about it. mostly.
---
the dinner is a few of your dad’s colleagues and their wives, jack included, the type of evening that involves good wine and stories you’ve heard versions of before. you sit at the far end of the table and catch him looking at you twice, both times immediately looking away.
you wear something simple. nothing risky. you’re behaving.
mostly.
you say your goodbyes at the door, your coat already on. “i’m heading out to meet a friend,” you tell your dad, kissing his cheek. “i’ll stay over hers. i’ll be back in the morning.”
“i can drop you off,” jack says from behind you, already reaching for his keys. “i’m heading that way.” you were going to meet him anyway.
your dad claps him on the shoulder. “perfect, save her the uber.”
you smile. “thanks, jack.”
the drive starts quiet. lights bleeding past the windows, jack’s hand loose on the wheel, the low hum of the radio filling the space between you. comfortable on the surface. charged underneath.
you watch the road for a while.
then you reach across the console.
“don’t,” he says immediately, his hand closing over yours.
you do it anyway.
he exhales hard. pulls off at the next quiet stretch, a side road that’s dark and empty. he clicks the lock and reaches for the lever at the side of his seat and lets it fall back. then his hands find you and he hauls you over the console and onto his lap before you’ve fully registered the movement.
you land against him and his mouth finds yours, urgent in a way that pulls low in your stomach. you’re both pulling at things, his shirt buttons, your top, the zip of his pants, the graceless urgency of too much want in too small a space.
when he finally pushes inside you, both of you stilling for just a moment at the stretch of it, thick and familiar and so so good, your forehead drops to his shoulder and you exhale shakily.
“okay?” he murmurs.
“yeah,” you breathe. “yeah, move—”
you start to roll your hips and his hands grip your waist, steadying, guiding, letting you find the rhythm. the windows fog at the edges. his jaw is tight, eyes dark, watching your face with that focused intensity that makes you feel like the only thing in the room.
then his feet find the floor and he starts thrusting up to meet you, slow and hard, and your head falls back.
“jack—”
“i’ve got you, darlin’,” he says low, one hand splayed across your lower back holding you close, the other pulling your top aside, unhooking your bra, his mouth replacing it, warm against your hardened peak. you dig your fingers into his shoulders and stop thinking about anything at all.
the radio plays on softly. outside the road stays empty.
neither of you are in any hurry.
---
you end up staying the night.
you hadn’t planned to. but the radio plays on softly and neither of you move and at some point the quiet of the car becomes the quiet of his townhouse and then it’s late and he’s pulling his shirt over your head in the dark and saying stay against your temple like it’s nothing.
so you do.
---
a few days later you answer the door at your parents’ when the doorbell goes.
you’re in sleep shorts and an oversized tee, hair up, not having expected anyone. jack stands on the other side of the door in dark slacks and a polo, his glasses hanging from the collar, looking entirely too put together for a tuesday morning.
you lean against the doorframe. “where are you going dressed like that?”
he looks at you. then very deliberately looks at your shorts. “golf. your father suggested i develop a normal hobby.”
“and you listened?”
“he’s very persuasive.”
you open your mouth to say something else when your dad’s voice carries from inside. “jack! give me five minutes, i’m almost ready!”
jack raises an eyebrow at you. you raise one back.
and then he steps into the foyer, glances once over your shoulder toward the stairs, and kisses you quickly. you feel his hand caress your jaw and then it’s gone just as fast when he pulls back.
“i’ll see you later,” he murmurs.
he steps back and straightens his collar. looks completely poised.
you are not completely poised.
your dad comes thundering down the stairs two minutes later, clapping jack on the shoulder, steering him out the door. jack follows, and just before he reaches the car he glances back once.
you’re still in the doorframe.
he smiles. that small smile, only for you, and turns away.
you stay there a moment longer than you need to before going back inside.
---
the phone starts buzzing an hour later.
it’s sitting on the kitchen counter where your dad left it, lighting up with a number you recognize from his office. you grab your keys.
you find them on the sixth hole. your dad spots you first, face confused, and you hold up the phone. his expression shifts immediately into the particular look he gets when something’s gone sideways at work.
he steps away to take the call and you’re left standing on the green in your tiny shorts while jack abbot turns around and takes you in with a slow once over.
“my dad forgot his phone,” you say innocently.
“i can see that,” he says.
“interesting shorts,” he says.
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
“i know,” you say, and smile.
your dad reappears, phone pressed to his chest, apology already on his face. “jack, i’m so sorry, there’s something with the mcvoy merger, i have to go. i’ll make it up to you, we’ll reschedule—”
“go,” jack says easily. “don’t worry about it.”
your dad looks between you both. “she can drive you back—”
“go sort your merger,” jack says.
your dad squeezes his shoulder gratefully and strides off toward the car park, already back on the phone. and then it’s just you and jack and the open green and the warm afternoon stretching out around you.
he looks at you.
you look back.
“get a hole in one,” you say.
he stares at you. “i’m sorry?”
“hole in one, old man,” you say. “and i’ll make it worth your while.”
a long pause. he looks out at the green. looks back at you. the corner of his mouth pulling in a way he doesn’t quite manage to hide. he shakes his head with a chuckle under his breath.
he lines up his shot with the confidence of someone who is very good at things he pretends not to care about.
it drops clean.
he turns and looks at you over the top of his glasses.
you burst out laughing.
he’s still giving you that look, warm and steady and just slightly wolfish, and something flips over in your chest.
“hole in one,” he says simply.
---
things fall in his entryway.
his keys missing the hook. your sandals somewhere near the door. his phone clattering off the console table that neither of you stops for because he has you against the wall with his hands under your thighs before the door is fully shut, your legs wrapping around him, laughing into his mouth until you’re not laughing anymore.
“you wore those shorts on purpose,” he says against your jaw.
“i have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” you manage.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, hair messed, chest rising and falling, and shakes his head slowly, a quiet laugh in his expression.
“what am i gonna do with you,” he says, low and gravelly, shaking his head in faux disappointment.
“i have a few ideas,” you say.
he carries you upstairs with your legs still around him, mouth finding your neck, the curve of your shoulder. he sets you down on the edge of the bed and steps back, reaching behind him to pull his polo off in one smooth motion.
you take a moment to just. look at him.
toned shoulders in the way of someone who has been active his whole life, with a softness at his middle. freckles scattered across his arms and chest, concentrated at the shoulders, the kind that come from years in the sun. a slight roundness to his stomach that makes him look exactly his age in the best possible way. silver hair dusted across his chest, catching the afternoon light. you bite your lip as you take him in.
his eyes are already on you.
his hands find the waistband of your shorts and drag them down slowly, dropping them somewhere on the floor. he straightens up and looks at you for a moment.
“touch yourself for me,” he says quietly.
you hold his gaze for a beat. then you lean back on your palms and slide a hand down between your thighs, fingers tracing down your folds, finding the growing wetness there.
he stands there watching, breathing a little heavily, before his hands find his belt buckle, unhooking it slow, shoving his pants down without looking away from you. his cock is thick and already hard and his hand wraps around it, stroking, eyes tracking every movement of your fingers, and the whole thing is so intense and quiet that your breath has gone completely unsteady.
then he steps forward.
he takes your wrist and brings your hand up and closes his mouth around your fingers, sucking them clean without breaking eye contact, and your brain short circuits completely.
he pushes you back onto the bed.
he buries his face between your thighs, mouth finding your clit with no warning, and your back arches clean off the bed. he works you open, tongue fucking into you obscenely, and you’re loud about it, louder than you mean to be, one hand twisting in his silver hair while your hips roll down against his mouth chasing more.
you soak him and he doesn’t pull back. just makes a quiet satisfied sound against you and keeps going like he has nowhere else to be, like this is exactly where he wants to be, until you’re shaking and your brain has turned completely to mush and your whole body is pulling tight.
“jack— jack i need—”
he pulls back just enough to look up at you, mouth slick, eyes dark, expression perfectly composed.
“hm?” he says. “can’t quite hear you. old man ears.”
you groan. “jack.”
“sorry?” the corner of his mouth twitches.
“you know what i need—”
he tuts softly. “you’re going to have to be more specific, sweet girl.”
you huff, thighs squeezing around his shoulders, and he raises an eyebrow at you like he has all the time in the world and fully intends to use it.
“please,” you breathe. “please please just fuck me, jack, please—”
you keep saying it, broken and shameless, until he pulls back, rolls a condom on with steady hands, and finally fills you in one slow push that knocks the air clean out of your lungs.
---
the bed creaks.
he has your legs pushed up, knees to your chest, ankles hooked over his shoulders, and you are folded so completely beneath him that the only thing you can do is hold on and take it. his hands brace either side of your head, eyes on your face, and he moves with a focus that makes it impossible to think about anything else.
the headboard finds the wall. once. twice. and then it just. stays there, a constant rhythmic clatter that fades into the background because there are other sounds now too — the slap of skin, your moans climbing higher with every stroke, the low sounds he makes when he’s trying to stay controlled and losing the battle. the room is loud with all of it and neither of you are doing anything to stop it.
“you’re doing so well for me,” he murmurs. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles over the swollen bud, and you make a sound that you feel in your whole body. “killin’ me, baby,” he grunts. your puffy lips stretched around him, taking everything he gives, and he looks down at where you’re joined and his breathing is shaky.
his hips are losing that careful rhythm, thrusts getting shorter and more urgent, and you can feel him everywhere, the relentless drag and push of him, your whole body pulled taut around him.
“jack—”
“yeah baby,” he breathes. “yeah yeah, come for me. fuck—” his thumb keeps those merciless circles over your needy clit. “this pretty pussy’s squeezing me so good, can you feel that—”
and that’s it. you come with his name on your lips and your whole body arching up into him, thighs shaking against his shoulders. he follows right behind you, a low groan pressed into the curve of your neck, hips stuttering to a stop.
for a moment neither of you move.
---
then he carefully lowers your legs, pressing a brief kiss to the inside of your knee before he pulls back. you hear him in the bathroom, water running, and then he’s back with a warm towel and he cleans you up quietly, thorough and gentle, and you lie there and let him and try not to think too hard about what that means.
he tosses the towel aside and settles on the edge of the bed. reaches down and unstraps his prosthetic, setting it carefully against the nightstand. the room is quiet while he does it, a routine for him.
you watch him from where you’re curled on your side, still soft and sleepy.
“does it hurt?” you ask, voice still a little wrecked.
“not hurt,” he says. “just gets uncomfortable after a while.”
you reach out without thinking, fingers finding the end of his residual limb, and you massage there gently. he goes very still for a moment. then his hand comes up and squeezes your shoulder.
neither of you say anything. you don’t need to.
he settles back against the headboard and pulls you into his side, your cheek finding his chest, his hand moving through your hair in long slow strokes. he presses his lips to the top of your head and you close your eyes and breathe him in and think that this is a very dangerous thing to have gotten used to.
“i’m ordering thai,” he says after a while.
“okay,” you say, not moving.
he reaches for his phone with his free hand, the other still in your hair, and places the order without asking what you want because he already knows. you smile at that a little where he can’t see it.
the food arrives forty minutes later and you eat together in his bed, containers spread between you on the duvet, casablanca pulled up on the tv.
you groan when you see the title screen.
“you haven’t seen it,” he says, already settling back.
“i’ve seen enough of it.”
“that’s not the same thing.” he hands you a container of pad thai. “watch the movie.”
you watch the movie.
it’s good. you’re not going to tell him that.
halfway through you’re completely invested and stealing bites off his plate and he lets you, which is how you know he’s in a good mood. the lamp is on low, the room warm, the sound of old hollywood filling the quiet between you. he makes a comment about the cinematography at some point and you make a comment back and it turns into a whole thing and by the time you look up the scene has moved on entirely.
“we missed it,” you say.
“i’ve seen it forty times,” he says. “it’s fine.”
you laugh softly and settle back into his side.
you’re asleep before the ending. you don’t even realize it’s happening, just the warmth of him and the low sound of the television and then nothing at all.
you wake up to a dark room and credits rolling softly on the screen.
jack is asleep beside you, breathing slow and even, one arm still loosely around you. you lie there for a moment in the quiet of his townhouse, the distant sound of a car outside, the low hum of the television.
then you slip carefully out from under his arm.
you find your clothes in the low light, dress quietly, check your phone. 12:43am.
you lean over him. “jack,” you whisper.
he stirs. opens one eye.
“i’m heading home,” you say softly.
he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, still half asleep. “text me when you’re in.”
“okay,” you say.
you let yourself out.
---
the house is quiet when you slip through the front door, just the lamp on low in the living room. you’re halfway up the stairs when your dad’s voice comes from the kitchen.
“that you?”
you pause. “yeah, it’s me.”
he appears in the doorway in his robe, mug in hand, looking more tired than suspicious. “where were you?”
“out,” you say.
“with?”
you open your mouth. close it. look somewhere past his shoulder.
your dad watches you for a moment, something shifting in his expression, gentle rather than pressing.
“hey,” he says quietly. “i’m not going to push. you’re an adult, i know that.” he sets his mug down and comes to the foot of the stairs, looking up at you with that look he’s had your whole life. “i just worry about you, kiddo. that’s all. just want you to be careful.”
you feel it in your chest, that particular warmth that only he can put there.
“i know,” you say softly. “i am.”
he reaches up and presses a kiss to your forehead. “get some sleep.”
you watch him shuffle back toward the kitchen. then you go upstairs.
---
you’re in bed, lamp off, staring at the ceiling when you pick up your phone.
you’re in bed, lamp off, staring at the ceiling when you pick up your phone.
you: i think dad knows
jack: how?
you type out the whole interaction.
jack: okay. let’s lay low for a bit.
you stare at the screen.
you: :(
jack: be good and i’ll reward you.
you smile at your phone in the dark.
you: tie me up?
jack: i just said be good.
you laugh to yourself, quietly.
you: fine. deal.
you put your phone face down and close your eyes and fall asleep smiling like an idiot.
---
it’s been a few days since the golf course.
you text. not constantly, not in the way that would mean something you’ve both agreed not to name. just enough. a voice memo here, a late night exchange there, him sending you a dry one liner about a patient that makes you laugh out loud at your laptop and your mom asking what’s so funny from the other room.
you missed him. more than made sense for something that wasn’t supposed to be more than what it was.
you wondered if he missed you just as much. you didn’t ask.
---
it was game day. a few of the neighbors had gathered in your parents’ living room, beers cracked, the big tv loud with commentary. it fills up fast the way your parents’ house always does, loud and warm, someone’s kid running through the hallway, the smell of something good coming from the kitchen.
you’re on the back porch when you hear your name.
“no way.”
you turn. marcus is standing at the sliding door grinning at you, older than you remember but the same eyes, the same easy smile. you went to high school together, lost touch the way people do.
“marcus,” you say, and he pulls you into a hug that lifts you slightly off the ground.
you spend the next hour catching up in the corner of the living room, half watching the game, laughing at old memories and terrible teachers and that one party junior year that neither of you should probably talk about. he’s easy to be around. always was.
you don’t notice jack until you feel it.
that particular awareness. like a change in the room’s temperature. you glance over marcus’s shoulder mid laugh and find jack across the living room, standing with your dad and two other men, drink in hand, eyes on you.
he looks away the second you catch him.
but you felt it. the weight of it. a different kind of watching than his usual.
you let it go and laugh at something marcus says and don’t look over again.
your phone buzzes at 9:43 pm, twenty minutes after the last guests have trickled out.
come over.
two words. no context.
you say goodnight to your parents, grab your keys, and go.
---
he opens the door before you’ve knocked.
he’s still in what he wore to the game, shirt untucked now, sleeves rolled to the elbow. you can see the definition in his forearms, a vein running through the muscle there, fit in the way of someone who keeps at it without making a show of it. he steps aside to let you in and you cross the threshold and turn to look at him and know. something is sitting differently about him tonight.
“jack,” you start.
“bedroom,” he says. “strip and get on the bed.”
you hold his gaze for a moment. he holds yours back, jaw set, unblinking.
you go upstairs.
you hear him follow a minute later. you’re sitting on the edge of the bed when he comes in, jaw set, eyes darker than usual.
“i said strip,” he says quietly.
“i know what you said,” you say. “i’m trying to figure out what’s going on with you first.”
a beat.
“nothing’s going on,” he says.
“jack.”
he looks at you for a long moment. then he crosses the room, tips your chin up with two fingers, and looks down at you.
“who was he,” he says. low and even, not quite a question.
oh.
you feel the smile start before you can stop it. “marcus?”
his jaw tightens. “is that his name.”
“he’s an old friend,” you say. “we went to high school together.”
his face stays still. but his eyes shift.
“strip,” he says again. “and get on the bed.”
this time you do.
---
the lamp on the nightstand casts the room in dark golden hues. he stands at the foot of the bed and watches you undress, unhooking your bra, sliding fabric off your shoulders, letting things fall. his eyes track every inch of you as it’s revealed, quiet and intent, taking his time with it.
you feel every second of his gaze like a physical thing.
he strips himself without looking away from you. shirt first, then his belt, his pants. the freckles scattered across his body, heavy on his arms, the slight roundness of him. you bite your lip as you take him in.
he looks at you for a long moment in the warm quiet of the room.
“did anything ever happen,” he says. “between you and marcus.”
you look up at him. “we kissed once. at a party junior year.” a pause. “that’s it.”
his jaw ticks.
“once,” he repeats.
“once,” you confirm. “it was nothing.”
he looks at you for another long moment. then he reaches forward and turns you, guiding you onto your hands and knees, one hand pressing firm between your shoulder blades.
you hear him behind you, the tear of a wrapper, and then his hands find your hips and he tilts your chin gently to the right.
there’s a mirror.
long, leaning against the wall, angled just enough that you can see everything. him behind you, broad shoulders, the curve of his body, hands gripping your hips. you, flushed and waiting. the two of you together.
“look,” he says quietly. “look at how good you look with me.”
you look. and then he pushes inside and your mouth falls open.
he sets a pace that’s different from his usual. not cruel, never cruel, but insistent. purposeful. his grip on your hips tighter than normal, fingers pressing into the flesh of you in a way that’ll leave marks and you both know it. every thrust driving you forward, the headboard finding the wall, that familiar clatter filling the room.
“fuck,” he groans, almost to himself, eyes on the mirror meeting yours. “such a good girl, takin me so well.”
you whimper. his hand moves from your hip to your jaw, thumb pressing at the seam of your lips, and your mouth opens for it without thinking. you suck on it lazily, eyes fluttering shut, clenching around him, and the sound he makes behind you is low and barely contained.
then he pulls back, flips you, hauling you up the bed in one smooth motion so your back meets the mattress. he hoists your leg up over his shoulder, the other hooking around the back of his thigh, and pushes back inside and the angle is different, deeper, and you make a sound that comes from somewhere embarrassingly desperate.
he looks down at you.
his eyes are darker than usual. not angry exactly. something more complicated than that. like there’s a purpose behind them, something he’s working through that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with you, and he’s groaning low with every thrust but his jaw is carrying something heavier than exertion.
he wants to imprint himself on you. you can feel it. the want of it radiating off him in waves.
and somewhere underneath all of it, buried where you can’t quite see it, he knows he needs to stop. that this isn’t — it isn’t — it isn’t supposed to be—
his thumb pressing down, rubbing tight circles against your clit, and your back arches clean off the mattress.
“jack—”
“yeah, baby,” he grits out. “come on. come for me.”
you do. hard and shaking, his name breaking apart in your mouth.
he stills. pulls out before he can get there, jaw tight, sits back on his heels. too far in his own head to follow you over the edge. he deals with the condom quietly, efficiently, like if he moves fast enough you won’t notice.
you’re too far gone to notice.
silence settles over the room.
---
he cleans you up without a word, warm towel, the same quiet efficiency as always. then he sits back against the headboard and you roll onto your side, cheek on the pillow, looking up at him.
you’re smiling. you can’t help it.
he looks down at you. reaches out and tucks a strand of hair back from your face.
“what,” he says.
“i like this side of you,” you say.
he looks at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth doing a slow losing battle.
“go to sleep,” he says.
you keep smiling.
“goodnight jack,” you hum.
---
he doesn’t sleep.
you’re curled against his side, breathing slow and even, and he lies there in the dark with the ceiling above him and his thoughts going in circles he can’t stop.
marcus. the way you’d laughed with him. easy and bright, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere comfortable, somewhere with no history of grief or war or bad decisions made in the dark.
he’s a good guy probably. your age. no baggage. no prosthetic leaning against a nightstand. no dead wife he still talks to sometimes in his head when things get quiet enough.
these past two months have been — he stops himself. doesn’t finish the thought.
it was supposed to be simple. he’d told himself that from the beginning. told you too. not a relationship. not more than what it is. just two adults who understood the terms.
but then breakfast happened. and the ice cream in the park. and you falling asleep against him during casablanca and him not moving for two hours because he didn’t want to wake you.
he’d said he wouldn’t give in. he’d said it to himself in that hallway at your parents’ house the night you slipped him your number. he’d said it on the walk when you’d called him out. he’d said it outside the restaurant.
and then he’d stopped saying it entirely.
he looks at you in the dark. the soft rise and fall of you. something clenching in his chest that he doesn’t have a name for and doesn’t want one.
he should put some space between them. before it becomes something it can’t come back from. before you wake up one day and realize you’ve wasted the best years of your life on a man who is held together with old stitches and careful habits.
he thinks about the sabbatical he’s been putting off for two years. three months. scotland, maybe. somewhere far enough that the distance does the work he can’t seem to do himself.
he makes the decision somewhere around four in the morning.
he lies there until six feeling terrible about it.
he’s careful getting up. detaches his prosthetic in the dim light, reattaches it quietly, presses a kiss so soft to your cheek you don’t stir.
then he goes to the kitchen and makes breakfast.
you appear in the doorway twenty minutes later, hair loose, wearing his shirt again, and something about the sight of you does exactly what he knew it would. you pad over and wrap your arms around him from behind, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, and he goes very still.
“morning,” you say, muffled against his back.
“morning,” he says.
he keeps his voice even. keeps his hands moving. eggs in the pan. toast just popped. coffee already poured.
you don’t notice anything. you’re too warm, too soft with sleep, too happy. you steal a piece of toast and sit at the island and talk about something you’d dreamed about and he listens and nods and says the right things and thinks about scotland.
you leave after breakfast with a kiss to his jaw and a smile that does something complicated to his chest.
“i’ll see you later,” you say.
“yeah,” he says.
he watches you go.
---
you drive home giddy in a way you haven’t been in a long time.
you spend the morning working from your childhood bedroom, laptop open, but your mind keeps drifting. to the mirror. to his hands. to the way he’d looked at you in the warm lamp light like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.
he likes you. he has to. people don’t look at people like that unless they mean it.
maybe next time you see him you’ll tell him. quietly. simply. just — i really like you, jack. and see what happens.
you’re smiling at your laptop when your phone lights up on the desk beside you. four consecutive buzzes.
5:04 pm.
you pick it up still smiling when you see it's from the man who won't leave your head.
the smile fades before you’ve finished reading.
jack: hey.
jack: i’ve been thinking about us. what we had these past few months has been really good. more than i anticipated, if i’m honest. but i think we both knew this wasn’t built to last.
jack: the sneaking around, your father, the gap between us. it isn’t fair to either of us to keep going. i’m taking a sabbatical i’ve been putting off for some time. leaving tomorrow. a few months away feels like the right call. i'm sorry i couldn't say goodbye.
jack: take care of yourself.
you read it twice. then a third time like the words might rearrange themselves into something different if you give them enough chances.
they don’t.
you put your phone face down on the desk and sit very still. outside the neighborhood kids laugh. a car passes. the world just keeps going.
you’d been planning to tell him you liked him. you’d been rehearsing it in your head all morning.
you think you heard it. the moment your heart shattered into a million pieces.
an. yes there is a part 2. no, i don’t know when it’ll be out :d hope you liked it !!
So what if Michael keeps dirty photos of you in his wallet?
warnings: established relationship. taking photos of each other. smut. blowjobs. creampie. obscene amount of the word 'baby' used. male masturbation in the workplace. in this household we believe that robby babbles when he's about to cum and we believe in praise kink for reader and robby <3 minors dni. as always, let me know what you think!
word count: 2.5k+
robinavitch masterlist | masterlist | ask
Michael Robinavitch will never admit it but he was a romantic. A man straight out of the old black and white movies. He would never admit it but he’s always wanted to keep a photo of someone special in his wallet. It always felt wrong to put someone there. His past girlfriends never being allowed the place. His seven week flings, as many people called it, never even got close to having the honour.
Until you.
It was a beautiful photo. He remembers it well. It was taken at his height, aiming down at you, a big cheesy grin on your face as he took the photo. On the days where the ER was more than he could handle, he often took it out, just admiring you and feeling the weight of your relationship ground him.
It was well known within the ER that he’d happily take out his wallet and show it to anyone that asked about you. He puffed up his chest as he talked about you, your job, your relationship, everything and anything. He was proud of you, proud of himself to be able to called yours.
It was sweet, and everyone thought it. From the gushing of the older ladies that came in, to the incessant gossip fodder that Robby gave the pitt, everyone loved it.
And so what if behind the innocent photo of you he has two worn and well loved photos that aren’t so innocent? What if he happened to take them out during the brief breaks that he gets when he’s at work - when the ER was weighing him down in a different way and he needed an outlet?
-
“Michael,” you panted, fingers tightening on his chest, you leaned your body reaching for something.
“What’re you doing, baby?” Michael watched, as best as he could as he saw you grab your phone.
“Memento,” you clenched, as you shakily opened up your camera. Focusing as best you could while swivelling your hips, you focused on his chest, your hand in the frame softly clutching his stomach.
Grinning when he realised you were doing, you aimed your photo up, trying to capture the look on his face. Balancing yourself, you placed your other hand on his face, softly caressing his face, moaning lowly when he began kissing up your hand. Taking a couple of photos, you threw your phone somewhere on the bed and planted your hands on his chest.
“You’re dirty,” he grinned as he wrapped his arms around you, bringing you down flush to his chest. Placing his feet on the mattress, he thrusted up earning a particularly loud moan out of you. “That’s it, baby.”
Feeling your panting on his neck, Michael moved his lips until he could reach you. Messily placing his tongue in your mouth, he could feel the combination of your drool slowly slithering down his neck.
He could feel you getting close, your walls clenching around his cock and your mouth falling from his, his name coming out in pants. Rolling your hips, you dragged your nails down Michael’s chest, squeezing until your felt release come.
“Fuck, I love you,” Michael grunted into your ear. “Love you, love your fucking pussy, love my girl,” he choked out the praises as he finished in you. Wrapping you in his embrace tighter, you couldn’t help but whimper as you felt his cum flood inside your pussy.
“You okay?” He gently moved the hair stuck to your face, placing a gentle kiss on your lips.
“Can I see?” Michael kissed your cheek as you laid on his chest, the heat and sweat a bit uncomfortable but you both couldn’t bear to leave each other.
Finding your phone, you accessed your photos, tapping on the first one. It was blurry, as you expected. You could barely make out that there was a person in the photo. Frowning, you swiped to the next photo which was better.
“Look at that,” you said in appreciation, eyes roaming the photo, landing on the glisten of his chest and soft swell of his stomach. “Fuck, Michael, you’re beautiful.”
You turned your phone to show the man below you, watching as a bashful flush creeped up to his cheeks.
“Are you going to be pissed if I have this as my background?”
Ever since then Michael’s been quite a bit obsessed with the thought of taking photos of the two of you together. But he was always too enthralled with whatever you were doing that he forgets to pick up his phone and take a photo.
The first one was an accident.
It was an off day for Michael, you were both lazily laying on the couch. You turned to him, and you were a bit awestruck at just how handsome he was. Sure, he was just sitting on the couch, with his reading glasses on and wearing a t-shirt but you were sure that there wasn’t a man who was more handsome than Michael Robinavitch.
Gazing downwards you bit your lip as you saw the grey sweats that he was wearing, and if you squinted your eyes right, you swear you could see a bulge. Fidgeting in your seat, you somehow managed to turn yourself on, sliding down to the ground, you placed yourself in front Michael. Placing your hands on his knees you slid your hands up until his waistband.
Pawing at the band of his sweats, Michael looked down at you in amusement, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing?”
“I’m bored,” you whined, as you began tugging down his pants. “And you look beautiful.”
“Oh?” Michael leaned back, paper forgotten as he tossed it to the other side of the couch. You could see the cocky smirk on his face but beneath that the small red flush that your compliment brought on.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so handsome,” you nodded, tugging his waistband down. You watched as his cock came to view, half-hard but still always so impressive. Michael’s cock flopped to his left thigh as you continued to push his pants down. Peppering kisses from his knees to his inner thigh, you smirked as you saw his cock twitch and begin leaking.
Placing one hand on one knee, you began leaving little bites, occasionally flicking your eyes to Michael whose chest was now heaving, his hands clenched on the cushions. Finally reaching your prize, you didn’t hesitate to start kissing the side of his cock with an open mouth, your tongue trailing the multiple veins.
Kissing his tip, you looked back up at him. “So pretty,” tapping the head a few times on your tongue, you languidly licked him from base to tip. “Love you,” you muttered against his cock before parting your lips and taking him down your throat. Gagging as you pushed him down slowly, you felt his cock fully harden as you reached the back of your throat.
Putting his hand on the back of your head, Michael watched as his length disappeared in your mouth, your nose brushing against his pubic hair before going back up, sucking in your cheeks when you hit his tip. Then repeating the actions, each time more hurried than the last. He felt his balls tighten and willed himself to just hold out a little bit longer.
Wrapping his hands around your hair, Michael regretfully pulled you away from his cock, a sympathetic smile on his face as he heard your whine. “Beautiful,” Michael praised as he saw you; face flushed, teary eyes and a mixture of his precum and your saliva. Caressing your cheek, you automatically leaned into his touch, a soft and adoring look on your face.
Feeling around for his phone, Michael shakily opened the camera. You moved slightly, trying to see what he was doing, “Stay still, baby,” Michael warned, pulling your hair a bit. “Look at me,” aiming the camera, you smiled as you grasped his cock.
Showing off to the camera, you placed the head of his cock back on your tongue, a cheeky grin on your face as you heard the shutter.
“Wait,” Michael rasped, his hands gently tugging on your hair. “Can you hold my cock against your face?”
You chuckled fondly and followed his instructions. Placing his cock against the side of your face, you smiled dazedly at the camera. Taking multiple photos, Michael began to tremble as you tightened your grip and began stroking him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, “so beautiful.”
“Show me how to print it out later,” Michael groaned as he felt you swallow around him. At his statement you couldn’t help chuckle around his cock. “Shit, you okay?”
Pulling away from him, “You’re such an old man.”
“Well this old man just has a photo of you with his cock on his phone,” Michael twisted his phone before throwing it somewhere on the couch. “Now come on, baby, come up, want to cum in your pussy.”
You rolled your eyes but nonetheless stood up and placed yourself on his lap. “Such a romantic.”
The second was more intentional. Michael felt insatiable that night, asking you if he could just use you, and of course you said yes.
“Best girl,” Michael thrusted, “best fucking pussy,” this time he manhandled your legs so they were over his shoulders. Leaning over you, you groaned at the full weight on him on top of your body, “Fucking love you,” he panted against your ear, biting across your jaw until he placed an open mouth kiss to your lips.
Wrapping your legs around him, you felt each and every thrust of his cock, your walls tightening with each movement. Slackjawed, all you could do was run your nails down his back, clenching when you heard Michael hiss above you. Nipping your lips, Michael moved down your neck before licking back up to your mouth.
Moving his hand to feel around for his phone, Michael didn’t relent in his frantic thrust, his other hand reaching for his phone. Quickly opening it, he leaned back and you whined at the loss of his weight. Angling his phone down, he couldn’t help but wrap one hand around your neck, gently closing his grip.
“Stay,” and as he began taking photos, his hand drifted down, splaying it across your lower stomach. There was something about watching you through your phone that got Michael heated more than usual. Maybe it was the vulnerability, the trust that you give him.
Leaning back, he felt you slip your legs down, wincing as it reached his thighs. “Stay still, sweetheart,” pulling back a bit, he aimed the photo again. This time his cock in frame, zooming in he couldn’t help but buck his hips, entranced in the way your pussy engulfed him. Tossing his phone by your side, Michael slammed back in, causing you to arch your back, your tits practically jumping in his face.
He increased his pace, his forearms by your neck, mouth on yours. “Gonna cum baby,” he warned against your mouth.
“Inside,” you pleaded, tightening your legs around him. “Please, Michael, fill me up.”
“You first,” reaching down, he balanced on one forearm, one hand reaching to your clit to rub tight little circles, and his mouth finding home on your neck. Feeling him bite down where your neck meets your shoulder, Michael groaned as he felt your walls flutter around his cock. Squeezing once, he felt you pulse your hips as his name came out as a silent scream.
Cursing Michael chased his release, his hips losing any rhythm he had. Knowing that he was closed, you clenched as hard as you could, Michael bit down harder and with one last muffled grunt of your name, you felt him empty inside of you.
Hissing as he removed himself, Michael reached to grab his phone. Aiming it down to your leaking cunt, he snapped a couple of photos. Separating your folds with his fingers, he bit his lip as he saw you clench and pushed out some of his cum. Tutting as he saw some of his release land on the bed, he gave your pussy one last gentle kiss and threw his phone somewhere on the bed.
Laying on top of you, Michael lazily kissed up and down your neck, while you played with the hairs on the base of his neck. Letting out a contended sigh, you felt your heartbeat begin to settle.
“Next time, film yourself cumming side of me.”
-
A particularly loud bang outside of the bathroom brought Michael out of his trance. He looked down, cock in his hand and your photo in the other. Gritting his teeth, he knew that he couldn’t go out with this. Stroking faster, tightening his fist - trying to recreate your wet heat (but failing), Michael thought about you; the way you felt, the sounds that you made. Grunting your name, he threw his head back, his hand squeezing the base of his cock as he pointed his cum to the toilet.
Panting he looked down at his hand and felt a bit of shame run through his veins. But as he looked at what was on his other hand, he could feel the warm thrum up his spine. “Fuck baby, look at what you’ve done to me.”
Leaving the bathroom, he looked at Dana and mouthed ‘taking my five’, and stepped outside into the ambulance bay. Tapping your contact, he placed his phone against his ear.
“Michael? You okay babe?”
“Just missed you,” he silently murmured, leaning against the wall.
“Michael Robinavitch, it’s currently eleven am and you’re jerking off?” You laughed breathily, and he could hear the creak in your chair as you sat back.
He chuckled, feeling hot underneath his scrubs, “I just miss you,” he enunciated. “How the hell did you even get to that conclusion?”
“You get sentimental after you cum, Michael,” you paused and he could practically imagine you connecting the dots. “Did you look at the photos again?”
“They’re very good photos,” he responded instantly and you hummed.
“I think they’re a bit outdated, though, don’t you think?” You teased.
The thrum was back, eagerness filling every crevice of his bones. “What do you have planned, princess?”
Smiling, “I’m thinking that you have two straight days off, and we’ll have plenty of time to update those photos,” you stated coyly. “I have some ideas, if you’re up for it, Robinavitch.”
Michael groaned which caused you to chuckle, “I have eight more hours, you can’t do this,” running a hand down his face, he could feel the telltale sign of his blood rushing to his cock.
“You’re the one who messaged me after you jerked off,” you scoffed. “You started it.”
He rolled his eyes, “Well, I’m sorry for missing the love of my life.”
All he got was a soft cooing noise from you, and a, “Uh-huh, sure. Now go save lives, doc, and when you get home we can replace those very well loved photos with new ones.”
Michael couldn’t help the grin appear on his face, “You’re dirty.”
“And you love me,” you teased, then in a more serious manner, “And I love you.”
“I love you,” Michael replied instantly. “I’ll see you when I get home.”
“Try not to wear yourself out on your breaks Doctor Robinavitch, I’ll need you in tip top shape tonight.”
summary: you took over jack and robby's spare room a few months ago and now you and jack are constantly at each other's throats. robby has finally had enough and he's hoping some forced proximity will do the trick. seems like it works a little too well.
content/warnings: roommate au-ish, robby is alluded to being kinda a slut, in robby's pov for like 25% of the fic, you're kinda a bad roommate tbh, jack is sort of mean to u, forced proximity trope, angry/hate sex, unprotected piv, mirror sex, exhibitionism if you squint, subtle degradation, choking, kind of what i imagine early mean dom!abbot is like, pope cody kinda possessed jack near the end in this one #sorry NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!
wc: 6.7k
notes: fully inspired by that one tumblr post that's like "you should be addicted to shutting the fuck up" "you want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid" this was a fun challenge and i love shawn hatosy's teeth i am so sad he's straightened them. self indulgent as always u'll start seeing a trend with my kinks soon. not proofread so proceed at your own risk
—
When you think back on this situation, you always wonder how you ended up here. And the answer is simple. You were desperate.
You must have done something evil in a past life because your landlord had decided to sell his place with no notice, which left you and other roommates with two weeks to find a new place to live before he evicted all of you. You remember spending countless sleepless nights scouring the internet, meeting random people, seeing random apartments.
That’s how you met Jack and Michael.
It was another roommate interview; they seemed nice, both in med school or something so they wouldn’t be home much, they said. Their apartment was scarily clean for two guys, but Jack assured you that he was a self proclaimed clean freak and it was always like this. Michael just said not to go into his room and you would be fine, which you didn’t really want to think about further.
They used to have a third roommate, they explained, but he wasn’t really taking to residency all that well and moved back home. Although the way Michael told the story seemed casual, the implication was glaring. You could read between the lines. They needed someone to take over his lease, and fast.
Considering the fact that the last two girls you met said your chakras were misaligned and that they could fix that if you paid them, coupled with the fact that you were about three days out from being homeless, you decided to take a chance on Jack and Michael. How bad could living with two guys be?
That was months ago. Now?
You wish you paid those girls to realign your chakras and moved into their apartment. Sure, the boys’ apartment was nice. It wasn’t living with boys that was the issue. They were telling the truth; Jack really always kept it clean and the pair of them were always at the hospital, so they were barely around.
It’s when they were around that was the issue.
Or, more specifically, when Jack was around. Robby, as he told you to call him a few weeks into you living there, was nice enough. He was polite and funny, humor just dry enough to be endearing. He always had a few girls coming in and out when he wasn’t working or knocked out from his shift, but that was neither here nor there for you.
Jack, on the other hand, was driving you up the wall. Your niceties had fizzled out in exactly two weeks, ending when you got into an argument about something so small, you can’t even remember it now.
And that was that. After that fight, you were always butting heads whenever you were together, always about the dumbest things. It’s reached the point where you two can barely be in a room together without getting into it. You know Robby had been trying to mediate over the past few months, but to no avail. Nowadays, he just tries his best to not pull his hair out.
Like today.
“How many times have I asked you to stop slamming doors?” Jack snaps as you exit your room. He’s seated next to Robby at the bar, who’s tucking into his bowl of cereal and looking like he's praying that no one drags him into this conversation. They're both still in their pyjamas, Jack’s curls still mussed from sleep.
“Well, good morning to you too, Jack,” You sigh, not even looking in his direction as you make your way into the kitchen on the opposite side of the bar. Pulling open the fridge, you ponder making a smoothie just to see if it’ll piss him off some more. “Glad to see a full night of rest hasn't removed the stick from your ass.”
You can see Robby white knuckling his spoon out of the corner of your eye, but he remains silent. Jack scoffs, using his fork to angrily gesture in the direction of your bedroom.
“Last I remembered, there was only one of us here not working twelve hour shifts at a hospital. I’d like a little sleep before I have to listen to you talk all day.” He looks to his right, presumably to have Robby to back him up, but he’s already left his bowl in the sink and is slinking away from the conversation.
“Tsk, tsk, Doctor Abbot. Someone needs to work on their bedside manner,” Shaking your head at him, you can tell that he’s already annoyed, face twisted up as your words. You decide, yeah, the blender probably will piss Jack off, and start pulling out some fruit. “Don’t they teach you that in medical school?”
“I’ve got one of the highest patient satisfaction ratings of the department,” He shoots back, a barely concealed brag. Not that it mattered that much to you, but he was clearly proud of the fact anyways. “I just save it for people that actually listen to the words that come out of my mouth. You-”
It seems comical, the timing, really. You toss the last of the fruit into the blender and switch it on, effectively cutting him off and punctuating his point. You watch his eyes furrow and you were totally right, the blender absolutely does piss him off. You mime something about not being able to hear him, sorry! and he rolls his eyes, conceding. Jack always did, if it was before eleven in the morning. Still too tired from his shift to get under your skin properly, you assumed. He grabs his plate and his coffee mug in a huff, heading into Robby’s room, no doubt to complain about you behind your back.
You shut the blender off once he leaves, the loud whirring slowing to a stop. You remember a time that you imagined yourself getting along with both of them, falling into your place at the apartment like their missing puzzle piece. But there was just something about Jack that just pushed all your buttons. He was just a pain in the ass.
A really handsome, really annoying, cherub-faced pain in the ass.
—
Robby likes to think of himself as a patient man.
The emergency room teaches you that. Taking a step back. Pausing, being objective. Being able to make the decisions that need to be made.
And right now, a decision definitely needed to be made. Robby was living in a psychological warzone.
He remembers when he and Jack were deliberating on who to choose to take over their spare room. It was between you and some guy who looked like he ate cigarettes for every meal; Robby can’t even remember his name now. Jack had said that they should pick you — even said you were cute.
This was one of the few instances in the time that he had known Jack that he had regretted listening to him.
“And she just-” Jack’s got his plate teetering on his knee, coffee mug still in his hand as he gestures angrily for no reason in particular. You’ve really worked him up this morning and now Robby is dealing with the consequences.
“Geez, man,” Robby can’t help but snap, cutting him off. Lately it’s been endless, Jack’s complaining. It feels like he starts and ends every day listening to Jack bitch and moan about their roommate, and it’s driving him up the wall. “You ever think about cooling it a little? Maybe extending an olive branch or something?”
“An olive branch? For what? I didn’t do anything.” His comment has clearly caught Jack off guard, eyes falling to his plate as he pushes the remaining remnants of his breakfast around.
“It’s not about you doing something. It’s about you two getting along,” Robby explains with a sigh. He knows that Jack knows better than this, but there was just something about the situation that made him see red. Something about you. “A little peace around here would be nice, you know?”
“You should tell her that.” Jack gives up pretending to eat and sets his plate aside. Robby can feel the anxious energy radiating off of him; his leg shaking the bed, the angry tap, tap, tap of his nails against the ceramic of his coffee mug. He reaches out and places a hand on his thigh to steady him. The shaking stops instantly.
“You gotta figure this shit out,” Robby says, attempting to toe the line between stern and empathetic. He thinks it might just be coming off as tired, though. “Whatever issue you guys have, you guys need to solve that shit.”
Jack stiffens under his touch when the words leave his mouth and Robby kicks himself. For some reason, he keeps forgetting just how stubborn his best friend is.
“I don't know what you're talking about.” Jack replies flatly. That kills the conversation and he collects his things and leaves Robby’s room, leaving him alone in some well needed silence.
Robby decides needs a new approach.
He tries his best to stick it out for the next few days, waiting until his next off day rolls around. Jack, on the other hand, is working that day which presents the perfect opportunity for Robby to appeal to your better nature instead.
He’s leaning on the counter, watching you put your groceries in the fridge. Over the time that you’ve been living together, you and Robby have learned to grow comfortable in the silence in the apartment. You’ll sit together on the couch, reading a book while he studies without saying a word. It’s grounding for him, like a familiar blanket. At least, that’s when Jack isn’t around.
Robby is finally pulled out of his thoughts when he notices you staring at him, hand on your hip. You’ve got an eyebrow raised, like you just asked him a question that he took far too long to reply to.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Robby shakes his head, trying to focus on you once more. “I was, uh, zoned out.”
“I just said you’ve been looking at me all weird,” You reply, hand dropping from your hip. You approach him slowly, laying a hand on his arm. You seemed concerned, which was sweet. He’s always wondered where the part of you that got Jack all riled up went when he wasn’t around. “Are you okay?”
“No, not really,” He says with a sigh, taking a step back out of your space. He takes a deep breath, wondering how exactly to explain this to you. He doesn’t want to misstep like he did with Jack; then he’d really be screwed. “It’s about you and Jack.”
“What about us?” Your curiosity is piqued but Robby can see that you’ve stiffened just at the mention of his name.
“Look, I get that you and Jack hate each other or whatever,” He runs a hand through his hair, deciding that the best course of action was to just be honest. Whatever happens after that is out of his hands. “But the arguing is driving me insane. Would you be able to maybe take it down a notch when I’m around? And when I’m not, you can kill him for all I care.”
“I think you would definitely care if I murdered Jack,” You say with a scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. You two stand in silence for a moment. Tense, not the comfortable kind that Robby is used to. He can see your eyes flicking around as you think, taking in his words. And then your posture softens. “But you’re right, I’m sorry.”
“Oh great,” He heaves a sigh of relief, taking a seat at the bar. You watch him, the curious look in your eye replaced with something that might even resemble sympathy. “I asked Jack the same thing and he nearly bit my head off.”
“You thought I would react worse than Jack?” You look at him sadly, hand splayed over your heart in mock hurt. “I’m wounded, Michael.”
He rolls his eyes and you’re back in the kitchen, bent over and rustling through the fridge. He watches you gather ingredients, pushing around and looking for the things that you need. He taps his finger on the counter, suspicious.
“Is that really it?” He asks and you turn around, arms full. You shrug as you start placing things on the counter, gesturing for Robby to help you with a nod of your head. He quickly stands up, setting down whatever remained.
“I could make more of a scene, if you like,” You pull out the cutting board and knife from below the counter, shooting him a look from the corner of your eye. “But I thought I’d make you an ‘I’m-sorry-I-get-into-fights-with-your-best-friend’ dinner instead.”
Robby lights up at that. He and Jack always cook for themselves, but your food always looks a million times better than theirs. Probably because once they get home from their shifts they only have the energy to make boxed mac and cheese before falling asleep on the couch, bowls still in their laps.
So yes, Robby will jump at the chance to eat some food that doesn’t come out of a box and doesn’t involve any powdered cheese.
You’re standing side by side when Jack walks in; Robby is chopping vegetables and you’re throwing everything together in a pot. Your shoulders are brushing —the kitchen you share is too small not to, especially at Robby’s size.
Robby glances up from the cutting board, ready to greet Jack, when he sees the look on his face. It’s twisted up in something… something Robby can’t really place. He’s frowning, eyes scanning the scene in front of him. Before he can open his mouth to say hello, Jack stomps off to his room, hand clutching the strap of his go-bag tightly. The door slams behind him and Robby finally looks in your direction. You’re looking equally as confused as he feels.
“What the hell is up with him?” You ask, going back to what you were doing before Jack’s abrupt arrival. He guesses that you were used to this kind of behaviour; Jack being all prickly towards you. Robby however, was not. He sneaks another glance at Jack’s closed door, brows furrowed.
“Bad shift, maybe?” He tries to supply. You just shrug in response.
He knows that it’s something else.
—
After that dinner the fighting only gets worse.
You’ve been making Robby a lot of I’m sorry dinners, which is a plus. But the hostile living situation is definitely a negative.
He knows you’ve been trying to keep it down but it seems like you can’t even enter a room without Jack getting irritated with you these days. He’s tried to talk to him about it a grand total of once, and Jack snarls at him to ‘just leave it’ in a tone he’s never heard before, so he has.
But it’s driving Robby insane. He wants to eat a meal, sit on the couch, and study in peace. It’s reaching the point where he’s wondering if he’s going to have to physically separate you. The fights have been escalating; you two have been crowding each other’s space, all gnashing teeth and pointed jabs to the chest.
Right now he’s laying in bed, listening to you two argue through the wall. He doesn’t even know what it’s about. In fact, he never really knows what they’re about. They always start off about something insignificant and then escalate into the grudges that you two are holding against each other. It seems like the fights never end, one of you always storming out before you ever come to a resolution.
Robby is sure that you could probably talk out your differences if you bothered to actually have a conversation about it without one of you stomping away. In fact, he’d put money on it.
He listens to a few more shouts and a particularly loud door slam and something in him finally breaks.
He decides to put his money where his mouth is.
—
You’re enjoying a rare moment to yourself, curled up on the couch under a blanket with a book in hand when Robby’s voice rings through the living room.
“The sink in the bathroom is doing that weird thing again.”
Motherfucker.
You tilt your head back with a groan, slamming your book shut. The sink in the bathroom had been crapping out on you guys for as long as you remember and for some reason, you were the only person who could jiggle the handle just right to get it working again.
“Can’t a girl get a moment to herself here?” You sigh, pulling off the blanket dramatically. Robby just shrugs, eyeing you as you put your book down. There’s something in his gaze you can’t place, a bit distant. It’s easy to assume it’s all the fighting with Jack.
You promised to try to be nicer to him, but he just keeps goading you into petty arguments. It’s not hard to tell that it’s driving a wedge between the three of you. Tensions have been high in the apartment lately and you’ve noticed that Robby has elected to spend more time away, presumably with one of his many girlfriends.
Robby turns around wordlessly, not even checking to see if you’re following. It unnerves you a bit; he’s usually always down to rib with you and he never ignores you. Worrying your lip, you drop the nonchalant act and trail behind him in the direction of your bathroom. He pauses at the doorframe, waiting for you to catch up.
You approach him, wanting to ask if everything is okay, when he grabs you by the arm. It’s not rough and you wouldn’t expect it to be; Robby would never hurt you. However, his grip and the element of surprise are enough to allow him to haul you into the bathroom. You barely get a word out before the door shuts behind you.
You blink in shock, taking a moment to realize what exactly is happening to you.
Jack is standing in front of you, the same look of shock mirrored on his face. The sight of him has you whirling on your heels, grabbing the door handle. It doesn’t give —something is jamming the handle, effectively locking you in the bathroom. The bathroom you share, that’s about the size of a closet. Locked in with the guy that makes your blood boil.
For more reason than one.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” You hear Jack’s gruff voice from behind you but you deign to ignore it, choosing to bang against the door instead.
“Robby!” You shout, still rapping your fist against the door. You know that he can hear you; the walls and doors in this place are paper thin. Jack’s gaze is hot on your back and you can imagine his arms are crossed, ready to see what you’ll do next. “Let us out!”
“No,” You can hear his voice loud and clear through the wood. He must be standing right in front of the door on the other side, staring at the chipped white paint. His voice is serious, flat in a way you’ve never heard before. “You guys aren’t coming out until you’re best friends. I can’t deal with the bickering anymore. Either figure it out, or enjoy living in the bathroom together. Forever.”
Then you hear his footsteps, the sound of them peetering away. Which means you really are stuck in here for the time being.
You turn to face Jack with a deep sigh. You were right; his arms are crossed over his chest, looking as cool and collected as he always does before he starts pushing all your buttons. You two just look at each other for a moment, soaking everything in. He breaks the silence first. “How did he lure you in here?”
“He told me the sink was broken again.” You mutter, shifting uncomfortably in place and leaning your back against the door. The two of you stand at opposite ends of the bathroom, but the distance doesn’t feel nearly far enough.
You know that Robby is right. The two of you are constantly at each other’s throats for no reason. You run a hand over your face, annoyed that you’ve found yourself in a situation as dumb as this. As tragic as it is, you realize that this is probably the longest the two of you have gone without arguing in a long time.
“Robby is right. We need to stop.” Jack says, as if he can read your mind. You scoff at that, rolling your eyes. That’s rich coming from him. He’s the one constantly provoking you, pushing you until you’re the one who’s fuming when he walks into the room.
“You’re one to talk,” You reply, deciding to confront him. It’s what Robby wanted, right? For you to talk it out? You weren’t sure it would lead anywhere but it didn’t really seem like your third roommate was letting you out anytime soon. “Robby told me that he already asked you to stop and you chewed him out for it.”
“I did not chew him out,” Jack denies, shaking his head in disbelief. You can already feel anger bubbling up just from his dismissive tone. “You and Robby are best friends now, huh?”
“Yeah, that's kind of what happens when your third roommate is a gigantic asshole.” You spit back. So much for not arguing. It's getting hard to keep your annoyance under wraps, especially with the wounds of your last million fights still raw.
“Oh, please. I was his friend first, way before you came along,” Jack takes a step forward like he wants to pace but quickly realizes he doesn't have enough room without getting closer to you and pauses. He opts for rocking back on his heels instead. “It’s your fault we’re even in this situation in the first place.”
“My fault? Are you listening to yourself?” You laugh incredulously, dropping all pretenses that this could even be a normal conversation anymore. “You sound like a child. I’ve tried my best to be nice to you! How is this my fault?”
“Yeah, it’s your fucking fault!” This time he’s brave enough to take a step forward, probably more out of frustration than anything else. “You call that being nice? Getting into fights with me? Getting all friendly with Robby?”
“Is this what this is about?” You’ve caught him in a weird spot and he knows it, running a hand through his auburn curls. His brow furrows but you cut him off before he can shoot back a response. “Robby? Is that why you’ve been acting extra annoying since that night you saw us making dinner a few weeks ago?”
“It's not about him,” He grunts, jaw tensing. You can see that he’s holding back whatever he wants to say by his taut shoulders as he speaks. “It's about you.”
“About me? I don't understand what your problem with me is, or why you think this is my fault-”
“Oh my god, do you ever shut up?” Jack cuts you off, and the room goes dead silent. You two are close now, like both of you were taking subconscious steps towards each other as you fought. It was always like that —when you had these fights it always ended up with you crowding each other's spaces. This time was no exception.
But the size of the bathroom makes it feel different. You can almost feel his breath from the quick rise and fall of his chest, pulse racing from the argument. Your breath matches his, coming out in short huffs. You’ve got each other all riled up and you can see something flash in his eyes.
Then it clicks.
“You want to fuck me, don't you?” You can see from his reaction that you’ve got it right on the nose. He takes a step back, the bluntness of your statement pulling him out of the stupor of anger he was in.
“What?” He recoils like the thought of it is physically repulsive. You try not to take too much offense from that, especially because you know that it’s all for show. The heat of the tension between you two has shattered and you give a smug smirk, teeth almost bared.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” You’re taunting him now, but after everything that he put you through it only seems fair. You can’t help but laugh out loud as you continue. “Little Jackie’s got a crush on me? That’s why he’s pushing me on the playground?”
“Don’t call me that.” The timbre of his voice is low, egging you along. “You wish. I hate you.”
“Oh, yeah? How much?” You press. Jack’s gained more confidence and he’s back in your space. Even though you’re holding the cards, taunting him with a crush, you still feel like prey. He’s circling you like a shark without even moving. His eyes are on you as he backs you up against the door.
He still hasn’t answered your empty threat. You can feel his body heat even through your clothes and it makes your breath catch. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Jack, and you see a whisper of a smile on his lips. Any proverbial cards you had in your hands just moments before have fluttered to the ground. Jack has caught you and you both notice, and the idea of that has Jack looking at you like the cat who got the cream.
You’re fully pressed against the door now, almost forehead to forehead. His hands hover between the two of you, like he’s unsure of if he’s actually allowed to touch you or not. You finally grow the courage to look up at him and meet his eyes, your noses brushing as you do. He takes that as permission and moves his hands towards you, resting loose at your waist.
It’s hard to breathe, much less think. You can smell Jack’s body wash from this distance and it has your brain short circuiting. He’s close enough to see every reaction and he drags a hand up your side slowly, fingertips skimming.
It travels up the expanse of your body and pauses at your neck, his fingers tightening for a moment. His grip isn’t firm but it’s enough to make your eyes flutter. Jack rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest and his hand continues it’s journey upwards, thumb settling on your bottom lip. He swipes across it slowly and it makes your heart stutter.
Fuck it.
Your mouth parts slowly and you take his digit into your mouth, lips closing around it. Jack presses even closer to you, chest to chest. His eyes have been locked on yours the entire time and they stay that way, even as his other hand moves to slip into your sleep shorts.
He’s got his hand cupped over your panties but you know he can feel how wet you are, even through the fabric. He finally lets the smirk take over his face, pressing his thumb into your mouth further. His fingers trail across the dampness of your underwear, sickly slow.
“This all for me?” He asks, cocky, and it’s pretty annoying when the shoe is on the other foot. “You get wet when I tell you I hate you? When we fight?”
His fingers are still moving slowly, making your mind foggy. Or maybe that’s just your excuse for when you look up at him dumbly, nodding. He seems satisfied with that answer, dipping in past the lacy waistband of your panties. His breath hitches when gets a finger between your folds and feels that you’re absolutely dripping in anticipation. You’ve got half a mind to tease him about it, but he pushes a finger in and the thought suddenly vanishes from your mind.
The finger on your lips moves down again, landing on your throat once more. He’s only a knuckle deep when he pauses, cocking his head. The hand around your neck gives a small squeeze, and your pussy flutters around nothing at the sensation. You let out a small moan, heat rushing up to your face in both arousal and embarrassment. “Think I didn’t notice, huh? How much you liked it?”
Before you can answer he slides in the rest of the way, leaving you speechless. The pace he sets is slow and deep, making your knees buckle. You’re gripping onto his annoyingly thick arms and his breath is ghosting your face. You can tell he’s holding back, eyes flickering from your lips to the hand down your shorts.
You don’t wait for him to make up his mind. Surging upwards, you catch his lips in yours, pulling him close by his shirt. The moment breaks the dam —all the months of pent up frustration and fights seared into a bruising kiss. He wastes no time, licking desperately into your mouth as he works you open with his hand. You’re mewling, sliding your lips against his as you whimper, slick with spit.
He’s got his leg slotted between your thighs and you can feel how hard he is, even through the layer of his denim jeans. He groans quietly under his breath, grinding against you as he fucks you with his fingers. The noise is obscene —you’re so wet that the sound of it reverberates through the bathroom every time his digits enter you.
It’s embarrassing, really, the way that you’re basically riding his fingers. Your hips are chasing the sensation and he gives another groan at the sight. He’s still got his hand wrapped around your throat and his brow is furrowed with pleasure, obsessed with the way he has you just falling apart for him.
The look on his face is getting you close, like he’s pissed that he gave into you but he wants to take you apart so damn bad he just can’t resist. He tightens his grip and hits that spot inside you just right and you can’t help the strangled whine that leaves your mouth as you tighten around him, cumming on his hand way too loudly for you two to keep what you’re doing a secret.
He’a got his hand out of your shorts now and he’s moved them both to pull your tank top down, exposing your chest. His breathing picks up and runs his hands up your body, rough skin on your sensitive nipples as he grabs at you, rough. Jack leans in for another bruising kiss, but you only get a short moment to savour it before he's got you by the hair, twisting you around and bending you over the counter.
The force of it has everything on the counter rattle, the tall bottle of lotion you keep in the bathroom toppling over. You recover and stumble to push yourself to your elbows, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You look absolutely fucked out, hair disheveled, lips pink and swollen, looking at yourself all glassy eyed. Then your eyes flick back to take a look at Jack, who’s rutting his bulge into the clothed heat of your cunt.
The sight almost makes you cum again on the spot. His lids are hooded, mouth hanging half open in pleasure as he moves against you. He’s still got a hand woven into your hair and his eyes flutter open in a way you can only describe as pretty as he takes in your state through the mirror. His grip disappears and he pulls off his shirt, the piece of clothing landing on the ridge of the bathtub behind you as he tosses it. You can’t even get out a quip before he’s yanking your shorts down, taking your panties down with them.
Even though he just had his fingers in you moments ago, you still feel embarrassed with how exposed you are for him. If he notices the way you get shy, he doesn’t comment, hands drifting to undo his belt buckle instead. You mewl as he steps out of his jeans, hard cock slapping against his stomach. You’re almost drooling to get your mouth around it and he laughs at the look on your face.
“Yeah? Are you sure you’re not the one that wants to fuck me? ‘Cause it seems like you’re a minute away from begging for it.” He pumps his length loosely with one hand, lips curled into a smirk as his fingertips of the other skid up the side of your thigh. The touch has your pussy fluttering, and you’re hoping that he can’t see the way your legs are shaking. You can see the glimmer of precome gathered at his tip and you lick your lips.
“Fuck you.” You say through gritted teeth, although it comes off much less intimidating as you would like since you’re bent over and at his mercy. He lets out another laugh at your expense, not bothering to say anything else while he lines himself up at your entrance.
“Well, since you asked so nicely…” You’re already slick from his fingers, so he pushes in rough and fast, both of you groaning as he sheathes himself fully inside of you. It pushes you to your toes, punching a breath from your chest. You can tell that this is going to be quick and dirty, and you brace your hands on the counter in anticipation.
You were right. He pulls out slowly and you shiver at the sensation, then he slams back into you so hard that you can’t help but yelp. You spare a glance up at his face and you can tell that he fucking loved that, so he keeps that pace, rough and slow.
“Fuck, Jack…” You sound strung out as you moan his name, hips bucking as you try to get him to speed up, go deeper, anything. You’ve already come to terms with the fact that you’ve definitely lost this argument but then one of his big hands presses into your back, pressing you against the counter and you can’t really bring yourself to care. The other grips your shoulder and it’s like he can read your mind.
Jack starts fucking into you without abandon, chasing his high. It’s rough and the slap of skin on skin bounces off the tile, which only serves to make you even more wet. You’re pretty sure you’re just mumbling nonsense now, too focused on how deep Jack is inside of you to put together a coherent sentence. Jack’s getting loud too, the hand on your back snaking down to grab at your hip, pulling you back into him as he thrusts.
“Would’ve done this a lot earlier if I knew how easily I could shut you up.” He manages to get out, in between low groans and short breaths. You want to defend yourself, you really do, but he pulls you back on him and plunges in particularly deep, making your eyes cross, and your voice dies in your throat. Jack’s fucking you brainless, that much you can’t deny. You’re whining as the heat in your stomach spreads, cunt tightening as Jack fucks into you even rougher.
You know he feels it when he lets out a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously close to your name, hips stuttering. Then you feel a tight yank on your scalp, forcing your head upwards. You can barely keep still as Jack continues to move, head bobbing even with his grip on your hair.
“Look at me.” He says, gruff and deep, and you clench around him at the sound. It takes way too much effort to open your eyes, motions slow like molasses. You clearly take far too long for Jack’s liking, pulling harder on your hair as he repeats himself. Finally, your eyes flutter open, and you’re so close to the mirror that your breath fogs the glass. Your mouth is wide open in a silent moan, eyes almost crossed. Another rough tug reminds you what he asked for, and you drag your gaze up to meet Jack’s.
His hazel eyes are dark with lust, hair stamped to his forehead in sweat. A smirk spreads across his face when he notices that you’ve obeyed, finally looking at him. The way he has your hair in an iron grip has your back arching and his cock is hitting spots inside of you that you didn’t even know existed. You can tell that he’s approaching his high just as fast as you are; his thrusts are growing sloppy and you almost can’t hear your small mewls over all the noise he’s making.
“Look at me when you cum.” He growls as he notices your eyes drifting as your orgasm approaches. It’s not a question. It’s a demand. Your eyes snap back to his and he’s already looking at you, eyes watching your face contort in pleasure. Locking eyes, he slides a hand in between your legs to work your clit, already slick from just how turned on you are by the whole ordeal. He’s rubbing tight circles around it and everything comes crashing down.
You cum so hard around his cock that you can’t even tell if you kept the eye contact he asked for, your vision going white. You’re also pretty sure your knees give out, but Jack keeps you steady with a hand around your waist as he keeps his pace going. You whimper as he fucks you through your orgasm, nerves alight, when he pulls out with a loud groan. He gives a few rough pumps, made easy with your cum practically dripping off of his dick, and you have the pleasure of watching him come undone, coating your ass with ropes of cum.
Jack braces his hand on the counter, knuckles tightening with one last shudder of his body. You two stay that way for a moment, catching your breath. The silence is deafening as you try to think through the synchronised pants that you two share. You’re not sure how many minutes pass until he straightens up, grabbing a towel hanging off the back of the door. He begins to clean you off, gentle in a way that you didn’t expect from him, and you decide that this probably isn’t the best time to tell him that he’s using Robby’s towel.
Once he’s done, he tosses it into the laundry bin in the corner and pulls up his briefs and jeans. You turn around as he approaches you once more, worrying your lip. You’re trying to think of something to say when Jack bends down, pulling your shorts and panties back up to your waist. He fiddles with the waistband of your shorts for a second before moving onto your tank, tugging the straps back up your shoulders and covering your chest once more.
You two are close again, but this time it lacks any of the anger and heat that it did before. Jack’s still got a finger tangled in your tank top strap, leaning closer into your space, noses brushing once more. You think he opens his mouth to say something, but the door swings open and interrupts him before he can start.
“That was probably a million times worse than listening to you guys argue,” Robby says, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, the door still held open with the palm of his hand. “Can I ask you guys to go back to fighting instead?”
Warnings: reader's body conscious, mentions of reader being plus sized, slight breeding kink, smut, smut, and more smut, sexual intercourse, oral sex. IF I FORGOT ANYTHING, LET ME KNOW.
A/N: This is for the plus size girlies out there. Should be read after "Pulse Points". Here.
Robby was lying in bed waiting for you to get out of the shower. It had been about a week since Oglivie talked about your size in a very public way. Robby played on his phone, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. Steam curled faintly through the crack beneath the bathroom door, softening the edges of his bedroom.
A week since the comment became something that followed you both home. He scrolled absently through his phone, though he couldn’t have said what he was looking at. The blue light glazed his face; his glasses slid low on the bridge of his nose, unnoticed. Every so often, he glanced toward the bathroom door as if he expected it to open at any second, as if he were bracing for it,
But the water kept running.
Robby shifted, the bedsheets whispering beneath him. He was in his boxers, trying to relax after the long twelve hour shift you both had endured. He told himself he was waiting casually—just passing time. Just another night—but the quiet had weight tonight. Oglivie’s voice still echoed in memory: too loud, too amused, too public.
He locked his phone and set it facedown on his chest. The room felt smaller than usual, crowded with things unsaid. A week shouldn’t have mattered this much. Words were just words. Still, they had rearranged something—tilted the ordinary.
The pipes groaned softly as the shower shut off. Steam pressed more insistently at the crack beneath the bathroom door, curling into the bedroom like a living thing. Robby sat up a little straighter, pushing his glasses back into place, suddently aware of his own breathing.
He wasn’t sure what to expect when you stepped out—an apology, a joke, indifference. Maybe nothing at all. Maybe just you, toweling your hair dry as if the world outside this room hadn’t shifted.
The bathroom door clicked open.
And for a second, the air between you felt like the moment before a confession.
The door eased open and a ribbon of steam followed you out, warm and fragrant, carrying the clean scent of your body wash and shampoo. Your hair was damp, darkened at the ends, a towel slung low around you.
“Stupid towels won’t hardly fit.”, you muttered.
You didn’t look at him—crossing the room barefoot, unhurried, as if the night was ordinary.
Robby watched you anyway.
He knew you better than you gave him credit for. Something had been gnawing at you. And he had an idea of what that could be. This was the first night you had spent over in almost a week. Robby was beginning to think it was something he had done.
“Feel better?”, he asked, the question thinner than he meant it to be.
You hummed something noncomittal, rubbing your hair towel through your hair. The overhead light caught the curve of your shoulders, the easy confidence of your posture—or maybe it wasn’t confidence at all. Maybe it was defiance. Maybe it was armor.
Glancing at Robby, you both finally locked eyes. There was a flicker there—question, challenge, invitation. It was hard to tell which.
He pushed his glasses up again, buying time. “Oglivie’s a fucking idiot.”, Robby said too casually.
A small smile touched your mouth. “That so?”
“Yeah,”, he swallowed. “He’s intimated by a woman like you.”
The room settled around the words. Not agreement. Not quite relief. But something softer.
“Like me?”
Robby heard the tone in your voice, silently cursing himself for his choice of words. “That’s not what I meant.”
You stepped closer to the bed, close enough that he could feel the residual heat of the shower on your skin. Close enough that whatever had shifted in the last week seemed less like a fracture and more like a fault line waiting to be tested.
“What did you mean, Robby?”
Uh-oh. “Robby” alone was never good unless it was at work.
Robby chuckled nervously. “I meant you’re too strong for him. Too confident. He wouldn’t know how to handle a woman like you.”
You lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Oh yeah?”
He dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck, okay—that still sounded wrong.”
“A little.”
He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, looking up at you without the shield of irony. “I don’t mean ‘handle’ like you’re difficult. He could never appreicate a beautiful woman like you. You’re too fucking hot for a boy. That’s why you have a man.”
Your cheeks began to flush. “Robby.”
“I mean it. You’re so god damn gorgeous. Every inch of you.”, his brown eyes looked into yours as he touched your forearms.
You couldn’t make eye contact with him, trying to hide your body in a modest way.
Robby furrowed his brow. “You don’t have to hide from me.”
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The towel was still knotted low around your thick hips, one hand unconsciously gripping the edge of it as if it were the only thing keeping you anchored. The bathroom steam drifted the room, thinning now, but the warmth lingered against your skin. Your hair was damp, falling on your shoulders.
You let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“Easy for you to say.”, you murmured.
Robby had abandoned his phone the moment you got close to him. His broad fingers held your hips over the towel, finger tips digging in.
Robby’s head tilted slightly. “Why?”
Your eyes flicked toward him then away again. The confidence you carried at work—sharp, unbothered, untouchable—wasn’t gone, but it had softened into something more uncertain.
“Because you didn’t have half the emergency room staring at you like you were some damn spectacle,”, you sighed.
Robby’s jaw tightened. He leaned back slightly on his hands, looking up at you.
“Hey,”, he said gently.
You finally met his eyes again.
“I wasn’t laughing.”
“I know.”, your voice softened. “You looked like you wanted to punch him.”
Robby huffed a quiet breath. “Still do.”
That earned a real smile from you—small, but genuine. The tension in the room shifted again, loosening just a little.
You started to crawl onto the bed, knee brushing the mattress. Robby’s gaze lifted instinctively, taking in your full breasts that threatened to spill out of the towel. His mouth watered just thinking about taking one and popping your nipple in his mouth, gently nibbling it—something that he knew drove you fucking crazy.
“Robby.”, you said after a moment, quieter now. Breaking his thought. You were lazily straddling him.
“Yeah?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Honestly?”, Robby swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “You really want to know?”
You nodded, humming.
“You looking like that,”, he breathed. “I just wanna throw this towel on the damn floor and have you climb on top of me.”
Your cheeks began to flush. “You don’t want me to do that.”
Robby laughed slightly before realizing that you weren’t kidding. “Why wouldn’t I want my sexy fucking hot girlfriend on top of me?”
You could feel his dick beginning to harden under you.
“I’m too big to do that, Robby.”
Robby’s jaw dropped, a look of surprise washing over his face. “You are not.”
“I don’t know, Robby. We could just do missionary, me on the bottom.”
“Baby.”, he breathed, taking his hand across your face. It forced you to look him in the eyes. “You’re not going to hurt me.”
You looked back down, avoiding his gaze.
Robby could tell that Oglivie’s words were still affecting you. He rubbed his thick, calloused fingers against your soft warm skin. Your eyes fluttered shut, focusing on the feeling of him touching you. He heard you let out a quiet exhale before he used his free hand to brush the falling hair out of your face and behind your ears.
He smiled, his crow’s feet more visible now—a feature of his you loved. You opened your eyes, forcing a soft smile in response.
“How do you know?”
Your voice was quiet in the master bedroom.
“Because,”, he began, moving each hand on each adjacent thigh, bringing them up to your hips. “I fucking love it when you ride me. Your pussy feels so good, baby—knowing you can take all of my hard dick.”
You felt your cheeks flush. “Whatever.”
“It’s true.”, he breathed, voice shaking. “You’re so tight and take me so well.”
“Robby.”
His brown eyes stared into yours. “Don’t make me beg.”
Robby had a way of making you feel at ease, talking through the knots your self-doubt. As bad as you hated to admit it, Oglivie’s words had stung more than you expected. People had called you “fat”,“plus-size” or whatever else they could think of. But at work, your size never mattered. What mattered was your capability—and your confidence.
“You’ll tell me if I hurt you?”
Robby sighed at the question, more at its absurdity than anything else, though a small smile tugged at his lips. “Of course. But you’re not going to.”
You leaned down and pressed soft kisses to Robby’s cheek. He exhaled sharply, eyes closing as he leaned into the affection. Carefully you let the towel fall to the bedroom floor, leaving you fully exposed. Half of you expected Robby to be repulsed, to pull away or hesitate—but he didn’t. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, leaning into you with a quiet ease that made your chest tighten.
There was no disgust in his expression, no uncertainty. Only warmth and the steady comfort he always seemed to offer without even trying.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”, he whispered.
His compliment alone made your heart flutter, warmth spreading through your chest. Robby shifted slightly beneath you, tilting his head just enough to make his meaning clear—an unspoken invitation.
He wanted to kiss you.
Slowly, you leaned down. The space between you felt charged, every inch closing with careful hesitation. Your lips crashed into his, the kiss gentle at first. Robby exhaled softly against your lips before you pressed your lips against his again, the sound of soft kisses filling the room. R
Without warning, Robby’s hands moved to the bulbs of your ass, giving them a squeeze. It caught you by surprise causing you to squeal. Your eyes widened, a seductive smile crossing his lips.
“Love your sexy ass.”, Robby breathed, a slight growl in his tone.
Your cheeks flushed. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”, he hummed, squeezing them again so hard his nails dug in slightly.
You felt his dick under you, begging to be freed from his boxers.
Robby groaned lightly, closing his eyes. His dick was so hard. “Need these off.”, he breathed.
He didn’t have to ask twice. Smiling sheepishly, you grabbed the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down his legs. You moved to the side to allow for room to completely slide them off but he stopped you, grabbing your hips.
“Ah-ah-ah. You stay right there.”
Your stomach twisted into a huge knot at his order. He managed to lean up enough to get them off from around his ankles, immediately tossing them to the floor. You couldn’t help but look down and notice his dick. It was big but nothing you couldn’t handle. He was already leaking pre-cum from the slit.
“Fuck me.”, he swallowed.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”, you smirked.
Robby chuckled, his eyes already hazy. “Yeah, help guide me in, baby.”
You nodded. You grabbed his hand before placing your hand on the shaft of his penis. You instinctively wrapped your hand around him. Robby bit back a moan, taking some control as he guided his cock, aligning it with your entrance.
“Raise up, baby. Just for a sec.”
Without hesitation, you did.
His eyes locked with yours as he eased you down on his swollen cock. Almost immediately, you felt the burn and sting as his cock stretched out your pussy. The feeling intensified as he finished easing you down, feeling like he would split you open at any second. You bit your lip and closed your eyes, tears of pleasure threatening to fall. He finally bottomed out.
“Doing okay?”, he kissed your chest, watching a tear roll down your cheek.
You nodded before blinking, causing another tear to roll down your flushed cheeks.
He reached his right hand up to your cheek, using his thumb to wipe away the tear. “My pretty girl is already a fucking mess.”
Your stomach twisted at his words. His hands went back down to your ass, yours going to his hairy chest before you began to ride him, moving your hips up and down. Closing your eyes, you bit back a moan. It started out slow, both of you becoming lost in each other as pleasure over rode anything else—especially Oglivie’s stupid ass words.
You began to buck your hips against him, picking up the rhythm.
“Fuck.”, Robby moaned. “Fuck, you feel so good.”
“Yeah?”, you hummed.
“Yeah,”, he confirmed, swallowing as he took shallow breaths. “Needed this—so bad.”
Your hips bucked, working up and down in tandem. One of his hands continued to hold your waist while the other fondled you before finding your breasts. He used that hand, beginning to pinch and twist your nipples. They almost instnantly hardened at his touch, adding more stimulation to your fucked out brain. You moaned in satisfaction causing Robby to smirk in response.
“Like that, baby?”
You nodded, a little moan coming out.
Your abdomen was burning, giving those ab muscles a good work out. It had been a long time since you’d rode Robby. Not that you were complaining. Not one bit. Robby was so deep inside you, you could feel how full he made you in the pit of your stomach.
Robby leaned up, putting a nipple in his mouth. You moaned loudly, feeling his teeth graze your already. sensitive nipple.
“Fuck Robby.”
He chuckled against your breast, sucking harder. Chills shivered across your entire body, your head falling back. It had been a week and a half since you’d been able to have sex with Robby and right now, this was exactly what you needed. At this rate, you weren’t going to last long.
Robby let your breast go, both of them jiggling in his face. He smushed his entire face in them, motor boating your breasts.
“If these suffocate me, I’d die a happy man.”
“Shut up.”, you giggled, bending down to kiss him.
“I’m serious.”, he continued. “Cause of death—suffocation from big, beautiful breasts.”
You couldn’t help but roll your eyes playfully, feeling his balls smacking against your ass. The room was filled with the filthy sound of how wet you were with him buried deep inside of you.
“Robby.”
“Yes?”
“Feels like I’m getting cl—close.”, you moaned out as your eyes closed and you dug your nails into his chest, a poor attempt at edging yourself.
He was looking down at you, admiring his work. Admiring how wet he had made you. Admiring how he made you come apart so easily.
“Fuck, let’s cum together.”, he breathed.
“Inside of me?”, you smirked, inhibitions waning.
“Want me to fill you full?”, he groaned. “Put a fucking baby inside you?”
Your brain betrayed you. All sense of logic had went out the door. This wasn’t a smart idea. But neither of you seemed to care.
“Would that be so bad?”
Robby shook his head, his breath shaky. “No—no—your belly all swollen, my baby inside it.”
“Fuck, Robby—shut up or I’m gonna cum.”
“I want you to.”, he growled animalistically. “But I may have a solution for the moment.”
“And what’s that?”, you moaned.
“I want you,”, he smiled. “to sit on my face.”
Your eyes opened, almost loosing the rhythm you had worked so hard to keep. In a quick recovery, you kept yourself from fumbling.
“You what?”
Robby grabbed your hips, raising you off him. “I want you to sit on my face. Did I stutter?”
You moaned at the loss of contact.
You shook your head. Robby helped you climb up his body before positoning your thighs against each side of his head, giving them a gentle squeeze.
“What if I smother you?”
“You won’t. Trust me—this is a fucking dream come true.”
Robby pulled your hips down to rest on his face, the roughness of his beard sending shockwaves through you. The first few strokes of his tongue caused your knees to shake, his hands coming up to secure your thighs as he buried his face in your wet slick.
“Shit, Robby.”, you gasped, flailing your arms to catch yourself on the headboard. He rubbed his tongue along your entrance, flicking it in and out causing your eyes to roll back in your head. Closing your eyes, you forgot all about the fear of suffocating Robby. He moved between sucking on your clit and moving against your inner walls, allowing him to begin to taste you.
It felt like you’d been shocked by a defibrillator as he moaned against you, lapping his tongue against your wet pussy.
“Oh my God—Robby.”
He hummed against you in satisfaction as you glanced down between your thighs, holding on to the headboard like your life depended on it. His nose and chin were covered in your juices, a sparkle in his eyes.
Moans and whimpers left your mouth so loud it was embarassing. His eyes met yours, encouraging you to rock your hips against his mouth while his hands eased you into a needy pace.
“Cum for me.”, he muffled against your pussy.
“Fuck, I’m going to Robby.”
He smirked against you, tongue beginning to lick deeper.
“Shit—shit.”, you felt like you were gonna climb the headboard.
You inhaled sharply, tired of fighting your impending orgasm. You wanted to—no, you needed to give into him.
“Fuck, Robby—I’m—I’m cumming—right—fucking now.”
He nodded, burying his nose and tongue as deep as he could, helping to push you over the edge. The walls of your pussy tightened around his tongue. The next thing was the dizzy, cock-drunk feel. Your wetness drowned his tongue, allowing him fully taste just how fucking sweet you were. He let out a groan of pleasure, his chest heaving as he squeezed your thighs.
He felt like a fucking king.
You eased up off him, scooting down the bed before falling beside him.
“Fuck, you taste like a god damn dream.”
“Whatever.”
“You do. Wanna taste yourself?”
He lifted his pointer finger, wiping his beard that glistened in the low bedroom light with your slick. You opened your mouth instinctively, allowing him to insert his finger. You closed your mouth around it, tasting the sweet and slightly tart taste of your own released.
“What do you think?”, he hummed.
“Not too bad.”
“Not too bad? Fuck, it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
You leaned over, sharing a kiss with him.
“You didn’t get to cum.”
“I’ll be fine.”, he waved you off. “You cumming by sitting on my face is so fucking worth it.”
You all kissed again, smirking against one another.
“You’re not getting off that easy, Robinavitch.”
He chuckled as you broke the kiss, pulling him on top of you.
The puzzle you had convinced Steve to do with you was long forgotten beside you. Some pieces scattered across your comforter and some on the floor. Yeah, you won’t be able to finish this puzzle. The faint hum of Africa by TOTO is heard from the radio on your dresser, a mixtape Steve had made for you on your anniversary.
Though the music is hard to hear over the soft smacking of your lips. The world around you seems to fade, all you can focus on is the warmth of his body against yours, his hand rested on your jaw, his other elbow holding himself up. Your hand sits on the back of his neck.
His lips are soft against yours, tongue gently sliding against your lips, asking for entry which you gladly grant, parting your mouth. You both let out a moan when his tongue finally slides into your mouth, tongues dancing together. His breathing gets heaving, your hand gripping the back of his neck tighter.
You let him take control of the kiss, his tongue eagerly exploring your familiar mouth with a soft moan. You feel the heat blooming in your lower belly, your arousal becoming more prominent.
Steve’s no different, he can feel his cock come to life in his jeans, pressing firmly against the denim, causing a not so subtle bulge in the front. You exhale softly, sliding your tongue into his mouth, letting him suck gently. His hand moves to the nape of your neck, tightening as he lets out a soft grunt.
You let his tongue back into your mouth after, nose bumping as you both tilt your head to reposition. You relax into the bed more, not holding up as much of your weight. You can guess he’s hard, it didn’t take much for him.
Drool starts to drip, both of your chins wet with the mixed saliva, god it was hot. You let out a needy sound, causing him to part for a second, spit connecting your lips. Your eyes finally open and your eyes meet. “God, you are so hot.. so beautiful..” He slams his mouth against yours again, the kiss deeper and hungrier.
You’re both breathing heavily through your noses, both of your hands moving eagerly. He reaches down and holds your waist before moving his hand up and groping your breast through your thin pajamas.
Your hand moves down his chest, toying with the waistband of his jeans. He bucks on reflex, searching for friction. You give him what he wants, palming the prominent tent in his jeans. You press the heel of your hand down firmly and rub. Steve’s mouth opens in a shaky breath, eyes squeezed shut.
You take this opportunity to slide your tongue deep into his mouth, letting out a soft hum as he returns the kiss, sucking on the muscle gently. His hips press forward into your hand, the action doing nothing to ease the ache in between your own thighs. His hand grips your hip, pulling your faces away just enough to speak.
“Sit on my lap, baby.. bet your pretty pussy’s aching too, hm?” He murmurs lowly, situating himself to sit against the headboard and spreading his thighs. His eyes eager and bottom lip in between his teeth as he watches you. Your slight smirk, your leg swinging over his lap, and finally your weight on his crotch.
His hands find their default place, your hips, squeezing gently as you both crash your lips together, mouths still wet from previous kissing. His hands start to move your hips, grinding your core against his aching length through the layers of fabric. The friction delicious, both of you letting out a sound of pleasure.
You move your hips faster, pressing down harder. He moves his lips from yours, planting them down your jaw and to your neck, gently sucking at your pulse point. Your head tips back as you close your eyes, giving him more access to your neck and feeling the pleasure.
Steve increases the suction before pulling off either a pop, leaving a red mark against your skin. “Keep goin’ baby, fuck, don’t stop.. feels so good..” he pants, breath hot against your skin.
“I don’t plan on-” Your words are interrupted by the ring of the phone. You sigh slowing down. Steve kisses you once again, attempting to distract you. “Ignore it, baby, just wanna fuck you.” He says, muffled against your lips. The ringing ends, finally allowing yourself to fall back into the trance that is Steve Harrington. He feels you relax, the two of you moan as you start to pick up again, his hips bucking up to meet your grinds.
Riiiingggg
You stop fully this time, pulling away. Steve lets out an irritated huff. “Oh fuck me- come on! Who calls at 10 o’clock anyways!” He says, eyebrows pinched from the irritation. You chuckle at his antics. “It’s probably important, Steve.” You say, reaching over for the phone. “Yeah, and what we were doing was more important.” His voice is quick as you pick the phone up, rolling your eyes playfully with a huff and a smile.
“Hello?” You say into the receiver, sitting up in his lap as Steve watches your face, thumps rubbing your hip bones. ‘It’s Jonathan’ you mouth to Steve. He reaches over and grabs the phone putting the phone to his ear instead despite your protest.
“Hey, it’s Steve. So, uh, we’re kinds busy right now, call you back.” He says quickly, not even waiting for a response before hanging up the phone and turning to you with a grin. “So… where were we?” He leans in as you lean back slightly, chasing your smiling lips.
｡𖦹°‧➵ After a long shift, all Robby wants is to get home and bury himself inside you. The only problem? He has to wait for his little blue pill to kick in first.
｡𖦹°‧➵tags/warnings: smut, minors DNI, Robby pops viagra, erectile dysfunction (duh), age gap, unprotected piv, sucking Robby’s limp dick, creampie, Robby has a big soft belly and reader loves it, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, hair pulling, neck grabbing/slight choking,
A/N: This is the result of this poll. Thanks to those who voted, I hope you enjoy it!
The hospital lights faded behind Robby as the automatic doors hissed shut at his back. It was past eight p.m., but the moment the night air brushed his face, the bone-deep tiredness drained away. He knew what was waiting for him at home, there was no space left for exhaustion.
He was fifty-four now. Too old for some people’s tastes, but still young to others. Caught somewhere in the middle where the body began keeping score of the accumulated stress, every skipped meal, every skipped gym session, and every cigarette smoked. And lately the score included the humiliating betrayal of his own dick.
He fished the small blue pill out of the zippered pocket inside his jacket as he walked the first block on his way home. The tablet dissolved on his tongue as he swallowed it dry, making him grimace at the aftertaste.
It started about a year ago. It had been just… gradual, first it was a night when the want was there, he was so pent-up, he’d waited all day long to finally bury himself inside you, but the response was sluggish, and for some reason he couldn’t keep his dick up no matter how much he wanted to. Then it was another night where it didn’t happen at all, he’d been incapable of getting an erection in the first place. He’d laughed it off the first few times, said he’d had a long shift, or was too tired, it happened to every man at least once in their lifetime. Except it kept happening, and the truth turned into something he couldn’t keep denying, he had erectile dysfunction. Suddenly he was one of those old men, the ones who needed pharmaceutical help to do what used to happen automatically.
And then there was you, full of that energy that came from not yet having your soul sanded down by the weight of the years. You fucked like you were still discovering how good it could feel, like every time was the first time and the last time all at once. You wanted him constantly, you climbed into his lap after a shower, sent him filthy voice notes at 3 p.m. while he was still at work, you waited up for him in nothing but one of his shirts, with your legs already parted like he’d be able to get hard and inside you the second he walked through the door.
He wanted to give that to you. Christ, he really wanted to. The drive was still there, so strong it was almost painful some nights. He’d be one his way home after a deadly shift, and his brain would flash to the way your thighs clamped around his head when you got close, to that little broken sound you always made when he hit that spot just right, and the way your cunt fluttered and gripped him like it was trying to keep him forever.
But none of that could get him hard, and it pissed him off. He was pissed with himself. With biology too. Pissed at the unfair arithmetic of it all, he was finally with someone who made him feel twenty-five again in every way except the one that mattered most, in bed. He was supposed to be the experienced one, the one who knew exactly how to unravel you until you were shaking and begging and cumming so hard you forgot your own name. Instead he was popping little blue pills and praying they kicked in before you started minding how long it took
He hated waiting. The worst part was the way you looked at him sometimes, not with disappointment, never that, but with patience. You were so sweet and understanding, and it was your infinite patience that somehow made it worse. He didn’t want patience, Robby wanted to pin you to the mattress and fuck you until the headboard dented the wall. He wanted to feel that raw and animal surge again without needing chemical backup, but it was impossible, his cock had stopped obeying him.
On every red light on the way home, he quickly pressed the heel of his palm against the front of his cargo pants, checking if his dick had decided to react already. But every time he did, he was still soft.
“Come on,” he muttered to his own traitorous body. “She’s waiting. She’s wet for you. She’s been thinking about this all night. Don’t fucking fail her.”
Once he finally made it to the house you both shared,the place was still dark except for the soft light coming from inside the bedroom. You’d left the bedroom door cracked, the way you always did when you were already in bed waiting for him.
He kicked off his sneakers and placed the jacket and badge on the hook. When he pushed the bedroom door, he found you propped against the headboard in nothing but one of his old faded t-shirts, with the hem riding high on your thighs. Your eyes found his immediately, sleepy, and yet so hungry for him. You didn’t say anything at first, just shifted, letting your legs fall open just enough that he could see you were already wet, the cotton crotch of your underwear dark where a patch of your slick arousal had formed, making the fabric cling to your drenched folds.
“Hi, you,” you whispered.
He didn’t answer with words. He crossed the room in three strides, hitting his knees on the mattress, reaching for you with his hands until he found your face. The kiss was messy and desperate from the start, clicking your teeth together from so much desire. You opened your mouth for him immediately, curling your tongue against his, sliding your hands under the scrub top to drag your nails lightly down his back, earning a from his mouth.
You broke the kiss just long enough to tug the top over his head, and he let you. You still remembered the first time you’d stripped him bare, how he’d hesitated, how embarrassed he’d sounded as he muttered an apology about not having enough time to hit the gym anymore. You’d turned that shame into an obsession for the silver-threaded hair across his chest, and for the way his once-flat stomach had softened into a warm and rounded swell that begged to be grabbed, kneaded, and kissed.
Your hands went to his chest first, sliding your palms through the coarse grey curls, finding a nipple and pinching it sharp enough to drag a moan from his throat. Then you went lower, gripping the meat of his sides, digging your thumbs into the plush give of his belly, stroking and squeezing the soft layer that jiggled faintly under your touch. You mapped every inch like you were claiming it.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” you breathed against his mouth. “Look at this gorgeous body… I’m so wet for you right now. I need your cock inside me, Michael. Please.”
He knew that tone, you were already desperate and he had to distract you before you got impatient for something he couldn’t give you quite yet.
Robby surged forward, latching his mouth onto your throat. He sucked hard, painting a dark bruise just below your jaw while he shoved your shirt up roughly, exposing your tits to the cool air. He closed one palm over your breast, squeezing it with force, his thumb found your nipple and rolled it mercilessly until you were arching your back off the bed and moaning his name in ragged gasps.
“Michael—”
He dipped his head, closing his mouth over one of your stiff peaks, swirling his tongue in circles around it, then flicking it fast against it, making you jolt. He sucked hard, pulling the nipple deep into the heat of his mouth. The suction sent sparks straight to your core, and you could feel yourself clenching around nothing.
Robby used his free hand to knead the other breast, digging into the soft flesh, using his thumb and forefinger to pinch the neglected nipple, tugging until it throbbed. Then he switched, abandoning one glistening and swollen peak with a lewd pop only to latch onto the other, sucking even harder this time, lashing his tongue relentlessly while his teeth grazed the bud just enough to make you cry out.
Robby was already hard enough in his mind, but the rest of him was lagging. You reached down between you, slipping your fingers beneath the waistband of his pants. His cock was still soft. Still heavy and thick, but soft. You traced your fingertips over the hot length of him, trying to coax him to get harder, and he let out a shaky breath against your collarbone.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “When did you take it?”
“After shift,” he muttered. “Fifteen minutes ago. Maybe twenty.”
You whined needily and unashamed. “I want it now.”
He laughed tiredly. “Greedy girl. You know how this thing goes, gotta give it time to work.”
You pouted, acting a little bratty cause you knew how much it drove him crazy, keeping your hand wrapped around him, stroking his member slowly, sweeping your thumb over the head, the most sensitive part, on every upstroke. “Don’t wanna wait.”
“Too bad.” He said nipping your earlobe. “You’ll wait however long it takes.”
You loved Robby with an intensity that words could never fully capture. And the sex with him? It was better than anything you'd ever felt with anyone else. He was the only older man you’d ever been with, and the first time his cock refused to harden, the panic hit you. You blamed yourself instantly, maybe you weren't turning him on anymore, maybe your body wasn't enough, maybe you'd done something wrong in the heat of the moment.
But Robby had pulled you close, and reassured you that it wasn’t your fault. Then he gave you the unfiltered truth, the medical and biological explanation: As men get older, the arteries narrow, the inner lining of the blood vessels gets less responsive, and the production of nitric oxide, the very chemical that signals those vessels to relax and let blood rush in, drops. That means poorer vasodilation and slower blood flow to the penis. It takes longer to get hard, or it just... doesn't happen, no matter how badly he wanted it.
He’d promised you that his desire for you was still intact, he wanted you the same as the first day, even more than he’d ever wanted anyone else in his life. And you’d never once shamed him, never let the word “impotent” even brush your lips, never made him feel like less of a man. To you he was still your perfect Michael, the one who could wreck you pill or no pill.
If anything, knowing how badly he still craved you only made the want hotter. You wanted him more now, because you could see that frustrated, almost feral edge when he pinned you down, grinding against you, desperate to bury himself deep and fuck you into the mattress until you couldn’t think straight… but his cock stayed stubbornly soft, thick but not hard enough yet. That look on his face, the aching need mixed with irritation. didn’t make you pity him, it set you on fire. Your cunt clenched just watching him fight his own body for you, rolling his hips uselessly against you. You’d whisper filthy encouragements against his mouth “I love how hard you’re trying for me… how bad you want to split me open” just to feel him shudder.
You slid down the bed, pushing at his hips until he rolled onto his back. Your hands found the waistband of his cargo and underwear, and you pushed them down all at once. Robby lifted his hips a little to help you slide them off his body.
He was fully bare under you now, with his cock lying soft against his left thigh. You settled between his legs, tucking your knees under you, with your hair falling forward to curtain your face. He reached down, gathering it in one fist so he could watch what you were about to do.
You started with soft kisses, open-mouthed along the crease of his hip to the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, and then to the base of his member. He twitched just a little, but not enough. You dragged your tongue flat up the underside, tasting the salt and clean flavour of his skin.
His soft tummy tightened, and a curse slipped out his lips. “Fuck, baby…”
Even when he wasn’t hard yet, the warm slide of your mouth felt incredible against the sensitive skin of his cock. Every swirl of your tongue around the head or suck along the underside, sent jolts of pleasure straight up his spine. And the sight of you kneeling between his spread thighs, with your lips stretched around him, and your cheeks hollowing as you worked him was mentally arousing. His mind was flooded with images of finally getting rock-hard, flipping you over, and pounding into you until you screamed his name.
You took him into your mouth anyway, despite the softness. It was easy to fit all of him this way, and so you sucked gently, with your tongue cradling the head, letting him fill the wet heat of your mouth without any real pressure. It was more comfort than stimulation right now, and he kept his hand in your hair, not guiding you, just holding.
Minutes dragged by, and you took your time, alternating between lazy and wet sucks that pulled the soft length deeper into your mouth, and delicate kitten licks along the underside, tracing every vein with the flat of your tongue. You kissed lower, brushing the heavy sac before drawing one of his balls into your mouth with gentle suction. He shifted his hips restlessly, chasing the sensation, twitching his fingers against the sheets. He was still mostly soft gainst your tongue, pliant enough to mold around the curve of your mouth, but there was a change now, a subtle thickening at the base, a new heaviness settling in as blood began getting there. You felt it swell just a fraction against your palm when you cupped him, and then felt the head starting to nudge firmer against the roof of your mouth. Not hard yet, but waking up for you.
You pulled off with a wet sound, looking up at him through your lashes. “Getting there,” you murmured, stroking him with your fist. He was heavier in your hand already, and you noticed how the veins were beginning to stand out.
“Yeah?” His voice sounded wrecked. “Keep going.”
You did. You worked him with patient devotion, moving your mouth and hand in a slow rhythm. You focused on the head mostly, sealing your lips tight around it, sucking gently but insistently while your tongue swirled over the slit, coaxing out every bead of pre-cum and mixing it with your spit until the tip glistened. Your saliva gathered at the corners of your mouth, dripping in strings down the soft shaft, pooling at the base where it met his balls.
You slid down further, taking him deep in one easy glide, relaxing your throat to swallow around the length until your nose was brushing the hair at his groin. You held there for a heartbeat, humming so the vibration rippled through him, and then pulled back, letting your lips drag along every inch, leaving him soaked and twitching.
Every few minutes you paused to worship him properly, pressing kisses and nuzzling the flesh like it was your favorite thing in the world. You whispered dirty words right against his skin, “come on, baby, get hard for me… I can feel you starting to swell… fuck, I love how heavy you feel in my mouth already… just let it happen, I’ll wait as long as it takes to feel you stretch me open. Look at you… so pretty like this… just wait till you’re hard enough to fuck me stupid…”
He laughed breathlessly. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Another minute, or maybe two or three, and his thighs started to tense under your palms. You felt the slow swelling, the way he lengthened against your tongue, until the head nudged the back of your throat now when you took him deeper, making you gag a little.
“There it is,” you breathed, pulling off to watch. His cock stood proud now, flushed dark at the head, glossy with your spit and his pre-cum. Fully hard, finally.
Robby thumped his head back against the pillow. “Jesus fucking Christ. Took long enough.”
You grinned wickedly and triumphant, and gave the head one last kitten lick before crawling back up his body, until you were straddling his hips.
Once you did, Robby noticed immediately how wet you were. He slid his hands up your thighs, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of your panties. He dragged them down just enough to bare you, then cupped you with one broad palm, sliding his middle finger through your slit. You were dripping, it made his finger glided easily, collecting slick that stringed between your cunt and his hand when he pulled back to look.
“Fuck me,” he said half-laughing. “You’re a lake down here. Been this wet the whole time I was soft in your mouth?”
You rocked against his hand. “Mhm. Couldn’t help it. You taste good even when you’re not hard yet.”
He snorted, but his eyes were dark brown with hunger. “Filthy little thing.” He circled his finger over your clit once, making you jolt and whimper. “All that patience… sucking me off for twenty-five minutes straight just so you could get this messy for me.”
“I wanted to get you hard,” you breathed, grinding down harder, making the head of his cock, gloriously hard, nudge against your entrance. “Want to feel you inside me already.”
“Yeah?” He grabbed your hips, stilling you just enough to lift you up so he could line himself up properly. “Then prove it. Sit on it.”
You took hold of his shaft with one hand, letting it rest right in your entrance. You were soaked, slippery enough that the first press of his head against your cunt made you both moan.
Slowly, you sank down, taking him inch by inch. The blunt head breached you first, parting your slick walls with a burning stretch that made your breath hitch and your thighs tremble. You felt every ridge and every vein as he filled you deeper, making your cunt clench greedily around the gradual invasion until your ass finally pressed flush against his hips.
You were both shaking now, him from the grip of your pussy swallowing him whole, you from the overwhelming fullness that pressed right up against that deep spot inside. His hands clamped on your waist, digging into your flesh, holding you pinned and still for one long heartbeat.
You looked down and saw the almost pained, overwhelmed expression on his face. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck—” The words tore out of him. “You’re so fucking tight, baby. You gotta relax for me… please.”
He groaned it like a plea. Every time your walls gripped him too hard, the friction turned unbearable,and he needed a second to allow your body to adjust, otherwise the pleasure turned into pain for him. “Just… breathe, baby. Let me feel you open up around me. Fuck, you’re gonna kill me if you keep squeezing like that.”
After a couple of minutes, your cunt finally stretched around his unyielding length, and Robby exhaled a shaky breath. He gave a single nod of permission. “Go on, baby.”
Then you started to move, slow at first, with rolls of your hips that ground your clit against the hair at his base while his thick cock dragged along your inner walls. Every slow circle stretched you anew, the friction making obscene sounds that filled the room as your arousal coated him completely, dripping down his shaft and onto his balls. His head fell back against the pillow with a groan, and you leaned forward, planting your palms firmly on the soft expanse of his chest, feeling the thud of his heart under your fingers.
You snapped harder now, riding him with purpose, up until just the head stretched your entrance, then slamming back down to take him to the hilt again. Each downward grind made you flutter and spasm around him, as his hands slid up to grip your ass, digging his fingers in to help you fuck yourself onto him faster.
“Fuck! Michael… right there—”
He planted his feet flat on the mattress, with his knees bent and hips angled just right beneath you. The shift gave him leverage, and the next time you sank down, he thrust up hard to meet you halfway. The collision was brutal, his cock slamming deep and stretching you open all over again as your ass slapped against his hips.
He groaned. “That’s it—fuck, take it.”
Each upward snap of his hips met your downward grind, burying himself to the hilt every time. Sweat covered his skin under your palms, nd you watched his rounded belly flexing with every powerful drive. He wasn’t holding back anymore, he gave you hungry thrusts that claimed you from below. You cried out, digging your nails into his meaty soft pecs. He sit up suddenly, banding his arms around your back, crashing his mouth into yours as he fucked up into you with short but punishing strokes.
He watched you mesmerized, one hand palming your breast, the other staying clamped on your hip to guide your rhythm. “Look at you. Riding me like you’ve been starving for it. So wet I can hear it every time you take me.”
“Michael, please—!”
“Please what, baby? Please fuck you stupid? Please let you cum?”
“Yes! Fuck! Yes—”
You came suddenly, seizing as your walls spasmed around his cock, clenching in frantic pulses that milked him deep. A gush of slick poured out of you, soaking his shaft and coating his thighs and the sheets in a messy puddle. Robby didn’t stop, he kept thrusting up into you, grinding the base of his cock right against your swollen clit.
The friction was brutal now, and you whimpered pathetically, jerking your hips as you tried to squirm away, pushing weakly at his chest. “Robby—fuck, too much, I can’t—”
“Not done,” he growled against your lips. “Not even close.”
He flipped you without warning. One second you were on top, and the next your back hit the mattress. Robby hooked your legs over his shoulders, pressing your knees toward your chest. The new angle was brutal, and he bottomed out in one hard thrust, grinding his pubic bone against your clit.
Robby fucked you with long and punishing strokes, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, snapping his hips with the kind of force that made the headboard thud against the wall. You were loud, you just couldn’t help but moan his name, beg and babble nonsense as he railed you into the mattress.
“So fucking good,” he gritted out between thrusts. “Taking me so well. You were made for me… fuck—gripping me like you never want to let go.”
You felt your orgasm building faster than you could control, the pleasure coiling tighter in your core until it bordered on desperation. Your body moved on instinct, sliding one hand down between your thighs, finding your swollen clit and immediately circling it in little loops. The nub was slick, throbbing under your touch, each rub sending sparks straight up your body.
His eyes dropped to watch, locking on where your fingers worked yourself shamelessly. The sight snapped something in him, and the thrusts turned brutal. “Yeah, that’s it, rub that pretty little clit for me,” he growled. “Show me how bad you need to cum again.”
He angled his hips just right on the next upward, grinding the fat head against your g-spot. You sped up your fingertips on your clit, matching the rhythm of his grinds until you snapped.
You came violently, a cry toreing from your throat as you shook uncontrollably. Robby almost lost it right there when your cunt spasmed around him again. But he wasn’t done, he yanked out of you fast before he spilled. In one rough motion he flipped you onto your stomach, gripping your hips and hauling them up high so your knees dug into the mattress, with your ass arched in the air.
You pressed your face into the pillow, still dazed from the aftershocks, but he didn’t give you time to catch your breath, just lined himself up and slammed back in from behind in one single thrust, burying every inch to the hilt. The stretch was immediate, your walls being forced open wider in this new angle, his cock punching straight against your cervix.
Robby fisted a handful of your hair, yanking your head back to arch your spine into a perfect curve, until your tits were pressed to the sheets and your ass presented high. “Fuck—take it deeper, baby,” he growled.
The new position let him sink impossibly further, and the added stimulation of his balls slapping wetly against your clit on every drive made you whine his name loudly.
His rounded belly was pressed flush against the curve of your back, molding to your spine until the heat of his body surrounded you completely, cocooning you in his grounding weight that made you feel owned and claimed.
Robby wrapped his big hand around your throat, curling his fingers possessively around the column of your neck, pressing the thumb lightly against your racing pulse. He held you tight like that, arching you back further into him, keeping your body locked in place as he started pounding into you faster.
His stomach jiggled faintly with the impact, and guttural groans spilled from his throat right against your ear, “Fuck… feel that, baby? How deep I’m buried in this tight pussy? You’re taking every fucking inch.” His grip on your neck tightened just enough to make your head spin, holding you exactly where he wanted while he fucked you into the mattress with raw need.
“Cum again,” he ordered. “Cum on my cock one more time. Wanna feel you milk me.”
You had no choice but to obey him. The pleasure crested again, and you climaxed around him for the third time, squeezing him so tight it felt like you were trying to pull him apart. Your arms gave out beneath you, your elbows buckled as you collapsed forward onto your forearms, with your face mashed into the pillow and your ass still high and impaled.
Robby followed right after, his hips stuttered, the thrusts turning erratic until the moment where he buried himself to the hilt one last time, throbbing inside you and pulsing hard with every thick spurt. He came deep, flooding you with rope after rope of his sticky hot cum that filled you so full you could feel the excess leaking out around his shaft, dripping down your thighs and soaked the sheets beneath.
He stayed buried inside you, grinding through the aftershocks, milking every last drop while your cunt fluttered around him. He loosened his hand on your throat, sliding down to stroke your back in sweeps.
Robby pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “Think the wait was worth it?”
You laughed weakly, clenching around him just to make him hiss. “Ask me again when I can feel my legs.”
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this! I’ve written this concept a few times for Joel before, and after getting some asks about it, I finally decided to write one for Robby too.
I’m actually really excited about it because erectile dysfunction is one of the hottest topics for me to explore in fics. I’m definitely not opposed to writing more Robby one-shots with this theme in the future if that’s something you’d like to see.
Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with grief, difficult births, depression, anxiety, and canon medical gore. it will also eventually contain explicit sexual content. this chapter contains discussions of cancer, parental loss, and virginity loss.
main masterlist // transatlanticism masterlist
Jack Abbot has known you almost his entire life. Ever since your family moved in across from him the day before his eleventh birthday. Friendships don't often bloom between eight and eleven-year-olds, but he found himself fond of you the way an annoying older brother would be.
Plus, your moms both became good friends, and he ended up spending half his teenage years in your backyard. The single mother life was isolating, he knew his mom liked having somebody nearby who understood her situation.
Childhood friendship blossomed into a deeper camaraderie once you started high school. At seventeen, he'd established his name around school - he wielded it often to protect you from bullies.
He never made a spectacle of it. A look. A quiet word. A shoulder placed casually between you and whoever thought they could get away with something. It was enough. People learned quickly.
Outside of school, your lives folded into each other almost seamlessly.
He’d fix the loose fence panels without being asked, help your mom carry groceries inside, stay for dinner whenever his mom was working late.
Soon, he was your best friend. And you, his. Naturally, you'd been terrified when the time had come for him to go to college. You'd skipped a grade, bringing you a little closer to him, but you couldn't follow him here.
“It’s not that far,” he'd said, nudging your sneaker with his. “Couple hours. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”
You already knew that wasn’t true. Part of you missed him already.
He called from the dorm payphone at the end of his hall, usually at night when long-distance rates were cheaper. You’d sit on your bedroom floor with the cord of the landline stretched as far as it would go, twisting it around your fingers while your mom mouthed Five more minutes from the hallway.
He didn't waver. He responded to your letters, visited diligently, and never made you feel like an annoyance.
There was always noise behind him - doors slamming, guys arguing about whose turn it was to buy pizza, music bleeding through thin walls.
“You still surviving?” he’d ask.
“Barely,” you’d say, half joking.
He wrote at least once a week. A couple pages torn from a notebook, folded twice and stuffed into an envelope with messy handwriting. He’d complain about cafeteria food and strict professors, with accompanying doodles.
You didn't visit until your own senior year. You'd claimed it was so that he could keep his two worlds separate, but really you were just worried that you wouldn't fit in with his new life.
That he'd outgrown you, and only kept you around out of pity.
“You should apply here,” he says on your first day, leaning back on his hand as he passes you a slice of pizza. “You’d like it.”
"Don't think I'd get in," You reply, meeting him halfway. After a vigorous campus tour, and hitting a frat party that he snuck you into, you're now perched on his bed.
Thankfully, his roommate's visiting his girlfriend in Texas right now, leaving you with free reign of the dorm room.
"You could get in Harvard if you wanted," Jack dismisses.
"Maybe if you were the only person on the admissions board," You scoff, and a silence falls. You swallow nervously, trying to build up the courage to ask him the question that's been on your mind for months now. "Can I ask you something?"
“Yeah,” he says. “You can ask me anything.”
Your mouth goes dry.
You hadn’t planned the wording this carefully. You’d rehearsed it in fragments on the drive up. But now that you’re here - on his bed, music low, campus noise drifting faintly through the cracked window - it feels like a far bigger request.
"Come on, kid. What's on your mind?"
"Will you take my virginity?"
Whatever he'd been expecting you to say, you'd bet your car that it wasn't that.
"What?"
"You know- forget I asked," You murmur, averting your gaze from his, a sudden embarrassment washing through you. "It's stupid-"
"Hey," He says, firmly, catching you by the wrist. "S'not stupid. You just caught me off guard. Tell me what you're thinking."
“I don’t want it to be… random,” you start.
He frowns slightly. “Random?”
“The first time,” You clarify, your voice steadier than you feel. “I don’t want it to just happen with someone I barely know. Or because I feel pressured.”
Understanding dawns slowly across his face. His posture changes, and he sits up straighter.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
You press on before you lose your nerve.
“I trust you,” You say. “You’ve always taken care of me. You’ve always-” You falter, then force the words out. “I was thinking maybe… it could be you.”
The room goes very still.
For a moment he just looks at you, searching your face to make sure he’s heard you right. “You’re serious,” he says.
You nod.
He leans back slowly against the bed frame, exhaling through his nose. Not dismissive. Thinking. "And you're sure? You've thought this out?"
You can feel yourself drawing blood from the way your tooth is buried in your lip. "For a while now. But I don't want to make you uncomfortable-"
"That's not my concern here. I'm worried about you regretting this, down the line."
“I wouldn't,” You say quickly.
“If we're doing this, we need ground rules.” He shakes his head. “I need you to be vocal. If something feels good, if something feels weird, if you want to stop, if you want to change something. Thoughts on everything, or we stop.”
"I can do that."
"And... you were thinking, now?"
"I mean, whenever - I don't know, I wasn't exactly expecting you to say yes. No time like the present."
He adjusts a little, angling his body towards yours on the bed. "You'll tell me the second you feel uncomfortable?" When you nod, he gestures forwards. "Alright, c'mere then."
Against all the odds, it didn't ruin your friendship. He made love to you that night, softly and slowly, setting a standard no other man could possibly compete with.
And then you never spoke about it again.
Things were quiet for a while. Visits at Christmas and Easter, calls that grew shorter once you went off to college yourself.
A different college from Jack. One halfway across the country, to study English Literature.
Things were fine. Things were good. You'd move back to Pittsburgh eventually, and you would reconnect with Jack then.
Until the night he told you he was joining the army.
He said it like it was already decided. Like it had been decided long before he ever brought it to you. He'd never made that kind of decision without consulting you before. He'd even brought you his top two college choices, asked you to help him pick the best option.
You remember the way the air shifted, how something warm between you went cold in an instant. You asked why. He said he had to. You said that wasn’t good enough.
He left anyway.
After that, communication dwindled down to just hearing from his mom whenever she met up with yours. He was enjoying the medical training, and that was about it.
The years passed, with Jack qualifying as a doctor and going back out for another tour, and you getting your own doctorate, before you got the news.
He'd lost his leg.
You couldn't help but picture him as he had been - strong, steady, indestructible - and you couldn’t reconcile that image with hospital rooms and metal and absence. You thought about calling. You didn’t. You didn’t know what you would say after the way you’d left things.
Suddenly, he's back in your orbit again, without warning.
Your mom tells you that he's in rehab. Working up to a prosthetic. That he's hardened, tougher around the edges, but still very much Jack.
You try to tell yourself you don’t care. That he did it to himself. For not quitting while he was ahead.
And then you see him.
He's thinner in the face, broader in the shoulders, like something has both taken from him and given back in equal measure.
Crutches, still. According to his mom, he's getting the prosthetic next month.
For a second, the only thing you feel is relief. He’s here. He’s whole. He’s breathing.
“Hi,” he says.
You don’t bring up the fight. Neither does he. When he suggests coffee, you say yes before pride can intervene.
There, you learn about Marisol. A woman he was deployed with, in his unit. They're engaged. Getting married before the year is out.
She's transferring to a station near here - taking some homeland work.
Pretending your heart isn't broken is the best performance you'll ever put on in your life. It's stupid. There's never been anything to indicate that Jack sees you as more than a friend.
You had been the idiot for hoping sex would change that.
The worst part is that you like her. You really do.
She asks you questions about him - what he was like before. You tell her harmless things. The fact that he once camped out for forty-eight hours to get Nirvana tickets. How he crashed his car into your garage that one time. You leave out the fact that you once thought that the two of you would end up together.
At the end of the night, she hugs you first.
“I'm really glad he has you,” She says.
Has. Present tense.
You nod, because that much is true.
Better to have him in this capacity than not at all.
The drifting apart wasn't intentional. He takes a job two states over, to make things easier for Marisol.
You missed the going-away party because of a work trip you can’t reschedule. You promised to visit. You meant it. The first year, you make it work. The second, you try. By the third, it’s mostly texts, and the occasional call. Nothing more.
When you did speak, it’s all surface-level. Promotions. Mortgages. Weather. The fact that they're thinking about getting a dog.
You learned about their new house from the family Christmas card. He learned about your breakup months after it happens, when you mention it casually, like it’s old news. Neither of you pushed for more.
They have eight good years, and then you get the text.
Jack. 14th June.
Marisol has cancer. Pancreatic. Wanted you to find out from us, and not the gossip train.
Miss you, kid. Will hopefully see you soon.
The texts picked up first. Then you started calling weekly to check in. Finally, you started visiting, making the two-hour drive most weekends to bring them dinner and as many anecdotes from home as you could manage. Anything to keep their minds off of what's going on.
“She’s fighting,” He says, voice low as he bids you goodbye on the patio. “We’re fighting.”
She was gone by Christmas.
You knew what was coming as soon as his name flashed on your phone. You don't remember what you said back, if you were able to provide any kind of comfort, but you do remember turning up on his doorstep ninety minutes later.
He moves back to Pittsburgh without fanfare.
Staying in their old home had been too much. He gets a job at the Pitt, and takes the night-shifts. You meet his new friends, new colleagues, and the slow, torturous process of moving on begins.
Seven years pass in this way. It’s steady, uncomplicated. After year three, he takes his wedding ring off. Neither of you comment on it, but you know it's progress.
Relationships pass by for you. A few almosts, a few never agains. Through it all, Jack becomes your one constant.
When your mom dies the day before your thirty-fifth birthday, he's unwavering. Finally able to repay the debt he's been carrying for you since Marisol.
It's a messy and complicated grieving process. One that ends with you in his bed, pressing kisses to his jaw as you cry out his name.
Jack doesn’t know what to do with it.
Not anymore. Not when each lingering glance at you feels like a betrayal.
It becomes a dance. For years, it stays unlabelled. You receive knowing looks from Robby. Your friends tell you to cut it loose - that he's never going to commit.
You never build up enough courage.
His body is there; his attention mostly, but he keeps something back. You can feel it in the way he hesitates before touching your hand, the way he deflects questions about the future with jokes or silence.
You accommodate it. You adjust.
Because you love Jack Abbot more than anything in the world.
*****
Jack can feel a migraine pricking at his periphery as soon as you leave the building. He can't get your face out of his head - the scared expression, as you'd rocked the baby against your chest.
His baby.
His daughter.
Pushing out of the exam room, he ignores all questions from Dana and Santos about the origins of the Abbot name.
"I'm taking my break," is all he grunts, immediately making for the staff bathroom. Letting out a shaky breath, he pulls his phone, and finds his blocked numbers list.
Yours is the only one there.
Part of him hopes this is all some terrible dream. That's he's having an exhaustion-induced hallucination instead. And then he hits unblock, and the texts start to filter through.
You. 26th February. 23:17.
I’m really sorry about the fight, Jack. You’re just so important to me, the idea that you didn’t think things were as serious as I did upset me. But I get it. Things have been tough, and I don’t want to add to that. I’d really like to talk, if you’re up for it. Just let me know.
You. 3rd March. 10:10.
I know you’re still mad, but I really think we should talk. Sooner rather than later. I’m free whenever, just give me a time and place and I’ll be there
You. 5th March. 06:48.
Please, Jack. It’s really important. I wouldn’t be pushing this if it wasn’t. I understand you don’t want to see me, but I really just need fifteen minutes.
You. 9th March. 15:21.
I really didn’t want to do this, but I don’t think I can put it off any longer. I’m so sorry for telling you like this.
I’m pregnant. The baby’s obviously yours - I haven’t been with anyone else. I’m about ten weeks along - haven’t decided if I’m keeping it yet or not. I’d really like to talk that over with you, before I make my decision.
Doesn’t feel right making it without you
You. 24th March. 11:10.
I’m seeing the doctor on Friday, for my first scan. I’d really like it if you were there, but I understand if that’s too much just now.
It’s at the Pitt, with Dr Cregg, at 14:00.
I still haven’t made my mind up
You. 27th March. 15:17.
The baby's due on October 22nd. Thought you might like to know.
I think I'm leaning towards keeping it
You. 19th April. 22:02.
Since I’m past the abortion threshold now, I’m sure you must have figured out that I’ve decided to keep the baby. I understand if you don’t want anything to do with us, but please just let me know one way or another.
Not knowing if you’re even reading these is killing me
I’m sorry, Jack
Please don’t take it out on your son or daughter
You. 16th May. 13:01.
Had another scan today
[Attachment: 1 picture]
OBGYN says that baby is totally healthy, nothing to worry about on that front. We're having a girl, Jack.
Definitely a little relieved - I don't really know boys. I definitely wouldn't know how to raise one, not without you. But a girl, I might have some hope.
As always, I’d love to hear from you
We both would
You. 4th June. 09:59.
Had a little bit of a scare yesterday
Woke up bleeding, and went to the ER. Part of me was hoping you'd be working, which I know is terrible of me. I also know it's Robby on days, usually.
I didn't see either of you. It was a nice girl, Dr Mohan.
Anyway, I got admitted to OBGYN for some observation, and just got out this morning. Baby Girl Abbot is alright, but I've to take it easy for the rest of the pregnancy.
I really miss you, Jack
It's hard doing this alone
You. 13th August. 02:01.
My therapist thinks I should stop texting you
She thinks you've made your choice, and that you would have replied by now if you were seeing these, or wanted to be in her life
I just
I can't believe this is how it ends, Jack
We've known each other for thirty years
I guess a part of me always assumed that we'd make it, eventually
I'm sorry
I love you
You. 13th August. 23:48.
I'll let you know when I go into labour, and when she's here, but other than that, I won't bother you anymore.
You. 19th September. 04:17.
My contractions are only a few minutes apart now. I'm on the ward, just a few floors up from where you are now, I'd guess. 6B, if you'd like to come up
Don't worry, I don't have any expectations of you
You. 23rd September. 17:13.
I meant to text you earlier, but things have been hectic. Gwendoline Abbot was born at 21:08 on the 19th. Ten fingers and ten toes, pretty much as good as you get
She's really great, Jack. Looks like you
The door's always open for you to meet her.
I love you.
Goodbye
There are some others. A few bump photos, another ultrasound. A single video of her kicking in your belly.
For a single second, Jack worries he's having a heart attack. The pain is so visceral, so searing, that it knocks the wind straight from his lungs.
He's missed it all. Everything. All because of a fucking button on his phone, that he'd honestly forgotten he'd even pressed.
He could've been there for you. For Gwen.
Gone to appointments, held your hand, bought baby clothes.
He could've known his daughter in the first ten weeks of her life.
The tears roll thick and heavy, until your name on the screen is nothing more than a blur of pixels. His jaw is clenched, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the sink.
The desperation is palpable. To have been there for you. Hell, to have never left you in the first place. He should've married you, given you whatever you wanted, instead of leaving you out to dry.
God, what would his mother think?
She loved you. So much, that he thinks it rivalled her love for him sometimes. He still remembers the day he told her the two of you were together.
It hadn't been intentional. Jack had been planning on keeping things quiet for a while - not quite sure where this was going to go. But she'd known immediately. Had seen it in his expression whenever he was around you.
She'd been thrilled. The way he imagines she would've been about a granddaughter. Especially one named after her.
"I'm so glad the two of you are together, Jackie," She'd murmured, hand cupping his cheek. "You deserve to be happy, after all you've been through-"
His pager bleeps.
Jack has a job to do. People to help, that don't care about the shit that's going on in his personal life.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and steels himself.
He can fall apart later.
*****
He'd practically thrown the handover list at Shen, making for his car without even a look back.
It's not too far to your place, but it feels like you're an ocean away. So many questions run through his mind.
Why aren't you still in your old place? It was spacious, nice, just a ten minute drive from his own house. Now, you're halfway across the city, in an area he wouldn't want to frequent after dark.
It's only when he pulls up that he realises he should've brought something for you to eat. Gwen's obviously unwell, and he can't imagine you've grown a sudden fondness for cooking in the eleven months you've been separated.
He glances around, making sure he has the right address.
Paint peels from the building like old sunburn, brickwork sweating covered in mould and cracks. A security light flickers over the entrance, stuttering helplessly.
The stairwell smells like old grease and something sour he doesn’t want to name. The banister wobbles under his hand. The third step from the top dips dangerously in the middle, and there's no elevator. He can't imagine trying to manoeuvre a stroller up here.
You open the door almost as soon as he knocks. Gwen is on your hip, hands fisted in your shirt as she looks at Jack wide-eyed. She's not crying anymore, though her nose still looks a little stuffy.
"Hi," You murmur, stepping aside to allow him in. Too scared to push any further, he squeezes your arm softly as he passes, and coos at Gwen.
The apartment is smaller than his kitchen.
"How's she doing?"
"A little bit better," You reply, keeping a steady rhythm as you bounce her. "I think the Tylenol helped." A quiet falls, Jack's gaze flicking between you both. "Do you want to hold her?"
Outside of ninety seconds this morning, Jack still hasn't held his daughter.
He nods immediately, reaching for her. You pass her over, a small noise of discontent escaping from her lips. He holds her at a distance for a second, as if trying to take everything in.
Every blemish, every blink.
"Hi, honey," He murmurs, adjusting her so she's tucked against his chest. "I'm your dad-"
His voice breaks ever so slightly, a crack in the façade he's been trying to maintain. A single tear escapes from the corner of his eye. "She's perfect."
It's barely more than a whisper.
"I know."
When he meets your gaze again, he's worried he's going to sob. "I'm so sorry."
Your reply is clipped, as you turn towards the kitchen area. "You're here now."
It's not enough. Jack knows that he could spend the rest of his life making it up to you both, and it might never be enough.
To stave off another wave of tears, he turns his attention to the apartment.
Everything in here is Gwen.
A playmat wedged beside the couch. A folding changing table squeezed into the corner near the kitchenette. Bottles drying on a rack that takes up half the counter. Burp cloths draped over the back of a chair. A small mountain of diapers stacked neatly against the wall. The air smells faintly of formula and baby lotion.
Ten weeks old, and she already owns the entire space.
There’s almost nothing that’s you.
No framed photos. No books. You've loved music all your life - your guitar was your prized possession. There's no hint of that anywhere anymore. Just the essentials arranged with quiet precision.
The bedroom door stands open, and he can see it: there’s a crib tucked inside, just visible. It takes up almost the entire room. No space for anything else, outside of an old rocking chair. No bed.
His eyes move automatically to the couch.
It’s a pullout. Half-folded back into place. Blanket shoved to one side. A pillow dented from overuse.
You’ve given her the room.
The kitchen is sparse too. He'd be willing to bet that if he opened the fridge right now, he'd find little more than a couple of leftovers.
"Why did you move from your old place?" He finally builds up the courage to ask.
"Got let go when I asked for maternity leave."
You don't offer any elaboration, and it kills him.
He stares at you. “What?”
“They said they were ‘restructuring.’” You make air quotes with your free hand. “My position wasn’t essential. They weren't running my courses anymore.”
“You were there five years.”
“Six.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s illegal.”
You shrug. “They didn’t say it was because I was pregnant.”
“They don’t have to say it.” His voice sharpens. “You told them you needed maternity leave and suddenly you’re redundant? That’s textbook.”
You look tired. Not just physically - the kind that permeates everything you do.
“I didn’t have the energy to fight them, Jack. I was seven months pregnant.”
“You should’ve taken them to court.”
“With what money?” You shoot back, a flicker of heat breaking through the exhaustion. “Lawyers cost money. Filing costs money. Time off costs money.”
“They would’ve settled.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it would’ve dragged out for a year. And I would’ve had a newborn, been unemployed, stressed out of my mind, and gambling what little savings I had on maybe.”
He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him.
“I needed that money for her,” You say, softer now. "I did what I had to do, and that's that."
There's so much more he wants to ask. About the insurance, Gwen's birth, how you've been surviving for the past ten weeks. But it'll have to wait. He exhales hard through his nose. “You should’ve told me.”
“I did.”
He frowns. “No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.” Your voice is rising, just a little. “I texted you. How was I supposed to know you weren't seeing them?”
He runs a hand over his mouth. “Why didn’t you try something else?”
“Like what?” Your eyes flash. “Show up at your house? Call from a payphone? Send a carrier pigeon? I thought you hated me, Jack."
Gwen startles at the shift in your tone, letting out a small, uncertain cry. Your expression shatters. "I don't want to fight in front of her."
His concession comes straight away. "Me neither. I'm sorry."
"I just- this is hard. I want you to get to know her, obviously. But this is all new to me too."
He's hit with a sudden vision of you living your entire life in this shitty apartment for the past ten weeks. He holds Gwen a little tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
But her fussing doesn’t stop.
It just continues to build and build. After a while, you take her back, hoping it'll help.
It doesn't.
A restless squirm in your arms turns into another congested cry, thin and hoarse. Her face scrunches in frustration, at not even being able to scream properly anymore.
“I know, I know,” You mumble, swaying automatically. “It’s just a cold, baby. It’s okay. You'll be fine.”
Jack watches the way she struggles to breathe through her nose, the way she keeps pulling her head back like she can’t get comfortable.
“Has she eaten?”
“Not much. She keeps unlatching.”
Gwen lets out another sharp cry, more angry than weak. Overtired. Uncomfortable.
God, he'd give anything in the world to make her feel better right about now. “Let me try,” he says.
You hesitate again, shorter this time, and carefully pass her over.
He holds her securely, adjusts her against his chest. For half a second, she just stares at him. Then her face crumples.
The cry that follows is immediate and outraged.
Jack exhales through his nose. “Right. Okay.”
He tries a gentle bounce. A soft shh. It does nothing. If anything, she gets louder.
“She doesn’t know you,” You say, already reaching.
“I’ve got her.”
“She wants me.”
As if to prove it, Gwen’s cry turns sharp and frantic, little body writhing.
Jack’s jaw tightens. Not offended. How can he be? When he's been an absent father through such crucial times?
He hands her back.
The second she’s against your chest, the pitch changes. Still upset. But steadier. Not angry.
You press your cheek to the top of her head. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
He watches the way she melts into you despite the congestion, how her breathing evens out little by little.
“You haven’t slept properly in months, have you?” He asks.
You don’t answer.
“That’s not sustainable.”
“I sleep when she does.”
“She’s not sleeping.”
You don’t argue with that.
Gwen whimpers again, and you start pacing the small length of the apartment - three steps one way, pivot, three steps back.
Jack glances at the pullout couch. At the dented pillow. At the laptop shoved in a corner, papers piled round it. From your new job, he assumes. Another question to ask.
“Let me stay,” He bursts out, mouth moving faster than his brain.
You stop pacing.
“What?”
“Just tonight. I’ll take her for a few hours. You sleep.”
Your expression shutters immediately. “No.”
“You’re exhausted. She’s sick. Let me help," He says softly. Evenly.
You study him carefully.
“She won’t settle with you.”
“I’ll manage.”
You shift Gwen higher. Protective. Like he's a total stranger, and not someone you've known your entire life. It hurts more than it should. He deserves this treatment, after all.
“You can stay,” You say finally, “but only because she’s sick.”
He nods once. Good enough for him. “Okay.”
“And only if you’re willing to sleep in the chair. There's nowhere else.”
His eyes flick to the small rocking chair shoved into the corner of the bedroom the window. It looks deeply uncomfortable. The window beside it rattles every time a car passes.
“Fine.”
“And if she cries for me, you bring her straight back.”
“Of course.”
You hold his gaze another second, making sure he understands.
“This doesn’t change anything,” You add quietly. “You’re here because she has a cold. You're a doctor, and you're her father, and that's all this is.”
Something unreadable passes over his face, but he doesn’t argue.
“Okay,” He says again. Gwen lets out a small, shuddering sigh against your shoulder. "I can take her - go shower, take a break, I'll order some dinner."
He can tell that your first instinct is to argue, but he's endlessly grateful when you don't.
*****
Jack Abbot has never felt like more of a fuck-up than when you appear in the doorway at 3am, rubbing at your eyes and letting out a yawn.
His first instinct is to apologise. He's been trying for the better part of an hour to get Gwen back to sleep. He's almost surprised it took her so long to wake you up. "I'm sorry-"
"Jack, it's fine," You sigh, with a resignment that twists in his gut. This has been your reality for the past ten weeks. He should be able to handle one measly night-shift to give you some uninterrupted sleep. Hell, his whole life is a night-shift.
Except he's pretty sure he'd be better at a twenty-car pileup on the freeway, than soothing his own daughter.
"I really wanted to do this for you," He continues, becoming slightly breathless in a way that can only convey his sheer desperation for this to work. He continues to bounce Gwen, to no avail. If she was going to listen to him, she would have done it by now. "I-I can tell that you're not sleeping, and I know that I have so much to make up to you both. But I can't get her to settle-"
He swallows around the words like they’re shards of glass. Shards of glass would be less painful than this.
Gwen’s tiny face is screwed up in furious protest, her fists balled against his chest as if she’s personally offended by the concept of sleep. Jack shifts her higher on his shoulder, bouncing again, gentler this time, like maybe the rhythm will finally click into place if he just finds the right tempo.
The fabric of his t-shirt is damp, a product of her feverish cheek being pressed against it for hours.
You step fully into the room, the low lamplight catching the exhaustion etched into the lines of your face. Lines that have become so much more prominent since the last time he saw you.
"I can take her." Your voice is flat with exhaustion, not reassurance. You’ve been living on three broken hours a night for ten weeks. “She’s got a cold. She’s miserable.”
As if to prove the point, Gwen lets out another congested wail, the sound catching wetly in her chest.
He wants to apologise again, until he's blue in the face, but that's not what you need right now. What you need right now is dependency and sleep. He's not providing either to you in this moment.
Shoulders sagging, he passes Gwen over, watching as she immediately settles a little. "She might need a feed."
You'd left a bottle pumped for him in the fridge, but Gwen nuzzles against you instinctively.
"Can I... can I do anything?" Jack asks, but you shake your head.
You sink carefully onto the rocking chair and adjust Gwen, guiding her until she latches. The relief is instant and painful all at once - her little body finally calming, small congested snuffles replacing the sharp cries.
Jack stands there, useless hands flexing at his sides. Mothers breastfeeding is not a new concept to him. He sees it on a regular basis.
Feels different when it's you, though.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” You say quietly. "You can go to sleep, it's fine."
“I’m not proving anything. I want to be here.”
It doesn’t sound convincing.
Gwen’s sucking slows. Her body grows heavier against you, tension draining little by little. It's the only thing that can soothe her consistently. Unfortunately, it means that your sleep-cycle is entirely wrecked.
Jack leans forward, eyes glued to her form. “Is she out?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a long pause.
“I can sit with her,” He offers quietly. “Rock her for a bit... if that helps her sleep."
He realises, with a wave of sickening clarity, that he doesn't know what she likes. How she sleeps best. Whether she prefers movement, or complete stillness.
“You don’t have to,” You start, but he's shaking his head.
“I want to.”
You hesitate. Your arms ache. Your whole body aches. You need more than two hours if you're going to be a functioning human being. And finally, you nod. "Get me if she's upset again. She likes the rocking chair - if you do it for about twenty minutes, you should be able to transfer her to the crib."
Moving almost painfully slowly, you pass over the sleeping baby.
She stirs. Snuffles.
But she doesn’t cry.
You stay there a moment longer than necessary.
“I’ll be right here,” He says, not looking at you. “Go get some sleep.”
You nod once and press a quick kiss to her feverish forehead before heading for the pull-out couch, not fully relaxing, eyes half-open as you listen.
The chair creaks softly in rhythm.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
You don’t fully trust him yet. You're not sure how long that process is going to take.
Summary: When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
Tags/Notes: established relationship, groveling and forgiveness, acts of service, nurse!reader, pregnant!reader, getting back together, ft. trinity as a menace and dennis as a cutie
Content: pregnancy, pregnant sex (fingering), shaving scene
A/N: im not good at math <3 sorry i haven't posted in three weeks lmao
Word Count: 14.3k
The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.
On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.
You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.
He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?
You didn’t answer.
You don’t plan to.
The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.
Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”
Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”
His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”
“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”
As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”
Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”
She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”
Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”
“Whatever you say, cap.”
The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.
In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”
She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”
He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”
The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.
—
It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.
You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”
“No worries, gorgeous.”
Your focus snaps.
Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”
Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”
You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”
He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”
You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”
“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”
“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”
Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”
You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”
Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”
Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.
“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”
Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.
Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”
“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”
He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”
“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”
Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”
You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”
It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.
He sends you texts. You don’t reply.
He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.
After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”
“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”
Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”
“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”
Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”
“But I’m not your girlfriend.”
“And thank god for that.”
“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”
“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”
“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”
“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”
“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”
“And you repaid her by leaving.”
Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”
“But she did.”
“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”
“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”
“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”
“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”
“Flatterer.”
“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”
Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”
“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”
At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.
When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”
His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”
Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”
“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”
“Not hostile, just professional.”
“You were definitely hostile.”
Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”
She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”
Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”
“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”
“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”
“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”
Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”
Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”
“At the door.”
Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”
Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”
“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”
Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”
“It’s ten thousand dollars.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”
Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”
You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”
“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”
“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my baby daddy drama.”
“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.
Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”
Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”
Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”
“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”
“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.
She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”
“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”
“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”
“And you’re not forgiving enough.”
You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”
“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”
Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”
“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”
With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.
I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life.
That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice.
But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that.
So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that.
It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please.
I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more.
And I promise I love you. Both of you.
I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it.
Love,
Sincerely,
Yours,
M.
All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.
Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”
Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”
Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”
You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”
Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”
You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.
In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.
In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.
I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.
Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I think you should let him grovel.”
Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”
“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your baby daddy. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”
“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”
“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”
“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”
You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”
“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”
“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”
“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”
“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”
Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”
“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”
You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”
And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.
Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.
Then.
After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”
“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”
“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”
Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”
Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”
Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”
“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”
The world tilts slightly.
Robby’s breath catches in his throat.
Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?
You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.
You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.
“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”
“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”
You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”
Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”
You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”
His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”
Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”
“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”
“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”
“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”
Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”
With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”
“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”
Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”
You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.
“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”
You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”
“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”
“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”
‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.
After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”
One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”
You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”
“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”
You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”
His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”
“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”
Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”
You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”
He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m 100% confident.”
“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”
That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”
“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”
Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”
“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”
Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”
“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”
He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”
Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.
Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.
With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.
Noted. Thanks for the tip.
Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.
I’m rooting for you.
If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.
Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.
Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.
“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”
“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”
With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”
Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”
“Kids. Plural.”
He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”
You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”
Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”
You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”
“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”
“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”
“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”
Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”
“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”
Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”
You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”
“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”
“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.
“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”
You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”
He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”
“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”
“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”
You tease, “Sounds horrible.”
“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”
Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”
“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”
“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”
Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.
…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…
After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”
Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”
Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”
“You were just talking to her.”
He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”
She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”
Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”
You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”
He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”
Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.
“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”
You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”
“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”
“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”
“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”
“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”
He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”
“Michael!”
“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”
“I will not hesitate to splash you.”
Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”
Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”
“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”
After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”
His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”
You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”
He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”
And you want to kiss him.
You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”
He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”
You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.
As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”
You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”
Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”
You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”
“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”
You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”
He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”
You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as he confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.
Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”
Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”
Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”
Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”
“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”
Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.
Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.
You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting. Deferent.
For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.
So you decide.
Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”
His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”
“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”
“What would it be, then?”
He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”
You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.
When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-
Woah, asshole.
Calm down.
He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.
All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”
When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint flutter aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes.
To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”
Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”
Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.
He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”
“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”
Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”
“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”
“You do?”
There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”
With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”
“See you soon, Michael.”
“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”
When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.
Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.
Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”
He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”
You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”
You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.
As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”
“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”
You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”
When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”
You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”
“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”
“God forbid.”
“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”
“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.
“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”
“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”
Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”
“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”
Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”
You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”
“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”
“Yes, mom.”
“Good. As he should.”
Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”
“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”
Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”
“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.
Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”
Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”
You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”
You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”
He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”
The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”
And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.
Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”
You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”
“What? You don’t want a shower?”
“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”
Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.
Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.
She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”
“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”
“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”
Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”
“We’ll see.”
You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”
“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”
Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”
You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”
Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”
You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”
Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”
You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”
Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”
When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”
He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”
You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”
So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”
Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”
Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.
You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”
Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”
He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.
Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.
From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.
That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.
Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.
While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”
Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”
Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”
Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”
He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”
Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”
“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”
“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”
As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”
“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my ‘baby daddy’ or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”
Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”
“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”
“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”
A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”
“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”
“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”
“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”
“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”
Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.
“Rest of your life, huh?”
“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”
You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”
“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.
Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”
Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.
Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”
Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”
You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”
Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”
You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”
“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”
Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”
“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”
He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”
“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”
You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t play dirty with me.”
“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”
He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”
“Now who’s playing dirty?”
“I would never.”
Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.
God.
God.
Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.
Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”
“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”
“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”
You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?”
Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”
He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”
The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.
Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.
And you kiss him.
It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”
Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”
You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”
“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”
You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”
“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”
Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”
“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”
He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”
You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”
Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”
“I want a hot tub.”
“Okay.”
“And a soaking tub.”
“Okay.”
“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”
“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”
Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”
Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”
I'm trying out posting this without a taglist to see how it performs! So if you see it, please engage so I can get a sense of whether or not I need to keep my taglists going!
when steve first starts coming over to your place and sees all of things you've made around your house (like cute little cross stitch and embroidery designs, crocheted blankets and table runners, even paintings), he's completely in awe
"wait... you made all this stuff?" "how is that even possible?" "like, with your own two hands?" "...that's crazy."
he takes so much time running his fingers over everything, observing knitted stitches or embroidered fabrics, staring and taking in every little thing
as someone who never had the patience for art class (he was always bouncing out of his seat, eager to go to gym), he's fascinated by everything you've created just in your home
every time after that, whenever he comes over, he'll hold up random items to ask if you've made them. bowls in the sink? "did you do these?" quilted art on the wall? "you make this?" throw blanket on your bed? "'s pretty. you do it?"
he's always complimenting you, calling you his little picasso or something silly, even if it has nothing to do with the craft you're fixated on
(sometimes he gets it a little bit wrong, too, but you never correct him. if you're knitting while watching a movie together, maybe he says something along the lines of, "you're so talented, my little mozart," and you just smile and kiss his temple)
and then ofc, the first time you make him something — like a crocheted beanie, for instance, to keep him warm during the chilly midwest winter — he's beyond obsessed
walks into work at WSQK and does a literal runway walk until robin notices that he's being weird
"the hell are you doing, dingus?" "you like my hat?" "...sure?" "handmade. one of a kind. you can't have one."
refuses to take it off, even when he needs to wear headphones at work
gets very nervous about washing it, so he calls you over to help him do it. you very lovingly show him how to handwash and dry it, and he sheepishly asks you to write out the instructions just in case he forgets. (ofc, you do it, because you think that's the sweetest thing in the world)
gets jealous whenever you make something for someone else: "what are y'working on, baby?" "oh, mike asked if i could make him a pair of mittens." "...you're knitting for wheeler?" "it's actually crochet, but yeah. he really liked your hat, so."
"thought you only made stuff for me." "never said that, honey."
steve continues being grumbly about it, all the way up until you give the finished product to will. to make it up to him, you crochet him a pair of matching gloves (you also resist the urge to embroider "big baby" on them)
naturally, he's AMPED when you give them to him, covering your face in a million kisses
and then: "you're not making a hat for wheeler too, right?" "no, baby. you're the only one with a hat and gloves."
He’s gay. He’s autistic. His special interest is hockey. He’s waisan. He’s a bottom. He speaks French. He wears reading glasses. He doesn’t listen to music. He has an eating disorder. His favorite drink is ginger ale. He’s a sub. He has beautiful freckles. He’s canonically the hottest man in the NHL. He tried really hard and he’s really sorry but he just can’t help it. I love him so much it’s gonna make me puke
romaincrisis
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
2087
titsay
vaporwave
areudirty
discoholicmusic
origamiaround
snowghoul
