Hey there, welcome to my way overdue intro post! My name is Leslie, this blog is about Call Of Duty, The Pitt, and maybe some other stuff I’m interested in, (we’ll see). Spam liking welcome :)
✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮
Please DNI if any of these resonate with you
you’re a minor
you’re pro or neutral about AI, FUCK AI. Keep AI out of creative spaces.
if you can’t be polite
if you’re apart of edtumblr ( if you write fics with the topic of eating disorders, you’re fine )
basic DNI criteria ( homophobic, transphobic, racist, sexist etc. etc. )
✮ If you apply to any of these and you interact with my blog, I will block you. I block freely.
"Johnny, down," Simon grumbled, gripping Johnny by the collar to tug him off of you. Johnny had you pinned to the floor, ass up and face pressed roughly into the floorboards.
Simon had hoped that Johnny wouldn't try to mount you the second you got back from your trip to the vet, but he drastically underestimated how desperate Johnny could get.
Johnny whined, tugging against Simon to try and rut up against your ass. You whimpered, tail angrily hitting Johnny in the face. Your soft ears pinned back to your head.
"Sir, make him stop!" You mewled, managed to wriggle out of Johnny's hold, "Johnny!"
Johnny could smell your sweet pussy. Your perfect, sweet, tight pussy. Johnny needed his cock buried in your pussy yesterday.
"Johnny." Simon hissed, tugging Johnny back roughly by his Mohawk, "You can fuck her, but you're getting muzzled."
Johnny was about to protest, but went quiet after Simon gave him a pointed look.
In moments, a muzzle was pinned over Johnny's face. You weren't pleased. You didn't want this filthy mutt to knot you, but you knew better than to question Simon.
Simon sat on the couch, letting go of Johnny's leash. You screamed, trying to scramble away before Johnny caught you. He caught you easily, tearing your pants off of you.
You yelped, blindly swiping at Johnny with your claws. Johnny moaned, huffing and trying to bite at your neck. You gasped as your panties got tugged off, a chill rushing through you.
You heard Simon take his belt off, stroking his cock to your predicament. You mewled for Simon to help you as the wide head of Johnny's cock notched against your hole.
Johnny pushed in, all the way to the hilt without warning, making you yowl helplessly, clawing at the floor. You could hear Johnny whine behind you.
Without letting you adjust to his length, Johnny humped against you roughly. He barely had a rhythm, just cruel, sloppy thrusts into your (shamefully) sopping pussy.
"You can fuck 'er better than that, boy," Simon said from the couch.
Simon's words spurred Johnny on. His thrusts got harder, tip nailing your G-spot on repeatedly. You mewled and sobbed into the carpet beneath you, your tail whacking Johnny in the face.
Johnny gripped the base of your tail, lightly tugging. You cried out, jolting as the touch made you spasm and cum around Johnny's cock.
Johnny groaned like he'd been shot, his free hand moving under your tummy to toy with your sensitive clit. You writhed and yowled, whimpering from oversensitivity.
You could feel Johnny's knot starting to inflate as he rutted into you. It brushed your pussy lips each time Johnny pressed into you. His thrusts felt good. So good, too good.
"J-Johnny! Please, oh-" you sobbed, your clit throbbing, "I-I can't! No, n-no! I can't cum again, please!"
Simon laughed behind you, "Don't be a bitch, kitty. You'll take what Johnny gives you, won't you?"
Johnny huffed, his sweat-covered, hairy chest pressing into your clothed back. His thrusts started repeatedly smacking into your cervix. You could barely form a thought.
Johnny hit your g-spot once more, and you were gone, tumbling into another orgasm. Johnny's fingers stayed on your clit. You kicked at him, yowling like a cat in heat.
Johnny pushed in as far as he could before knotting you. His knot was pressed again you. You shook, trying to wriggle away from Johnny and his fat knot.
You had no luck. With a slow, calculated push, Johnny forced his knot past your entrance. Your pussy tightened around him, another orgasm rocking your senses. You gush around him, making Johnny groan and rub your clit harder.
"Attaboy, knotting your little bitch, huh?" Simon smirked, rutting his cock up into his hand.
Johnny ground against you, jostling his knot. A loud, sustained whine escaped Johnny as he finally came. You were stuffed so full. Your poor tummy bulged slightly. Johnny kept rubbing your clit, sending you tumbling through several more orgasms before his knot deflated.
When Johnny's knot deflated enough for him to thrust again, Johnny rutted into you like a man possessed.
"Oh, kitty, you didn't think Johnny would only knot you once, did you?" Simon taunts, laughing at the fucked-out look on your face and the cum oozing out of your puffy, swollen cunt.
Summary: The reader, who is in a relationship with Robby and Jack, has a decent amount of body heat.
Robby is sweating through his shirt that he has on. You are tucked into his side with your arm draped across his chest. You’re like a human furnace.
“Jesus Christ.” Robby isn’t going to get any sleep like this. He moves you toward the middle of the bed and he sits up to take his shirt off. When he lays back down he waits for you to roll back over to him, but after a moment nothing happens. He looks over and sees that you have attached yourself to Jack.
Robby knows that Jack isn’t asleep just yet. “Seriously!?” He whispers across the bed.
“She came over to me.” Jack whispers back.
“I rolled her over for a moment. I had to take my shirt off. She’s like a hundred degrees. Give her back.”
“No.”
“No? Really?!”
“What’s going on?” Your voice thick with sleep.
Jack holds you a bit tighter. “Nothing, angel. Robby was just getting too warm and complaining.”
Robby gives Jack the middle finger before looking at you. “You’re like a heating pad. I just had to take my shirt off.”
“Sorry. I know I run hot. Maybe we shouldn’t all sleep in one bed.”
“No.” Both men reply at the same time.
“We’ll just get a fan in here and set the thermostat lower.” Jack says as he brushes some hair from your face.
“Maybe we sleep with a little less clothing too.” Robby says as he pulls his sweatpants off.
You nod. “That might make it better.”
“Yeah? You think that might help?” Robby asks. “Think maybe for tonight we shed some clothes?”
You nod. Jack lifts your shirt up and tosses it to the side before doing the same for himself. Robby slides your underwear off you, before pulling you flush to his chest. The blankets and sheets kicked down towards the end of the bed.
“How are you still this warm?” Robby says after a minute of having you up against him.
You shrug still in his hold.
“If I’m going to sweat in bed I’m going to enjoy it.” Robby starts kissing your neck and rolling you towards him so that you face him. The kisses become more desperate and needy.
Eventually, Robby positions you so that you’re facing Jack and your back is pressed against his chest. Jack moves closer to the both of you, laying on his side. He brings his hand to your face as he kisses you. Robby moves your thighs apart as you’re kissing Jack. He presses his erection into your entrance causing you to moan into Jack’s mouth. Robby slides the rest of the way in with a particularly quick thrust, causing all three of you to moan.
Time slips away as you go between both men. Eventually, everyone is lying among twisted sheets with a layer of sweat on their body. Robby reaches for the glass of water that is on his nightstand. Jack reaches for his phone and unplugs it. You’re content to just lay between them in the middle of the king bed.
“The cooling sheets will be here tomorrow morning.” Jack says as he plugs his phone back into the charger and lays it on the nightstand.
“I’ll bring my tower fan from my place over.” Robby says before leaning over to kiss you.
“Just snuggle with me tonight sweetheart, since Robby gets too warm.” Jack pulls you towards his side a bit more and kisses your forehead.
Robby just responds with a middle finger in the air as he goes to turn off the lamp.
Find My Pitt Masterlist here
This is a little fic for @domaystic
Based on day 12: Sharing
You slip on Robby’s hoodie whilst at his home for a little comfort. Shoving your hands into the pockets you discover little packets of…Werther's originals?
Notes: wholesome fluff. just two people in love. established relationship
Word Count: ~1.4k
A shiver ran down your spine.
A chill coming over you.
You wrap your arms around yourself, while you lift yourself off your spot on the couch.
Michael had just stepped out to pick up some food. Leaving you cold without his presence beside you.
Gentle footsteps echo around the room as you shuffle into the bedroom, grasping at one of his jackets hanging in the cupboard.
You slip it on and relish in its softness, enveloped by his scent. With a note of roasted coffee, balanced with a slight spice.
Sighing in relief as it embraces you.
Already feeling the cold melt away.
Walking back to the living room, you settle on the couch once more, tucking your hands into the pockets, only to raise a brow in question.
A small rustle, as your fingers brush over something in the pockets.
Grasping onto one of them, you pull out a small little wrapped candy. Its wrapper the colour of golden honey, a small quirk of your lips at the sight, while you discover a few of these little Werthers tucked into the pockets of Michael’s hoodie.
Unwrapping one as you pop it into your mouth, you let the caramel butter toffees simply melt in your mouth.
Now you understand why Michael sometimes had a slight taste of caramel whenever you kissed him.
It seemed he had a sweet tooth.
A little weakness for these caramel candies.
Laughing softly at the realisation. Amused by the idea.
You quickly stuff the wrapper into the pocket as you hear the doorknob turn, the faint hello from Michael as he walks through the doors.
You tilt your head up as you see his shadow approach, whilst he ducks down to catch your lips with his.
Mumbling softly against your lips, “Missed you”
You giggle softly, with a scrunch of your nose, “You were barely gone more than 10 minutes, how could you miss me?”
“Whenever you’re not with me I miss you– even now I’m missing you”
“You’re such a sap,” you tease, shifting off of the couch, his hand slipping around your waist, as he presses a kiss to the side of your head.
“Only for you,” he furrows his brows as he notices something, “Is that my jacket?”
“And what if it is?” you lift a brow.
Shrugging, he replies, “It looks good on you”
Leaning your head against his shoulder as you walk over to the kitchen. Pulling away from him as you grab the plates, while he opens the take out boxes.
“Hope you’re hungry, cause they insisted on throwing in some free spring rolls”
“Is this ‘cause you saved their life or something?” you asked, mouth already stuffed with a spring roll.
Slightly regretting it as it burns your tongue.
“Something like that”
You grin at him, whilst he smiles softly at you.
These were the nights he loved.
Calm.
Peaceful.
And so full of love.
He didn’t realise life could be so peaceful.
Through the mayhem and madness of working in the Pitt.
Here he found solace in your company.
Glimpses of peace amidst his chaos.
“What do you wanna watch?”
“Whatever you want, love”
…
The little discovery you had made, had yet to leave your thoughts.
As you continued to find the little packets of Werthers loose in the bottom of his bags or in the pockets of his hoodies and jackets.
It was honestly surprising you hadn’t found them sooner.
Each time you discovered one a little smile would make its way across your face.
There were times when you noticed he’d pop one into his mouth when he thought no one was watching.
But you noticed.
Whenever things had gone well he would slip one into his mouth. As though it were a little reward.
It had prompted you to start your own little stash. Picking up a few bags of Werthers and hiding them away.
Keeping a few on hand. Just in case Michael ever needed a little pick me up.
It started out as a simple gesture. A mindless idea really.
Handing the little candies to him every now and again, whenever you thought it was necessary.
Just offering it to share.
“Hey do you want a little candy, I’ve got some extra,” you’d offer them. So sweetly, not making a fuss over them. Barely looking his way as you outstretched your hand with the little candies.
Michael never thought much of it. Simply smiled and enjoyed them as they melted in his mouth.
It was only after a few weeks of this did Michael clock onto your antics…
Well it was only when Dana pointed it out did he clock on.
“Who pissed in your cheerios this morning?” she asked dryly.
Robby had been in a mood.
Nothing too off, but enough for Dana to notice. With an arched brow as she looked at him.
A little disgruntled.
Maybe it was the spilled coffee on his way to work, maybe it was the fact that chairs were already full to the brim when he walked through. Or maybe it was because psych insisted that one of the patients didn’t need admitting.
You could spin a wheel and land on any of those things and more. All of which could explain his soured expression.
“I’m fine”
“Sure, you’re a real bucket of sunshine today,” she quipped.
While he rolled his eyes, glancing over the charts.
Hand digging through his pocket, hoping to find something sweet just to quell him…
Only to come up empty.
Lips dipping down even further. Annoyance creeping in.
Dana catches your eye, as she nods towards Robby.
“You don’t happen to have anything to get him out of this mood do you?”
Robby only huffs lightly from her teasing words.
Digging a hand into your pocket you pull out a little Werther, slipping it into his hand. With a small wink.
His brows crease as he looks at the small little candy in his hand, before looking up to see you, having already wandered off busy working.
Shaking his head, with a small smile as he unwraps the little sweet, popping it into his mouth.
“Seriously, a Werthers? That’s all it takes to put you in a good mood,” Dana looks at him expectantly. Amused by what had happened.
“Don’t you have anything better to do than hassle me?” he asked.
Dana shrugs, “Hassling you is a perk of the job-sue me for trying to find a little joy”
Throughout the shift it feels as though you and Michael are always just passing by. Barely able to have a moment together.
That was just the way it worked sometimes.
Bones aching, muscles tired as you stretch. Breathing in the cool evening air.
An arm wraps around your waist, with a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Ready to go home?”
“I could fall asleep right here and now”
“We can’t let that happen now, can we?”
You sigh with a smile, as you lean further into his hold, feet beginning to move in the direction of his car.
“So Werthers?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“What about them?”
“How’d you know I liked them?”
Glancing up at him to meet his eye, you turn to reach up and gently trace your hands across his features, soothing the furrow of his brow.
“I’m just that good,” you softly reply.
He hums in agreement.
Before you continue, “And you keep a shit load of them in all your pockets”
You feel his body shake, as he lets out a chuckle, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Featherlight and sweet.
Peppering kisses along your face, before trailing down to meet your lips. Soft and sweet. As smooth as the little sweets themselves.
He murmurs softly, “Thank you”
“For what?” you question, breathlessly.
“For sharing with me”
A wide smile stretches across your face, you respond in kind, “Thanks for sharing your life with me”
“Always”
You wander into the night, side by side. Settling into the car, his hand intertwined with yours. You simply admire him as he drives. A feeling of contentment settles between you both.
Life really is sweeter when it’s shared.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this little story, based on the fact that Noah Wyle often rewards himself with a little Werther's when he does a good job with a scene (here’s a little insta clip of him saying this). So it's just a little sappy sweetness. Let me know what you thought of this little piece of fluff! ✨
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
Feel free to find my Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader Rinse & Repeat Series Masterlist here 🩺
or my little two parter Dr Robby x Paediatrician!Reader Paging Dr Daisy 🌼
Or check out my main Masterlist here
dennis whitaker all dressed up in lingerie for a certain attending's birthday....
it's a plan he makes with trinity- or rather, trinity turns to him with a cunning little grin one day and says, "hey huckleberry, you know what i think the old man might *really* want for his birthday?". they go from there.
that's how he ends up laid out on his and robby's bed, covered in blue lace, trying to shift so that the erection that he already had wasn't *too* obscene in the little panties he was currently donning- though that seemed like a lost cause by now. he'd told robby to come up to the bedroom when he got in, saying that he had a "birthday surprise" for the older man waiting for him. considering dennis had never before shown even vague interest in lingerie, surprise was certainly one word for what robby was going to get.
when dennis's boyfriend, the birthday boy as it were, opened the door and called out for him, the younger shifted just slightly, splaying his legs more and pushing his chest out, eager to show off exactly what robby surely wanted to see. there was a thud as robby dropped the bag he was holding onto the floor. dennis looked up from below batting eyelids to see robby's jaw hanging open and his eyes wide as saucers.
"dennis...."
his voice was breathy and hoarse. his boyfriend looked like a vision. a really fucking sexy vision. the panties and matching bralette and choker framed his boy perfectly. his panties were small and slung pretty low on his hips, and robby could see dennis's sweet little cock straining and leaking through the fabric, leaving a distinct wet patch that he wanted to lick and suck at. his chest was shown off by the bralette which cupped dennis's chest just enough to give the slight suggestion of cleavage, and had the boy's rock hard nipples clearly peeking through the lace. the choker sat on his neck and a little silver tag swayed with his boyfriend's breaths, glinting in the light. oh god, he needed him.
"....happy birthday, robby?"
robby didn't break eye contact with dennis for a second as he shrugged off his jacket and his hands fell to his belt to fumble with it and get open, letting his trousers fall down his legs when he finally released it. dennis didn't let the cheeky smile drop off his face for a second, squirming more on the sheets to show off his body to the man whose gaze was fixed on him like he was a magnetic.
when robby was finally naked, dennis practically licked his lips at the sight of robby's cock bobbing between his legs, hard and thick and weeping precum from the tip. he tried not to press his palm into his crotch, wanting to give that gift all to robby today.
watching the older man crawl up the bed to where dennis was lounging was perhaps the most attractive thing he'd ever seen- though his brain leaked right out of his head when robby took his lace-clad hips in his hands and dragged him towards him and planted his mouth right on his cock, mouthing at him through the material. the squeal that dennis let out was a noise he didn't even know he could make.
robby kept pulling him closer and closer, licking and sucking and swallowing around him, still with the barrier of the panties between his tongue and dennis's weeping little cock. it didn't take long at all until robby yanked the waistband of them down, taking the younger's entire cock in his mouth, covering it with pressure and heat and warmth, and making dennis scream and thrash and cum down robby's throat with no control.
there was no break before robby moved further up dennis's prone body to hover over him, nose to nose with dennis, panting heavily and with robby licking the remainders of dennis's cum off of his lips and face. dennis squealed again when his boyfriend reached up and tweaked a nipple through the bralette, and then kissed him firmly, snaking his tongue into dennis's mouth, humming and moaning as the two of them fell into the kiss, pushing and pulling against the other, no space between their bodies.
when they broke apart for air, dennis smiled at the look on robby's face- happy and hungry and horny all at once.
"do you... hfff, ugh... do you like the gift?"
robby let out a breathy laugh, thrilled and yet with a deepness to it that told dennis the night was far from over.
"happy fucking birthday to me indeed... get on your knees, denny, 'm gonna fuck you until you're sobbing."
his words alone could've had dennis orgasm a second time if he hadn't cum so recently. he let robby flip him over, and dutifully got on his hands and knees, swaying his ass just enough that a firm slap landed on it, making him moan.
the lingerie was definitely not surviving the night. he'd have to thank trinity for the idea.
hc that dennis absolutely buys those sets of lip glosses that all have a slightly different taste, like orange or strawberry or grape, and when robby kisses him he makes him guess what flavour he's wearing today..
(cue robby leaning in for a second kiss like.. "hmmm you know, I don't think I managed to get a good enough taste, let's try again baby..." and twenty minutes later they're still making out because robby "still can't taste it"...)
once again thinking about somno hucklerobby. dennis just gets so sleepy when they're home, curled up in robby's soft sheets. the sight is adorable and— even though it makes him a little ashamed, seeing dennis all pliant and warm, lips slack, makes robby twitch and swell in his sweats. robby can't get hard as often as he'd like, and he can't just let his boner go to waste... right?
it's just so easy to nudge the boy's thighs apart, his hole still loose and warm from being fingerfucked to tears earlier, and press his dick oh-so-slowly inside. nestle up deeep, cock stuffing den's puffy little cunt, groaning soft at the silky wet walls squeezing around his dick.
robby stays still for a moment while dennis snuffles and whines weakly in his sleep, squirming a bit, probably dreaming. the heat of his cunt is near unbearable, and robby can't help but start to slowly thrust, carefully drawing out and pushing back in.
robby manages to keep it slow and steady enough not to wake poor dennis until he nears the end, losing his self-control as he starts to pound harshly into den's fluttering hole, panting and muffling his groans as he stuffs his boy full of cum, a burst of heat in den's tummy.
dennis whining daddy.. wh— haah— mmh, wh..? all weak and raspy with sleep, spine arching and whimpers gasping out of him as robby slides a hand down to jerk off his swollen tdick, biting back a noise as dennis squeezes tight around his softening, oversensitive cock.
shh, shh, little mouse, daddy's so sorry for waking you. you're alright, you're okay... daddy just needed some relief, sweetheart. you don't mind daddy using your perfect little puppyparts, huh? noo, I know you don't... fuck, there you go, cum all over me, baby. goood puppy. <3
@naivegh0ul writing about Mommy kink Simon has been rotting my brain like a parasite.
Like fuckin hell, you’d be riding him, his hands on your hips pulling you down as he thrusts up into you and his poor little head would be too fucked out and dizzy to comprehend the words he says.
His mouth open and eyes half lidded, he says “fuck mommy mmph, feel so good.”
And you slow down a little bit, smirk on your face.
“What’d you say Si?” You say tilting your head to the side, using his nickname only you call him, knowing it already makes him flustered in the first place.
He looks up at you with his big honey colored puppy eyes that are wide with confusion, trying to remember what he said.
When he remembers, he places his forehead on your shoulder with a groan trying to fuck up into you again hoping it’ll make you forget.
You place one hand on his chest and the other under his chin to tilt his head up to look at you.
You know what he said, you heard it loud and clear, you just wanted him to say it again.
“What’d you say honey?” You asked in the sweetest, softest pitched voice that had him whine in response.
“I-“ he blushes, his cheeks the prettiest shade of pink.
You trace your thumb over his lips.
“I- said mama.” He admits like he was confessing a sin.
“No.” you giggle, “close, but that’s not what you said Si.”
“Mommy.” He whispers breathlessly, and you smile at his honesty.
“I didn’t know you liked that Simmy.” You tilt your head again, smile still plastered on your face, your thumb now tracing over the blush on his cheekbone.
“Go on, say it again.” You start to bounce on him again, nuzzling your head on his shoulder into his neck, whispering praises in his ear.
He tightens his grip on your hips and his eyes roll back.
“Yeah mommy, fuck, just like that, please, fuck me like that.”
summary : everyone knows you and robby are like two magnets, pulled together and destined to be together. everyone except the two of you, apparently.
word count : 10.1 k
warnings : mentions of blood, passing out, smut, p in v, semi-public sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up), 18 +, MDNI , implied aged gap , fingering
a/n: as usual, not proofread !
The waiting room looks like hell.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Too bright. Too loud. Too many people packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath fluorescent lights that wash everyone the same sick shade of exhausted gray. A toddler screams somewhere near triage. Somebody vomits into a plastic bag near the reception desk. EMTs burst through the ambulance bay doors every six minutes carrying fresh disasters like offerings.
And over all of it: the constant overhead paging.
The ER never really sleeps. It just bleeds into the next catastrophe.
“You got a room for a possible bowel perf?” a paramedic barks, already wheeling the patient forward.
“Trauma Two,” You answer automatically without looking up from your chart.
“Trauma Two’s occupied.”
“Then hallway bed six.”
“That guy’s psych hold.”
“Then put him literally anywhere with oxygen and a pulse ox.” The paramedic grins tiredly.
“That’s why I like you.”
“Yeah, well, poor judgment’s a recurring theme around here.”Behind you, a familiar voice cuts through the noise immediately.
“She flirts with everybody before midnight. Don’t take it personal.”
You don't have to turn around to know it’s Dr. Robby. Still, your stomach betrays you anyway.
Stupid thing.
The paramedic laughs.
“Damn, Robby. Possessive tonight.”
“That’s not what this is,” Robby mutters immediately.
You finally glance up. Big mistake. He looks exhausted. Not regular exhausted. Hospital exhausted. The kind that settles into the bones after too many double shifts and too many people dying under your hands no matter how fast you work. His dark curls are damp at the temples from hours under harsh ER heat, scrub top wrinkled, stethoscope hanging crooked around his neck. And still— still unfairly handsome. You hate that about him.
Hatesthat after fourteen hours on shift he can still look across a trauma bay and make your brain briefly stop functioning like a licensed medical professional. The paramedic wheels off laughing. Robby steps into the space beside you immediately, eyes dropping to the chart in your hands.
“You re-order the labs on Bed Nine?”
“Mmhm.”
“He needs another lactate.”
“Already done." Robby’s mouth twitches faintly.
Of course it is.
Working with him became dangerous months ago.
Not because he’s difficult.
The opposite.
Because somewhere along the line the two of you became… this.
Too synced up.
Too aware of each other.
Too comfortable.
You know how he takes his coffee.
He knows when your migraines start before you say anything.
You hand him instruments before he asks during procedures.
He automatically moves people out of your path during traumas without even looking.
Nobody misses it. Especially not Dana.
“You two are way past appropriate,” she muttered three shifts ago while watching you two argue over a chest tube placement like a divorced couple.
You laughed.
Robby didn't.
Now he leans slightly over your shoulder, scanning the chart.
“You eat yet?” There it is. Every damn shift. You keep your eyes on the paperwork.
“I had coffee.”
“That ain’t food.”
“It has nutritional value emotionally.”
“Cute.” His tone flattens immediately. “Eat somethin’.” You scribble another note onto the chart.
“Yes, dad.” Robby sighs through his nose. Not annoyed. Worse. Concerned.
“Seriously.”
“I’m fine.”
“You said that six hours ago.”
“And look.” You gesture vaguely at yourself. “Still vertical.” His eyes flick over your face briefly. Too briefly for anybody else to notice. Long enough for you to feel it anyway.
“You got that headache again?” he asks quietly. You blink.
“How the hell do you always know that?”
“Because you rub your temple every thirty seconds when it starts.” your hand drops immediately away from your face. Robby’s expression shifts just slightly.
Victory.
Tiny.
Private.
Dangerous.
Before either of you can say another word, the overhead speakers crackle violently:
“CODE TRAUMA. MULTIPLE GSWs EN ROUTE. ETA THREE MINUTES.”
The entire ER changes shape instantly. Everybody moves. Nurses sprint toward trauma bays. Stretchers reposition. Gloves snap on. The easy rhythm of conversation disappears beneath adrenaline and practiced chaos. Robby is already moving.
“So much for food,” you mutter.
“You’re still eatin’ after this,” he throws over his shoulder.
“You can’t legally force me.”
“I know where your locker is.”
You snort despite yourself and follow him into Trauma One. Three minutes later the ambulance bay doors explode open. And suddenly nobody has time to breathe anymore. The first patient crashes before the second stretcher even clears the ambulance bay.
“Twenty-three-year-old male,” the paramedic shouts while helping transfer the body over. “Multiple GSWs to the chest and abdomen, lost pulse twice in transport—”
“We got him,” Robby cuts in immediately. And just like that, he changes. Not physically. Something else. The warmth disappears first. The dry humor. The tired little almost-smiles he only really gives staff he trusts. Everything narrows into sharp-edged focus so complete it almost feels frightening to witness up close.
“Tube him,” he orders. You’re already moving before he finishes speaking.
“On it." The room erupts into controlled chaos around you. Monitors screaming. Gloves snapping. Blood everywhere. The patient looks young. Too young. Baby-faced beneath the oxygen mask, skin already going gray around the lips. Robby climbs onto the side rail slightly to get better leverage while assessing the chest wounds.
“No breath sounds left side.”
“Tension pneumo?” you ask.
“Looks like it.” He points instantly. “Needle.” You slap the decompression needle into his waiting hand before the nurse beside you can even react. Robby doesn’t look at you when he takes it. Doesn’t need to. That’s the problem. You work together too well now. A hiss of trapped air escapes the patient’s chest.
“Pressure’s tanking,” Langdon says.
“How bad?”
“Seventy systolic.”
“Blood now.” You move automatically, cutting through clothing while Robby barks orders over the noise. Another stretcher bursts through the doors behind you.
Second GSW. Teenager this time. Jesus Christ.
“Trauma Two ready?” Dana yells.
“No,” you answer immediately. “Use Three.”
“We need you in there too.” You glance toward Robby instinctively. Big mistake. Because he’s already looking at you. Just for a second. Long enough for that familiar awareness to pass silently between you both beneath the chaos.
Go.
You peel away instantly toward the second trauma bay. The teenager is conscious at least. Barely. Crying. Blood soaking through both hands where he’s trying to hold pressure against his own stomach.
“Hey, hey—look at me,” you say firmly while climbing beside the stretcher. “Stay with me.”
“I don’t wanna die,” he chokes out immediately. God. You hate when they say that.
“You’re not gonna die.”
“You promise?” You don’t answer fast enough. Because nobody smart makes promises in an ER. Behind you, through the open trauma bay doors, you can still hear Robby running his room like a battlefield commander.
“Push epi.”
“Again.”
“Clear.” The defibrillator cracks loud enough to echo. Your own patient starts crashing ten minutes later. Then everything becomes movement again. Blood transfusions. Suction. Pressure. Yelling.
At some point somebody presses a protein bar into your scrub pocket without explanation. You already know it was Robby. You don’t even have to look. Two hours pass like that. Then three. The teenager survives surgery. The first patient doesn’t. You know the exact second Robby loses him because the entire energy of Trauma One changes. The noise drops. Voices lower. A silence settles that only really exists in hospitals after death. You finish dictating notes at the nurses’ station forty minutes later with aching shoulders and blood dried stiff across your scrub sleeves. The ER has calmed slightly. Not quiet. Never quiet. But survivable. You rub at your eyes tiredly while signing discharge paperwork.
“You didn’t eat that.” Your head lifts immediately. Robby stands beside the desk holding the untouched protein bar from your pocket. Shit.
“I forgot.”
“You forgot for three hours?”
“It was busy.”
“It’s always busy.” You sigh dramatically and reach for the bar. He doesn’t hand it over yet.
“Robby.”
“You get dizzy again?”
“No.”
“You lyin’?”
“…maybe a little.” His jaw tightens. Not angry. Worried. Again. You hate how much that affects you.
“I’m fine,” you insist more quietly this time.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That phrase means absolutely nothin’ when it comes outta your mouth anymore.” Before you can answer, Dana walks past carrying charts and immediately stops dead seeing the two of you standing too close again.
“Oh my God,” she says flatly.
You blink. “What?”
“This.” She gestures vaguely between you both. “Whatever weird emotionally repressed slow-burn nonsense this is.” Robby pinches the bridge of his nose immediately.
“Dana—”
“No, seriously. It’s painful.” She points at you. “You look at him like he personally hung the moon.” Your entire soul leaves your body.
“Excuse me?”
“And Robby looks at her like somebody put a live grenade in his chest.”
“I’m literally standing right here,” Robby mutters.
“You two have been divorced-married for like six months.”
“We are not—”
“You shared fries yesterday.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“You remembered her migraine medication before she did.” Robby opens his mouth. Stops. Closes it again. Dana looks vindicated immediately.
“Oh, my God.”
“Dana,” you warn weakly.
“No wonder the whole department thinks you’re sleeping together.” Silence. Complete silence. A nearby nurse actually turns around trying not to look interested. Robby stares at Dana like he’s reconsidering several HR policies simultaneously. You can physically feel heat crawling up your neck.
“We are not sleeping together,” you say tightly. Dana snorts.
“Honestly that’s worse. The tension in this department could power the city grid.” Then she walks away before either of you can recover. You stare at the floor. Robby stares somewhere over your shoulder. The protein bar gets silently placed into your hand at last. A wave of nausea fills you head to toe as your migrain pounds against your skull, and you wince and push away from the desk.
"Eat it." Robby pushes. You nod, turning away from him.
"Yeah, i will. Later-" You barely finish your sentence when your vision tunnels and you stumble. You sway a little in place before gravity does it's job and you go crashing for the floor.
"Shit !" Robby catches you before you have the chance to crack your skull open on the linoleum, fingers pressed to your neck to check your vitals. A stupid reflex. He looks up at Dana, who is walking away. "Dana ! A little help here !" He calls. Dana stops and spins around on high alert, and her eyes blow wide.
"Oh for pete's sake." She breathes, slinging her stethoscope off her neck as she runs forward. "What the hell happened ?" Robby shifts you in his arms, one hand supporting your limp neck.
"She's dehydrated. Only had coffee." He explains, his voice rough. Dana swears under breath and looks up.
"Perlah, get me some saline !" She shouts, "Santos, Whittaker, get me a bed !" Everything moves at once after that. The ER shifts shape around emergencies automatically, instinctively, like a living organism responding to injury. Nurses break into motion. A gurney appears from somewhere down the hall. Somebody lowers the volume on the television overhead. And through all of it, Robby doesn’t let go of you for even a second.
“She hit her head?” Dana asks quickly, already checking your pupils while Robby keeps you upright against his chest.
“No,” he answers immediately. “I caught her.” The speed of that answer makes Dana’s eyebrows climb. Interesting.
“BP?” she asks.
“Couldn’t get one yet.”
“She breathing okay?”
“Yes.”
“Pulse?”
“Fast.” His jaw tightens. “Too fast.” You lie limp against him completely unconscious, cheek pressed against the navy-blue fabric of his scrub top. One of your hands is curled loosely against his chest like your body just gave up trying to hold itself upright. And Jesus Christ— Robby looks terrified. Not visibly to most people. But everybody here knows him. They know the difference between Dr. Robby handling a crisis and Robby barely holding himself together through one. Langdon skids to a stop beside Mel and Samira, who have stopped in their tracks to stare at their friend passed out on the ground.
"Jesus, what happened ?" He asks, his tone wuipped.
Robby looks up, incredulous.
"The fuck does it look like Frank ? She's unconcsious !" He swears under his breath. "Whittaker ! Where the fuck is that bed ?"
“Coming through!” A stretcher rattles around the corner at full speed. Whittaker wheels a bed over fast while Santos helps clear space beside the nurses’ station.
“Robby,” Dana says slower this time. Like she’s talking him down off something. His eyes flick up finally. For half a second he genuinely looks like he forgot anyone else was there. Then his face shutters immediately back into professional composure.
Right.
Doctor mode.
He carefully transfers you onto the bed, one hand still bracing the back of your head even after you’re safely down against the mattress.
“She’s burning up,” he mutters. Dana presses a thermometer against your forehead.
“Low-grade fever.” She frowns. “Probably running herself into the ground.”
“Shocking,” Santos mutters under his breath. Robby shoots him a look sharp enough to cut steel. Santos immediately raises both hands. “I’m just saying.”
“Get fluids running,” Robby says flatly. Dana watches him for a second too long. Then:
“How long’s this been going on?” Robby doesn’t look away from you.
“What?”
“This martyr complex of hers.” Dana gestures vaguely toward your unconscious body. “She’s looked like hell all week.”
“She said she was fine.”
“Oh my God.” Dana actually laughs once. “And you believed that?” His expression darkens immediately because— No. He didn’t. That’s the problem. He knew. He knew you were overworking. Knew you were skipping meals. Knew the migraines were getting worse because he memorized your tells months ago without meaning to. And somehow he still let this happen. The guilt crawls visibly across his face. Dana sees it instantly.
“Hey,” she says, voice softening slightly. “This isn’t on you.” Robby exhales sharply through his nose.
“She passed out standing next to me.”
“Because she’s an idiot.” A beat. Then quieter: “And because this place eats people alive.” Nobody argues with that. Perlah arrives with saline while Princess hooks you up to monitors. Your pulse flashes too fast across the screen immediately. Robby stares at it like he personally offended the laws of medicine.
“She’s gonna wake up pissed we made a scene,” Dana says knowingly. That almost gets a smile out of him. Almost. Instead he reaches down absentmindedly and brushes a strand of hair back away from your face. The entire room goes still for exactly one second. Because that— That was not a coworker gesture. Robby realizes it immediately after doing it. His hand stills. Dana’s eyes widen slowly like she just found proof of life on another planet.
“Oh,” she says very quietly. Robby straightens instantly. Professional again. Too late. Way too late. “You are so screwed,” Dana informs him with the calm certainty of someone announcing a weather forecast.
“I’m not discussing this with you.”
“You’re in love with her.” Whittaker nearly chokes in the background. Robby’s face hardens immediately.
“Dana.”
“No, no, this is actually insane now.” She points between him and your unconscious form. “You looked two seconds away from coding yourself when she hit the floor.”
“She fainted.”
“And you caught her like a grieving Victorian widower.” Silence. Santos turns around entirely to hide his laughter. Mel and Samira pretend to be busy with a chart as Mckay walks by, her brows furrowed at the scene. Langdon whistles and turns around, walking off his his hands in his pockets. Robby rubs both hands down his face hard enough to leave red marks behind.
“This conversation is over.”
“Mhmm.” Dana crosses her arms. “You gonna tell her before or after the next time she collapses from neglecting basic human survival needs?” His eyes drift back toward you automatically. Unconscious. Pale. IV running steadily now. Something in his expression shifts again. Softer this time. More dangerous.
“Soon,” he says quietly before he can stop himself. Dana goes completely still. She sighs, and her face breaks into a grin.
"Great. Abbot owes me a hundred bucks." Robby goes still.
"What ?"
-------------
The world is bright.
God, it's so bright.
You crack your eyes open and immediately regret it, groaning as the bustling sounds of the ER flood back in.
"Ah. Rise and shine, sleepy-head." You tilt your head to the side. Langdon and Mckay are in your room, Mckay down by the computer, checking your chart while Langdon is sat by your bed, adjusting the drip flow in the IV.
Wait.
Why are you in a room ?
Your voice is rough with sleep when you speak.
“…what?” Langdon grins immediately.
“Oh, she’s alive. Shame. I was just about to steal your locker.” You blink at him slowly, brain still buffering.
“…why am i in a room?” You croak. "Why are you guys in a room.. with me ?"
“Visiting hours,” McKay says dryly without looking up from the chart. “We brought flowers.” You glance around blearily. No flowers.
“…you’re both assholes.”
“Correct,” Langdon says pleasantly. Then your brain catches up.
Room.
IV.
Monitor.
The realization hits all at once and you groan, dragging a hand over your face.
“Oh my God.”
“There it is,” McKay mutters. “The embarrassment. Nature is healing.”
“How long was I out?” Langdon checks the watch on his wrist dramatically.
“Long enough for Robby to threaten three residents, snap at a nurse, and hover outside this curtain like a divorced father at a middle school dance recital.” Your stomach drops instantly.
“…what?” McKay finally looks over at you then, expression dangerously entertained.
“Oh, yeah. It was bad.”
“He scared Santos so badly she almost started crying,” Langdon adds.
“That’s not true.”
“She absolutely thought she was getting fired.”
“I did not snap at Santos,” Robby’s voice cuts in sharply from outside the curtain. Both of them immediately grin like sharks scenting blood. And then Robby steps into the room carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and an electrolyte drink in the other. He stops the second he sees your eyes open. Every inch of tension in him visibly shifts. Not gone. Just redirected.
“Oh, there he is,” Langdon says smugly. “The grieving widow.”
“Frank,” Robby says flatly.
“You were pacing.”
“I was working.”
“You checked on her seventeen times.” McKay snorts into her coffee. Robby ignores both of them completely, eyes already on you instead.
“You with us?” You nod weakly.
“Unfortunately.”
“Any dizziness?”
“Yes.”
“Nausea?”
“A little.”
“Headache?” You just stare at him. He sighs. “Right. Stupid question.” Robby looks like he wants the earth to physically open beneath him.
“Okay,” he says tightly. “Everybody out.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Langdon says immediately.
“Frank.”
“Nope. This is the best day of my life.” Robby points toward the door with terrifying calm.
“Get out.” McKay is already cackling as Langdon lets himself be physically shoved toward the curtain. The curtain swings shut behind them amid open laughter from the hallway. Then it’s quiet again. Well. Quiet except for the distant ER chaos and your own heartbeat trying to escape your body. You stare determinedly at the blanket over your lap. Robby stares somewhere over your left shoulder. Neither of you speak for a full five seconds. He sighs, pinching his nose.
"We put you on IV Saline. You were dehydrated." He explains, walking over to the seat Langdon had previously occupied. You gulp, nodding.
"My bad." He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head.
"Yeah, it is your bad. I can't have you collapsing like that in the middle of a shift." You groan, shaking your head.
"What, would you rather I do it before ? Or after ? I'm sorry, oh ER overlord, i'll try to control my unconscious state from now on." Robby lets out a short, incredulous breath through his nose.
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“I’m not getting smart,” you say, already pushing the blanket off your legs. “I’m getting out of here.” His head snaps toward you instantly.
“…no, you’re not.” You pause mid-movement.
“Yes,” you say slowly, like he’s missed something obvious, “I am.” Robby stands up so fast the chair behind him scrapes the floor.
“You just passed out.”
“And I woke up.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It’s exactly how it works.” You swing your legs over the side of the bed anyway, ignoring the slight sway in your balance as you reach for your shoes on instinct. Robby’s voice drops.
“Stop.” You freeze for half a second. Not because he told you to. Because of how he said it. But then you shake it off and pull your shoe on anyway.
“I’m going back to work,” you repeat. Robby moves closer immediately.
“You’re not cleared.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.” You glance up at him sharply.
“I didn’t ask for a second opinion.”
“And I’m not giving you one,” he snaps back. “I’m telling you, as the attending who just watched you hit the floor—”
“Because I forgot to eat,” you cut in. “Not because I’m dying.”
“That doesn’t make it better!” The words echo harder than either of you probably intend. Silence hits for a beat. Your fingers still on your shoe. Robby drags a hand down his face, breathing out through his nose like he’s trying not to explode.
“You don’t get to just—” He stops himself, jaw flexing. “You don’t get to walk back out there like nothing happened.” You stand up fully now. A little too fast. The room tilts slightly.
“I’ve got patients,” you say more quietly. Robby’s voice goes lower.
“So do I.” A beat. Then: “And as of right now, you are on of them. Now, I’m telling you to sit back down.” You stare at him. He stares right back. There’s no humor in it anymore. No teasing. No banter. Just that same pressure from earlier—too much concern packed into too little space. You exhale through your nose.
“…you don’t get to order me around.” Robby laughs once, sharp and disbelieving.
“Apparently I do, considering I just watched you hit the floor and scare half the department into thinking we were gonna lose you.” That lands. Harder than it should. You look away for a second. Then back at him.
“I’m not fragile,” you say again, quieter. Robby’s expression shifts instantly.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re acting like I am.”
“I’m acting like you’re someone who almost cracked their skull open because they refused to take a break.” That makes you go still. A beat passes. Then you grab your badge from the bedside table. Robby’s eyes widen slightly.
“…don’t.” You clip it onto your scrub top.
“I’m going back to work.”
“No,” he says again, sharper now. You step around him. He moves with you immediately, blocking the exit. You stop. Look up at him.
“…move.” Robby doesn’t. For the first time since you woke up, he looks genuinely frustrated in a way that isn’t controlled anymore.
“You’re making a stupid call.”
“And you’re not my keeper.” That hits something in him. You see it. The flicker. The crack.
A pause. Then softer—but no less firm:
“I’m still not letting you walk out there like that.” You stare at him for a long second. Then, very deliberately, you step sideways. Not pushing past him. Not fighting. Just… going around. Robby turns instantly.
“Hey—”
“I said I’m fine,” you cut in, already heading for the curtain.
“You’re not—”
“I am,” you repeat, not stopping. Robby follows you out into the corridor. Langdon and McKay are still visible down the hall, both of them immediately clocking what’s happening and exchanging a look.
“You don’t get to just leave.” You finally stop in the middle of the hallway. Turn back to him. People move around you. A stretcher rolls past. A monitor alarm bleats somewhere in the distance. Life keeps going. Even when you’re both frozen in it.
“I have a shift,” you say calmly. “You have patients. We are both adults.” Robby looks at you like he wants to argue and can’t find the right angle anymore.
“You’re still dizzy.”
“I’ll sit if I need to.”
“You shouldn’t be standing.”
“And yet I am.” A beat. Langdon quietly mouths, this is insane, to McKay. Then you turn and keep walking. You wrap your arms around yourself, walking over to the nurse's station and picking up the chart you had left there. Your teenage patient. You sniffle and walk over to his room, pushing the curtain aside. Robby follows.
Of course he does.
You feel him before you even hear him—heavy footsteps that don’t belong to the usual ER rhythm, too deliberate, too controlled, like he’s forcing himself not to close the distance in three strides and drag you back by force.He stops just outside the curtain.You don’t look at him. You can’t afford to. There’s a chart in your hands and a patient who actually needs you upright, even if your skull still feels like it’s full of cotton and static.
“Vitals stable,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.
“You don’t get to just—”
“Robby,” you cut in, sharper than you intend. A warning. Or maybe a plea. “Not here.” Silence. Then, quieter, dangerously controlled:
“You think I care where it is?” That finally makes you look at him. He’s standing half in the curtain light, half in the hallway chaos, scrubs wrinkled, hair slightly messed from running his hand through it too many times. He looks like he hasn’t stopped moving since you collapsed. His jaw is tight. Not angry anymore. Past angry.
“You passed out,” he says. “In my department. In my ER. In front of my staff. And you woke up and decided the appropriate response was to go back to work like nothing happened.”
“I am back to work.”
“No.” One step closer. “You are standing on adrenaline and spite and a saline bag that’s barely had time to do anything.” You let out a short breath, half laugh, half exhaustion.
“You always this dramatic with every patient, or am I special?” That lands. You see it hit him—right under the ribs. His expression shifts, like something in him finally snaps into place instead of being held together.
“No,” he says. Then he reaches for your wrist. Not hard. Not rough. But decisive.
“Hey—Robby—” He doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks you backward—not dragging, not forcing, but absolutely not giving you the option to argue your way out of it. You stumble once, annoyed, and he adjusts instantly without even looking, like he already knows exactly where your balance breaks.
“Seriously?” you hiss. “You’re doing this now?”
“Yes,” he says flatly.
“You can’t just abduct your attending in the middle of a shift.”
“I can when she’s about to drop again in front of Trauma One.”
“That is not—” He opens a door you didn’t even see him key into. On-call room. Small. Dim. Too quiet compared to the screaming outside. He guides you inside and shuts the door behind you. The click of the lock is loud. Final. He draws the curtains shut. For a second, neither of you moves. The room feels wrong in a different way—no monitors, no alarms, just the hum of the hospital through the walls and the two of you trapped in a space that suddenly feels way too intimate to be professional. You turn on him immediately.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yes.” You stare at him. He stares back. Then he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for hours and finally gave up.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Sit,” he repeats, voice lower now. Not loud. Not angry. Final. Something in it makes your irritation falter for half a second.
“I don’t need—”
“You almost face-planted into a hallway cart,” he cuts in. “So forgive me if I don’t trust your assessment right now.” That stings. You hate that it stings.
“I told you I’m fine.”
“And I told you to stop saying that like it’s a magic spell that makes it true.” Silence snaps between you. You cross your arms. He runs a hand over his face, dragging it down like he’s physically trying to keep himself from losing control again. Then, softer—dangerously honest: “Do you have any idea what it looked like?” Your voice drops a fraction.
“No worse than what we see every day.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” He looks at you. And whatever restraint he’s been clinging to finally slips just enough for you to see what’s underneath it.
“I thought I was going to lose you in my own department,” he says, quiet and raw. “While I was standing ten feet away.” That shuts you up. Not because you don’t have a response. Because suddenly you don’t trust your voice. Robby steps closer again, slower this time, like he’s approaching something that could still break.
“You don’t get to decide that it’s nothing,” he says. “You don’t get to walk it off because it’s convenient.” Your throat tightens.
“I wasn’t trying to make it convenient.”
“Then what were you doing?” he asks immediately. A beat. Your answer comes out smaller than you want it to.
“Working.” He lets out a humorless breath.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what scares me.” You frown slightly.
“What?” He looks at you like he regrets the words the second they leave him—but not enough to take them back.
“That you’ll always pick the job over your own body,” he says. “Even when it’s failing you.” Something shifts in your chest. You don’t like how seen that feels. Then he steps right in front of you. Close enough that the air changes. A pause. The hospital noise outside feels miles away. You swallow.
“This is inappropriate,” you mutter automatically, because your brain is scrambling for something safe to hold onto. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile.
“Yeah,” he says. “We passed that a while ago.” You scoff, backing away from him.
"God, Robby - Why do you care ? I'm an adult, i can handle myself-" He moves with you instantly. Not chasing. Not grabbing. Just… matching you step for step until your back meets the wall and there’s nowhere left for you to retreat without admitting you’re retreating.
“You call that handling yourself?” he asks quietly. Your jaw tightens.
“I didn’t ask for a performance review.”
“I’m not performing,” he says. “I’m telling you you scared the hell out of me.” That lands harder than anything else so far. Because it’s not clinical. It’s not Dr. Robby. It’s just him. You force a short laugh, brittle at the edges.
“You, scared?” you repeat. “You? You run trauma codes like it’s any other Tuesday and you’re telling me I scared you?” His eyes don’t move from yours.
“Yes.”Simple. Unapologetic. That shuts you up for half a second too long. Then anger finds its way back in—because it’s easier than whatever is sitting underneath it.
“You don’t get to do this,” you say, voice sharper now. “You don’t get to pull me into a room, lock the door, and act like—like—”
“Like what?” he cuts in. You gesture vaguely between you.
“Like this matters more than everything else.” Robby goes still. That’s the wrong thing to say. You see it immediately.Something in his expression tightens, like he’s been holding something behind his teeth for too long and you just forced it open.
“It does,” he says. Quiet. Flat. Absolute. Your breath catches slightly.
“No, it doesn’t,” you say automatically, because that’s safer.
“It does to me.” Silence. You stare at him, trying to find the angle where this becomes a misunderstanding you can fix with sarcasm or distance or anything familiar. But there isn’t one. Robby exhales through his nose, frustrated now—not at you, but at himself.
“You really think I’d be doing this,” he gestures between you again, sharper this time, “if it didn’t matter?”
“You’re my attending,” you say quickly. He laughs once, humorless.
“That’s what you’re going with?”
“It’s a boundary.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”Your pulse spikes.
“Excuse me?” Robby steps closer again, and this time you don’t move fast enough to stop it.
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” he asks. “You think I don’t know exactly how this looks? How long this has been going on?” Your throat goes tight.
“Robby—”
“I’ve been watching you almost pass out for weeks,” he snaps suddenly, voice rising. “I’ve been watching you run yourself into the ground, and I keep telling myself it’s just work, it’s just stress, it’s just—”He stops. Jaw clenches. Then quieter, but sharper somehow: “And then you collapse in front of me and I realize I don’t care if it’s ‘appropriate’ anymore.”
Your breath stutters.
“Stop,” you whisper.
He shakes his head once.
“No.” A beat. Then it comes out—rough, unplanned, like it slips through a crack he didn’t know was there. “I can’t do this pretending I don’t—” he cuts off, swallows hard, eyes flicking down for half a second like he’s annoyed at himself for losing control. “I can’t stand there and watch you walk yourself into the ground and pretend it’s nothing to me.” Your voice barely works.
“Robby…” He looks back at you. And whatever restraint he had left finally breaks cleanly.
“I’m in love with you,” he says. No softness. No buildup. Just truth, thrown into the air like it’s been suffocating him. The room goes completely still. Even the hospital noise feels distant now, like it’s happening to someone else’s life. You don’t speak. Not because you don’t have words. Because you have too many and none of them fit right. Robby watches your face change like he’s bracing for impact. And then, almost immediately, regret floods in.
“Shit,” he says quietly. One step back. “No—forget I said that.” Your stomach drops. His jaw tightens like he’s trying to physically shove the words back into his chest.
“Robby,” you say, finally. He stops. Doesn’t look at you immediately. That alone says everything.
“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” he says, almost bitter now, like he’s punishing himself. “I just—”
'Robby."
Venice
Your voice is quiet, but it cuts through his frantic backpedaling like a scalpel. He finally stops, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. He still won’t meet your eyes, staring at a point on the scuffed linoleum floor like it holds the secrets to avoiding this exact moment. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, filled with everything he just said and everything you haven’t.
“Robby,” you say again, softer this time. You take a half-step forward, closing the tiny gap he’d created. “Look at me.” He hesitates, a war playing out across his face. The urge to flee warring with the command in your voice. Finally, slowly, he lifts his gaze. The raw vulnerability in his eyes is a punch to the gut. It’s the same look he had when you were on the floor, but magnified, stripped of all clinical pretense. It’s just him. Scared. Exposed.
“I…” he starts, then stops, his throat working. “I know I shouldn’t have said that. It’s out of line. It’s—” You don’t let him finish. You surge forward, grabbing the front of his scrub top in both fists and yanking him down to you. The movement is clumsy, desperate. Your mouth crashes against his. It’s not a kiss of gentle revelation. It’s a kiss of frustration, of relief, of months of unspoken tension finally detonating. It’s all teeth and desperate pressure, a clash that’s been brewing for longer than either of you would admit. He makes a sound against your lips, a harsh, surprised groan, and for a second he’s frozen. Then his hands are on you, not gentle, not asking. One hand clamps onto the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place with a grip that’s just this side of painful. The other arm bands around your waist, lifting you slightly, pulling you flush against him until there’s no air, no space, just the frantic hammering of his heart against yours through the thin fabric of your scrubs. You kiss him back with everything you have, pouring all the fear from the hallway, all the annoyance at his overbearing concern, all the traitorous warmth that’s been pooling in your stomach every time he looks at you for months. You bite his lower lip, hard, and he groans again, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming yours in a way that’s possessive and demanding and utterly, completely Robby. He walks you backward, and your back hits the wall with a soft thud that doesn’t break the kiss. He pins you there, his body a solid, warm weight, one of his thighs wedging itself between yours. The pressure is intoxicating, a dizzying contrast to the lightheadedness from before. This is a different kind of spinning out of control. One you don’t want to stop. His hand slides from your neck down your side, tracing the curve of your ribs before coming to rest on your hip, his thumb digging in, holding you captive. You can feel the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his breathing, a mirror to your own. He finally breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. Both of you are breathing hard, chests heaving. The room is silent except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the distant, muffled hum of the hospital that feels worlds away.
“Christ,” he rasps, his voice thick and wrecked. His eyes are still closed, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear, and a shiver runs through you. “You can’t… you can’t just do that.”
“You’re the one who said you were in love with me,” you manage to get out, your voice shaky. “And then tried to take it back.”
“I wasn’t taking it back,” he says, lifting his head. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with a mix of adrenaline and something else, something hungry. “I was trying not to fuck everything up.”
“Too late for that,” you breathe, and then you’re kissing him again. It’s just as rough as before, maybe rougher. His hands are everywhere, roaming over your back, your sides, gripping your ass and pulling you harder against him. The wall is hard and unyielding at your back, and he’s solid and unyielding at your front, and you’re trapped in the best possible way. He rolls his hips against yours, a slow, deliberate grind that sends a bolt of heat straight through you, and you gasp into his mouth. He takes the opportunity to kiss a trail down your jaw, his scruff scraping deliciously against your skin. He nips at your collarbone, his hand sliding up under your scrub top, his palm hot and firm against the bare skin of your stomach.
“Robby,” you pant, your head falling back against the wall as his mouth finds that spot on your neck that makes your knees weak. “We’re… we’re in the on-call room.”
“Mhmm,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Locked the door.” His thumb brushes against the underside of your breast, and you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. He chuckles, a low, smug sound that vibrates through you. “Someone could knock.”
“Don’t care,” you gasp, as his other hand tugs your scrub top out of your pants, his fingers finding the waistband of your pants. “God, don’t stop.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. There’s a question there, a final check-in, but it’s buried under layers of raw want. You answer it by grabbing his hand and guiding it further down. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, and then his mouth is on yours again. He tastes like burnt coffee and the faint metallic tang of hospital air, but there’s something else, something bitter and sweet and rawly, desperately Robby that makes you want to climb inside his chest and break his ribs open from the inside. His hand is already down the front of your scrubs, palm hot against your hipbone, fingers trembling just enough to betray everything he won’t say aloud. You fumble at the drawstring on your own waistband, frustration clawing up your throat in a low, angry whine when the knot won’t loosen fast enough. You stare up at him—mess of dark hair, sweat on his brow, pupils wide enough to swallow the brown—and wonder absently if this is what it feels like to code. For a minute nobody says anything. You just breathe, harsh and hungry and desperate, noisy enough that if anybody is in the hallway they’d know exactly what was happening in here. It’s Robby that breaks first. He makes a strangled sound, forehead dropping to yours, so hard your noses smashed together. His voice comes out low and shredded and nearly begging.
“You gotta let me know if you want me to stop.”
You don’t.
Fuck, you don’t.
You want him to break you down to single-celled organisms. you turn your head and bite the meat of his bicep, just to feel him jerk.
“Shut up and do it, then,” You mutter. Your hands drop around his shoulders, pulling him down, and the next kiss is more teeth than lips. You don’t even notice his other hand has made it to your waistband until you feel the cool slide of his hand against your skin. You’re so far gone, you don’t even feel the fear or shame anyone normal would. Can’t bring yourself to care that you’re half-pinned to a drywall partition and the edge of a cot, moaning into your supervisor’s mouth like you’re both undergrad idiots caught in a blackout at frat formal. His hand is relentless, moving fast and clever, not even bothering to be delicate. You nearly lose your balance when he presses a thumb down just right over your scrubs, and your center of gravity hops about a foot left.
“Fuck—Robby, fuck—” You hiss it against his jawline, legs starting to shake. He gets a hand under your thigh, hefts it up, then hooks your knee on his belt so all you can do is hang there and let him wreck you. Somewhere in the back of your awareness you’re listing all the ways this is the worst idea you’ve ever had, but your body refuses to stop. He’s cursing too, breathing your name into your neck, voice so rough you can feel it vibrating in his chest. You want to put a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet but you know if anyone comes in, you’re both dead anyway. He fumbles at the drawstring with clumsy, single-handed urgency, finally manages to get it untied. The relief when his fingers actually slide past the waistband is so intense your vision goes white at the edges. He doesn’t even tease—just buries his hand against you and makes a noise so dark and satisfied it spikes something hot and relentless at the base of your spine.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re fucking soaked.” He says it like he means it as both a compliment and a diagnosis. Then he pushes his palm harder against you, finding every sensitive spot and working you with unerring, almost clinical precision, like he’s taking inventory of every way you can be taken apart. Your head thunks back against the wall with a little hollow sound. You want to tell him to stop, or slow down, or just breathe for maybe two seconds, but you don’t. You can’t. Instead you let yourself fall open and let him see it. The fact that you’re wrapped this tightly around him is not new information, but this—exposed, desperate—is a new evolutionary stage. He leans in, mouth back on yours, and you taste sweat, salt, and faint chemical hospital on his skin. The wall is cold at your back and his hand is molten at your front and your whole body is nothing but contrast and overload and hunger. You barely register your own hands, but they’re on him, pulling up the hem of his shirt, searching for bare skin, something to ground yourself. You feel the heat of him even through layers, alive and pulsing and real. He holds you still, fingers working in brutal, short pulses, driving you mercilessly toward the edge. It’s not careful. It’s not gentle. It’s like he’s making a point. Like he’s proving to you, to himself, to God, that you’re not going to scare him off, not ever. You come like a detonation. It rips through you so hard your vision whites out again and you clench around his hand. He groans, slowly slipping his fingers out of you before taking a step back away from your and pulling down your scrub pants. You gulp as you watch him undo the drawstring on his own pants, your mouth watering with need. The cold air against your exposed cunt is making you clench involuntarily, and the only thing you want right now is to have him inside of you. He pulls his pants down, only enough to free himself, and the air feels like it’s knocked out of your chest. His cock slaps up against his stomach, flushed dark, thick and heavy with blood, and the sight alone is enough to make you squeeze your thighs together in anticipation, shivering even though the room is sweltering. He spits in his palm, slicks himself, then walks over to you. His hands hook beneath your thighs and you jump up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he presses you against the wall. He pushes your hair back from your face, kisses your nose. He doesn’t waste a second. The first thrust is brutal, messy, all pent-up frustration and months of not acting on impulse. He’s thick—bigger than you’d let yourself admit in all those late-night, shamefaced fantasies—and the stretch steals the air from your lungs. Your jaw drops open, eyes rolling back as you lock on to the faces he’s making: mouth slack, eyebrows knit, a bead of sweat at his temple that you want to lick off more than you want to live. He’s got both hands under your ass, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, holding you up so all you can do is take it. And you do, with everything you have, bearing down on him so you can feel every inch, every twitch. He huffs a shaky, humorless laugh, the kind you only make when you’re so overwhelmed you can’t do anything else.
“You okay ?” He rasps, kissing his way up your neck. The sound that comes out of you isn’t even a word. He pounds into you with another deep, brutal stroke and your body locks up so tight you’re glad he’s the one holding you or you’d have fallen flat. Every thrust slams your spine into the drywall and it should hurt, it should, but all you can do is claw at his shirt, nails catching the rough cotton, dragging it up over his ribs so you can feel him—real, alive, so much hotter than any fever you’ve ever run in the hospital. The slap of skin, the hiss of your breathing, the mangled noises you’re making—all of it so loud, vulgar, so perfectly, awfully public even behind the locked door. He’s whispering shit into your neck. At first you think it’s curse words, but then you catch your own name buried in there, and then more, like instructions, like hymns.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, the words punching out of him like he’s angry about it. “God, you’re unreal.” His hips snap again, harder, and your shoulders knock back against the wall, sharp bite of drywall dust filling your nose. Each time he thrusts in, your vision smears around the edges, the pleasure so hot it borders on pain. It isn’t like you pictured, not really—it’s better. The angle, the rush, the way he bullies all the air out of your lungs with every movement. Your hands are in his hair, clawing tight, pulling him down so you can mouth at his neck, take the taste of him into yourself. He shoves your scrubs up higher, rough hands leaving trails of heat on cold skin, then fists one hand in the fabric at your shoulder, pinning you harder to the cinderblock. There is nothing gentle, nothing careful, nothing but his body taking yours apart, and yours letting him, wild for it. He keeps muttering, a string of filthy reverence against your ear:
“Can’t believe it’s you, can’t believe you let me—fuck, you’re so—Jesus, clench again, just like that—” The words run together, get lost under the wet slap of skin and the broken sounds you’re making. You can’t answer except to dig your heels into his lower back, desperate to keep him as close as possible, to force him deeper, to make certain it’s real. This has to be real. For months you both acted like this wasn’t going to happen, like you didn’t live your whole life in inches, waiting for the day the rules would break and you’d get to see what would actually happen if you let go. Now you’re against the wall, and he’s inside of you raw and fast and a little bit mean, and every expectation is dissolving in a haze of salt and friction and heat. You want to tell him he can do anything to you, that there is nothing off-limits, but all that comes out is a shattered little whine, just his name, again and again. He bites your collarbone, sucks a mark there, and the pain is almost enough to bring you back down, but you’re already spiraling. Robby’s voice is a chant in your ear, weirdly reverent, filthy and devotional all at once. He’s running hot, sweat trickling down his neck, the muscles in his forearms taut as bowed steel where he brackets your hips. Each thrust slams you against the wall hard enough to rattle the fluorescent hum down to your teeth. You know you’ll have drywall dust embedded under your nails, maybe even in your hair, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Your world is reduced to the vicious, deliberate drag of his cock inside you, the scratch of his stubble jaw against your cheek, the gasp-and-hitch cadence of your own lungs. His hand slips, finds your jaw, thumb prying your mouth open.
“Look at me,” he grates. It’s not a request. You do, eyelids dragging heavy, drool stringing from your lips. He shoves his thumb inside and you clamp down on it, tongue greedy, and watch his resolve ripple and snap at the edges. “Fuck, you love this,” he hisses. A hot, shameful thrill blooms in your gut. You can’t even nod; your brain’s gone chemical, all instinct and nerve and the urge to let him ruin you properly. He pulls his thumb free from your teeth, then brings his hand back to grip your jaw, rough, almost cruel.
“You gonna come for me like this?” His pelvis snaps up, grinding you against concrete. “You gonna soak me, right here, where anybody could walk in?” He means it as a threat, but the promise makes something deep in you uncurl and spiral tight. You dig your nails into his back and feel the give of his skin, the helpless rocking of your own hips. You’re close again—embarrassingly, stupidly fast—and he can tell, because he starts fucking you even meaner, chasing the edge with all the subtlety of a gunshot.
“Jesus,” he says, “you feel so good, I can’t—fuck. I can’t stop.” Like he’s ever going to. You snarl something incoherent, probably his name, and you feel the tension crest, shatter, and pour out in waves so intense you lose track of your own body. Robby keeps moving, not letting up for a second. Everything’s too much: the raw thud of your shoulderblades grinding cinderblock, the way your ankles have locked behind his back, the friction and heat and static spit-glue between your skin. You try to tell him you’re gonna lose it but only manage a wild, choked keening that doesn’t sound like it could belong to you. He drops his head to your shoulder, teeth scraping, and groans your name so low and honest it makes your toes curl. There is nothing in the world but this. Nothing but him pinning you, holding you, fucking you like he’s lost count of where the rest of the world even is. Your hands are in his hair, wrenching, and you yank his head up so you can bite at his bottom lip. He lets you, gives a little gasp, then locks eyes with you and pours all that manic, frantic reverence right into the next kiss, mouthing at your skin and then burying his face in your neck like he’s drowning. The pace gets relentless—body-shocking, staccato, sharp even through the haze of it. He fucks through your aftershocks as if it’s a challenge, like the goal is to keep your body from ever regaining equilibrium. When you come again it’s so loud you’re sure the ward must hear; he clamps his hand over your mouth, eyes blown so scared and wild, but the pulse of his cock inside you says he’s not really trying to stop you so much as channel every iota of your body back into his. His own rhythm gets jerky, sloppier, and his mouth drops open against your jaw as he pins you tight and starts to lose it.
“Fuck, oh fuck, gonna—” His body locks, hips jammed flush against you, and you feel him pulse hard, the warmth spilling inside you like he’s pumping more heat into an already-overloaded core. He’s breathless, shaking, still pressed in deep as if he can’t trust gravity to hold you together otherwise. You stay like that, tangled, your cunt still rippling around him, both gulping at the hot, sick air, until your numb legs make you both slide down the wall in a graceless heap.
You’re both wrecked. Sweaty and glassy-eyed, scrub shirts sweat-stuck to your ribs, bodies still twitching in the late echoes of what the fuck just happened. There’s a sheet of drywall dust on your back and your own fingernail crescented into his skin; he’s smiling, shit-eating, delirious, and you’d punch him if you weren’t still shaking like a defibrillator just went off under your sternum.
He leans in, a gentle press of lips to your forehead, and you want to tell yourself it’s just an autonomic reaction, that the only thing happening here is a literal pressure release after months of idiotic, unyielding need. But you know better. The way he holds your face, the way he says your name soft into your hair, the way he’s still—still—inside you, hips slotted to hips, like he can’t bear to break the circuit.
You roll your head to stare at him. He meets your gaze, a thundercrack of worry, awe, and something else you don’t have the energy to name. You want to say something pointed and clever, but you can’t ; all you manage is a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a whimper.
It should be awkward.
It should be so fucking awkward.
He kisses your face as he slips out of you and shoves himself back inside his pants before dropping you slowly to the floor, hands braced at your waist as your legs wobble. He slips your own pants and underwear back up your thighs, looking up at you.
“You okay ?” He asks, his voice soft.
“Yeah,” you say, and it’s weird, how true it is. You blink, vision still dazzled and dopplered, and catch Robby’s hand trembling where it rests on your hip. The shake is microscopic, like a skipped frame in film, but it’s there, and it’s only then you realize you’re vibrating too. You try to laugh, and the sound cracks, warbles, but he mirrors it, leaning in until your foreheads tap, bone on bone. He smells like fresh sweat and latex and the antiseptic tang of someone who’s spent an entire adulthood hunched over sterile trays. He rubs his thumb slow circles at your waist, and the gentleness is so unexpected, so at odds with the way he just had you, that you almost start crying on the spot. You swallow it back and close your hand over his, try to will him not to let go just yet. You listen together to the radiators pop and the wild rattle of your pulse. He keeps his head dipped, mouth resting on the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. Neither of you moves. He’s still breathing you in, slow, like he’s afraid if he does it too fast, it’ll all be over.
“Didn’t hurt you, did I?” he whispers, so low you almost miss it beneath the thonk of your heart in your ears. You want to make a joke, something flippant, but you’re too raw. It all comes out honest, whether you like it or not.
“No. You could’ve hurt me more.” The silence after feels like a dropped glass; sharp, fragile, ready to split the air. Robby closes his eyes. You see every microflinch, the way his throat sticks around the swallow, how he steadies himself before answering.
“‘Kay. Just—” He hesitates, and you sense it’s the kind of pause he’d usually grease over with a quip. Not now. Now he’s counting on you to stay, just a little, and not run. “I’ll be gentle next time. Or not. Whatever you want.” He tries to smile, but it turns lopsided, uncertain. You grab him by the collar, tug him in for a kiss that’s less a collision and more a hinge opening, slow, like letting light into a dark corridor. You can taste the apology before he says it. You hate that you love it. Robby pulls away, eyes shiny in the half-light. He nudges your nose with his, then plants a kiss at the corner of your mouth, softer than anything he’s ever done. It feels as reverent as a benediction.
“You should lie down,” he says. “Your legs are—” he gestures with a shrug, then glances down and grins sheepish. “Sorta toast.”
“My legs are awesome, thank you,” you say, but you lean your full weight into him anyway, allowing yourself to be steered to the bed. He maneuvers you down with surprising care, one arm looped around your back, the other smoothing your hair off your sweaty forehead. He smiles down at you, sighing.
“I’ll go get you some saline. You are on bedrest for the next two hours.” You frown, gasping.
“Oh you devious fuckwad.” You mutter. "This was your plan all along.' You grumble.
"No." He says, and then winces. "Okay. Maybe. I was initially planning to just lock you in here.. I didn't play on telling you I love you and coming inside you. That... was a slight hitch in my plan." You roll your eyes.
"You're an asshole."
"An asshole who doesn't want you to run yourself into the ground." He mutters, brushing your hair away from your face. You sigh annoyedly.
"Fine. You win. Two hours." Robby grins, triumphant.
"Ah. Look who finally is listening to reason." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'll go get the Saline from Perlah. Don't move." You roll your eyes, swatting at him.
"Ha-Ha."
“And water. And probably something vaguely edible that passes for food in this place.” You reach out and catch his wrist before he can leave. He stops instantly.
“Robby.”
“Yeah?” You look at him for a second—really look. Tired. Stressed. Still half in doctor mode even after everything. And completely, unapologetically here.
“I love you too,” you say quietly. Something in his expression breaks open again. It’s not dramatic.It’s worse than that. It’s steady.
"I know.” You let go of his wrist. He holds your gaze one more second, then forces himself to move—because he still knows how to function even when his entire emotional life is on fire. The hallway is chaos again the second Robby steps out. He’s halfway to the supply station when he sees him. Abbot. Clocking in. Standing dead still. Staring straight at the on-call room door like he’s just witnessed a miracle or a crime or both. Robby doesn’t even slow down. He walks past him, grabs the saline bags, and says flatly, without looking up:
“You owe Dana a hundred bucks.” Abbot blinks.
A beat. Abbot stares at the door again. Then lets out a long, defeated breath.
I’ve been thinking about mpreg nonstop. somebody save me
(Don’t save me. I’m exactly where I want to be.)
Heavily pregnant Dennis Whitaker sleeping in one of the triage beds because he can barely go 2 hours without taking a nap. He’s 38 weeks along and is pushing starting his maternity leave until the day before his due date.
Robby’s incredibly frustrated by this, because he hates seeing Dennis so tired and miserable at work. So one day he finds him on one of the beds in triage, and gently sits down next to him. “When are you gonna go home, bub?”
“You know when I’m going home. Im gonna stay as long as im allowed to.” He mumbles, trying to find a comfortable position for his legs to lay.
“You don’t have to, y’know. You’re clearly exhausted, and I’m afraid you’re going to pop if you stand up too fast.” He places a hand on Dennis’s hip, which the blonde quickly swats away.
“Robby—“ he slowly swivels around to look at him. “I get 6 weeks of half paid disability, 12 weeks of zero pay maternity leave, and any PTO I have saved up. Best case scenario, I come back in 18 weeks after handing my four month old baby to a 19 year old daycare worker. And that baby will stay there for up to THIRTEEN HOURS. Thats going to crush my soul. Im pushing it as far as I fucking can.”
Robby sighs, nodding. He’s quiet for a minute, mulling over their options. Because he really just cannot watch Dennis waddle around PTMC another day. They already had to kick him off trauma cases because he just doesn’t fit into the chaos of it all. “Okay,” he finally huffs out. “Hear me out?”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I know you didn’t want to go to HR until we’ve been together for a year… and I respect that. I totally understand and have agreed up until now. But, I think our circumstances have changed.”
“What? Are you just itching to tell people you’re the guy who knocked me up?”
Robby feels his mouth flatten into a line. “No,” he lies. “I’m wanting to tell HR that my beautiful boyfriend is having a baby. So that I can get those 8 weeks of paternity leave. Because that means I can transfer some of it to you. Obviously… after the baby is born and you can move around on your own again. I’ll take some of it just so you’re not alone while you heal—“
“You would do that?” The soft quiver in Dennis’s voice draws his attention back down to his lovely boyfriend. He’s on the verge of sobbing. He’s always on the verge of sobbing, but Robby loves it. He knows it’s just a symptom of those hormones that are giving him a little girl soon.
“Yes of course I would do that!” He chuckles, reaching down and brushing Dennis’s bangs from his eyes. “I already submitted vacation time for the two weeks after you’re due. But after that I could take a week or two of that paternity? And then transfer you the rest? That way you could get some more time with her before we find a baby sitter? Or even a nanny?” He suggests. “I wouldn’t be apposed to paying for a nanny.”
There are full, silent tears running down Whitakers face, probably not processing half the words out of Robby’s mouth. “How do we do that? With HR..? Can we go now? Can we use the elevator?” His voice starts to break as he breaks down into sobs. “I really don’t want to walk up the stairs…”
Robby just smiles, gently helping Dennis sit up on the hospital bed, holding him close. “Baby of course! I would never make you walk up those steps. It might send you into labor before I can yell at HR about how much I love you.” He makes sure to put on that stupid sweet voice that seems all sappy and fake. It always makes Dennis laugh. This time is no exception.
He finally chuckles through a sob as he wipes his eyes. “Okay- Help me up. Lets go.”
Dennis still pushes taking his maternity leave for a couple more days. He eventually compromises with Robby, saying he’ll leave 3 days before the baby is due. But he ends up taking his leave 4 days before, because his water breaks on the middle of the ED. Which… in hindsight, is probably the best place for your water to break, besides the OB unit.
jealous robby always does it for meeeee. and when confronted he gets defensive and then bashful and drops his voice and speaks so so softly and proves exactly why he's crazy about the reader/you
looking down with a subtle head shake, curling his lips as he sighs in agitation. big hands on his hips before he pulls off his glasses and swipes a tired hand down his face; he can barely look at you when he speaks. "I don't... I don't particularly enjoy you being flirted with by someone that isn't me! Is that fucked? Maybe. Is it a given in our careers? Yes! Doesn't mean it doesn't make my stomach churn every time it happens. "
Pacing in place, distributing the weight between his feet as he gathers his thoughts, "I... I like you. very much. and i know you! and you're intelligent and kind and fuck- your eyes- don't look at me like that please." smiling and blushing as he looks at his feet again feeling silly. He moves toward you to grab your face in his hands and kiss your cheek, "too fuckin cute, get outta my sight" all playful as he walks out of the room.
♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch
♡ synopsis: when the day of your birthday rolls around, no one but you seems to know about it. what you'd hoped would be a good day ends in upset when robby lays into you for making a mistake. come the following afternoon, he & jack are made aware of how they screwed up & make strides to set things right.
♡ content: angst, grumpy!robby, they're both pining for reader as always, mohan is a sweetie, you get (1) sad cupcake
♡ a/n: based off this request. ty!
For some birthdays in the Pitt—given people are aware one is upcoming—a couple balloons and a store-bought cake might be brought into the Employee Lounge for all to enjoy in spare moments between the never-ending flow of emergent patients. Granted, a show isn't exactly made out of the celebration with colorful streamers, decorative party hats, and screeching noise makers, but even so, just the possibility of other people making a grand display out of your "special day" is a horrifying thought.
Being the center of attention for even a moment while someone else lies but a few yards away bleeding from a bullet wound? Couldn't be you.
Nevertheless, you can't help but wish for one holiday—personal or otherwise—where a flower delivery or gift box might be delivered to your place of work with a romantic message attached.
Today is no different in you entertaining such wishful thinking when you come walking through the ED's sliding doors.
There's a pin-up in the Lounge with a long list of everyone's birth dates with balloon clipart placed crookedly at the top, so surely someone will have remembered and gotten you a cheap cupcake, or even just a basic card with a couple signatures scrawled within.
As you take a peek inside while passing by, however, you see nothing of the sort awaiting you. Just an empty table, and counter space full of upside down mugs and a coffee machine—same as ever.
Deflating, you mentally shrug and make your way to your locker. It's better this way. Had anyone remembered—or just known in general—then word would spread like wildfire all the way up to reception, meaning you'd have to awkwardly thank every well wisher who crossed your path for the remainder of your shift.
Saves you the trouble.
You're working up an individual who came in complaining of lower back pain and difficulty urinating—which you've pretty well chalked up to most likely being kidney stones—when Robby raps his knuckles against the propped open door behind you.
Glancing to him over your shoulder, you briefly halt your assessment of your patient. "Yeah?"
He beckons you forth with an index finger. "C'mere, something I need to talk to you about." He feigns a smile for the middle-aged man in front of you and states that you'll be back momentarily.
Following him out, Robby pulls you into an empty room and shuts the door after you've entered.
"Is something wrong?" You ask innocently while gazing up at him with furrowed brows.
"Do you remember the woman from earlier? Mrs. Jacobson?"
You nod.
"She's been up in Plastics waiting for an hour to be seen because her chart was never finished down here."
Your stomach sinks. You'd meant to get to that before being side-tracked by needing to use the restroom, and then there'd been a thing with Whittaker's patient vomiting all over the floor, so you'd fetched housekeeping, and then—
"So imagine my surprise when one of their nurses takes time out of her day to come down asking after it and I find out you've already moved onto another patient."
You open your mouth to reply, until he holds up a palm to stop you.
"You know our protocol," Robby says sternly. "If they're being referred to another floor or physician, you make sure their information is up to date and their chart complete before you begin work on anything else." He takes a small step forward, and you shrink into yourself.
With him towering over you like this, you feel like a child being scolded by its parent after it forgot to do an assigned chore on the daily chart.
"So I trust you have a good reason why you didn't do as much," he states while folding his arms.
You blink back tears. "I—I forgot. I'm so—"
He throws his head back, pinches the bridge of his nose, then returns to his previous stance. "That's no excuse for being neglectful. Gloria is up my ass all day long about patient satisfaction bullshit and now this!"
Your chin wobbles.
"Get back in there," he says while pointing at the wall to the right, where your patient awaits your return on the other side, "Finish up with what you're currently doing, then get both charts done. Understood?"
You nod while sniffling. "Y-Yes."
He rolls his eyes, then steps past you to the door. Once he's opened it and waved you out, you scurry past him in a panic.
You keep your head down for the remainder of the day. Figuratively and literally. You're diligent in your work, and hold your bladder so long at one point—just to get a bit more charting done—that you nearly have an accident in the hallway.
When evening time rolls around and your workday is coming to a close, Robby goes in search of you to apologize for his earlier treatment after his temper has cooled, but when he comes into your line-of-sight, you turn and hurry in the other direction.
Thinking he may be able to catch you outside, he makes for the doors to the ambulance bay and only just catches the sight of you speed-walking past Abbot while mumbling a quick 'Goodnight' before marching on.
"The hell did you do to our girl?" Abbot asks while readjusting the strap of the camo backpack that's slung over his shoulder.
Robby sighs and sinks his hands into the pockets of his coat. "She got behind on a patient's chart who went upstairs and I might've been a little hard on her about it because I was already in a mood. She's been avoiding me all day because of it."
Jack glares at him. "So, in other words, you've been taking frustrations with HR bullshit out on our star pupil?"
He shakes his head and goes to step away.
"Do you want her to leave us for Westbridge?" Jack calls from behind him.
Gritting his teeth and looking skyward, Robby huffs in irritation before turning back on his heel. "She isn't that damn fragile, Jack."
He shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. But you get snippy with her again and I'll put her on night shift with me."
Robby curses lowly. "It was one conversation. You don't need to jump to extremes just because you want her all to yourself."
Jack purses his lips and Robby smirks. "Since we both know that that's what this whole conversation is truly about—less her and more you."
Turning his back on him, the vet shoots up a middle finger before hobbling inside.
On the way home, you pick up a small cupcake that's your favorite flavor and decorated with pretty, sparkly swirls of icing on top, as well as a small pack of multi-color birthday candles.
Once you're settled in for the night, you save the sugary treat for dessert after eating a filling dinner.
Sitting in the silence of your apartment, you quietly sing 'Happy birthday to me' before blowing out the singular candle stuck in the middle of your pastry before plucking it out and taking a bite.
Somehow by eating it alone, however, it doesn't taste as good as you'd hoped.
"Oh! Oh, Y/N!" Mohan calls from the nurses station.
You glance up from the manilla folder you're currently carrying to Trauma 4 and meet her smile with a raised brow.
"We're playing this game that involves astrological signs," she explains.
Santos shakes her head. "It's stupid. Trust me, you do not wanna bother."
Whittaker grins. "I dunno, I think it's kinda neat."
"What's yours?" Samira asks.
You clutch the folder to your chest and snicker. "No offense or anything, but I don't believe in all that. I just think the definitions are broad enough that you can make things fit if you really want to."
When you make to step away, she shrugs and begins typing. "Well, I could just pull up your employee profile to figure it out for myself."
Your eyes grow wide when you turn back in her direction. Tripping over your own feet, you stumble over to where she sits. "Oh, no, that's fine! I could just tell you what it is. I'm a—"
"Oh," she says with slight surprise.
"What, is she the crab or whatever?" Trinity asks.
Mohan looks up to you with knitted brows. "Your birthday was yesterday."
You don't see it, but Robby, who's standing a handful of feet behind you reading over an EKG, turns to look in your direction over his glasses.
Jack, who's just exited an exam room, meets his gaze and shakes his head. Not because he's disappointed in Robby per se, but rather the both of them for not knowing, or so much as making an effort to keep such an important date in mind.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Mel questions while walking over.
"I..." You grasp for explanation.
"Yeah, we would've gotten you something," Mohan reassures sweetly.
"Maybe Huckleberry could get you a pumpkin from the farm," Trinity adds sarcastically.
"It's just another day on a calendar," you say quietly. "It isn't important." Just another year spent alone, you think.
Jack's heart shatters for you.
"Well that's depressing," Trin commentates before pushing off the counter and getting back to work.
You swallow thickly while taking a step back. "I'm just gonna—" You wave the folder you currently hold in the air before walking away.
"How did you not know?" Jack questions from beside Robby.
Throwing his glasses down on the surface before him, which his elbows rest upon, he runs his hands down his face. "I had other things on my mind, like taking care of patients. Not cake and balloon animals," he says while clasping his palms together and turning his head in Jack's direction.
Jack crosses his arms. "She got you a gift for yours, or have you already forgotten that fact?"
It'd been simple, but handmade. Which made the item mean even more to him: an embroidered piece. The Shema Prayer in Hebrew. When you found him during PittFest in Peds, you'd heard him reciting it. Had gone so far as to ask quietly about it later.
He cried the night he hung it up in his home because you had cared enough to make such a loving gesture in the first place while the others simply purchased a cheap card from a Hallmark store down the street.
"Of course I remember," he says lowly. "I touch it every night when I get home and every morning before I leave. Because she's the one it came from."
You'd pulled him aside that day—had held the tips of his fingers as you led him into the Lounge before presenting it to him with shaking hands.
"The letters might be a little crooked," you'd explained quietly. "But I did my best."
His eyes had grown glassy as he cradled it between his palms.
"Do... Do you not like it? That day... Maybe I've upset you—"
He'd shook his head while sniffling. And then he'd smiled. "No, sweetheart, it's perfect. Thank you...for being so thoughtful."
It'd felt so right when he pulled you against his chest before wrapping his arms around you.
"Then we need to fix this," Jack retorts.
He nods. "I know."
"Hey, doll," Dana calls to you while adjusting her hair clip.
"Yes?"
"Somebody dropped off some snacks earlier in the Employee Lounge. One of those assorted chip boxes. Go grab ya a couple before everybody else takes 'em."
"Oh. Okay."
Heading in that direction, you secretly hope that there's Cheetos. Or maybe white cheddar popcorn. Classic Lays sounds good, too, though.
Alright, so maybe you're feeling just a bit peckish.
Swinging around the corner and into the aforementioned room, you halt in your tracks. Sitting atop the table that's pushed off to the side is a glass vase filled to the brim with soft pink roses and baby's breath. Clutching it is a fluffy brown teddy bear.
It's not... It's not for you, though. You know that.
Glancing around, you fail to spot the box in question. Maybe it's already been emptied?
Sighing with disappointment, you turn to exit, but are stopped by Robby blocking the doorway. Leaning against it with crossed arms, he smiles warmly at you. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."
Your eyes flit between his as a lump develops in your throat. "It... It's for me?"
He nods, then glances to it while jerking his chin in the direction of your gift. "Read the card."
Turning around yet again, you wander over to it and pull the item in question from the cardette.
The day of your birth is more than worth celebrating. Without it, we wouldn't be able to look forward to seeing you every day.
Love, J & R
Tears brim in your eyes and you sniffle quietly. Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you keep hold of the item while repeatedly telling yourself not to cry.
You jump slightly when the chair next to you is pulled out and Jack seats himself heavily upon it. "Do you like it, then?"
You nod and a tear slips down your cheek.
Coming to stand at your side, Robby pulls you against the wealth of his chest just like before, which you snuggle contentedly against, appreciating the softness and warmth it provides.
"I always wanted flowers delivered," you whisper. "On my birthday. Or...Valentine's Day."
Jack's eyes flit to Robby, who smirks and gives him a knowing look. Future plans.
"But never had anyone who'd..." You trail off. "Well, never had anyone."
Jack grabs your hand and tugs you down onto his thigh. "Getting a cake delivered last minute was sort of out of the question, but—"
You shake your head. "I got myself a cupcake last night."
Somehow, that makes the pair of them feel impossibly worse about the whole situation: the thought of you at home having just a singular cupcake on your lonesome. They'll certainly be unlikely to forget your birthday next year, if nothing else.
Running his palm down your back, Jack leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. "Happy birthday, honey."
Mouthing Off - Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader
Summary: You and Robby are always fighting as the two day-shift attendings, to the point of screaming matches on the ED floor. After a particularly brutal back-and-forth, it seems like using each other to get off is the only way to settle things.
Tags/Notes: enemies to lovers, hate sex, oral (m & f), rough blowjob, face sitting (riding/grinding/smothering, really), kinda porn without plot, porn without plot with context?
Content: maybe a second of dubcon but it’s more like one of those moments where things reorient
A/N: oops saw a blurb and shit out a fic. shamelessly and consensually stolen from actual icon @spookypeachpitt13 so everyone say thank you!! anyway this is so wildly outside of my comfort zone so i hope it's okay aksdjfh
Word Count: 3.3k
“My office. End of shift.”
The words snarl off Robby’s tongue and you know you’re in for it – or, really, he’s in for it, because you’re ten times as stubborn on your best days. That’s what makes the two of you work as attendings on the same shift. You never take each other’s shit and, fuck, there's a lot to shovel between the two of you.
Today, though, it’s been so bad you’re making the residents shrink and the nurses exchange suspicious glances. It started with a normal disagreement over a course of treatment for someone who’d been in overnight and spiraled the whole day between stab wounds and fevers and car crashes.
And then you and Robby both crossed the line. The unspoken one between you that keeps your disagreements to the medicine (even though ‘the medicine’ often also includes his handwriting on charts [a literal chicken would do better work, Michael], your bedside manner [you don’t have to get every male patient to give you his number], his bedside manner [and you don’t have to show them why hospitals have HR departments], his clothes [you look like June in this year’s ’Lazy Assholes of Pittsburgh’ calendar], your clothes [y’know they make scrubs that don’t fit like spandex, right?], his teaching style [they won’t learn anything if you make them feel like shit], your teaching style [they won’t learn anything if you make them feel invincible]). And so on. And so forth. And on and on and on.
But today? Today went something like this.
MICHAEL: You know that you should’ve taken the exact opposite approach back there, right?
YOU: Funny; it looked an awful lot like he’s going to survive because of my approach. Don’t worry, though. If I wanted the patient dead, I would’ve assigned him to you instead.
MICHAEL: Sure, he'll live, but he’ll always-
YOU: What? Be able to run faster than you because I saved his leg when you would’ve sent it to be chopped off?
MICHAEL: Quality of care isn’t always about whether-
YOU: You just want everyone to be as miserable of a fuck as you are; god forbid I actually prioritize what’s best for my patients instead of-
MICHAEL: If you even finish that sentence, I swear I’ll-
YOU: Oh, I’ve gotta hear this! Go ahead, Robby, what’ll you do to another attending for disagreeing with your genius and making a good call when you were too much of a coward to take a risk? Bend me over your knee? You don’t get to question my approach just because you’ve been practicing medicine since the dark ages.
MICHAEL: And you don’t get to defy my direct orders just because-
YOU: Your orders? Are you fucking serious?
MICHAEL: Yes, I am! You can’t go around making decisions like you’re in charge just because you’ve got half the doctors in the hospital begging to screw you!
Your eyes finally dropped away from his. When they lifted back up, they were a storm. Anger, yes, but hurt, too. He’d never questioned your intelligence or your place as an attending before. Never weaponized your femininity. He knew right away that he’d pushed you further than you could take, past the point of bending.
So you push back, “How about my office right now? Because there’s absolutely no way you’re walking away from me when I need to strangle you.”
Robby huffs, “You know what? Fine. Might as well spare your students the embarrassment of listening to you talk out of your ass another second.”
You pin your lips in a straight line and storm past him toward the offices, where you and he have the pleasure of sharing a thin wall that doesn’t always stop you from arguing while you catch up on paperwork.
Robby slams the door behind himself – locks it – and you’re in his face right away, no meekness or hurt left in your expression anymore as you square up to him, posture totally straight so you can almost look him in the eyes. “You are such a fucking asshole, Robinavitch. How dare you talk to me like that?”
Robby rubs the back of his neck like he does when he knows he’s fucked up but isn’t ready to back off. “Look, I know that last comment was too far, and we both know I didn’t mean it, but that doesn’t change the principle that-”
“You’re just pissed off because you know you were wrong back there and you can’t deal with a woman being better than you.”
Robby takes a step closer to you at that; you can smell his sweat and his fading deodorant. “This has absolutely nothing to do with you being a woman. Don’t even imply that-”
“Like hell it doesn’t,” you scoff. “You’re mad because I made a better decision than you. Because I pissed all over your favorite fire hydrant. But if that had been Abbot or Shen, you would never have chewed them out like you’re trying to here.”
He shoves one hand on the side of your head now, pinning you against the wall without either of you realizing. “Maybe because the two of them have actually proven themselves in my ED.”
You roll your eyes so hard you think they might fall out. “Y’know what, Robinavitch? You need to ask yourself if your dick is really big enough for this kind of fucking macho attitude because I have a sneaking suspicion it isn’t.”
You go to move, to storm off, but Robby’s grabbing your wrist before you can. Your breath catches in your throat as your chest collides with his, your mouths nearly touching. Sure, yeah, several of your fights have turned into makeout sessions (whose haven’t?), but he’s never acted like this. Absolutely no apology in the mean, borderline cruel way his long fingers wrap around your arm and force your hand to his half-hard cock beneath his cargo pants. "What do you think? Big enough for you?"
All the air floods out of the room.
Fuck, it is big. Definitely big enough to back up any bullshit he spews. Big enough to make your mouth water and that’s not the only thing dripping at the thought of what he must look like fully hard. Hot everywhere all of a sudden, you go to yank your hand away but he grips it harder, grinding into your palm and refusing to drop eye contact.
Even as undeniable lust crawls into your chest and cheeks, you scoff, unable to let him get the upper hand. With your meanest sneer, you cut back. “You’re hard from me yelling at you? Got a shame kink or something?”
“More like I’m looking forward to fucking that attitude out of you,” he growls, one hand wrapping around your throat and shoving you against the wall. You’re not scared. It’s Robby. Of course you’re not scared. You fucking hate each other and you spend an hour laughing with him on FaceTime before bed most nights because you both can't stand being alone and only the other understands. But your heart still drops into your stomach at the darkness in his eyes.
When he puts his hands on your shoulders and pushes you down, onto your knees, something hungry inside of you can’t help but let him.
Robby shoves two fingers into your mouth and coos sarcastically when you instinctively wrap your lips around them, “There you go. Useless brat until she’s got something in her mouth.”
You go to pull off so you can snark something back at him, but he grabs the back of your head with his free hand and gags you on his fingers instead. The gesture goes straight to your cunt, hot shame and arousal pooling in your underwear.
“Oh no you don’t,” he tuts. Then he lets go just long enough to let you catch your breath, tugging his cargos down barely enough to fish his cock out of his boxers. When you once again open your mouth to piss him off, he shakes his head and presses the head of his cock to those pretty lips of yours. “Don’t back down now, princess, I’m sure that big mouth of yours can take it.”
A bead of his precum clings to your lower lip and your tongue flicks out to taste it without your consent. The slightly salty, clean taste lights you on fire. So you open your mouth wider and let him slide his cock over your tongue, secretly savoring that rapturous expression he’s trying to suppress. Then, when you can tell you’ve got the power again, you rake your teeth ever so lightly down his shaft and he looses a pathetic, shaky keen so loud he smacks his hand over his mouth in the middle of it.
He glares down at you and hisses, “Seriously?”
When your eyes twinkle back and you hum in amusement, he looks at you with murder in his eyes, grips his fingers into your hair, and fucks your mouth the way you deserve. The way you were trying to provoke him to. His fat, leaking head slams against the back of your throat and you gag around him as your eyes water as his sharp zipper stings against your chin. But you can take it. That’s what he loves about you. You’ll always take whatever he can throw at you and then give it back just as hard.
Robby watches with a sadistic glee as you settle your weight over your ankles, tilt your head slightly, and give him even better access. As his thrusts pick up speed, barely letting you breathe, he pants, “See? Is this so goddamn hard? Shutting up and letting me take charge for five minutes?”
He expects you to grunt some sort of annoyed disapproval, but you don’t. He notices your expression going calm and placid. Lids heavy, jaw completely limp, body calm. He swallows hard and whispers, half a mean chuckle and half a desperate kind of prayer, “Fuck, you’re really getting off on this, aren’t you?”
You’re too far gone to give any response but a satisfied moan that rockets up his spine. Your drool seeps down his balls and onto your scrub top and he’s never seen anything so gorgeous as this. Then he shoves his booted foot between your legs, the leather creating friction against your inner seam right on your clit, and you whimper. The sound is wet and pathetic and needy with his dick stopping you from being able to express anything coherent. When you start to unthinkingly rub your clothed pussy over his shoe, Robby’s cock pulses.
At the sight of you being so goddamn pretty and submissive instead of driving him insane for once, Robby slows his pace, edging himself over your tongue, and murmurs, “Knew you were a good girl under all that attitude.”
You nod greedily, mind quiet for the first time today as you chase that perfect friction and let him control you. It silences everything that had been pissing you off. With his pleasure tightening up, Robby bites back calling you perfect, baby, just right, so good, angel, fuck. He can’t do that when he’s still simmering from today’s fighting. But he does cup your cheek and brush a tear away with his thumb, the gesture so tender it’s out of place.
And when you gaze up at him through watery lashes, he knows he’s done for.
Not just now. Not just this.
Robby doesn’t ask before he cums in your mouth. You didn’t want him to. You want him to demand everything. His bitterness floods your tongue, pump after pump of it, and you dutifully swallow. There’s so much that some of it dribbles down your chin. Once he’s fully soft, Robby kneels down and, while guiding you back to your feet, licks his own cum from your skin. Then he kisses it back into your mouth, his tongue taking dominance over yours, refusing to let you miss out on even a drop of him.
As your brain turns back on, Robby shakes his head, lets out a sharp breath, and tucks himself back into his pants. He looks at your dreamy expression for a second and chuckles. Then, with a gentle kiss to your cheek, he says, “There we go. I can work with this.”
Your familiar anger climbs back up when he moves even a fraction of a step toward the office door.
“Nope, absolutely the fuck not,” you bite at him. Blocking his exit, you point at the carpet. “Get on your back on the floor. We aren’t done here, Michael.”
When he realizes what you’re asking for – demanding, expecting – his knees weaken. Butting heads be damned, he’s definitely thought about those thighs smothering him before, especially when you put another doctor in their place instead of him. So, with wide, blown-black eyes, he lays back obediently, the anticipation making his soft cock twitch, debating how long it needs to come back to life.
You hastily kick out of your scrub bottoms and panties, toss them aside, and jokingly shove the center of his chest as you drop down into his lap. “Now who’s pathetic? On my disgusting office floor waiting to be used like a sex toy.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Robby tries with an eye roll, not convincing at all, “I could get right up and leave you-”
You shove his chest hard this time. So he falls flat on his back. You watch his pupils dilate and his lips part as red crawls into the apples of his cheeks. “That’s more like it. Big bad Doctor Robinabitch just needs to be manhandled.”
All he can do is nod and mutter, “yeah, maybe,” eyes locked to your juicy thighs as you crawl over him. You settle your knees on either side of his head and memorize the borderline pleading expression on his face when he sees your swollen cunt. You’re absolutely glistening because of him. You don’t even pretend you’re worried about breaking his nose or crushing him or whatever you’re ‘supposed’ to do before climbing on a man’s face and riding him like a bronco.
You just demand, “open up,” and drop your weight down onto his waiting mouth. His bear scratches your sensitive inner thighs and his nose nudges the hood of your clit back and- Fuck. Fuck, this isn’t going to take long. Of course Robby’s good with his tongue. He’s so unfairly good at everything. For a second, he takes charge of the moment, wrapping his arms around your hips and eating you out the way he’s dreamed of more times than he’d care to admit. Fuck him for thinking he can just get you off and call it a day. No, you’re taking this.
Without saying anything, you wrench his hands from your waist, pin them above his head, and mount his tongue like you mean it. You keep one hand on his wrists, pushing them hard into the floor, and grab his hair with the other so you cna keep his head tilted at just the right angle. His eyes roll back as he loses the ability to breathe at a regular pace, forced to gasp in air only when you ease up. It’s bliss.
Once you have him where you need him, you find exactly the rhythm you need in no time. Your fingers tighten into his hair, pain zinging from his scalp and down his back harsh enough to make his hips buck. You huff and grunt, “Shut up and take it, you big baby.”
Robby can’t help moaning, which only makes you worse. You rut your clit down on his tongue hard enough that you feel the texture of his tastebuds creating enough roughness to send you to the border of overstimulation right before you cum. You slow your pace ever so slightly when you feel your walls clamping down, working the orgasm out of yourself, so lost in the sensation that you don’t even hear how Robby moans and begs for you to use him to finish. It’s the ridge of his nose and the softness of his lips and the firmness of his tongue and you’re breaking open all over him. You feel your wetness coating his beard as a fresh flood of it comes, thinner and milder and sweeter. Robby groans through your whole orgasm, lapping up your juices until he’s positively drunk.
As you ease off him to sit on his lap, your thighs shake and your chest heaves. Satisfaction weighs heavy in your limbs and you know he feels the same way – spent and placated.
You both stay there, panting, looking at each other, for a few minutes.
There’s the silent understanding that things are different now.
Robby’s eyes soften.
So do yours.
You stand on shaky legs and tug your bottoms back on. He follows right behind.
Then Robby pulls you into a hug. Tight, warm, earnest. You nestle into his chest and breathe him in as he kisses the top of your head. Neither of you speak. What else is there to say?
As he pulls back slightly, arms still around you, Robby cuts you a borderline sheepish gaze. “You know it’s because I respect you, right? The arguing, I mean.”
You roll your eyes. “Shut the fuck up, Michael.”
“I’m being serious.”
“Of course I know that.” You flatten your lips into a line, cross your arms over his chest, and stare him down. “I know that you respect me. You wouldn’t even entertain my arguments if you didn’t. But what you said today was still over the line. You can’t talk to me like that in front of my students. You can’t let them think I get advantages because I have great tits.”
“You’re right.” His eyes flick down to your breasts, wishing he’d had the forethought to get you to take them out during…whatever the hell this was. “On both fronts.”
You give him a little self-satisfied smirk and tell him with your hand on the doorknob, “You can apologize by buying me dinner tonight. I like that new place on seventh.”
He gives a shit-eating grin and raises his eyebrows. “Pretty expensive spot.”
You nod and reply, “You owe me a pretty big apology.”
“Deal.” He leans in, places a downright sweet kiss on your lips, and murmurs, “Can I eat you for dessert?”
You waggle your eyebrows playfully. “Want seconds already?”
He tugs you close by the waist and kisses you hard. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“So greedy,” you tease against his lips. When he goes to kiss you again, you dodge him, eyeing him with so much tease in your expression he can hardly stand it. “Say ‘please, doctor.’”
“You fucking brat.” But he can still taste the champagne of your orgasm on his lips and he needs more, plain and simple. He’ll get hungover without another taste. So he puts on a pouty face and does as you ask in a gentle, small voice: “Please, doctor.”
“Now that’s a good boy.” You pat his face affectionately, halfway to a slap. “I’ll wait by that ugly car of yours after handoff.”
He balks. “That ‘ugly car’ is a Bentley.”
You stand on your toes and kiss his forehead “And the fact that you spent six figures on it only makes you look dumber. I’ll see you soon.”
thinking about dating robby except he doesn’t realize you’re dating.
You met Robby when you accepted an attending position at the PTMC a year or so back. The two of you grew closer and closer over the next few months, getting to know each other. Eventually getting to the point where you were usually the only one Robby could still stand by the end of shift. Your sweet smile when you ask mid shift if he’s eaten anything yet just to pull out a protein bar and toss it his way without another word was something that became routine.
Robby just thinks that you’re very close to one another. Even though you don’t bring anyone else coffee and a breakfast burrito from their favorite place at the beginning of every shift. Even though you spend just about every waking moment outside of the hospital together despite not living together. Not officially at least. But you have clothes strewn about his apartment, he’d even cleared out a few drawers for you, and a bit of closet space too. you have a toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. It’s the same way at your place too.
Robby knows he has feelings for you, hell he’s probably in love with you. He never thought in a million years you’d reciprocate his feelings, so he pushed them down. He took what he could get from your ‘friendship’, and decided he would be happy with that. That’s what he told himself anyway.
It all comes to a head when he overhears you talking to Samira about your boyfriend. His heart drops to his stomach, there’s no way, right? He doesn’t understand why you’d never mentioned your boyfriend to him or even when you would possibly have time to see him, considering how much time you spent together in and outside of work. All he can think about for the rest of the shift is how much he hated hearing the words “my boyfriend” fall from your lips knowing you weren’t talking about him.
“Ready to go?” you ask Robby at the end of your shift. It had become routine for the two of you to meet at central and leave for his apartment together after work.
Robby stalls for a moment, not knowing how to let you down gently.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs “Maybe you should go back to your apartment tonight, spend some time with your boyfriend.” The words feel like poison on his tongue.
“I…” you look at him confused, “That’s what I’m trying to do?” you say but it comes out more like a question.
“What?” Robby can hear his heartbeat thrumming in his ears.
“What do you mean what, Robby? Are you not my boyfriend?”
The look on Robbys face is comical, his eyes widen and his jaw dropped open because what? You were referring to him when you were talking about your boyfriend?
“I’m confused.” he splutters.
“So am I.”
“What do you mean I’m your boyfriend? When did that happen?” he asks with a wild look on his face, like he can’t believe this is happening.
“About, five months ago? When you took me to that fancy restaurant?”
Robbys eyes widened even more, something you didn’t think was even possible right now.
“We don’t - kiss or get physical though?” Is all he can manage to get out.
“Yeah. Just thought you wanted to go slow, take things at your own pace.” You nod.
Robby looks at you, really looks at you. He takes in the way that the small amount of makeup you put on this morning had smudged slightly throughout your shift and the dark rings around your eyes and it all clicks.
The nights where you’d leave the PTMC together, you in the passenger seat of his car, with a takeout menu pulled up on your phone as you get an order ready to pick up on the way back to his place and the way you’d carry the food up the steps of his apartment building and hold his hand in the other. The way you’d clean around the apartment when he was still asleep, not wanting him to have just that much more to do on his off days.
God, he thinks, “I’m an idiot.” is all he says before smashing his lips against yours. It’s messy, teeth clashing and spit starts collecting around both of your mouths. It feels like hours before you pull apart to the sound of Langdon wolf whistling from across the room.
“It’s about damn time.” he calls before heading into a patients room with Mel at his side.
Your head drops to Robby chest and your shoulders shake with laughter.
“You really didn’t think we were together?” you ask peering up at him from your spot against his chest.
“I literally sleep in your bed more often than my own, Michael.” you tease.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know,” he says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose, then your cheek, then the other, and finally your lips again. “What are you doing?” you giggle when he pulls away just enough for you both to take a deep breath.
“I’ve got five months of kissing you to make up for, baby, gotta start somewhere.”
𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 || NSFW, MDNI, 18+, SMUT, unspecified age gap, bringing work home, established relationship, soft!dom!reader (if you squint), oral (male!recieving) , unprotected piv (don't be silly wrap your willy) , light dirty talk
𝑎/𝑛 || okay as someone who actually wears glasses, the logistics of this would suck because i know from experience that it sucks. but i can't stop thinking about those slutty glasses.
The bedside lamp cast a warm, honeyed glow across your bedroom, painting the walls in soft shadows. You lay propped against a mountain of pillows, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Michael's chest as he lay beside you, scrolling through his phone. The blue-white light illuminated his face, highlighting the silver threading through his dark hair and the faint lines that crinkled around his eyes when he concentrated.
You could tell from the furrow of his brow that he was reading work messages. Probably Abbott with another late-night crisis at the ER. The man never truly clocked out, even when he was physically miles from the hospital.
"Emergency?" you asked softly, your voice barely disturbing the quiet of the room.
Michael sighed, resignation heavy in his tone. "Just Abbott. Wants to review tomorrow's schedule. Again." He adjusted his glasses—those tortoiseshell frames suited him perfectly—and typed a reply.
That's when it hit you. Not a sudden realization, but a slow, deliberate wave of desire that washed over you, starting somewhere deep in your belly and spreading outward until every nerve ending tingled with awareness.
It was the glasses.
Something about Michael in his glasses, older, wiser, focused– made your breath catch. Maybe it was how they framed his intelligent eyes, or how they made him look simultaneously professorial and vulnerable. Or maybe it was simply that this was the man you loved, in one of his most natural states, completely unaware of how utterly captivating he was.
You shifted on the bed, the movement drawing his attention. His phone lay forgotten on the nightstand as he turned to you fully.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice already dropping to that lower register that always made your stomach flutter.
You didn't answer with words. Instead, you moved closer, your hand reaching out to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of his beard against your fingertips. His eyes followed your movements, questioning but not resisting.
"Leave them on," you whispered, your gaze fixed on his face, specifically on those glasses that had sparked this sudden, overwhelming need.
A slow smile spread across his lips. "The glasses?"
"Mmm," you murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his throat. "Definitely the glasses."
His chuckle vibrated against your lips. "Whatever you want."
That was Michael, always giving you what you wanted, always letting you take the lead when this particular mood struck. The age gap between you had never been a barrier; if anything, it had created a delicious dynamic where you could be both cared for and in control.
Your hand traveled lower, exploring the familiar landscape of his chest, the coarse hair there tickling your palm. You could feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your touch, steady and strong. When you reached the waistband of his pajama bottoms, his breath hitched.
"Someone's feeling adamant tonight," he observed, though his voice had grown husky with desire.
You looked up at him through your lashes, your hand still resting at the edge of his waistband. "Is that a problem?"
"God, no," he breathed, and you watched as his pupils dilated behind those glasses. "Never a problem."
You slipped your hand beneath the fabric, finding him already semi-hard and growing harder by the second at your touch. The weight of him in your palm sent another jolt of desire through you, and you squeezed gently, earning a low groan from deep in his chest.
You shifted again, this time moving to kneel beside him, giving yourself better access. With your free hand, you pushed his pajama bottoms down, exposing him to the room's warm light. He lifted his hips to help you, and soon the fabric was discarded on the floor.
Now you had him completely bare before you, save for those tortoiseshell glasses that continued to frame his face so perfectly. His erection stood proud against his stomach, the tip already glistening with precum.
"Keep your eyes open," you commanded softly as you lowered your head. "I want to watch you watching me."
Michael's hands found their way into your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as you took him into your mouth. The taste of him– salty, masculine, uniquely Michael– filled your senses. You swirled your tongue around the head, paying special attention to the sensitive ridge just beneath, feeling his thighs tense beneath you.
"Jesus," he breathed, his voice strained. "You're going to kill me."
You smiled around him, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you began to work him in fully. One hand wrapped around the base of what your mouth couldn't accommodate, moving in time with the bobbing of your head. The other hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten in response to your attentions.
Through the haze of your own arousal, you kept your eyes fixed on his face, watching the play of emotions there: pleasure, surprise, overwhelming need. The glasses slipped slightly down his nose as he tilted his head back, and you loved how they caught the light, creating little glints that danced across his features.
His hips began to move in small, controlled thrusts, meeting the rhythm you'd established. You could feel him growing harder, thicker in your mouth, and you knew he was close. The knowledge sent a corresponding pulse of need through your own body, and you could feel yourself growing wetter, more desperate for him.
"Wait," he gasped suddenly, his hands tightening in your hair. "Wait, I'm going to..."
You pulled back slightly, looking up at him questioningly. His face was flushed, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.
"I want to be inside you when I come," he managed, his voice rough with need.
Who were you to argue?
You released him with one final, lingering lick, then moved to straddle his hips. Your nightgown– thin and practically transparent– was the only barrier between you now. Michael's hands moved to your waist, then slid up to cup your breasts through the fabric, his thumbs finding and circling your nipples until they pebbled into tight buds.
"No fair," you teased, though your voice was breathless. "I'm still dressed."
"We'll fix that," he promised, sitting up enough to pull the nightgown over your head. The sudden exposure to the cool air made your skin prickle, but the heat in Michael's gaze as he took in your naked form more than compensated.
"God, you're beautiful," he murmured, his hands tracing the curves of your waist, your hips, the swell of your ass. "Every time I see you like this, it's like the first time."
You leaned in to kiss him, a deep, passionate kiss that tasted of him and you. His tongue explored your mouth, confident and demanding, while his hands continued their exploration of your body.
When you finally broke apart, both breathless, you positioned yourself above him, taking his cock in your hand and guiding it to your entrance. The first contact, his tip against your wet folds, made both of you gasp.
"Look at me," you commanded softly, your gaze locked on his face, on those glasses that had started this entire encounter.
He met your eyes, and in that moment, you saw everything you needed to see– love, desire, a hint of amusement at your bossiness, and an overwhelming, all-consuming need.
Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him, taking him inch by delicious inch until he was fully seated inside you. The stretch, the fullness, the sensation of him hitting all the right places, it was almost too much, yet not nearly enough.
You stayed still for a moment, adjusting to his size, memorizing the feeling of him inside you. Michael's hands gripped your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin as he fought for control.
"Move," he finally begged, his voice strained. "Please, move."
You began to rock, a slow, deliberate rhythm that had you both gasping. Each downward movement sent sparks of pleasure through you, each upward drag left you aching for more. The room filled with the sounds of skin against skin, breathless moans, whispered encouragements.
“There you go, baby, just like that– ride my cock” he encouraged gruffly.
The glasses had slipped down Michael's nose again, and you reached out to push them back into place, your fingers lingering against his temple.
"I told you to keep them on," you reminded him with a wicked smile.
"Wouldn't dream of taking them off," he replied, his hips rising to meet your next downward thrust.
The change in angle made you cry out, and you increased your pace, riding him harder, faster. The friction built a delicious heat between your thighs, spreading outward until your entire body felt like it was on fire.
Michael's hands left your hips, one moving to cup your breast, the other slipping between you to find your clit. His thumb circled the sensitive nub in time with your movements, and you felt your control begin to slip.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice strained. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come around my cock."
His words– so direct, so dirty– were exactly what you needed to push you over the edge. The orgasm crashed through you with the force of a tidal wave, leaving you shaking and breathless. You collapsed against his chest, your face buried in the crook of his neck as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you.
When you finally came back to yourself, Michael was still inside you, still hard, still waiting. You could feel the tension in his body, the restraint he was exercising, and you were overwhelmed with love for this man who always put your pleasure first.
With a wicked grin, you pushed yourself up, your palms flat against his chest. "Your turn," you murmured, your voice husky with satisfaction and renewed desire.
Michael's eyes, dark and intense behind those still-perfectly-placed glasses, widened slightly as he realized what you intended. "Are you sure?" he asked, though the hope in his voice was unmistakable.
You answered by rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate circle, feeling him throb inside you. "I want to watch you lose control," you whispered, leaning down to nip at his earlobe. "I want to see your face when you come."
That was all the encouragement he needed. In one smooth, powerful movement, Michael flipped you both, never breaking the connection between your bodies. Suddenly, you were on your back, with him hovering above you, his arms braced on either side of your head.
The change in position sent a fresh wave of pleasure through you. He was deeper now, hitting spots inside you that made your toes curl. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper.
"Like this?" he asked, though it was more of a statement than a question. He began to move, slow and deep at first, then faster as your bodies found their rhythm again.
You reached up to straighten his glasses, your fingers brushing against his temple. "Perfect," you breathed, and then you were lost to the sensation of him moving inside you, the delicious friction, the way he filled you completely.
The room filled with the sounds of your lovemaking– skin against skin, breathless moans, the rhythmic creak of the bed. Michael's movements became more erratic, more desperate as he approached his climax. His hips pistoned against yours, driving into you again and again.
"Tell me where," he gasped, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "God, tell me where you want me to come."
"Inside me," you demanded, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I want to feel it. I want all of it."
Your words seemed to push him over the edge. With a broken groan, Michael thrust deep one final time, and you felt him pulse inside you, hot and endless. The sensation triggered another, smaller orgasm in you, and you clenched around him, milking every last drop.
For a long moment, you both lay still, tangled together, breathing heavily. The only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the pounding of your hearts.
Eventually, Michael shifted, rolling to the side but keeping you close. He removed his glasses, placing them carefully on the nightstand before pulling you into his arms.
"God," he murmured against your hair, his voice still rough. "You're going to be the death of me."
You smiled, tracing patterns on his chest. "But what a way to go, right?"
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Definitely."
You lie in comfortable silence for a while, your bodies cooling, your breathing returning to normal. The room was dark now, save for the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
"I should check my phone," Michael said reluctantly, though he made no move to get up. "Make sure Abbott didn't burn the place down while I was... occupied."
You tightened your arms around him. "Let the world burn for one night," you whispered. "Stay here with me."
He was quiet for a moment, then he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Always," he murmured. "Always."
