Boy-dad!Jack Is Always On My Brain, Because Sure—we’re Conditioned To Think That Tough Men Deserve

a man moaning the word "fuck" >>>>

Companionship | pt. 7

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

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Summary: the silence, the distance, the questions, the longing.

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Note: sorry this one is on the shorter side, I didn’t want to combine it with the previous chapter or with the next one. thank you all for the comments on the last two chapters, they really make my day🥹and thank you for all the likes, reblogs and follows too omg

and I spoiled y’all with a double update last time for all the angst I’m about to put you through🤗

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: age gap, foul language, angst, avoiding feelings, alcohol, hospital inaccuracies, injury/blood mentions

not beta read

Michael sat on the couch, frozen to it, long after his front door had closed. The hockey game was little more than white noise to him now, completely uncaring that his team was now winning. His ears rang and he tried to control his breathing.

Why had he done that? And secondly, why had he let you go?

The first question was easy enough to answer: he had gotten swept up in the moment and he let it carry him a bit too far. Surely, it was only that, if he ignored the feelings swirling around in his chest like a storm ready to break.

The second? Well, it was clear you needed to run away, not able to face your regret head on. How could he blame you? Who wanted to deal with an old man like him? Their age gap alone was sure to send most running for the hills. How on earth could you want him, with his quiet melancholy and emotional baggage?

It churned in his gut like it had begun to fester, and all he could do was sit there and let it rot.

He was unsure how he had allowed your arrangement to bleed into anything else—it was supposed to be easy, no attachments and certainly no complex emotions. An uncomplicated solace to help him process the bad days, and maybe even move on from the grief of losing Adamson. To even be a complete distraction from the Pitt.

Well, at least it was still a distraction, but he failed considerably at making no attachments to you or not having complex feelings regarding any of it. But now it was the wrong type of distraction, his mind wavering between the feel of your lips and your hands on him, to the echo of the door closing behind you.

Final. Quiet. A conversation all its own.

He needed a drink. He needed to bury his feelings and lose himself in the Pitt, like normal. That, at least, hadn’t changed.

In the days that followed, Michael’s phone burned heavy in his pocket. His heart raced whenever he thought about sending you a text, or trying to continue as if the other night had never happened. He couldn’t bring himself to, any words he could send to you felt like either too much or not enough.

Were you really having a good time?

Were you placating me?

Were you uncomfortable?

Did I make you uncomfortable?

Why did you kiss me again? Why did you go?

Can I call you?

It all was too much. He needed to forget about you and return to normal, before you had entered his life. It was hard to not consider the after with you; smiling, cheerful, an ever-present—

No. Enough.

His patient’s did not care if he was distracted, they needed him regardless of his state of mind.

Michael’s mood must have been palpable to most in the ED, giving him a wider berth than usual, except Dana. But that was why he loved her. Except when she pushed.

“You alright, Robby? You’re gloomier than usual.” She said, eyes flickering from her screen as he put down a tablet.

He let out a long sigh, “You know me. Right as rain.”

Dana raised a careful eyebrow at him, “That why you’re snapping at everyone?”

Michael rubbed the back of his neck. He needed to leave his personal life at the door just like everyone else.

That is, until your personal life walks right through the door.

—

You cried the moment you got through the doorway of your apartment, all the emotions you had tried to stuff away finally beginning to overflow. Your chest hurt like you had just experienced heartbreak, while simultaneously furious with yourself that you let everything get so out of hand.

You had put all your cards on him stopping you, maybe even calling attention to the storm that had been brewing between you. You did not have a hand to play when he did not, thoughts resorting to flee, run, get outta there.

When he hadn’t stopped you, you knew he had clearly made a mistake, too caught up in the moment, that was all that had been to him, surely. It didn’t mean anything to him, it couldn’t have. You were too young for him, too naive to be taken seriously.

Your heart ached.

Maybe you should have listened to Marsi right at the start, picked up a few bartender shifts and never even considered Erin’s “easy money” scheme. Nothing comes easy, not really. The pain in your chest was proof enough.

Moving slowly through your apartment, your limbs felt heavy, wanting nothing more than to lay face down on your bed and forget about the world for a while. You figured the quiet of your room would be soothing, but it felt like a prison.

Even days later, there was radio silence from Michael, not that you had expected much different. You figured that him not stopping you and you walking out was clearly the end of it — who could blame him? He hadn’t signed up for that shit.

Thinking of the arrangement, the Visa card weighed heavy in your wallet. You had half a mind to toss it, shred it, throw it in the nearest body of water. But, there was still a few hundred dollars left, and how could you waste that?

Maybe I should mail it to him, you thought miserably, no return address, no name. He’d know. He’d know it was me.

Marsi had taken notice of your sudden shift in mood purely over text messages. She reached out to make plans, to study or even go for a simple walk, but you wanted to be alone. You wanted to wallow in self-pity and your own foolish, reckless fantasy, even though it made you feel worse.

Your friends refused to let you, showing up to your apartment with a tray of brownies and alcohol. Erin even stayed suspiciously quiet over how you were handling it, no smart comment about no strings, or turning it into something it wasn’t. You all just enjoyed stupid rom-coms and funny stories Erin had endured with the hedge-fund manager she was “seeing”.

It felt normal. It felt good. But something was missing, and you hated that it was him.

You tried to move on, the anxiety not dissipating from your chest. You tried to focus on the present, on finishing school and eventually being able to escape your shitty job. Your new laptop sat pretty on your dining table, making it hard to forget, reminding you exactly how Michael had looked at you when you pulled it from the bag. Soft eyes, gentle smile. Originally, you had tried not to use it, tried to get by with your old laptop — but it only took a few days before it died completely.

You tried not to let her mind wander while you made dinner. Cutting up a few vegetables on your cutting board, you put your attention to your current project, but were easily sidetracked.

Should you be the one to bridge the conversation? You had nothing particularly interesting to say, only lingering questions:

Why did you kiss me?

Did it mean anything to you?

Do you want to forget about it?

Why did you let me go?

Can I call you?

Her hand slipped, the knife falling from your hand and moving to fall off the counter. Without even thinking about it, moving on instinct alone, you reached to catch it — grabbing hold of the sharp end. It cut into your hand and you immediately released your hold on it, letting it clatter to the ground.

Blood oozed from the gash now in your palm, diagonally cut end to end. Fuck.

You quickly grabbed paper towels to apply pressure, and tried to stop the bleeding, but it soaked through. It stung, bringing a handful of tears to your eyes, before moving to run it under some water. The cold water felt good, but revealed just how deep the wound was.

Panic swirled around in your gut, and you knew you were going to have to get stitches. What was the closest hospital to you? Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center? That sounded right.

In the ER, you waited in one of the chairs — mildly irritated it was too busy for you to be seen right away. You tried to steer clear of the sicker of the people waiting — the people coughing or looking nauseous, instead sitting next to a woman and her daughter. The girl was young, but nothing was obviously wrong with her, so you felt it was a safe enough option.

Hunger rumbled in your gut and you found yourself more annoyed that out of any time this happened, it was as you were making dinner.

It felt like forever until your name was called, standing and walking towards the lady with a tablet in her hands. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a ponytail, bangs covering her forehead, perhaps late thirties or early forties.

She smiled warmly at you, “Hi, I’m Dr. McKay, can I see?”

You nodded, moving the towel away from your palm with a wince. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but it was still ached. It still looked horrible to you and your eyes flicked away from it.

Dr. McKay made a small sound, “How did that happen?” She led you with her through the doors and into the back.

You frowned, “Making dinner, knife slipped. I stupidly reached to grab it without thinking.”

She nodded in what felt like understanding, easing some of the anxiety in your chest.

“Well, let’s get you stitched up.”

Your eyes moved across the ER, taking it in. Moving past several rooms until she stopped, gesturing inside. When you looked over to smile at her, your eyes collided with a familiar set of brown eyes across the hall, already watching you.

Michael. Fucking Michael.

When a storm breaks, there’s just a moment before the rain hits — and one is momentarily suspended in the heavy weight of the air around them, waiting for the fall.

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Companionship Taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @clementine111002 @virgomillie @emily-b @kaygilles @lt-jakeseresin @imonmykneessir @kniselle @cannonindeez @gabsgabsvaz @rosiepoise88 @calivia @holdonimwalkingmysnail @valhallavalkyrie9 @blahkateisdone @shadowhuntyi @fuckalrighty @spoiledflor @elli3williams @ksyn-faith @yournerdmodziata @i-know-i-can @dickheadturner @dcgoddess @pittobsessed @glamorizethechaos @blueb33ry-cat

All Dr. Robby Content: @cherriready @kittenhawkk @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama

Sorry for the mild cliffhanger…

ʜᴏᴛᴛᴇꜱᴛ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ — ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡ "ᴘᴏᴘᴇ'' ᴄᴏᴅʏ 4/♾️

Bitches be saying that Jack Abbot talks you through it – it’s me, I’m Bitches.

MDNI!

Missionary with Jack would be life changing. Because if you don’t think that man will hold your hand while lovingly pounding you into that mattress you are wrong. And it’s hot and sweet and dirty. Slick skin sliding on skin because Jack wants to be close to you. Practically wants to climb inside of you. He’s got your leg wrapped around his waist. One hand pressing yours into the pillow. The other cradling your chin as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear. How much he loves you and misses you, how beautiful you are when you’re taking him like this. Taking him so well. Low moans and groans in your ears. Because Jack is not quiet. Oh no. How could he be when your sweet cunt is squeezing him so perfectly he thinks he could believe in God. Then that hand slides down your sweat-slicked body, fingers deftly playing with your clit. Your body so attuned to his every move. He knows you so well. Studied how you like it. So when he groans breathlessly against your chin and asks “Like that?” He already knows the answer before your shattered moan confirms it. And when you beg him not to stop, trap him against you with a squeeze of your thighs, he can’t help but laugh. Stop? Right now? Why would he? How could he? No he’d never dream of that. Instead he lifts his head to watch the way your face contorts as you get closer. Watch your jaw go slack with every swirl of his fingers over your aching clit. And when your breath catches in that telltale way, he grins. “Look at me, honey,” he cooes. “Wanna see you….there she is.” He praises. And he praises. And he fucking praises you through that mind-numbing orgasm. Pace never slowing. Fingers still moving. And when you shudder and sigh and try to move away, Jack hold you closer. Kisses your sweet lips through the overstimulation and coaxes you through another one. Dirty words and pretty praises on his tongue all the way. And only when you’re both exhausted does he come. Green eyes still boring into yours, until he buries his face into your shoulder with a final thrust.

no one’s touching him

Study of Drapery (1900) by Alphonse Mucha

For a moment i thought this said nonna carmy and truly I am beside myself thinking of a carmy with nonna like habits

Save me noma carmy save me save me save me

embarrassment has good bones

📷 saskialawaks