⭐️💙⭐️Blue Royal Stars⭐️💙⭐️

Please like/reblog this if you are a writer, giffer, poster, or just a fan of The Pitt so I can follow you 💕🥰

lease write more abbott it’s a blessing 🙌🏻 maybe something to do with phone sex? he’s away at a conference?

omg yes! 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor. Jack’s in Boston for a trauma conference. You call. You say it’s because you can’t sleep. But that’s only half of it.

warnings/content: 18+ only (NSFW content), established relationship (married), emotionally repressed longing, slow-burn smut, phone sex, voice kink, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, married tension

You hate how quiet the house gets when he’s gone.

It's not the kind of quiet that happens at night—but the kind that sinks into the space he usually fills. The sound of water running after midnight. The low thump of his steps down the hallway, deliberate, uneven—his right leg always just a little heavier. The comfort of knowing his hand will brush yours when you reach for your toothbrush at the same time.

You feel the absence of all of it.

Jack’s in Boston. Trauma conference. Just a few days, he said. Routine stuff. But it’s late now, and your body knows what’s missing.

You’re curled up on his side of the bed, wearing one of his old army shirts. Not a clean, folded one from the back of the closet—this one’s threadbare and warm from too many washes, the collar stretched, the fabric soft. You only wear it when he’s not home. When the smell of him is the only thing that helps you fall asleep.

You haven’t yet. It’s close to midnight.

You don’t plan to call him.

You just… do.

He answers fast. Not rushed. Just ready.

“Yeah.”

You blink at the ceiling. “You busy?”

A pause. Then, quieter: “No. You alright?”

You nod before remembering he can’t see you. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not.”

Another beat of silence. You can hear the faint hum of hotel heating behind him, and the quiet rustle of fabric. He’s probably sitting up in bed. You can picture the way he runs a hand over his face — tired, but not surprised to hear from you.

“You sound off,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie.”

You exhale. The kind of breath that says more than you want it to.

“I just couldn’t sleep.”

You roll over onto your side, pulling the covers up. His pillow doesn’t smell like him anymore. Not really.

“I’m wearing your shirt.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“That old army one,” you add, quieter. “The one with the stitching in the sleeve.”

Now he exhales — low and tight.

“Fuck.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. You don’t need him to. The silence stretches between you — familiar, warm, heavy. The kind of silence you’ve only earned through years of knowing each other like this.

You shift under the covers. The shirt rides up, exposing the backs of your thighs to the cold air. You leave it there. He always liked the way your legs looked like that — one bent, one straight. Like you were already waiting for him.

“You touching yourself yet?” he asks.

“Are you?”

A beat. Then: “Yeah.”

That makes you ache.

You slip your hand beneath the covers. Your fingers meet warmth. Wet. You drag them slow — lazy, teasing — and your thighs twitch with the contact.

“God, Jack.”

“I know exactly what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“First pass. Testing how wet you are. Finger sliding just under—”

You gasp. “Yes.”

“I’d be kissing your stomach if I was there,” he says, lower now, strained. “That soft spot just above your hip. You always flinch when I do that.”

There’s a pause. His breath hitches.

“What about you?” you whisper. “Tell me.”

You hear it — the shift, the subtle slide of skin on fabric.

“Boxers are down,” he mutters.

“Back against the headboard?”

“Mhm.”

“Using spit?”

He groans, deep and low in his chest. “Jesus.”

Your hand moves faster. Controlled. You know exactly how much pressure you need — and how much you want to hold back just to stay here with him.

“You’d be on top,” he says. “Knees on either side of me. I’d let you move at your own pace for a while.”

“Then?”

“I’d grab your hips.”

You press harder. He grunts softly — just a breath, but you feel it.

“I know how you sound right before you come,” you whisper. “You get quiet. Then you curse. Just once.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “And you go completely still. Just for a second. Then your whole body shakes.”

“I’m getting close.”

“I am too.”

You whimper. “I don’t want to finish without you.”

“You won’t.”

“Tell me when.”

Silence. Then:

“Now.”

The release is sharp — full. You cry out, hand working through it, legs flexing. You hear him too — a quiet grunt, drawn-out breath, the faintest curse under his breath as he falls with you.

It’s quiet for a while. Just your breathing. His.

Then Jack speaks again. Lower. Rougher. Real.

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah.”

“I hate being this far from you.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I’ll be home tomorrow.”

You smile. “I’ll leave the shirt on.”

He exhales. “Good. I want to take it off you myself.”

Sharon Tate photographed during an interview in her Belgravia apartment, 1965

This is my plea to all LH writers:

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE indulge us and give us the gift of mob boss Lewis fics and smut

Angel Kisses

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: graphic medical descriptions, needles

A/N: I thought this fic would be a little less fluffy and more spicy but I just can’t help it. Plus I love Noah Wyle’s barely there freckles. I feel like this isn’t my best work because I had severe writers block. Hope it’s good enough for yall tho 💕

My Ko-Fi :)

—

The Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center was rumored to be the 9th level of Hell. So when it was time for you to begin your schedule for trauma surgery, you prayed for a different hospital. Literally any other hospital.

But there you were, in the depths of the Pitt, working your fifth 12 hour shift of the rotation. Only 1pm, but you felt like someone had changed the clocks because there was no way that the day was only halfway done. You were reading a pediatric patient’s CBC results, getting ready to tell your senior attending for the day, Dr. Jack Abbott, that the child is anemic. But Dana’s voice distracted you:

“You can’t even stay away on your day off. Do you have a life besides the Pitt?” She said to someone out of your view.

“Trust me. This is a last resort.” You heard a man respond, the voice slightly familiar.

You turned around and saw Dr. Michael Robinavitch, the senior attending from your first four days of working here. He didn’t look too different out of his scrubs and navy hoodie that he wore at work. Black joggers and gray long sleeve athletic shirt that hugged his waist…really nicely.

“Last resort for what?” Dr. Frank Langdon called out from where he sat at his desk, charting his patient case.

“I fell of a ladder and tore up my back on the fence in my backyard.” Answered Dr. Robinav- Dr. Robby, you had to remind yourself. “I need stitches, but I can’t reach the cut.”

Langdon winced and leaned back in his chair. “Need me to stitch you up?” He asked.

Dr. Abbott walked up to the desk near Langdon and laughed. “No, he wants his friend to stitch him up. Right, Robby?” He joked, referring to himself.

Robby laughed and crossed his arms, biceps straining against the fabric of the athletic shirt. Damn. “Friend is a strong word. I don’t have friends.” He said with a smile.

Langdon scoffed. “We went fishing last weekend. What does that make me?” He asked.

“I prefer the term ‘coworker that I hang out with sometimes outside of work.’” Robby said, but you could see the teasing in the way his eyes crinkled.

Dana rolled her eyes. “You are all annoying me. Jack, go stitch him up so he can get out of here and rest.” She said before walking off to a patient room.

Robby shook his head. “No, no, just let a med student do it. Good learning opportunity.” He said.

“No med students today. Only interns.” Langdon mumbled as he continued typing on his computer.

Robby clasped his hands together and held them close to his chest. “Even better. I would love for my scar to be in a straight line.” He joked.

Abbott looked to you, who had been watching the group interact from a couple of desks over. Your face flushed slightly, realizing you probably look like an eavesdropper. He motioned with his head toward Robby. “Why don’t you take our patient to holding and fix him up? I’ll take the CBC results.” He said.

“Yes, sir.” You answered, almost a little too seriously. The Pitt was an intense environment, but these attendings did not have the same egos as the ones from your last several rotations.

Robby chuckled at your earnestness. “Hear that, Langdon? ‘Yes, sir.’ You should be taking notes.” He ordered facetiously, pointing his finger at the senior resident.

Langdon looked up from his desk as you began walking with Robby to the back of the Pitt where the holding rooms were. “You know, we tell all of our patients over 65 to be very careful when doing yard work.” He called out.

Robby shot him a bird without turning back around. You smiled at the banter, not used to the lax interactions between physicians of different ranks. Once you made it to the room, Robby sat on the bed, and you grabbed a standard suture kit.

“Is it on your back?” You asked, turned away from him.

“Yeah. I’d do it myself if I could reach it. I managed to cover it up though.” He said.

When you turned back around, his tight fitting shirt had been peeled off his upper body. Holy shit. In the last five days, you didn’t really give yourself time to fantasize about your attending. He was handsome for sure and charming when he wasn’t jumping down a resident’s throat (yet he still had the patience of a saint). His abdomen was well toned, and his chest was smooth. Not what you expected based off his hairy forearms and face.

You must have been staring too much because Robby’s shoulders hunched, as if trying to subtly cover his exposed body. “Let me just take a look at the cut.” You said, trying to come back to earth. You moved to the edge of the bed and removed the bandage that he had placed himself.

You could see the blood that had leaked through the dressing, but you were not prepared to see the extent of the cut stretch across the majority of his upper back. “Oh, shit.” You swore.

Robby chuckled. “That’s not a comforting thing to hear from your doctor.” He said, shifting uncomfortably as the cold air of the hospital struck the wound.

You shook your head in a panic. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t say that to a normal patient.” You covered for yourself.

Robby shook his head. “No, no. Listen. You’re taking everything a little too seriously. Just relax. Roll with the punches. That’s the only way you’ll survive down here.” He explained.

You nodded, taking in a stiff breath anyway. You disposed of the bandaging and picked up the lidocaine syringe. “Okay. I’m about to start injecting lidocaine around the cut. You’ll feel the burning more than the needle.” You said. You placed one gloved hand on his back, giving yourself a guide while you held the syringe in the other.

“90 degrees or 45?” He asked, making you freeze in place.

You paused for a moment, almost afraid to say your answer in fear of being incorrect. “90.” You answered.

“Why?”

At this point, the needle was hovering just an inch above your first injection site. “Recent studies show that patients report less pain with a 90 degree angle.” You said, confident in your sources.

Robby smiled, but you didn’t see it. “Very good.” Was all he said.

You injected the first round of lidocaine, and he hissed at the burning around the open wound. You kept moving around the cut, injecting small doses. “You’re doing great, Dr. Robby.” You praised, just as you would with any patient.

“Fuck, I say that to patients all the time. No wonder it makes no difference.” He grumbled.

You smiled slightly and injected the final dose. “All done.”

Robby let out a heavy breath, hanging his head as the skin slowly numbed where you worked. You began to open the suture kit and sort out its contents on the metal tray near the bed.

“What stitch?” He asked.

You grabbed some gauze and antiseptic from the drawer in the room before returning to his side. You cleaned the skin around the wound where the blood had dribbled down his back in a mix with sweat from working outside.

“Running stitch. The cut is long but not at risk of tension.” You answered. Robby nodded in approval. You carefully started on your first stitch, delicately inserting the curved needle into his skin. “So, you were on a ladder?” You asked.

Robby huffed in slight irritation. “Yeah. Trimming some branches that were reaching over the fence into the neighbors’ yard. I misstepped on the way down and lost my balance.” He explained.

You grimaced. “That sucks.” You said matter of factly.

“Yeah. Maybe Langdon is right. I’m getting too old for that kind of stuff.” He said with a chuckle.

Your hands carefully moved as they continued to sew. “You don’t look old.” You said.

Robby smiled to himself, not expecting you to respond at all. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” You said, glad he couldn’t see your involuntary blush. As you continued to stitch, you noticed all of the spots and marks that dusted his back and shoulders. “I like your freckles.” You noted.

Robby’s mind halted. It was a compliment he had never received. Your words went straight to his chest, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt flustered.

“My freckles?” He repeated.

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah. You got ‘em on your face too?” You asked.

Robby turned his head, not to present his face, but because he was still surprised and wanted to see if you were being genuine. And there they were. A light scattering of freckles across his cheeks and bridge of his nose.

“Yep. They’re precious.” You said after inspecting and returning back to your stitching. Robby’s face flushed, and you could especially see it in his ears as you worked. “You know, my mom used to tell me that freckles were angel kisses. Every time I got a new one, I thought an angel had kissed me. I went an embarrassingly long time into junior high before realizing it was just a tall tale.” You explained.

Robby smiled at the charming story, feeling an unusual feeling of comfort. “My grandmother used to say the same thing.” He said.

You grinned. “Looks like the angels couldn’t get enough of you then.” You teased.

Robby chuckled and ran a nervous hand across the back of his neck, careful not to pull against the skin as you worked. “How’s it looking back there?” He asked, trying to continue conversation.

“I need to run about five more stitches. Then you’ll be on your way.” You said.

He nodded and folded his hands in his lap. “Are you working tomorrow?” He asked.

You thought for a second, honestly not sure. “I don’t think so. My first off day since I started.” You replied. “Are you?”

“No. Seven on, seven off.” He said.

You pulled at the last suture and cut the remaining thread. “All right, Dr. Robby. You’re all cleaned up.” You announced.

“Great.” Robby hopped off the bed and stood up straight, popping a few kinks in his back from being hunched over. He towered above you, losing the intimacy that you temporarily had. “Take a picture and show me.” He said.

You pulled off your gloves slowly, unsure of how to respond. “Of the stitches?” You asked, afraid that he was going to grill you for sloppy suturing.

“Yeah, just to see the damage.” He responded.

You pulled your phone out and stood behind him. Fuck, even his back looked good. You snapped a picture and zoomed in to show him your work. Definitely saving that for later. “Does it look okay?” You asked timidly.

Robby nodded, impressed. “Actually yeah. Don’t think I could’ve done it better myself.” He complimented.

You laughed in relief. “Oh, good. I still need more practice on different suture patterns. I’m just lucky you were a simple case.” You said.

Robby looked down to you, letting his eyes linger as he watched you put your phone away. “If you aren’t busy tomorrow, maybe I can give you a masterclass. All ER docs have to know every suture.” He offered.

You looked up to him, suddenly very aware that he was still shirtless in front of you. You smirked and crossed your arms. “Sure. But only if you teach me just like this.” You said, looking him up and down. “You know, because you’ll need to let those stitches breathe.”

Robby grinned. “Wow. That was pretty smooth.” He admired.

You shrugged. “Just rolling with the punches.” You responded, repeating his quote from earlier. “Give me a call tomorrow.”

And you left. Robby stood there, smiling to himself. He pulled his shirt on and walked out to the desk hub. Langdon was still charting, but caught the attending before he snuck out. “What’s that goofy smile for?” He asked, even though he knew the answer.

Robby shrugged, hands in his pockets, unable to shake the smile off his face. “I don’t know.” He said before walking away to leave.

Abbott leaned against a desk near Langdon. “His ears are red.” He noted. “That motherfucker is in love.”

BOOMSHAKALAKA YES LAWWWWDDDDDDDD

Go give THAT FIC ALL THE LOVE YALL ITS DELICIOUSSSSSSSS

The way this is literally me & @gothcsz’s interpretation of sugar daddy Marcus Acacius like uggggg. Everybody go read our doc child: SAFETY NET for clear skin. 5 likes and we’ll work on chapter two and make it extra nasty for everybody. 😁🤭

Me after putting on my mascara

Ayo Edebiri via deemakeupart on Instagram — February 22, 2025