Carmy Loves Quietly To Me. Not Quietly Where He Doesn’t Do Anything But Quietly In A Way Where It’s

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Honestly the washing hands thing is so real LMAO

Jack abbot get in line imma fight you for our girl

FIND OUT

─ Dr. Samira Mohan x fem! reader || WC: 3.2k

SYNOPSIS: You and your friend, Samira Mohan, tread the line between friends & something else. During a night out, you both get a taste of what that something else might look like.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Alcohol consumption (everything is consensual). Sort of Dom! Reader/Sub! Samira (both are switches & fems though). Girls kissing passionately! Nipple play. Dry Humping. Fingering. Dirty Talk. Flirting. Making out in the backseat of a cab. Samira has a crush on reader & vice versa. Samira & Reader are residents at The Pitt (R3s). Samira & Reader are close friends & around the same age (29). Touch deprived! Samira Mohan. Both Samira & Reader are bisexual.

A/N: I truly can't explain how this happened, but lets just say I locked in so hard I blacked out. I just want to love on Samira Mohan, so I did. MOVE JACK IT'S MY TURN! I also took some inspo from the scene in Black Swan where Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis kiss, lmao oops. I made both Samira & reader bi considering I'm bi so I could relate to it and I hope others are able to enagge with it as well! (I almost psyched myself out of posting this okay be nice). Proof read by moi. Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. <3

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

If someone had predicted where the night took you both, you would’ve laughed in their face.

It was supposed to be a simple night out for drinks. Both you and Samira had finally gotten a couple of days off; more like you forced the girl from going back to The Pitt when they didn’t need any help. You always told her the same thing: “If you keep going at this rate, you’ll get grays before you hit 35, hun.” She would only roll her brown eyes at you, a cheeky dimple poking out on the side of her face as she laughed it off.

It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, two close friends sharing quality time with one another after their workdays ended. That was how it started anyway, through brief conversations and minor interactions with the resident whenever your shifts aligned. You could see right through her, how her job was all she had, how all she knew was the chaos of the PTMC to match the havoc of her psyche. Albeit, her gorgeous smile and kind demeanor hid it well for the most part, at least when Robby wasn’t grilling her, but when you urged her to go home to prevent an adrenaline crash, she actually listened to you most times.

Samira would bring tea in advance during the mornings you worked together, repeatedly warning you that your heart would give out with all of the caffeine you consumed on a daily basis. You simply shrug at her and chug the liquid out of your thermos, watching her as you do. It'd make her grimace, grumble even, but you’d take it so long as you got something.

“You should listen to me, you know. Try some tea, it won’t kill you as quickly.” Samira lectured, trying to bribe you with using brown sugar instead of the agave sweetener she likes.

“I’m not letting you take my coffee away from me, sorry. We will just have to accept our differences.”

“Forgive me for caring about your health. Let’s just hope I’m in the room with you when you’re tachycardic.”

Lunch times were your favorite, often opting to sit outside with Samira for a breather, sharing bits and pieces of your meal together, whether it came from home or you ordered it in advance. At night, when it was time to call it a day and repeat the cycle the next morning, Samira would be there to walk with you back to your place, or you would take her to hers. You’d give each other a rundown of the day, of the chest tube you had to put in or the new case study Samira was looking into and finally got to use in practice.

These little moments always eased your nerves after dealing with so much intensity on a daily basis, and it only took a couple of late-night walks to realize you liked Samira’s company, and more so you wanted it outside of working hours. On one particularly hard shift and a relatively quiet stroll, you knew you didn’t want to be alone, and even with the reassuring squeeze on your shoulder, a part of you craved her calming presence to tether you to the Earth.

“You want to go out for a drink? I know a good bar nearby. They make good margaritas.”

She nodded silently, offering an understanding smile, and walked side by side with you the entire way to the bar, stayed with you for the rest of the night, and even rode in the cab back to your apartment. When you woke up with a hangover the next morning, you were surprised to find Samira hovering above you, wiping your forehead with a cool compress, soothing the throbbing in your temples before the wave of nausea hit you.

“Wanted to make sure you were okay. You went a bit hard last night.”

The rest was history.

Tonight, she took your advice and said yes to your invitation for drinks at a club downtown, another location you had mentioned to her a while ago. Samira, ever the overthinker, came by your place to get ready, bringing a bag with some outfit choices, seeking out your input. She didn’t say anything when you told her to wear the halter top and mini skirt, coming towards her to hike her skirt even higher and align her boobs closer to the center of her chest, giving them a push-up effect.

“You’re a pretty girl, Samira. You’ve got legs and a face that can start wars, use them. If you flirt with the bartender, maybe we’ll score and get ourselves some free drinks.”

You told her that with a playful smile and a slight twinkle in the corner of your eye, your dark lashes emphasizing the flare. Samira watched you finish the touch-ups on your makeup, the heeled boots and leather pants you wore did everything to sell a fantasy of you she got to witness firsthand. She’ll never admit to watching the way the curve of your ass looked in the stretchy material of your pants, or how the low neckline of your top revealed the little pieces of ink along your shoulder and arms that were usually hidden under your scrubs. She occupied herself with grabbing the rest of her belongings and throwing them in her purse, oblivious to how you eyed her from afar, re-applying the last bit of your lip gloss before calling the Uber.

At the club, it was another story entirely. You held her hand on your commute and reassuringly squeezed her wrist when you started to woo the bouncer, batting your lashes at him and brazenly puffing out your chest. It seemed to work when security let you both in, leading Samira further inside and ignoring the people who bitched outside about you two skipping the line.

Some flirting with the bartender and three cocktails later, you and Samira were on the dance floor, swaying your hips to the upbeat song filling the space around you. You don’t think you’ve ever seen your friend so relaxed, so free; inebriated yes, but enjoying herself nonetheless. Samira’s face was craned up to the sky, the bass of the beat thrumming through her entire being, rushing from the top of her head to the balls of her feet. Her hair bounced with the rest of her, loose waves spinning around with every bop of her head and twirl of her hips.

You followed her lead, holding her waist and guiding her movements from behind. She laughed at the feel of you, clutching your wrist and bringing your hand to the middle of her lower body, keeping her in place while you synchronized the circular gyration of your bodies. Meshing to her back, she could feel you pressing up behind her. Tossing her head back over your shoulder, she granted you a whiff of her perfume, giggling in her ear in the process, teasing her with the ghost of a bite on the side of her neck.

Samira pivots on her heel and turns to face you, smiling wide as she throws her arms over your shoulder and around your neck, your hands taking their natural place on her hips, beckoning her to you. She was all teeth and dimples as she rolled into you, dancing chest to chest, eyes on you and tuning everything else out. Neither of you cared for the other people in the space with you, honing in on the way she felt in your hands, the material of her skirt, the open back of her halter top, the ease with which she danced with you under the dim lighting.

Closing the gap between you, whatever was left of it, her nose grazed the tip of yours, barely tasting the vodka on her breath. You watched her face, how her gaze drifted from your eyes to your mouth and rapidly returned back up. It was subtle; you’d almost miss it if you blinked too fast, and thankfully your strict attention made sure you caught it.

“I’m having so much fucking fun.” God, she was drunk, you think anyway from the way there was more black than brown in her eyes. To you, she’s never looked prettier, smiling without a care in the world under bright shades of pink and purple.

“I bet. That’s the liquor talking.” Placing a hand on her back, you sensed the faint shiver that washed over her. “You got a couple of eyes on you, sweetie. Think these guys want a dance.”

“I’d rather not, thank you very much.” She didn’t even bother to acknowledge the men in question who had been eyeing her up and down all night, opting to keep her regard on you the entire time. “I very much prefer dancing with you.”

Pride bloomed in your chest, fighting the urge to steal a kiss right then and there. You held off, your hands treading dangerously close to her lower spine, sneaking towards the waistband of her skirt.

“Good, that means I don’t need to worry about you scurrying off with a stranger and leaving me behind.” Samira laughs hard then, loud enough to filter through the music in the club. You savored the scene in front of you, taking her in as if she hung the moon and the stars, as if she were that.

Must’ve been the tequila catching up with you.

“Trust me, that’s not happening.” Her knuckles rasp along your jaw, the tip of a nail poking your chin and skimming your bottom lip, pulling away to move a loose curl behind your ear. “I couldn’t leave you behind, that’s a federal crime.”

You sure fucking hoped that was the case.

It was about 2 am when you and Samira called it a night, heading to your place and resting into one another in the backseat, tumbling into bits of cackles as your sense of direction remained skewed from the alcohol still coursing through your veins. Her head rested against your shoulder, your hand on her thigh to keep her nearby, absentmindedly painting circles into her soft brown skin. Her head lifts to look at you, doing your best to ignore the way the haze in her eyes sends a surge of warmth through your body.

“What?”

“Nothing…” Her voice trails off, leaning more into you in the backseat.

“If you have something on your mind, Samira, you can tell me. Probably the best time considering I’m seeing two of you right now so I won’t remember.” You both giggle again, the sound ringing in your ears with her sudden close proximity.

“Just wanted to say I had a lot of fun is all.” She beams shyly at you, breathing heavier in your direction and placing a hand on your side to keep her from sinking into the cushion of the seat.

“Yeah?” You quirk your face in amusement, the corner of your lips curling upwards at her eager nod.

“Yeah.” Her forehead is against yours, beaming almost to herself, boldly glancing at the shiny gloss still on your lips.

“You’re so silly,” shaking your head, your goofy expression was mirrored by an intoxicated Samira Mohan, both ends of her mouth flexing with a chuckle.

“Your fault. I forgot how many shots we had.”

“It was two big ones, but shit, I might be wrong I lost count.”

The bubble of comfort you found yourselves in extended beyond the backseat of the Uber, the hand on your side wandered up to stroke your forearm aimlessly, focusing on the tattoo on your bicep. Samira hums at the feel of your skin, following the intricate lines the ink left behind, trying to learn the story behind it and the patience you needed to endure the needle piercing into your flesh over and over again. It was strangely intimate, close enough to feel her light exhales on the side of your cheek and her heart pounding in her ribs.

“Samira.”

“Hm?”

“If you want something, tell me before I think I’m reading this wrong.” Taking a hand to the back of her neck, your thumb caressed her nape, causing her to bite her lower lip.

“I think…I want you to kiss me.” Her big brown eyes were glazed over when she met your gaze, the sight alone sending your heart racing.

“You think?” God, you could hear your pulse in your ears, or was that your second heartbeat? “Gotta be better than that.”

“Please, just kiss me.”

Fucking finally.

Tilting forward, your lips mesh together like you’ve been dreaming about all night. The kiss was messy, clumsy even as Samira’s brain caught up with the rest of her, slithering her tongue along your bottom lip to ask for permission to taste more of you. Opening your mouth, your tongue quickly found hers, swirling around it while holding her face with a hand on her jaw. She sighs happily against you, her exhale landing on your top lip while attempting to bring herself closer to you, sitting with one of her thighs between yours.

The Uber came to a stop in front of your apartment complex, forcing you to part from her with an embarrassed grin. You reiterate a hasty thank you and take Samira’s hand with a coy smirk, speed walking into the lobby of your building to catch the next elevator up. Swiftly grabbing your keys for the front door and unlocking it as fast as you could, you shut the door behind you as Samira kicked her heels off and tugged you forward for another kiss.

“Hold on, hold on. Let me…fuck…wash my hands.” She was busy staining your cheeks with her lipstick, touching any part of you she could get her hands on.

“Mood killer,” she jokingly muttered over your lips, landing a few kisses down the column of your throat and biting at the juncture of where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Old habits die hard. Plus, do you know how nasty clubs are? You’re supposed to be the smart one here, darling.”

Smooching her pout, you were able to peel off your boots along the way to the kitchen, rinsing off your hands with Samira next to you doing the same. Impatient as ever, she dragged you to the couch once the paper towel flew out of your grip, sitting you down and crawling into your lap with your arm wrapping around her waist. She practically climbs over you, needy lips finding yours again and humming at the feel of you, her palms riding up your chest and landing on your shoulders before running through your hair.

A moan punches out of her, instinctively shifting her hips over your thighs as her skirt rides up her body, revealing more of her to your greedy hands. Littering kisses down her neck, you went to undo the knot of her halter top, jerking the material down to expose her breasts to your eager sight. Kissing along her collarbone and sternum, she arches towards you, presenting more of herself without shame. Deciding to provoke her a bit more, your lips glide over the swells of her breasts, grinning at her unsteady exhales, a sign that she was anxiously lusting for more with every smooch you give her.

“Stop teasing me.” She almost sounded like she was on the verge of tears, desperation laced in her tone the more you dragged this out.

“Can’t I have a little fun with you?” You quipped, eyes widening a bit when she took one of your hands and placed it on her ass cheek under her skirt, guiding you over the thong she wore underneath.

“Touch me.” She damn near growled against your lips, a hunger unfamiliar to her overriding her senses.

“Yeah? You need me to make it better, Samira?” She nods, gasping the second your free hand reaches up from between her inner thigh to stroke her cunt through her panties, marveling at the wetness already soaking through the cotton. “Need me to touch you right here, hm?”

“Fuck, yes, please,” she cried out, bucking her hips to grind into your hand, bumping into your fingertips at the right angle that would give her aching clit more of that delicious friction.

Not wasting another second to toy with her, you plucked her thong to the side and gravitated to her slick pearl, the first contact of your fingers against her forced a whine out of Samira as she closed her eyes and deepened the curve in her back. She didn’t care how desperate she sounded, her whimpers and breathless keens turning your living room into a choir for you to enjoy, reveling in every mewl she willingly offered you. Rubbing circles over her clit, her hips bucked into your hand, oblivious to your lips inclining back to her breasts, wrapping around one of her nipples.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Samira clutched at your head, keeping you in place as your tongue flicked over her saliva-covered breasts, clenching around nothing with her arousal dripping down your fingers.

You don’t think you’ve ever heard her curse so much before, groaning around her perky nipple and nipping at it lightly, moving to give the other neglected breast equal attention. Keeping your thumb on her sensitive nub, you plunged a digit inside her, noting the loud moan turned to a whine when you burrowed another, curling them to the roof of her entrance.

“How does that feel, pretty girl?” You mumbled, grasping her hip to keep her steady above you, keeping your eyes on her the entire time.

“So good, so damn good.” She was lost in the pleasure, stars fired under her eyelids as she fucked your hand, chasing her own pleasure. “God…I’m going to cum.”

“Yeah?” You upped your ministrations, pressing your thumb harder against her clit and pumping your fingers with more force. “Come for me, ‘Mira. Want to feel you around me. Just let go, baby.”

A few more drives of your fingers and Samira’s cunt tightened around your digits as she fell into release, crying into your mouth when you snatched another bruising kiss, swallowing all of her little noises for yourself. She came much faster than you both anticipated, but you didn’t mind, not when she slumped against you and struggled to catch her breath. Her head rose to peer at you chuckling below her, slipping your soaked fingers out of her twitching entrance and clasping her shaking thigh.

“What’s so funny?” Samira blinks slowly at you, cupping both of your cheeks and holding your face in her palms.

“Just didn’t think you’d sound like that. You’re loud.”

“Shut up.” Heat creeps up to her face and you laugh harder, squeezing her ass affectionately.

“I don’t mind.” You kiss her slowly once more, biting her bottom lip playfully and coaxing a huff out of her. “Kinda want to see just how loud you can get, if you’re up for it.”

Samira was never one to back down from a challenge, humming in competitive intrigue. A lone finger moves over the neckline of your top, tracing over the lining that still kept the rest of your body hidden from her curious eyes. Tugging at the side of your top, she stares down at you, smirking as the same ravishing throb she felt before beats between her legs.

“Show me what you got.”

It was going to be a long night.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

Mood:

Hi honeybun! first off, I LOVE your stories. So creative and sexy

So my question: kinda funny

Do you think Javi P. would be more of a boobs man or an ass man? I always like thinking of these things when it comes to Pedro’s characters. Like I for sure think Joel Miller is all about the booty.

Thanks and *kiss *kiss

hiiiii thank you, i appreciate that sm and ty for reading <3

javi is 1000000000000% a boobs man like he loves a good rack and is always finding any reason to touch up on 'em

and dont even get me started on how mesmerized he gets when you're riding him and your tits are just bouncin around that man goes crazyyyy

gif examples of javi being a tits guy:

I'd really really really like to know how Carmy got into that point of sexgod-ism to spit in his partner's mouth 🫢 like how long it took? what it took? tell me everything plz xx

carmen berzatto is awkward.

there’s no use in sugarcoating the fact. he’s a master at communicating through food, but definitely not in terms of verbalizing his actual thoughts and feelings. but who is? confronting the complexity of them means facing ugly truths and undergoing crippling self-awareness and if he’s a mess now, he’ll surely be a mess nitpicking his inner contemplations apart. he… doesn’t mind his lack of social skills. if he’s busy interacting with people, how is he supposed to further hone his craft?

no distractions. no discomfort. no bullshit.

but he’s a man with desires no less. it’s tricky voicing this to the women he comes across in his life, often denying himself closeness until he’s in a predicament where he can’t anymore. when his breaking point hits, there’s no turning back. he falls into the rhythm of action, any moan and tug of him encouraging him to let loose, to stop fucking thinking already like mikey and richie would scold him to do, and feel his desires without guilt or uncertainty or any self-worth issue he’s not fixing to change and grow from if he can keep avoiding it instead.

but change grabs ahold of him anyways, as it tends to do in when he finally feels like his feet are steady and his head’s calm enough. you enter his life and the intimacies that make him human peskily rise to the front of the room, remind him they’ve always been here, and prey on his attention span until he’s afforded overall consumption of everything you are. he wants to spread your legs, he wants to see your face, he wants to bend you over a counter, in the shower, the armrest of his couch, and he both loves and hates how you bring it out of him.

it really begins with facing the enormity of his sex drive. being with you at every opportunity he has, making time, cursing himself when he’s inevitably late. you honor him and ease his self-doubt by voicing how much you like it, how often he needs you, your desire for him just as wanton and just as abundant. that’s what helps him step further into it, the exploration of his kinks and the additional details he never dove headfirst into. for example, he finds he loves praise, always fucking loses it when you tell him right there and fucking amazing, doing so good for me.

he loves putting his hand onto your neck, he loves watching your eyes roll back anytime he does it, and he loves how your lips part to moan louder for him and accept the open mouth (they have to be open mouth or else neither of you are going to breathe) kisses he bestows with an eager tongue and devoted lips. there’s power associated with it. the rougher he gets, which you only encourage, the more he’s able to conquer what it is that makes his desire tick. the short answer is you. the longer answer is what he wants to do to you.

he’s fascinated by your pretty lips. whether they’re blowing him a kiss or literally blowing him, stretched wide over his girth, he has an urge to fill it. he placed his fingers in there just to see what you’d do, and you didn’t disappoint, his cock throbbing harder inside of you as your tongue curled around his digits and sucked with closing eyes. he’s used your spit on your clit with those same fingers and then he shoved his tongue into your mouth once it howled in the spark of pleasure the action sent up your spine.

it’s no different when he has you lying back, needy noises spilling from your throat, the same that vibrates under his palm. he’s got you strung out. and it’s yet another thing that riles him, that gets him going… having control over you and your pleasure, capturing and nursing your submission. staring up at him with fluttering lashes as your walls squeeze him tighter, beg him for more despite the two orgasms he’s already given you. your swollen lips part, and he can’t help it. he would’ve never done this before you, but what the fuck are you turning him into, what the fuck are you inspiring?

“open,” he grits. as expected, your mouth opens for him obediently. this is what he’s talking about. you’re not fucking helping his case.

he gathers collecting spit, ample from the exertion and from his head between your thighs beforehand, and he lets it fall from his mouth to yours. it lands on your tongue and he sees the surprise in those blown features, your mouth closing with it and your body seizing up. your pussy grips him tighter, a whine betrays your satisfaction, and that’s the day carmen finds out he really loves molding you to his whim. his needy girl. all fucking his.

Wearing War

summary : Jack Abbot’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed—but instead, you go to his favorite dive bar. You wear the skirt. You wear his tags. You push, and Jack—tired, restrained, and entirely yours—snaps.

content/warning : 18+ MDNI!!! explicit smut, dominant boyfriend Jack Abbot, semi-public sex (in a parked truck), use of dog tags in kink context, possessiveness, fingering, vaginal sex, marking/bruising, overstimulation, reader is bratty and teasing, not much plot, mostly smut

word count : 4,323

Jack’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed.

You’d imagined it—his weight pressing into the mattress, one arm tossed over your waist, the rest of the world pushed away by the rhythm of his breathing. You’d imagined curling into the heat of him, tracing the faint scar beneath his ribcage with your thumb, pressing your face into his chest and not moving for hours.

But instead, you were standing in the doorway of your kitchen, watching him rinse his hands in the sink like he couldn’t quite turn off the part of his brain still stuck at work. His scrub top was balled up on the counter beside him, and his undershirt clung to his back in soft lines.

“Let’s go out,” you said, voice careful but certain. “Just us.”

He didn’t look up right away. Just let the water keep running over his hands like he hadn’t registered the question—or maybe like he was pretending not to.

“Out?” he echoed, like the word didn’t sit right in his mouth after ten nights of nothing but fluorescent lights and hallway coffee. “You mean… out out?”

You stepped into the kitchen, folding your arms. “Yeah. Not fancy. Not fussy. Just somewhere that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or have a monitor beeping in the background.”

That made him glance over. Barely. But enough.

His brow creased like he was doing the mental math—how long since his last shower, how much energy he had left in the tank, whether he could fake his way through being social when he barely felt human.

“You sure?” he asked. “You don’t want… like, a real night out? Something normal. Reservations. Wine list?”

You shook your head. “No. I want you. I want O’Malley’s.”

That got his full attention.

He turned, leaning back against the sink. His dog tags swung slightly when he moved. “O’Malley’s?” he asked, like you’d just suggested robbing a bank.

You took a few steps closer. “Yeah.”

He blinked once. “You want to go to a bar where the jukebox hasn’t worked since ’08, the floor sticks to your shoes, and that guy with the mullet always thinks you're hitting on him just for saying hi?”

You smiled, letting your hands slip up under his shirt, resting lightly against the warm skin of his stomach. “I want you. Where you feel good. Where you’re not someone’s doctor or someone’s emergency. Just… mine. I’ve been coming home to your things, not you. And I want to be somewhere that feels like you again.”

He went quiet at that. Quiet in the way Jack gets when something actually lands. The way he used to go quiet back when you first met him—when you’d say something kind and he didn’t know what to do with it yet.

O’Malley’s wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t even clean. But it was his.

Brick walls stained with decades of smoke and sweat and spilled drinks. The barstools wobbled. The bathroom door didn’t lock unless you jammed it shut with your heel. But it was familiar. Steady. Like Jack.

It was the first place he ever kissed you in public.

The first time you saw him relax—really relax—with his hand on your thigh and his smile easy and unguarded. No pager. No badge. Just him and a beer and the kind of quiet contentment he didn’t let anyone else see.

You wanted that Jack tonight.

Not the version who came home bone-tired and silent, who sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the dark. The one who carried too many stories in his hands and didn’t know where to put them.

“Alright. We’ll go. But I’m not shaving.”

You smiled. “I like you scruffy.”

He kissed you, slow and low, then murmured, “Twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen,” you said, already slipping out of his arms and heading for the bedroom. “You’ve got first round.”

And as soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you made a beeline for that skirt.

The black one.

The one that hadn’t seen daylight since your fourth date—back when he’d taken you to a bar kind of like O'Malley's. A little louder, a little messier, but the same kind of dim lighting and cracked leather booths. You’d leaned against the doorframe of your apartment when the night was over, keys in your hand, heartbeat wild under your skin, and asked, “Do you want to come up?” like you weren’t already hoping he’d press you into the wall and never leave.

He kissed you before he even got his boots off.

Not soft. Not slow. Like something in him had snapped loose. You barely made it to the couch—his hands on your hips, mouth trailing heat down your stomach, skirt bunched at your waist. He was on his knees before you could say another word, eyes dark, breath rough against your skin.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured, voice all gravel and restraint.

You didn’t.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. Just held your thighs open like he needed to, like he hadn’t had a real taste of anything in months. He made you come twice before he even touched himself. All control. All focus. Like the only thing that mattered was what your body was doing under his.

You still think about how he looked that night.

The way he moved—deliberate and slow, like he was memorizing every inch of you. The low curse he let slip when he finally slid inside. How he pressed his forehead to yours, jaw tight, barely breathing, like you were the only solid thing left in his world. No dirty talk. No theatrics. Just him, wrecking you with nothing but steady hands and a look you’ve never been able to shake.

That night, Jack Abbot stopped pretending. He stopped playing it safe. He stopped pretending he didn’t want you like a man starved.

You hold the skirt up in the warm light of your bedroom, thumb brushing the fabric like a secret, and smile. It’s tighter than you remember. Shorter, too—but maybe that’s just the way you’re looking at it now. With the memory of his hands. His mouth. His voice when he said your name like it was something sacred.

You slide it up your legs slowly. Deliberately.

Because you don’t want soft tonight. You don’t want tired.

You want him. The version of Jack who doesn’t know how to hold back. The version who comes home and remembers exactly who the hell he belongs to.

And by the time he sees you in this?

You want him wrecked.

Not by the shift.

Not by the world.

By you.

When you came downstairs, he was in the kitchen with his phone in one hand, wallet in the other, the porch light casting long shadows across the hardwood.

He didn’t hear you at first. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t look up until he had to.

And when he did—he stopped mid-motion. The screen of his phone still lit, thumb frozen over it, breath caught in his chest like it had nowhere to go.

His eyes dragged down your body and then back up, slow. Controlled. Like he was trying not to react. Like he had to try.

His mouth opened, then shut again. His jaw ticked once.

He wiped a hand down his face, slow and rough, like the sight of you was something he needed to get a grip on before it undid him. “You really—” he started, voice low and ragged, gesturing vaguely toward your legs. “That skirt?”

You leaned against the doorframe with the kind of casual ease that was anything but. “Figured I’d dress for the occasion.”

Jack didn’t move. Just looked at you.

“That skirt’s been in the back of your closet since…” He stopped, biting off the rest like it physically hurt to say it out loud.

You smiled gently. “Yeah. I remember.”

Silence stretched long and heavy between you. His eyes never left yours.

Then, quietly—honestly: “I’m not gonna ask you to change.” He paused. “But don’t ask me to keep my hands to myself.”

You pushed off the frame with a soft shrug. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

When you reached for your bag, he still hadn’t moved.

You had to walk past him to grab your keys, and even then, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a word. Just watched. Like he was counting his breaths. Like if he said one thing too soon, this night would tip into something neither of you were dressed for.

You walked out together into the thick hum of summer, the heat sitting low and wet across the driveway. Cicadas buzzed somewhere in the trees. The air smelled like warm concrete and fading sunlight.

As you made your way toward the truck, you let one heel wobble—just a little. Just enough.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, stopping, bending at the knee like you needed to fix the strap.

You didn’t.

But you knew exactly what you were doing.

And you could feel his gaze on you. Hot. Still. Quiet.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t come closer. Just waited, jaw tight, fists curled around the truck keys.

You stood, slow. Turned, met his eyes.

He blinked once. Swallowed. Then turned and opened the passenger side door for you like he wasn’t two seconds from backing you up against it.

The drive was quiet at first. The windows down, the music soft—something bluesy and old, not quite loud enough to distract from the weight between you.

You reached over, let your fingers brush his thigh gently. The shift in him was instant. A subtle inhale. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. His hand gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“You sure you don’t want something nicer than this bar?” he asked finally, voice low and quiet like he already knew the answer but had to give you the out anyway.

You turned toward him, soft smile still in place. “No, honey. This is about you.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked ahead and nodded once. The streetlights passed in slow intervals, the engine humming beneath your feet.

And Jack?

He just drove. Knuckles white against the wheel. Thigh tense under your hand. Mouth pressed into a line like he was already counting down the minutes until you got home—and he could stop pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

When you walked in, his hand found the small of your back.

“Usual booth,” he said. “I’ll grab drinks.”

You turned, looked up at him with a soft smile. “No, babe. Let me. You always do it.”

He squinted slightly. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Go sit. Relax.”

He hesitated. Then pulled out his wallet, thumbed through it, and handed you his card. You turned and walked to the bar, slow and confident, letting your heels click against the hardwood. The bar was a straight shot from your booth, just far enough that he could still see you. And you made sure to give him a show.

You leaned forward, pretending to read the drink list. Let your hips tilt. Let the skirt shift. Just enough for the lace of your thong to show.

The whistle was immediate.

A low sound from a table of men a few feet away.

And then Jack was there.

Behind you in a blink.

His hand clamped to your lower back.

And the other—

yanked your skirt down.

Hard. Final. Like the motion itself was a correction.

The fabric snapped against your thighs, the sudden pressure sending a jolt through you. You straightened instinctively, blinking.

“Jesus,” you said under your breath.

Jack leaned in. “You really wanna do this here?”

“I was just reading the menu,” you murmured.

“Bullshit. You order the same thing every time. Diet Rum and Coke. No lime. Half ice.”

You swallowed.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move again. Just pressed his hand firmer to your lower back and let the moment hang.

The bartender handed over your drinks. You took them. Didn’t say anything. Just walked back to the booth with Jack two steps behind.

You slid into the booth—on his side.

He gave you a look.

“What?” you asked, sipping your drink.

“You’re pushing it.”

You shrugged. “I missed you.”

“You’re doing this because I haven’t fucked you in ten days.”

You flushed—heat hitting your cheeks hard.

But you didn’t deny it.

Instead, you leaned in. He thought you were going to kiss him. And then your hand dipped beneath his collar. You pulled the chain free.

Unclipped it.

And slid his dog tags over your head. They settled against your chest, heavy. His name resting between your breasts.

Jack blinked.

Then laughed once. Dark. Rough.

“You wear them,” he said, voice low, “you ride. That’s the deal.”

You smiled. “I know the rules.”

He stared at you another beat.

Then stood.

“We’re leaving.”

“But we haven’t even—”

“You want people to see your cunt?” he cut in. “You want attention? Then let me remind them who you belong to.”

You didn’t argue.

Just followed him out, heart pounding.

You thought you were headed home.

But when he opened the truck door, he looked at you.

“You’re not gonna ride me in bed.”

You blinked.

He nodded to the truck. “You’re gonna ride me right here. Since you wanted to act like bait.”

You got in.

Because that’s exactly what you wanted.

And he knows it.

The truck door shuts behind you with a heavy, final thunk. One of those sounds that doesn’t echo—it lands.

Jack circles around the hood without a word. His boots hit the gravel with a quiet crunch, one slower than the other, rhythm faintly uneven from the prosthetic he’s never once complained about. Shoulders set. Gait loose, but loaded.

He’s not in a rush.

Not because he doesn’t want to touch you.

Because he’s trying not to break.

You sit in the passenger seat, legs drawn up just slightly, thighs tight, heart climbing higher into your throat with every second he doesn’t speak. The skirt’s still riding too high despite his earlier intervention—and the lace between your thighs is still damp. Still warm.

When Jack slides in behind the wheel, he doesn’t touch you.

Just plants both hands on the steering wheel and exhales. Once. Deep. Grounded.

Then he turns his head.

“I knew you wore that skirt on purpose,” he says, voice low. Strained around the edges. Not tired from work, but from holding back. Like keeping his hands to himself has taken more out of him than the last ten nights combined.

He says it like a confession. Like a warning.

And you don’t bother playing coy.

You tilt your head, smile just enough to be dangerous. “Figured you deserved something to look forward to.”

He shifts beside you, slow and quiet. One arm drapes over the back of your seat, casual on the surface—but his fingers find your shoulder. Trail down, soft as breath, to the edge of your collarbone. He lingers there. Just enough to feel your pulse.

“I’ve been looking forward to you for ten nights,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Still, he doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, his palm drags slowly down your chest, not lingering, not teasing—reading.

Then he moves lower.

Hand slipping down your stomach, over the edge of your skirt, until he finds the lace. The wet. The heat.

He hisses through his teeth.

"You’re soaked."

You don’t answer.

“You’ve been walking around like that since the house?” he asks, more statement than question.

Your breath catches.

His fingers press in slightly—not a thrust, just pressure. Just enough to feel.

“I know this body,” he says, low, barely a whisper. “I’ve had this pussy every way you let me. In the shower. Against the wall. Bent over the fucking sink. You think I can’t tell when you’re asking for it?”

Your hips twitch into his hand.

He doesn't give you more.

“You thought this was gonna be cute?” he growls, thumb brushing just beside your clit. “Bend over at the bar. Show everyone the lace I’ve ripped off you a dozen times?”

You bite your lip. Nod.

That makes him laugh. A rough, breathless sound.

“I should take you back in there,” he says. “Let them see what it looks like when you beg.”

You shift toward him, no hesitation now—like your body’s been waiting for this as long as he has. You climb into his lap with practiced ease, knees against the worn leather of the truck seat, thighs bracketing his hips, breath warm against his jaw.

He exhales like the contact knocks something loose in him.

His hands find their way under you, palms settling at the curve of your ass—rough and sure, reverent in the way only a man who’s gone without you can be. Like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. Real. His.

“You missed me,” he murmurs, voice low, thumb dragging a slow arc along the edge of your hip.

“I missed you,” you breathe, your lips brushing his. “You weren’t home. Not really. I kept pretending it was enough just to hear your keys in the door, but it wasn’t. I was alone. I needed—”

Jack kisses you.

Hard.

Not like a question. Like a claim.

It isn’t soft. Isn’t slow. It’s hungry—the kind of kiss that splits you open, that tastes like every second he had to swallow the urge to call you in the middle of the night just to hear you. His mouth is hot and demanding, his grip tightening like he wants you closer, like closer still isn’t enough.

You gasp against him, fingers tangling in the fabric at his shoulders, and that’s when he groans—deep and wrecked—like you just pulled the last thread keeping him together.

Because this isn’t just a kiss.

It’s ten nights of wanting.

And now?

Now he’s got you in his lap, and your skirt’s hitched up, and you’re not stopping him.

You’re meeting him there.

He bites your lip, slow and deliberate. Tugs it between his teeth, groans when you gasp. The sound spills into your mouth and coils low in your stomach, sharp and warm. His hands shift, drag you harder against him, and you feel it—how hard he is under his jeans. How close he’s riding the edge.

You rut against him before you can stop yourself, hips grinding down like instinct, like need. His hands grip tighter, grounding you, guiding you, pulling a sound from your throat you’ve never made for anyone else.

“Fuck,” he mutters, like you’ve undone something deep in him. His mouth finds your jaw, your neck, the corner of your shoulder—fast, focused, starving. Each kiss lands like an answer to every silent plea you made in the nights he was gone.

“Jack,” you whimper, breath stuttering. “Please—”

He growls. Low. Close. A sound like something tearing loose inside him, sharp and intimate and only for you.

His thumb presses into your waist, anchoring you. His eyes are on you now, heavy and dark, like he’s drinking you in—committing this to memory in case the world asks him to go without you again.

“You want it that bad?” he rasps, voice tight. “You want to fuck me right here, like this truck’s the only place that’s ever existed?”

You nod—frantic, breathless.

Your moan says the rest.

And the way he looks at you then—like restraint was never about control. It was about respect. And now, finally, he doesn’t have to wear it.

He grabs your face, hands big and steady, his thumbs resting under your jaw, holding you like he needs you still to speak clearly.

“You wear those tags,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You ride. Like you promised. You gonna be good for me?”

You nod again, quicker this time.

“Words,” he breathes, brow low. “Tell me.”

“Yes. I’ll be good.”

He exhales like that undoes something else in him. But he doesn’t thank you for it. Doesn’t say a word. Just watches you, jaw clenched, thumb brushing your chin like you’re both already undone and just getting started.

“You made me watch,” he murmurs. “Watch every man in that bar eye what’s mine.”

You meet his stare, voice barely a whisper. “I wanted to remind you.”

“You did.”

He unzips his jeans without breaking eye contact. Slow. Controlled. Not hurried, not desperate. Just decided. Like he’s already known for days exactly how this was going to end.

The tags shift when you lean forward. They clink once against his chest before settling back against warm skin—your skin.

“Do it,” he says, voice scraped raw. “Do what you promised. Ride me.”

His hands guide you—slow, steady, reverent. Like he knows what this is. What it means. What it’ll undo.

“Show me what I’ve been missing.”

A pause. One breath. Then another.

“Remind yourself who the fuck you belong to.”

Your hand slips between your bodies. Sure. Smooth. No hesitation now. You find him—hot, hard, already pulsing in your palm—and line him up.

You sink down.

You don’t even make it all the way down before Jack’s hands are on you—possessive, certain, like your body belongs to him and he’s just reclaiming it.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice ragged. His head falls forward, lips brushing your sternum as you sink fully onto him. You feel the tremor run through him. Hear the sharp breath he drags in like he’s been choking without you. “You’re still so fucking tight.”

His fingers splay wide across your hips, holding you there. Not letting you move. Not yet.

“Stay right there,” he growls. “Let me feel it. All of it.”

You whimper, thighs already shaking, because he’s thick, hot, deep—so deep it makes your chest ache. You try to move, to set a rhythm, but his grip tightens instantly.

“No,” he says, tone dropping lower. “This isn’t yours to lead.”

You gasp. “Jack—”

He shuts you up with a thrust so sudden, so deep, you see stars. The sound you make is guttural—raw and involuntary.

His hands grip your waist, drag you down harder against him with the next roll of his hips, his cock hitting that spot that makes your spine arch, your jaw fall slack.

“I’ve been hard for you for ten fucking nights,” he rasps against your collarbone. “You think I’m letting you play games? You think I’m letting you tease me, ride me slow like you’re in charge?”

He pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye.

“You’re not in charge tonight, sweetheart. I am.”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ease you into it.

He fucks up into you like it’s punishment for making him wait—hands bruising your hips, his mouth hot against your throat, his body straining under yours like he’s holding back from breaking the whole damn truck apart.

Your skirt rides up higher. Your knees scramble for leverage. The windows fog, the air thick with the slap of skin, the creak of leather, your name torn from his throat like he’s never tasted anything better.

His hand slides up your spine, fingers threading through the chain around your neck. His dog tags. His.

And then he yanks.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough.

Enough to snap your head back. Enough to leave you gasping. Enough to remind you—he’s home now.

He thrusts up, harder now, sharper. You cry out, clinging to his shoulders, your body unraveling under every precise, unrelenting movement.

“You wanted me to lose it. Wanted to feel me snap.”

“Jack—please—”

His fingers twist the chain tighter, the metal cool against your throat. “You wanted this? You take it.”

Another thrust. And another.

He’s all teeth and tongue now—biting at your jaw, kissing you deep, swearing against your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You feel your orgasm building hard and fast, coiled tight in your belly.

And he knows. Of course he knows.

“There she is,” he whispers, voice almost gentle in contrast to how he’s fucking you. “You gonna come on me, baby? Hm? Let go for me?”

You nod, eyes wide, breath ragged. “Jack—God—Jack—”

“That’s it,” he says, and he fucks you through it. “Come for me. Come now.”

And when it hits, it slams into you—your whole body tensing, toes curling, nails digging into his chest, a moan torn from your throat that doesn’t sound like anything you’ve ever made before.

He fucks you through it—relentless, controlled—until your walls flutter around him and your body starts to fold.

That’s when he lets go.

He growls your name, hips bucking once, twice—and then he’s buried deep, his jaw clenched, eyes shut. Like he’s finally home.

He stays there. Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move.

Just holds you.

One arm around your waist. The other still curled in the chain around your neck.

Breathing hard. Pressing kisses to your chest like prayers.

You let a beat pass. Then two.

You shift slightly, still filled. Still aching.

Then you lean back and smirk.

He notices immediately.

“What,” he says flatly, eyes opening just enough to pin you in place, “is that look.”

You blink, all wide-eyed and faux-sweet. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

He raises a brow. “Surprised.”

You nod. Slow. A little too pleased with yourself. “Mmhmm. I thought you were gonna ruin me.”

Jack exhales through his nose. Once. Controlled. His jaw shifts.

“Careful.”

You shrug, grinding down just a little—not enough to be obvious. Just enough for him to feel it.

“I mean… it was good,” you say lightly. “Don’t get me wrong.”

His hand flexes on your hip. Hard.

“But I was expecting…” you trail off, eyes dancing, “more.”

Jack’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Then: “You done?”

You grin. “I don’t know. Are you?”

“No,” he says calmly. “You’re done.”

He shifts under you, cock hardening again. Already thick. Already ready.

Your smirk starts to fade.

But it’s too late.

You’re about to get it.

she should've said 'yes, dad, thanks. you're the best' btw

Did the Targaryens ghost make this meme?

Listen I think Jack loves little trinkets. He’s def a trinket kinda guy but never had much because ya know army days. But he loves a trip to home goods or marshalls and he’d be like “hey honey what do you think about this pitcher? It goes with our cups.” Towels? Oh you bet he’ll be making sure they feel right. He’s always been a very functional “if it works it works” kinda guy but then he gets introduced to Egyptian cotton and thread count sheets and that man has never slept better in his life.

Inspired by this post from @abbotjack hehe

Companionship | pt. 5

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: After a brief mention two weeks ago, Michael gives you a gift, making your feelings all the more complicated.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: y’all are so amazing!💜thank you for all the comments, reblogs, likes and follows! I’m so grateful you all are enjoying this as much as I am!! over 300 followers?? That’s crazy, thank you!!

Someone on ao3 said there needed to be more Robby pov and you know what? I agree! I tried my best lol

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: age gap, foul language, feelings angst, slowburn

not beta read

Butterflies invaded your stomach at the mere thought of him, the memory of his fingers on you — soft and fleeting. How warm his skin had been against yours, seared into your mind.

This is so stupid.

You thought to call Erin and ask her if this had ever happened to her, but there was a fear in saying anything. In calling attention to your feelings. Aside from the fact that he was not looking for anything, your arrangement was a glaring obvious fact that nothing truly could happen between you. Wouldn’t that break all the boundaries you had set with each other at the start? That was not even getting into your age difference, and the uneven balance it could create. He was so much older, it could never work.

Trying to distract yourself with work and studying and late nights with your friends, you still eagerly accepted any of his calls. He still planned a weekly one, but an unplanned call late at night became more frequent. You enjoyed those late night conversations, they were typically more raw and revealing than when he had time to think about what to say.

He had told you more about the hospital administration hounding him, and the third year resident he had taken under his wing some years past.

Toward the end of the conversation, he had asked to hang out.

“Maybe get take-out again, or something.” He suggested.

You contemplated it. Your laptop was giving you a headache, and you were half-tempted to throw it out a window. A little food and conversation might do wonders to make you feel better.

“I’d still like to try that Thai place.” You told him, playing with the hem of your sweater.

“That can be arranged.”

You laughed, “Tonight?”

“Yeah, meet me there at 7?”

—

Michael really had no excuse for the nerves that flooded his system. They nearly always did in your company, but the calm that would wash over him just a little bit later was bliss. It was nice to have someone to talk to — someone interested in his days without wanting to pry. It was freeing, almost, knowing you would still be there for him the following week even if he revealed his harrowed feelings.

There was a hopeful optimism, too — like it was all good practice for human connection. Yet, the thought of someone else on the other line or the other side of the table, it soured.

He was being stupid. He was being reckless.

The feelings in his chest were just simple, calm familiarity. It could never be anything more.

You were nearly half his age, and the thought of embarrassing himself at believing the feelings could ever be anything more made him tense up. The walls around his heart remained steadfast and strong.

Perhaps the whole arrangement was bleeding into something it shouldn’t be — and he thought to perhaps call the whole thing off.

He thought that, but he was already reaching for the phone to hear your voice.

The Thai place was crowded, but you were able to get a table. You were dressed in business casual, coming from work, and your top did wonders for your eyes. He admired you for a few moments in the lobby while you waited for a table, desperately trying to be subtle about it.

When you sat, you looked over the menu with interest and the quiet that settled over you was warm. Your orders were taken and you smiled, eyes roaming around the new restaurant.

“Have you still been pretty busy?” Michael asked.

“Never too busy for you.” You commented effortlessly with a smirk. “But yeah. Getting down to crunch time. Soon I’ll have to worry about getting my license.”

Your first comment made his heart stutter. I’m too old for this. But he was grinning.

“At least you’ll have school off your plate.” He said.

You gave an agreed nod, “I’m looking forward to that fact, oh my god.”

Michael chuckled.

“How was work yesterday?” You asked, looking genuinely interested.

You were good at that — making him want to open up, but some of his days were just too gruesome to tell you about. Too painful to share. You always had an ear open for him, regardless. Part of his mind whispered you were just doing as their agreement dictated, but he shoved that back down.

“It was…” A thousand words floated through his mind: Bad. Good. Terrible. Short-staffed. He settled on, “...fine.”

It was easy enough to see in your eyes that you did not believe him. Pretty eyes framed with long lashes, flickering from his face to your meal and back again. He hated how it felt not opening up all the way, but he feared he would swallow you whole.

He let out a long sigh through his nose, refusing to look at you. A thought was bubbling in his head, half-tempted to tell you about Adamson, feeling guilty for shutting you out. Not yet, I can’t yet, echoed in his head, memories burning in his mind of Adamson on the ventilator.

“Hey, hey, Mike.” You snapped him out of the images that haunted him, reaching across the table to hold his hand. “You got lost there for a minute…are you okay?”

He cleared his throat and you removed your hand, much to his disappointment. He covered it easily, smiling back at you.

“Well, I’m out with a very beautiful woman, so I’d say I’m okay.”

You stared at him, eyebrows raised, eyes wide, before quickly looking away from him. His heart picked up at your reaction, hope blooming. No—

“That’s—well—uh—thank you.”

He smiled, trying to brush all the thoughts swimming in his head aside. “I got you something.”

You sputtered, “What?”

“I got you a gift. I left it at my apartment, figured we could head back that way after we finished eating.” He explained, thinking of the box sitting on his couch. It had sat like a heavyweight in his living room all week.

“You…got me a gift?” Then, “You really didn’t have to do that, Michael.”

He shrugged sheepishly, “I wanted to.”

“Well, thank you. Really. That…you really didn’t have to.”

Michael tried to read all the emotions flickering across your face—shock, confusion, red eared embarrassment, and finally, gratitude.

He called for the check.

—

Warm feelings were swirling around in your stomach. The cool night air did little for your cheeks, or the heat that had crawled up your neck or wrapped across your chest, holding you tight.

A gift. He got me a gift. A gift. A goddamn gift.

Why the fuck had he gotten you something? A nausea rolled in, feeling like you owed him — even if his only intention had been to be kind. What was it? Did he see something simple, think of you and buy it? Did he go out searching for something to buy?

The possibilities ate away at your insides.

The walk into his apartment building was filled with quiet banter, which helped pull you back out of your head. You registered the look on the woman’s face as she had stepped off the elevator, giving Michael a side-eye, while you both stepped onto it. You swallowed thickly, turning your attention back to the man beside you.

“Maybe they just need a few games to get into the swing of things. I still have hope.” You told him, referencing the game the Penguins had played the day before.

Michael chuckled, “They’re a disappointment, but they’re still my team.”

“Sometimes I feel lucky when I’m too busy to watch them lose.” You laughed, moving beside him when you got to his floor.

You were nervous to be in his apartment again, but a part of you also enjoyed being surrounded by a space that was purely him.

“If it makes you feel any better, it can’t technically be a gift. I didn’t wrap it.” He said, glancing at you.

Your eyes moved around his apartment until they settled on the brown paper bag on his couch. Your heart started racing.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” you said with a small chuckle, looking over at him.

He had his hands in his pockets, side stepping to his couch to grab the gift. Seeing the size of it, you began guessing in your head as to what it could have been — a clothing box? Too big to be a book.

“Here you go.” His voice was so soft as he handed it over.

You lowered yourself onto his couch, taking it from him. It was heavy. Not unbearably so, but it had some weight to it. You smiled up at him before putting your hand into the bag, feeling the box inside.

He moved to sit next to you…impossibly close. Close enough to feel his body heat, feel the shadow of his form hovering.

Gut twisting, you pulled out the box, blinking down at what now laid in your lap. HP was written on the cardboard in large black lettering, and your heart completely stopped. The cardboard had been opened so it was easy enough to peek inside, all your thoughts stalling in your head at the sight of it.

An HP ProBook 460 G11.

A goddamn fucking laptop.

“Michael,” your voice squeaked out, heart hammering against your ribcage. “I can’t accept this. This is too much.”

“I know you were saying yours was giving you trouble.” He said, like it explained everything.

You finally removed your eyes from the box to look at him. He had a soft smile on his lips, but it still reached his eyes, crinkled in contentment. His brown eyes held an emotion you did not recognize, but it crept into your chest and curled up.

“I really can’t take this.” You breathed out, quiet since he was so close.

“It’s bad luck to give a gift back.”

“I thought it wasn’t technically a gift.”

He smirked, eyes flickering down to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes. “I want you to have it.”

And that seemed to settle it.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “This was really, really nice of you. Thank you so much.”

He rubbed his hands down his legs, letting out a long breath, “Yeah, of course.”

You grabbed his wrist, forcing his attention back to your face. “I mean it, this…this was incredibly thoughtful. Thank you, Michael.”

“You’re welcome.” And there was your name, so pretty on his lips.

[ Next ]

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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

All Dr. Robby Content: @cherriready @kittenhawkk @seeyalaterinnovator

hahah I love a good build up, BUT KISS HIM

they’re so bad at feelings lol

sorry this chapter was shorter, I wanted to get some Robby pov in there. But surprise! the next part is already out🤗