PEDRO PASCAL

late night visits

michael robinavitch x female reader

summary: somehow your neighbor is always finding himself at your front door hoping to find relief through casual hookups, but you both can’t deny your feelings any longer

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, mutual pining, oral f!receiving, mention of an age gap because i can’t help myself, just dr robby having a realization of feelings while going down on you

author’s note: told y’all i was gonna write some dr robby smut!! like usual, it didn’t feel right to jump right in with nasty jaw dropping smut so here’s a little fluffy— but still saucy, hookup drabble with the hunkiest emergency doctor i know

Michael Robinavitch was your neighbor. 

Your apartment doors faced each other which lead to many casual exchanges and brief interactions.

They started off innocent; shy waves and polite smiles.

Then, they turned into conversations about what each of you did for a living and how long you’d lived in the city— just a culmination of small talk and harmless banter that took place in the little hallway of your apartment building.

But then, after weeks of coy chitchatting outside of your front doors, your exchanges escalated.

Your conversations with Robby had turned into hushed moans and deep throaty groans as his hands gripped furiously at your hips while he thrusted into you after an exhausting day at work. 

The first time you tested the waters of shared desire was a little over a month ago. You spontaneously invited him over to join you for dinner as he was getting home from work. Neither of you thought much about it. It felt like a simple invitation to get to know a new-ish neighbor. Just a friendly meeting over a quick meal, but it turned out to be something entirely different. 

That evening ended with his calloused hands greedily sliding up your body with your back pressed against a wall.

Both of you were stewing with pent-up frustration and using the other for an easy thoughtless release. 

The next time you found yourself underneath his body was just as unexpected but far more impassioned.

He had knocked on your door, his expression unsure yet somehow laced with anticipation when you answered. 

He started trying to make up some excuse as to why he was interrupting your nighttime routine until you pulled him into your apartment, meeting his lips with your own in a hurried and desperate kiss. 

It continued like that for weeks, late night visits full of eager touches and sinful craving.

The exact nature of your relationship was unclear. You just found one another for physical connection, never getting in too deep or finding meaning in your dubiously satisfying meetings. 

But, of course you had feelings for the guy, he had his dick buried in you on a nightly basis. You just weren’t sure if he felt the same way. 

You couldn’t help but assume he saw you as a quick fuck— an easy way to detach from his day in a bout of vulgar connection.

But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Sure, the first time had been because Robby needed a distraction. You were just stood there, cooking a meal for him and listening intently as he told you about his profession. You were completely enthralled with him, your lips turning up into a cute little smile, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that; let alone a beautiful woman nearly half his age. It was almost criminal how fast he gave into temptation, letting himself get a taste of you through hungry kisses and tainted intentions.

After that he became addicted to you.

He even found himself thinking about you at work— a place that didn’t allow more than a sliver of space in his mind to think about anything other than the task at hand, yet you occupied nearly every corner of it. 

So he kept showing up— kept seeking you out in hopes that he could stay high on your presence long enough to stay satisfied before getting the next inevitable taste.

You seemed to enjoy the unspoken arrangement. He didn’t want to ruin anything with the complication feelings and exclusivity. Plus, he was a busy man, relationships never seemed to work well for him, so maybe this situation was for the best. 

But now, his face was buried between your legs, and he peered up to find your head thrown back and your eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen something so picturesque. So undeniably perfect. 

“God, You’re beautiful.” His voice was a hum against your skin as he stopped to place a sloppy kiss on the inside of your thigh along with his words. 

Your fingers tightened into his hair as his mouth hungrily worked at your core. 

You opened your eyes to glance down at him, unsure of how to take his compliment while he was busy doing such lewd things to you. 

He caught the silly grin on your lips at his words— so pure and gentle. The innocent curve of your mouth only made him want more. He gently grabbed at your thighs, spreading them even further.

The soft moan of approval slipping from your tongue had an involuntary groan breaking from his chest. 

With every sweet sound off your lips he dived deeper into you. His mouth was expertly working you toward your release, and just as you felt the pressure getting ready to snap, he pulled away.

He rested between your legs, his torso propped up just enough to get a good look at you.

“Let’s grab a bite to eat after this.” His statement came out in a breathless whisper. It seemed more like a question with the way his eyes were looking up, watching intently. 

You tried to hide the giggle that at your lips as a small smile took over your expression.

What on earth prompted him to bring this up while he had you on the verge of coming undone on his tongue?

But also, why was it so sweet? The way his words held such sincerity felt extremely intimate.

“Just- I want to take you out somewhere.” His grin was wide as he watched you react to his ill-timed inquiry.  

He knew it was late and maybe you wouldn’t be interested, but he couldn’t help but ask. 

Watching your back arch under his touch and hearing your sweet whimpers fill his ears had him losing his patience.

He needed more of you.

Needed it so badly that he was stopping himself from tasting your sweet release just to ask for more of your time. The two of you were only ever together in a dimly lit apartments under bed sheets, he wanted to go out with you; somewhere different, somewhere new. He wanted to take you to grab a coffee down the street at that place that stays open until 2am. He wanted to ask you questions about yourself and watch you smile while you talked— to see the sweet curve of your lips that he'd grown so attached to. 

Maybe he wasn’t much of a relationship guy, but he couldn’t deny the feelings he harbored for you. 

“Like a date?” You were leaning back on your elbows with your eyebrows raised subtly at his suggestion. 

“Yeah, a date.” 

“Ok Robby. I’ll go on a date with you.” Your smirk met his idiotic grin as he dove back down, satisfied by your answer.

He resumed his previous actions with a fervor of victory.

“Perfect.” The word was messy as it left his lips and landed directly on your core. 

It wasn’t long before your body was tensing, and mumbled profanities filled the room at your release. Even though you had just finished on his tongue, you weren’t done. You wanted to let him fuck you into the sheets, to repay him for getting you off, but he refused. No— he was determined to follow through on his promise.

The two of you walked side by side to grab a coffee at nearly midnight; you laughing and him watching, as he got to know you outside of the walls of your apartment.

(18+ only) nsfw alphabet– jack abbot .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

pairing : jack abbot x afab!reader

18+ MDNI—warning : dominant!jack, slow burn, public sex (on-call room/supply closet), praise kink, overstimulation, restraint/control, emotional repression, soft but possessive aftercare, rough sex with emotional weight. It's all smut so read at your own risk!

a/n : I fear I went a little too feral with this because why is this like 3,500 words. Also all of these are just my opinion! Maybe I'll do one for Robby next idk. But if you enjoyed this perhaps consider giving me a follow so you can stay up to date on newer stuff!

♡ A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Jack doesn’t say much after sex—he never has. But that doesn’t mean he leaves you hanging.

He moves like muscle memory: wipes you down with slow, practiced hands; helps you into his T-shirt without breaking eye contact; presses a kiss to your knee like it wasn’t just shaking against his shoulder minutes ago. His hands tremble a little, sometimes—not from the sex, but from the way you look at him after. Like you see through all of it.

And when you fall asleep against him, spine curved to fit his body, he doesn’t move. Not for hours. Not even when his arm goes numb. He just lies there, heartbeat still ragged, staring at the ceiling like he’s waiting for the world to end.

But when he does finally breathe—deep and full, like it hurts—he buries his face in your hair and says the one thing he never lets himself say out loud.

“Don’t go.”

You’re already asleep.

He’s glad.

Because if you heard him? He’d never be able to pretend it didn’t mean everything.

♡ B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His : His arms. Thick-veined, corded with muscle, scarred from combat and trauma and living too many lives. When he wraps them around you, it feels like armor.

Yours : Your hips. He grips them when he’s losing it, when he’s fucking you deep and saying your name like a warning. He’d die with his mouth on that soft skin just above your hipbone.

♡ C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Jack doesn’t just cum—he surrenders. He tries to hold back (he always does), but when it hits, it’s like a dam breaking. His whole body tenses. His voice breaks. He spills deep, possessive, groaning into your mouth or your cunt like he needs to be inside you to survive. There’s always a pause afterward—like he’s shocked by how much he needed it.

♡ D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He has a photo of you—nothing explicit. Just you in his bed, back turned, bare shoulders peeking out from the sheets, sunlight catching the curve of your spine. You were still asleep when he took it.

He told himself it was just the light. Just the moment.

But that photo? He looks at it more than he should. Especially on the nights where he’s on call and his body aches . He opens it, zooms in—not even to jerk off. Just to breathe. To remind himself there’s softness waiting for him somewhere.

But sometimes, after a night that’s been too long and a shift that took too much, he’ll sit on the edge of his bed, phone in one hand, the other wrapped tight around his cock. And he’ll stare at that photo, jaw clenched, thinking about how warm your body felt under his palms, how you sighed when he kissed the back of your neck.

You’ll never know about it. He’ll never show you. It’s not porn. It’s not even explicit.

But it’s the dirtiest thing he owns.

Because it’s real. And it’s you.

♡ E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Jack knows bodies. Intimately. Years of military life, adrenaline-fueled hookups, flings that burned fast and left no ashes. He knows how to make someone come hard, fast, and quiet. He knows pressure points, pace, rhythm. He knows what makes a body break—but not what makes one stay.

And then came you. And suddenly, none of that mattered. He learns you.

Because this isn’t just sex anymore—it’s a goddamn reckoning. Jack touches you like he’s afraid it might be the last time. Kisses you like he doesn’t know how to stop. Every time he fucks you, it’s a war between instinct and emotion. Between everything he knows and everything he’s terrified to feel. He’s experienced, yes. But with you? He’s learning all over again.

♡ F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

You, facedown, pinned under his weight, your legs spread, his hand wrapped around the back of your neck. Not choking—just anchoring. He likes knowing you’re there, fully his, every inch of him pressed to every inch of you. But he also loves when you ride him—loves watching your body take him, he is so greedy when it comes to you.

♡ G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Not in the moment. Jack is intense. Serious. But afterward, when your cheek is on his chest and your fingers are tracing the scar near his ribs? He softens. He smirks. Says things like “Didn’t know you could make that noise” just to watch your face burn.

♡ H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Jack keeps it neat. Always has. Military habit. Something about order, control—even in the most private parts of himself. It’s never been about looks; it’s about function. Clean. Trimmed. Routine. No fuss.

But it’s not bare. Never has been. That’s not him. And after you told him—quietly, shyly, your fingertips brushing his lower stomach—that you liked it, the way it felt against your thighs, the way it looked when you were on your knees? He started letting it grow just a little longer.

Not much. Just enough for you to feel it when you're grinding down on him, slick and panting, your body flush to his. Just enough that when you tug his pants down and your fingers slip into the waistband, they brush coarse hair and your breath catches.

He noticed that sound.

Didn’t say anything. Just… didn’t trim as short next time.

It’s a quiet thing. A choice he makes without ever acknowledging it. Jack wouldn’t tell you that your preferences have changed his habits—but they have. And he likes the way your eyes drop when he undresses, the way your touch lingers there.

It’s one more thing that belongs to you. Even if you’ll never hear him say it.

♡ I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Jack doesn’t do soft—at least, not like other men do. He doesn’t light candles or lay rose petals on the bed. But he holds your face in both hands after sex like he’s trying to memorize it. He strokes your lower back long after you’ve stopped trembling. And when he pushes into you slow, deep, deliberate, with his forehead pressed against yours, he says your name like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He kisses you. Slow. Starved. Like a man who knows exactly how far he's fallen but refuses to stop.

♡ J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He doesn’t do it often—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he can’t. Not when you’re not there. Not when all it does is remind him of what he’s missing.

But when he does? It’s always in the dark. After a shift. Alone. With your scent still lingering in his sheets and his body aching like hell. He pulls your shirt from under his pillow—the one you left after staying over, the one you said he could keep. He fumbles for it one-handed, already hard, already leaking. He buries his face in the cotton and groans against it like he’s ashamed of how much he needs you.

♡ K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Jack doesn’t talk about what he likes. He shows it. Quiet control. Firm hands. A mouth that worships. He loves being in charge—not because he wants to own you, but because he wants to take care of you.

His biggest kink? Obedience, but only when you choose it. When you’re writhing beneath him, wrists pinned, whispering “Please, Jack” like he’s the only one who can give you what you need.

Also? Praise. He doesn’t say it often, but when you clench around him and cry out and break, he grits his teeth and growls it into your neck :

“That’s it. You take me so fucking well.”

“Good girl. Just like that.”

You come harder when he says it. And he knows it.

♡ L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Jack wants you at his place. Always has.

His apartment isn’t flashy, but it’s his. Clean. Controlled. Quiet. And the bedroom? That’s where he lets go—not of control, but of everything else. That’s where he fucks you like it’s the only time he’ll ever get to. Where he strips you bare one piece at a time, lays you out on his dark sheets, and takes his time learning every inch of you all over again. Pressing you into the mattress with the kind of weight that makes you gasp, slides into you so deep and slow it feels like your spine lights up.

“My bed. My rules. My fuckin’ girl.”

And when he makes you come—back arched, his name bitten into your tongue—he kisses you like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

That’s how he prefers it.

But sometimes? He can’t wait.

You know that look in his eye—the one that says I need you now. The one that burns across the ER. The one that makes you pause in the stairwell because he’s following too close, and you know what’s coming.

→ The on-call room

He locks the door behind you like he’s done it before. No words. Just hands. Rough. Skilled. Urgent. He lifts you onto the cot, pushes your scrub pants down, and slides his fingers between your thighs while your back hits the pillow.

“Already wet for me?” he whispers, voice dark and quiet, body crowding yours.

You nod, breathless. He kisses you like he’s starving and fucks you like he’s trying to keep you there forever. One hand over your mouth, the other gripping your thigh to keep you open, filled, silent.

But you’re not silent. Not when he whispers, “You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Just like that?”

You always do.

→ The supply closet

It’s tighter. Dirtier. The fluorescent lights hum above your head as he shoves boxes aside, pulls you into the corner, and pushes you against the shelving. His knee presses between your thighs, spreading you open. His mouth crashes into yours like a mistake he’ll make a thousand times over.

He hikes your leg up and thrusts in without preamble. You both groan. You’re still in your coat. His ID badge brushes your chest every time he slams into you. It’s ridiculous. It’s filthy. It’s perfect.

“Gotta be quick,” he pants, forehead to yours.

You claw at his back. You come with your eyes rolling and your voice cracking.

And when he pulls out, kisses you fast, and adjusts your scrubs for you? You swear he almost smiles.

♡ M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You. Always you.

The way you say his name like it’s a dare. The little sigh you make when you stretch first thing in the morning. The curve of your waist when you’re standing in scrubs and not even trying. He notices everything, even if he pretends not to.

But what really undoes him? When you touch him without needing anything. Just… because you want to. Your fingers grazing his jaw. Your mouth on his shoulder. Your hand slipping into his lap during a silent moment.

“You want something?” he’ll ask, low.

You’ll just smile.

“Just you.”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

♡ N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Jack draws hard lines. Nothing humiliating. No hardcore degradation. No making you feel small—he’s seen enough of that in the world and he won’t recreate it in the one place that’s supposed to feel safe.

Another limit? Emotionless sex. He’s done it before. He’s lived in it. He won’t go back.

With you, it has to mean something. Every time.

♡ O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He eats pussy like it’s the first thing he’s tasted in days. Slow at first—just his tongue flicking softly against your clit, building you up. He likes to tease, to wait for your thighs to shake and your hips to roll up into his mouth before he gives in.

But once you’re begging? He gets filthy. Hands pinning your thighs wide, tongue fucking you until you scream his name. And when you come? He groans like it’s his orgasm too.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Give it to me. I’ve got you.”

He loves how wrecked you get. How sensitive. How breathless.

And he doesn’t stop after one.

♡ P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Jack doesn’t fuck like a man in a hurry.

He takes his time—too much time sometimes. Because when you spread your thighs for him, when your hands reach for his body like you need it to live? He doesn’t rush. He watches. Studies. Breathes through it like he's grounding himself in the moment.

That first thrust is slow. Deep. Intentional. His forehead touches yours as he pushes all the way in, until your breath hitches and your fingers curl against his back.

“There you go,” he murmurs, voice low and ragged.

“Nice and full, huh? I’ve got you.”

He pulls out just as slow. Watches your face. Feels your cunt clench around nothing.

Then he does it again. And again.

And again.

He keeps that pace—not teasing, not soft. Just controlled, the kind of fucking that makes your thighs shake long before you come. He’s punishing in how patient he can be. Like he knows exactly how close you are, and chooses to keep you right there—hovering on the edge, dizzy, begging.

“You want it faster?” he asks, breath warm against your cheek.

“Then say it. Say you need me.”

And when you do—when the words finally break out of your throat—his hands grip your hips harder. He pulls out halfway and slams back in so fast and deep your back arches off the bed.

That’s when you see it. The crack in him.

Because when Jack loses control, he loses it all the way. His rhythm turns punishing. Relentless. That perfect control unravels in a blur of heat and friction and need. He presses you down into the mattress, fucking you with his whole body, like he’s trying to anchor himself inside you.

You moan. Sob. Shake.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until your voice is raw and your body is wrecked and he’s buried deep, groaning into your neck.

♡ Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Jack doesn’t chase quickies—but he doesn’t pretend he doesn’t think about them either. Not when you look at him like that.

Not when your palm rests on his chest for a second too long while passing in the hall. Not when you whisper something filthy against his neck just before rounds, smile innocent, and walk away.

He holds it together better than most—years of training, war, ER chaos. But you? You’re the thing he can’t regulate. And every so often, when the tension coils too tight and the shift won’t give him space to breathe, he takes what he needs.

He’s careful about it. Deliberate. And it’s fast—but not careless.

♡ R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Jack calculates risk like breathing—it’s instinct, wired into him from years of surviving things most people can’t imagine. He doesn’t leap into anything he can’t control.

But you? You make him want to.

He won’t take dumb risks—but if the room’s empty, the door locks, and your body’s on his mind all shift long? He’ll fuck you up against that wall with one hand over your mouth and the other gripping your thigh like he’s daring you to say stop.

♡ S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Jack lasts long. He wants to feel everything. Wants to see how many times he can make you come before he even thinks about finishing.

He can edge himself for what feels like forever, holding back even as his arms tremble from restraint. If you beg? If you plead? He’ll give in—but it’s never just once. He’ll take you again, slower. Or rougher. Or with your legs trembling and your voice breaking as you say his name like it’s the only one you know.

“You done?” he’ll ask, lips brushing your jaw,

“Or do you want one more?”

Spoiler : it’s always one more.

♡ T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Jack never went in for toys. Not because he’s opposed—but because he never needed them. He knows your body. He knows what works. His fingers. His mouth. His cock? That’s always been enough.

But when you brought a small vibrator into bed one night—nothing dramatic, just something quiet and simple—he didn’t blink. Just watched you lay back, already flushed, already wet, the toy pressed between your thighs while you looked up at him.

He didn’t say anything.

Just took it from your hand. Gently. Calmly. Pressed it back to your clit while he slid his fingers inside you and watched. Watched your body respond. Watched your eyes flutter. Watched you break apart.

“That’s it.”

His voice low, steady.

“Stay right there.”

He didn’t tease. Didn’t narrate. Just kept his eyes on you and held the toy in place while you came, legs shaking, breath stuttering.

Now? It lives in his nightstand. Just one. That’s all he needs.

He only pulls it out when he wants to take his time. When he wants to hold you down, watch you tremble, keep you on edge for so long that by the time he finally fucks you, you’re already half undone.

♡ U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Jack is brutal.

Not with his words—but with his restraint. With how long he can edge you. How calmly he can keep his voice as your hips grind against him, slick and desperate, and he still doesn’t give you what you want.

“Not yet.”

“Hold still.”

“You wanted this—now take it.”

He doesn’t tease to humiliate—he teases because he loves watching you need him. Watching you squirm. Watching you crack.

And when you finally come?

He leans in, mouth at your ear, and whispers :

“Told you I’d get you there.”

♡ V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Jack’s not loud—but he’s not silent either.

He breathes heavy through his nose. Grits his teeth when you moan his name. Curses under his breath when you tighten around him and drag your nails down his back. “Fuck. Just like that.”

He groans—low, deep, like it’s being pulled out of his chest. Sometimes? He growls your name into your neck right as he comes, rough and almost pained.

♡ W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Jack keeps a spare toothbrush for you at his place. He pretends it’s not a big deal.

He also bought new sheets after the first night you stayed over, because he remembered you said his were stiff and too clinical. The new ones? Dark. Soft. Worn-in. The first time you curled up in them, naked and flushed from three rounds, he just watched you for a second and quietly said :

“These work better, huh?”

You never asked him to change a thing.

He just does. Quietly.

Because you’re not a fling. You’re home.

♡ X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Thick. Heavy. Cut. Not absurdly big, but enough to stretch you open and make you feel it for hours.

Veiny. Warm. You can see it pressed against his thigh when he’s rock hard and pacing across the bedroom trying to hold it together. You’ve touched it over his jeans before, and he hissed through his teeth and growled, “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

The first time you saw it? You went quiet.

“You okay?” he asked, cocky but concerned.

You just nodded and whispered, “Yeah. I just... need a minute.”

He smirked.

♡ Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Jack has a high sex drive—but he’s disciplined. He won’t beg. He won’t whine. He’ll just sit there, quiet and still, his cock hard in his jeans, watching you stretch in a way that drives him insane.

But when you give him the slightest sign?

When you reach for him first, or whisper that you need him, or crawl into his lap? He’s on you in seconds.

And when he’s had you once? It’s never enough. He’ll take you again. Slower. Rougher. Messier.

♡ Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Jack doesn’t fall asleep after sex. Not right away. Maybe not for a while.

His body stays there—solid, warm, wrapped around yours like armor—but his mind? Still on. Still pacing. Still waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

He’s not used to staying. Not used to being held. Not used to feeling safe enough to let his eyes fall shut.

So he watches you instead. Lets his fingers trace the length of your spine, barely there. Memorizes the shape of your body where it melts into his. Listens to your breathing like it’s his new heart rate.

And when you shift against him, soft and sleepy, murmuring something only half-formed?

He exhales, slow. Anchors you closer. Not possessive—protective.

“I’ve got you,” he says. Quiet. Almost to himself.

Eventually—if your weight stays against his chest, and the room stays dark and still—he’ll fall asleep.

But not because he’s tired. Because you are.

And because you let him stay.

Okay so I vaguely know who this is because of TikToklmao but god damn this is EXACTLY what nasty disrespectful but loving sex is I was SAT the entire time

if there’s one thing about jack abbot, it’s that he’s going to mock you during sex… though never done out of cruelty or with any malicious intent. if fact, the two of you don’t even think of it as such—mocking.

his words are more of a… provocative ribbing that he knows will flood your mind with a haze. a haze you’re comfortable with floating in, that fills you full, right into a world-bending breaking point.

you’re both on your sides, facing and pressing against each other. substituting oxygen with your panting huffs, jack inhales your moans with sloppy, spit-slick kisses. he feels you shiver in his arms when he slips himself back inside, resettling your leg over his hip to push as far into your pussy as you’ll let him.

jack smirks to himself, his palm moving to splay against the cheek of your ass and yank you closer. he grunts through a sudden exhale at the new angle, commencing a roll of his waist that causes a gasp to burn your lungs.

“fuck, jack,” your mewl, voice weak and wobbly. “ah—ah, ‘s so deep…”

“is it? s’it nice and deep, baby?” he mumbles at your lips, copying your desperate nod and small yeahs with an expression of pity you can tell is fake. “wonder ‘f i can get any deeper...”

you aren’t given a chance to wonder the same before jack is gripping your ass with a stronger squeeze. his tender thrusts adjust into a sharp, sturdy pounding that jerks his balls back and forth against your pussy.

leaking around his thickness, you hand reaches behind to clench the sheet beneath you. it’s the only thing you can manage, the rest of your mind a sweet mush.

“t-too much.” you can barley talk, air escaping your body faster than you can replace it. “it’s too much, feels too good.”

jack doesn’t let up, cock throbbing and pumping hard into your heat. his bottom lip pokes out, just barely, matching your blissed out expression.

“oh, ‘too much, it’s too much’,” he recites, drawing out the words in a teasing tone you wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else. “i don’t think so, baby. shit, you’re doing so good. takin’ my cock all nice and pretty.”

you crumble against jack but he holds you steady. lips smushed into his neck, you smear it messy with the spit drooling from slurred, open-mouthed mumbles. 

“you’re so big,” you stammer, vision going blurry at the wet squelch that sounds whenever he rears out of you, and subsequent groan that jumps from jack when he slicks back inside your creaming hole. 

“ooh, i‘m so big?” jack keeps his pace steady through the witty responses, and you can’t yourself from meeting his thrusts with your own grind. you don’t have to see him to feel the grin quirking the corners of his mouth. “hm? maybe i should pull out, give you a break—”

“no. no,” you whine over the rocking of the bed, clutching his as if he’s truly considering slipping his cock out and leaving you empty and cold. “no, don’t stop. gonna come again…”

the words flip a switch in jacks brain and he fucks you the hardest he has all night. foot planting into the bed, he sounds with deep coos at your uncontrollable cries he forces out of you.

it’s disgusting, the way you’ve coated his member in a velvety mixture of your juices. dripping down, it even collects against his sack, glossing him and making his eyes roll.

“gimme that cum, baby. just like last time, squirt it all out for me.”

you body goes numb yet feels like it’s imploding all at once. jack watches the way you shiver in his grasp, clenching around his swollen cock as you gush messily. he fucks you through it, the liquid spurting to wet his stomach and balls.

“that’s it,” he chokes out, inching dangerously close to his own finish. it only takes a few more pulses of your peak to finally clutch his own, plunging feverishly until he’s balls deep inside you. “f-fuck, yeah, right there.”

jack breaks. groaning into the side of your face and latching onto you while comes, the inescapable bliss makes his entire body twitch with harsh trembles.

“holy fuck, i’m still goin,” jack almost growls, air caught in his throat at the continuous ropes of cum he spills into you. the both of you are still heaving and coming as he leaks out of you. your lips puffy and swollen, and a sticky mess. it goes on for so long that jack ends up laughing through his moans, stomach sore from all the clenching.

it takes a few more minutes for your bodies to finally melt into tangled piles of limbs, the warm residue of your climax swimming nicely in your belly.

“you still with me, gorgeous?”

the only response you can muster is a sleepy mm-mm, and he gives you an equally-exhausted laugh. you only find the strength to peel open your eyes when a soft hand cradles your chin to tilt your head.

eyelids fluttering, you stare at him in a lost, fuzzy daze. thumb stroking your cheek, jack blinks sleepily at you before planting a soft kiss on the corner of your lips.

“i’m right here,” he promises, words certain but still far away when they reach your ears. “right here, baby. need you to come back for me, okay?”

a whine seeps from your lips. it’s not a defiance but you’re not obliging him either. you’re just… still in orbit, where you are the sun and jack’s the earth just before a dawn; as usual, he’ll push past the incoming fatigue, and wait for the otherworldly, ingrained tug that will eventually pull you back to him.

“right here…”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

She's absolutely right!

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

can’t wait to be harry castillo’s wife, ex-wife, girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, best friend’s daughter, business rival, secretary, doctor, dentist, nanny, pet sitter, waitress, maid, sister-in-law,

COMFORT IN THE CHAOS

PAIRING: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Female Reader

RATING: Explicit

WORD COUNT:

SUMMARY: 1258

Robby gets home late from work and joins you in the bath.

TAGS/WARNINGS:

established relationship, no use of y/n, domestic fluff, sharing a bath, pet names (sweetheart, baby), no plot, single pov - robby

explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI): fingering, hand job, hair pulling, kissing, light edging, begging, switch behavior

LINKS:

main blog | ao3 | masterlists

Robby gets home late, closer to nine than to seven like he was scheduled. His back aches and his feet are tired but none of that matters because as he unlocks the door to his apartment, he knows that you’re going to be there waiting for him.

He drops his bag to the floor and kicks off his shoes. You’re not in the living room, watching TV, or in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you dig a spoon straight into a pint of ice cream. He checks the bedroom and you’re not curled under the quilt but he can hear soft music through the slightly open bathroom door so he peeks inside.

You’re in the bath, bubbles up to your neck and your head tilted back on the edge of the tub. You’ve left the vanity lights off, opting instead for the singular light above the shower so the room is only dimly lit. Your eyes are closed and if it weren’t for the way you move your hands in the water, he would think you were asleep.

“Are you going to keep staring or join me?” You ask, lifting your head to look at him. He steps further into the room, crouching down by the tub.

“I don’t know, you seem pretty happy in there by yourself,” he says, reaching in to flick some of the warm water at you.

Despite his reply, he stands and removes his clothes and you shift forward in the water, giving him space to settle in behind you, his legs on either side of yours and your back to his chest. A bit of water escapes the tub but you’re not bothered and he doesn’t care, too content with the way the heat soothes his pain and the weight of your body against his.

“How was work?” You ask. He settles his palms against your belly, traces his nose against the shell of your ear.

“I’m two hours late. How do you think it was?”

“I’m just making conversation,” you reply. He can hear the accompanying eye roll in your tone.

“Maybe,” he says, sliding his hands lower, “I don’t want to talk about work.” You hum, head dropping back against his shoulder. Your thighs part just enough for him to fit his hand between them. “In fact, I don’t really want to talk at all.”

He uses two fingers to circle your clit and brings his other hand to one of your breasts, squeezing it before pinching your nipple until you gasp. You squirm in his hold, your ass rubbing against his hard cock. He plays with your pussy to his heart’s content, slowing down when he thinks you’re close and picking up the pace when you whine for more.

You reach your arm up, wrapping it around the back of his neck, anchoring yourself to him. You lift one leg over the edge of the tub, opening yourself up. He wishes he could see past the bubbles as he slides two fingers inside of you and your body tenses against him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he whispers against your neck. “That feel good?”

“Yeah,” you manage, voice hitching on the word when he curls his fingers.

He sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, right over your pulse, making you gasp and tighten around him. He grinds his palm against your clit on every thrust of his hand and curls his fingers every time he withdraws until he knows you’re right on the edge.

“Ask me if you can come,” he says.

“Can I come?” You dutifully respond.

“You can do better than that.” He slows down just slightly but it’s enough to make you groan in frustration. “Ask nicely.”

“Please can I come?”

Robby resumes his earlier pace, giving your clit extra attention with messy swipes of his thumb. It’s not long before you’re arching your back and tightening around his fingers as you come, pretty mouth open wide in a silent gasp. You collapse against him, chest heaving with labored breaths, and he slowly withdraws his fingers, sliding his hand up your body until he’s cupping your jaw and turning your face toward his for a kiss.

You turn your body to face him, straddling his thighs and reaching down to take his cock in your hand, making him hiss. His hands roam your body as you start to pump your fist and lean forward for a kiss that’s hungry, messy, tongues moving together in shared desperation.

Your other hand fists his hair and you tug, hard, breaking the kiss. His eyes open and you’re looking down at him, haloed in the dim light, and for a moment he thinks that this might be a glimpse of heaven.

“You take such good care of me, you know that?” Your voice is a low murmur, your lips close enough to touch but your tight hold on his hair makes it impossible to bridge the small distance. His fingers flex, digging into your hips. “You must be exhausted.”

Robby makes a noise of agreement. You twist your hand around the head of his cock, smooth your thumb over the slit. His thighs flex and toes curl from the overwhelming sensation.

“Come on, baby.” You lick his throat, nipping at his earlobe. “Let go for me.”

His orgasm washes over him with another two strokes, the combination of your voice and touch too much to bear for too long. You ease him through it before letting go of his softening cock and releasing your grip on his hair.

He cups your face and brings you in for a kiss, pouring his gratitude into the movement of his mouth against yours. When you pull away, he watches you lean back to turn on the faucet and grab a bottle of shampoo.

You unhook the spray attachment from its holder, turning it on low. He tips his head forward to let you spray his hair.

“You don’t have to—“

“Hush,” you interrupt. “Let me do this.”

He doesn’t argue after that. Not when you pour a bit of shampoo in your palm and lather it up, carding your fingers through his hair. Not when you drag the suds down into his beard and lightly scratch, a sensation almost as good as the orgasm you gave him.

You rinse the soap from his hair and face with a level of care that makes his chest ache. After that, you wash what you can reach of his body with some of your body wash, ensuring he smells more like vanilla and less like hospital antiseptic.

When you’re done, you both stand to do a cursory sweep of the sprayer to get the lingering bubbles off. He opens the drain and climbs out of the tub, holding out a hand to help steady you as you get out.

Robby dries himself off and drops his towel to the floor, kicking it around to soak up the small puddle of water that’s formed around the tub as a result of your activities. You leave the bathroom, wrapped in your towel, and he grabs another towel from the closet to wrap around his waist before following you into the kitchen.

You heat up the plate of dinner you kept for him in the microwave. He pulls out a pint of ice cream and a spoon. You eat together, leaning against the kitchen counters, and Robby knows one thing for certain.

At the end of the day, you’re his comfort in the chaos.

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