dr-yapper

[dr-yapper]

and every fucking time i see this...

[dr-yapper]

There aren't enough hours in the day to discuss all the ways in which Andrew "Pope" Cody is the most perfect human being ever.

[dr-yapper]

thinking about first date with Robby

[dr-yapper]

More hyperspermia Robby? 🥺🥺🥺

hyperspermia!robby is fucking with my head in the best ways

the sounds are obscene and it’s because he has to fuck you so deeply.

robby needs it–his load–to take, and the only way that’s happening is if he’s got you on your back and your legs wrapped around him… hugging him as close as possible. his cock feels like it’s splitting you in half and you’re certain you’re already halfway full with all of the pre cum he’s leaked out.

the both of you are a mess, robby rocking himself into your hole that’s squelching and sloshing stains of his cream mixed with yours, and it leaks all the way to your ass and splotches along the sheets with little care. his balls smack against you, heavy with the incoming flood of his load and adding soft plaps to the wet sounds of robby’s pounding.

you choke on the air robby’s panting into your mouth, and can feel his tip kissing the deepest parts of you. grazing against every ridge of your walls as he drags his hips away before slamming back into your g-spot with an impassioned grunt. the whining of his name from your lips only heats him further, and he fucks you at an angle that makes it impossible to know anything except him.

fuck, you always take him perfectly. gushing out splatters of your juices, and stretching just as his cock asked.

when robby comes, it’s shaky-breathed and leaking and filthy. endless ropes of his seed release inside you with an oozing warmth, and he groans and groans until his voice goes hoarse. you hold the back of his neck, sweaty and weak with your own peaks that swell alongside his, flowing through your lower half with an undeniable pulse of euphoria. each of them giving you little chance to rest before the next one flutters you completely breathless.

and even though his hips grow too tired to thrust, it doesn’t mean he’s finished coming. 

at a certain point, robby’s hips just grow too tired and his arms give out, collapsing himself on top of you… cock still crammed inside and pumping out thick spurts with sporadic twitches. belly pressed into yours, robby can only lie there and fill you until he’s leaking out from all directions. spilling his entire self inside your hole, robby quakes in frantic grabs of your sides. face buried against you and muffling his straining gasps.

pulling out is a flood; of moans and cum that squirts back out of you as you clench around nothing and whine at the absence. robby’s mind is mush as his cock slaps messily against your puffy lips, and he can’t see straight. the kisses he drags along your neck are full of tongue and sweet sucks, vibrating with low rumbles purring from the back of his throat.

“fuckin’ jesus,” robby slurs out, still drunk off you and the way your legs stay wrapped around him. “just gimme a minute, ‘n i’ll clean you up…”

“‘kay. there should be a towel on the counter in the bathroom–what?” you pauses, robby blinking at you with a glint in tired eyes, mouth quirked.

he raises, pressing his lips into yours. just barely pulling away, the man mumbles along the side of your jaw.

“who said anything about me needin’ a towel?”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[dr-yapper]

reminder that we are all going to die. write that controversial smut

[dr-yapper]

ah! thank you so much!!

you're a legend who saw a legend, i see.

hey where can i read your fics related to the Pitt?? because now im curious af

oh man, how sweet of you to ask!! here you go, my friend. the premise here is a big ol' exploration if robby and abbot met and hooked up once in their 20's before inevitably finding each other again at the hospital. there's pining and love sickness and, as a told a friend this morning, the question at the heart of is: could you still love me now, all these years later, when i'm so much more fucked up than when you first met me?

it starts in the 90's and builds up the present and i was absolutely inspired by how cutie noah wyle and shawn hatosy were in the 90's and also, somehow, by the experience of going to a gay disco party hosted by trixie mattel lmao

[dr-yapper]

God bless Sunday mornings and the Pitt and the wonderful authors it insipires. Love this story so much, so tender, sentual and making me jealous

Glasses Be Damned

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: Lazy Sunday mornings. You in his shirt. Him wearing—glasses? What could be better? genre/notes: domestic, tooth-rotting fluff, banter, implied-but-not-explicit smut, steamy and fluffy like the perfect scrambled eggs (or tofu), beard scruff, you being down so bad for your man in glasses, age-gap relationship word count: 1.8k a/n: happy sunday! I worship those damn 1x01 gifs that live in my head rent free

It was a sleepy Sunday morning. You’d stayed over the night before—his place, not yours—because he made a surprisingly excellent omelet and your apartment was a barren wasteland save for one expired can of soup and half a granola bar. You were planning on moving out soon anyway—leases expiring, schedules syncing, toothbrushes and charger cords already blurring the lines—and in with Robby.

One cold morning not long ago, you’d rushed into the hospital just a few minutes late, hair still dripping and teeth chattering from the walk over. Robby had looked up the second he saw you, eyes narrowing in concern, about to ask what was wrong.

You’d beat him to it. "My apartment’s basically falling apart," you said, breathless as you rubbed your arms. "No hot water, the heater’s busted, and I'm pretty sure there's black mold. I’ll call the landlord later. It’s fine."

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at you for a second longer, then quietly shuffled through the papers on the counter.

"You should move in with me," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked. "What?"

So he repeated himself, just as casually. "Move into my place."

He said it like it was nothing—like he was asking you to grab coffee, or teach the interns how to perform proper chest compressions. Calm. Nonchalant. Then, as if to prove his point, he started listing the benefits: less commuting, better water pressure, warmer blankets, shared groceries, an actual place to hang your coat that wasn’t a pile on your chair, cuddle cards redeemable for forehead kisses and back rubs, and—most importantly—no more freezing walks alone or in the dark. He even threw in something about matching mugs and leaving notes on the fridge like it was a feature, not a fantasy.

You opened your mouth, prepared to deploy every avoidant tactic in the book—because even after dating for a couple of years now, there was still a part of you that worried about taking up too much space, too much of him. But before you could spiral into worrying about boundaries, permanence, or him getting sick of you, he looked up again and softened.

"Hey," he said gently. "If you’d rather find a new place, I’ll help you. Really. I just want you safe, healthy, and not at risk for mold poisoning or hypothermia."

Then, with the same ease as his offer, he pressed a warm kiss to your cheek. "See you in five," he murmured, as if he hadn’t just tilted your entire world off its axis, and walked away.

You stood there, frozen—and slowly, a small smile formed at the corners of your lips.

And that was it. No grand declarations. Just a calm, matter-of-fact offer that left no room for protest. So you said yes.

Robby had frozen for a second like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. And then—he lit up. That slow, rare smile spreading across his face like sunrise. He pulled you into a tight hug, spinning you once in the middle of the hallway, laughing against your temple. He kissed you—your cheek, your forehead, your lips—soft and quick and too many times to count, like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like he didn’t want to waste a second not holding you.

"You're going to regret it," you teased.

"Never," he said, kissing you again. "Not in a million years."

Now your things were already half there anyway—socks in drawers, your favorite mug on the drying rack, your name scribbled under his on the mail by the door. And every morning like this only made it feel more like home.

You’d rolled out of bed in one of his soft, worn-in T-shirts—the one with the hem that just barely skimmed your thighs—padding barefoot toward the kitchen in search of coffee, warmth, and maybe a kiss if you looked pathetic enough.

You’ve seen Robby in a dozen different states—bloody scrubs, half-asleep during pre-dawn rounds, in command in a trauma bay, soft and half-melted in post-call cuddles. But you’ve never—never—seen him in glasses.

Until today.

You weren’t expecting it. And there he was, standing at the kitchen counter, hair still a little tousled, wearing black, round-framed glasses while flipping through the newspaper like it was the 80s.

You froze.

He glanced up. "Good morning."

You stared. Mouth agape. Said nothing.

"What?" he asked, wary.

You pointed. "Since when do you wear glasses?!"

He blinked, then winced, lifting a hand to take them off. "I—only for reading. Usually. I forgot I had them on."

"No. No, no, no, no." You crossed the room like a woman possessed. "Do not take those off."

He paused, hand halfway to his face. "Why?"

You stepped closer, practically beaming as you drank him in with eyes like saucers. "Because that—is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life."

He stared at you like you’d just said you were into spleens. "You’re joking."

You weren’t. "Robby," you deadpanned. "You look like the hot professor everyone has a crisis about in college. It's a rite of passage."

"I’m decades older than you."

"Exactly! And only by a decade and a half. It’s working for you." You took a step closer and lowered your voice in the hopes of enticing him. "And totally doing it for me." 

He squinted, expression unreadable for a beat. "They make me look old." But his voice was softer now—like he wasn’t entirely put off by the idea. Like maybe, just maybe, his interest had been piqued.

"They make you look like you read poetry before bed and know how to ruin someone emotionally and intellectually."

He blushed—actually blushed.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, tugging him close. "Why have you been hiding this from me?"

"Because," he mumbled, suddenly very interested in the crossword puzzle, "I thought you’d think they made me look... I don’t know. Grandpa-ish."

"You’re out of your mind," you said, tugging the paper from his hands. "This is my Roman Empire now."

He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder. "You’re never letting this go, are you."

You grinned into his hair. "Not a chance."

His fingers skimmed under the hem of his shirt on your thighs—the one he always liked seeing you in, the one he claimed looked better on you than it ever did on him. His rough thumbs brushed against your bare skin in slow, reverent passes, toying with where the fabric met the soft curve of your hips. Goosebumps followed in their wake, your skin tightening under his touch.

He lingered there, gaze locked on the contrast between cotton and skin, the intimacy of it. The way you wore his shirt like it belonged to you—like he did. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his eyes darkened behind the lenses.

"You wore this on purpose, didn’t you?" he asked, voice low, one thumb brushing just beneath the hem like it had every right to be there.

You shrugged, playing innocent, but your smile was all heat. "It's pretty cozy."

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes soft but hooded, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or pin you to the nearest surface. "That’s not an answer."

You leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. "What are you going to do about it, sir?"

His breath hitched, gaze dipping to your lips before dragging back up to your eyes, hungry and tentative all at once. You felt the shift in the air—warmth curling low in your belly as his grip tightened, just slightly, like he was reminding himself you were real. And here. And his.

"You are unbelievable," he murmured, voice low and slightly hoarse, each word curling around the edges of a smile he couldn't quite suppress. There was awe behind it—fondness and a hint of reverence, like he still couldn't believe you were his.

"And you're absurdly attractive in those frames," you murmured, fingertips sliding up the back of his neck and into his hair, curling gently as you tugged him down to meet you. The kiss you gave him was slow, thorough, but it carried heat—a teasing sort of promise beneath the softness.

His hands spanned your waist, thumbs brushing bare skin with growing intent as he kissed you back, deepening it until your breath hitched against his mouth. The glasses stayed on, slightly askew, and it only made your pulse race harder.

You gasped softly when his lips left yours to trail along your jaw, then just beneath your ear, the scruff of his beard dragging deliciously against your skin. It was just long enough to rasp, to make you shiver, to remind you that this wasn't just soft Sunday morning, off-duty Dr. Robby—this was all of him. "This what does it for you?" he murmured, voice husky, lips brushing your pulse point, beard scraping lightly as he spoke.

"God, I want you to ruin me," you whispered, lips ghosting the shell of his ear, your voice low and just shy of reverent. The grin on your face was wicked, but there was no mistaking the heat behind it—the way your breath caught, the way your body leaned into his like gravity had given up pretending.

He stilled for a moment, like you’d short-circuited something vital in him. Then, wordless and driven by something primal, he kissed you again—hungrier now, hands roaming, touch reverent and desperate all at once.

You giggled against his mouth, breathless. "Race you to the bedroom. Winner gets bragging rights and top position."

His eyes flared with something dangerous and amused. "Is that a challenge?"

"I’m just saying," you murmured, backing out of his arms with a wicked grin, "you’re not the only one with stamina, Dr. Robinavitch."

The next second, you bolted.

Robby cursed softly, then took off after you with a kind of urgency that had nothing to do with competition and everything to do with getting his hands back on you.

Your laughter echoed down the hallway—right up until he caught you halfway to the bedroom, spun you around, and pressed you back against the nearest wall like he’d just won gold.

"Called it," he murmured into your skin, beard scraping, lips insistent. "I can’t wait until this is every morning. Waking up to you, going to sleep with you…" he trailed kisses along your jaw, voice low and reverent as though he were citing a prayer.

You smiled against his mouth, fingers curling into his hair. "Then don’t let me go. Not tonight. Not ever."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and tender all at once. "You’re it for me."

The omelet could wait—left forgotten on the counter alongside the crossword and cold coffee. And the glasses? They stayed on. Fogged, slightly crooked, and forever etched into your memory.

[dr-yapper]

Oh me, oh my

[dr-yapper]

the pitt fic idea: patient comes in with a emotional support dog and the pup just sticks to robby’s side for the entirety of the shift and everyone thinks it’s adorable until they learn it’s a suicide prevention dog

[dr-yapper]

Falling Skies, Jul 2013 The Pitt, Mar 2025

[dr-yapper]

random pope moments that make me bark

[dr-yapper]

So, so good, I can't!!! This is the rain check alright.

Love how gentle and attentive Robbie is.

TITLE: rainy day

PAIRING: michael "robby" robinavitch x female reader

RATING: explicit | WORD COUNT:

SUMMARY:

when a thunderstorm cuts your plans short, you and robby make the most of his day off together at home.

TAGS/WARNINGS:

no use of y/n, established relationship, domestic fluff

explicit sexual content (18+ - minors do not interact): oral (f receiving), fingering, hair pulling, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, multiple positions, creampie.

let me know if any are missing!

LINKS:

main blog | masterlists | AO3

The bed is empty when you wake up. It usually is, given Robby’s schedule, but you know he has the day off. You sit up, stretch your arms above your head, and leave the comfort of your mattress in search of the man.

You find him in the kitchen, standing at your stove with a spatula in his hand. He looks up when he hears you, smiling in the way that creases the corners of his eyes.

“She lives,” he jokes, sliding the spatula beneath a pancake and flipping it expertly. “I thought you’d sleep longer.”

“Probably would have if you were still in bed,” you respond pointedly. He raises an eyebrow at you and gestures to the pan.

“I made breakfast.” He points to the fridge. “Even got some of that juice you like.”

“You went to the store? How long have you been up?”

“Since five.”

“Jesus,” you laugh. “You’re insane.”

He doesn’t argue, just laughs and shakes his head.

“What did you want to do today?” He asks.

“Coffee, used bookstore, farmer’s market,” you reply. “In that order.”

“Yes m’am.” He flips the finished pancake onto a stack of similar ones. “But first, eat some of these.”

You gladly accept the plate and get the fancy maple syrup from the fridge, along with the juice he picked up for you and the last of your strawberries. You slide everything across the island towards the barstools on the other side and grab some plates and forks before taking a seat.

Robby sets the dirty dishes in the sink and joins you in the seat next to yours, using his foot to drag your stool closer and kissing your cheek when you’re within reach. A warmth settles in your belly.

Mornings like this one are rare with Robby’s schedule. He works a lot — more than he should, really, but that’s an argument for another day — so when you get the chance to see him for more than a brief kiss goodbye as he heads out the door, you both try to savor it.

Because rest looks good on him. The circles under his eyes fade, if only slightly, and the tension in his shoulders eases. He smiles at you when he catches you staring.

“See something you like?” He asks.

“Always,” you respond easily, relishing the way his cheeks grow pink and the flush spreads down his neck, disappearing beneath his t-shirt. “Thanks for breakfast.”

He hums, leaning in to kiss you. It’s slow, soft — syrupy, like your pancakes. Your fork clatters against the plate as you drop it in favor of wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him close.

His big hand settles on your waist, squeezing, feeling the shape of you, before sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt in search of skin. A little moan escapes you at the warmth and he swallows it, licking into your mouth as he does.

Robby pulls away first to say, “You better go get dressed if you want to leave the house today.”

“Leaving is overrated,” you reply, stealing another kiss that’s more of a shared smile against each other’s mouths.

“I’m happy to keep you in bed all day,” he murmurs, “but I know how you get when you don’t get your fancy coffee on the weekends.”

“Fine,” you acquiesce, giving his lips one last peck. “Rain check?”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Coffee in hand, you wander the aisles of your favorite used bookstore. You’ve already got two in the reusable bag slung over your shoulder.

When you cross paths with Robby, he pulls you in for a kiss that turns into a heated make out session against a shelf in a little corner of the shop, tucked away from other shoppers. He pulls back when he hears footsteps approaching and reaches above your head for a book, opening it and pretending to read as another customer passes by the aisle. They don’t spare you a glance, thankfully — otherwise they would see the way your lips are still spit slick and swollen, your chest heaving as you catch your breath, or the way Robby looks down at you, gaze dark and expression smug as he reaches down to adjust himself in his jeans.

The weather starts to shift while you’re at the farmer’s market. Dark clouds rolling in, wind picking up speed, the scent of the earth growing thick in the air. Vendors start packing up, finishing transactions with furtive glances at the sky.

“Let’s head back,” Robby suggests. You agree, taking his hand and following him through the crowd.

You’re nearly home when the sky opens up and the rain pours down, soaking you to the bone. Water drips from your clothes and onto the floor of the elevator, little puddles forming at your feet.

Back in your apartment, the two of you kick off your shoes by the door. Robby sets your bag in the kitchen and follows you to your bedroom, shutting the door. You turn on one of the lamps on your nightstand, bathing the room in warm, gentle light.

Outside, rain batters the windows in a tempo that matches your pulse as Robby’s hands find the bottom of your shirt, lifting the soaked fabric up over your head and dropping it to the floor. He reaches behind your back, unhooking your bra with one skilled flick of his fingers and a smug tilt to his lips.

“How about that rain check?” He asks, his voice a deep rumble like the thunder that grows louder as the storm rages on.

His hand is on your lower back, pulling you against his body. You tilt your face toward his and he takes the invitation, kissing you, hot and hungry.

He reaches for your jeans, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. The warmth of his mouth and his hands against your damp skin as he drags the denim down your thighs makes you shiver. Before standing up, he pulls your underwear off as well, adding them to the growing pile of clothing and leaving you bare.

“On the bed,” he rumbles. You follow his command, lying back against the pillows and watching him remove his clothes.

He joins you on the mattress, caging you beneath him with his broad frame, his lower body cradled between your thighs. His cock is hard and heavy against your mound, trapped between your bodies.

Robby drops his head to kiss your neck, leaving a searing trail that begins beneath your ear, moving down until he’s taking a nipple into his mouth. Your eyelids flutter at the sensation, the harsh pull of his mouth and gentle flick of his tongue over the hard bud.

“Fuck,” you breathe, arching into him. Your fingers tangle in his hair. “Feels so good, Robby.”

You can feel his smile against your skin. He releases you with a slick pop, giving the opposite breast the same attention until you’re whining beneath him. He shifts lower, peppering kisses down your stomach, stopping just shy of where you crave his mouth most.

He gets comfortable, urging your legs over his shoulders, wrapping his arms around your thighs before leaning in and dragging his tongue through your slit and circling it over your clit in slow, lazy circles. Your hips buck at the sensation but he presses a hand to your lower belly, fingers splayed against your skin and broad palm holding you down against the mattress.

Robby doesn’t care about finesse when he’s got those pretty noises you make filling his head. He’s messy with it, sloppy, spit and slick coating his chin and his nose bumping your clit when he drives his tongue inside of you, desperate for more. Your fingers are in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him moan against your pussy, the vibration only serving to send you spiraling even fast towards your release.

Two thick fingers slip inside of you with little resistance, making you gasp. He drives them into you in time with swirls of his tongue, rough in a way that has your eyes rolling and your head dropping back against the pillow.

“Robby, fuck—I—“

You come undone before you can even finish getting the words out, squeezing your thighs together against the wave of sensation that crashes over you. He eases you through it, gentle laps of his tongue instead of maddening circles, slowing the push and drag of his fingers until you’re fluttering around him.

He sits up, beard shiny and lips swollen. He lies in his spot on the bed, turned to his side to face you, reaching for you and dragging you closer, until you’re chest to chest and he can reach down to hike your leg over his hip.

You reach between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his cock. His breath stutters, a quiet fuck, yes spilling from his lips. He’s slick with pre-cum, your fist moving over him easily.

When he flexes his hips, the flushed tip of him drags against your cunt and you both gasp. You angle his cock so that the next thrust drives him into your body, one steady slide into your tight heat that has you seeing stars.

Robby’s hand is on your ass, grip tight enough to ache as he rocks your body against his. The position is intimate, all shared breath and sweaty limbs and your nails dragging across his shoulders, leaving little red lines like a brand.

But it’s not enough. He wants to be buried so deep you feel him for days, so he pulls out even though you whine about it and turns you on your stomach, dragging your hips into the air to meet his and sinking back into you with a groan.

“Fuck,” he growls through clenched teeth. He spreads your cheeks, watches his cock disappear inside of you, watches the way you clench desperately around him when he pulls out.

It drives him a little insane, the way your back arches on instinct and your ass bounces against him with each thrust. He won’t last long like this but he won’t have to, not with the way you’re moaning his name and fisting the sheets.

He brings his fingers to your clit, drawing tight circles over the sensitive bud and waits for that telltale little pulse of your cunt around his cock that means you’re close to finishing and then pinches your clit, a little rough, making you completely shatter, your moan muffled in the pillow and your body shaking with the force of it.

He follows soon after with three sloppy thrusts before burying deep, holding your hips in a tight grip as he fills you with his spend. You collapse against the mattress, exhausted and sore in the best kind of way.

Robby disappears into the bathroom and emerges with a wet washcloth that he uses to clean up between your legs while you lie there in the aftermath of your orgasm, spent and sated. When he’s done, he adds the cloth to the pile of wet clothes and crawls back into bed with you, tugging the duvet up over your naked bodies.

“I guess that’s one way to spend a rainy day,” you comment, playing with the chain around his neck.

“Day’s not over,” Robby says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “Rain hasn’t let up either.”

You laugh, warm and bright, and he can feel it through his chest. Closing his eyes, he commits the sound to memory, tucking it away for when he needs a little sunshine on his rainy days.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this fic, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment 💕

[dr-yapper]

I just need a hair tie and ten minutes alone with robby plsplsplsp-

The blowjob would be insane cause i’d vacuum the life out of his cock😩🙏🏻

[dr-yapper]

This is a perfect resolution. The one that's worth of one hundred broken coffee tables if that what it takes.

coffee tables pt. 2 — jack abbot x fem!reader Jack visits his ex-girlfriend’s apartment to help build a coffee table, but as old memories resurface and quiet confessions are shared, the day slowly turns into a chance to begin again.

warnings: flashback to the past, nothing 18+

part one || masterlist

Jack stands in front of your apartment door, toolbox in hand, trying to calm the nerves he thought he'd buried months ago. It's Saturday—his day off—and he decides to spend it building a coffee table with you. Somehow, it feels more intimate than it should.

You've been texting all week, your messages short and sometimes teasing, but always warm. He takes a breath, finally lifts his hand, and almost knocks, but you open the door first.

You've been waiting for him behind the door, watching him. "Were you gonna knock or just keep standing there like a creep?" you tease, not realizing the irony.

Jack exhales a nervous breath and cracks a small smile. "Sorry. Was deciding between knocking or faking a maintenance request."

You step aside so he can come in. "Well, you’ve got the toolkit. Might as well earn your keep."

The apartment smells just like he remembers it, he looks around to reminisce for a bit before spotting the half-assembled coffee table still sprawled across the living room floor.

"I figured I’d finish what you started," Jack says, lifting the toolbox.

"Before it finishes me off?" you joke.

"It almost did," he reminds you that the piece of glass almost cut your femoral artery, "Are you recovering okay?"

"Yeah, I can walk without much pain now. The meds help."

He nods, "That's good. I can take a look for you later."

"Okay, yeah, sure." You don't protest.

The mood is awkward at first. Small talk. Dry jokes. "Tool sizes". But it doesn’t take long before you warm up to each other. He fits a bolt in place while you read the instructions upside down, the rhythm of your banter slowly syncing. You snort when he grunts at the wrong size screw, and he rolls his eyes when you say you should’ve just bought a pre-built one.

"Remember the bookshelf we built for your place?" you say at one point, legs tucked beneath you on the floor.

Jack pauses, head tilted. "The one that fell over after a week?"

"You insisted we didn’t need the wall bracket."

He laughs. "And you still let me build furniture."

"Touché."

"Alright so where does this screw go?" Jack holds up a singular screw that looks just like the other ten.

"Um... there?" You point to a threaded hole, squinting. "Oh wait, but it could also be the other one. Ugh, I don't know, they all have the same measurements."

Jack shrugs and screws it into one of the holes while muttering, mostly to himself, "That's right, it goes in the square hole..."

You freeze. "Was that—"

"Yes, yes it was," he replies without missing a beat.

"Who taught you??"

"Night shifts can get boring sometimes."

You laugh, the kind that escapes before you can think about it, and Jack glances at you with a smile that lingers just a second too long.

A few hours later, the coffee table is finally finished. It's off by maybe 1cm, but it'll do.

“We did it. Functional table. No injuries. Only minor emotional peril.” Jack says as he stretches his legs.

“Honestly, I’m—.”

“Hungry?”

You nod, "YES."

And he pulls out his phone. “Your usual order still the same?”

Your eyes flick to his. “You remember?”

Jack only smiles and places the order.

You try to hide your smile and stand up. "I'm opening a bottle of wine. We're celebrating this."

"You're on meds."

"And you are on your day off." You smile at him, pouring two glasses. "I'll just have one." You try to convince him while he rolls his eyes.

There is no going between you and your wine.

"Mind if I use the bathroom?"

"You already know where it is."

As he steps into the hallway, he sees one photo still hanging on your wall. Cracked glass. Your arms wrapped around each other, blurry with motion but full of joy. The memory slams into him.

It’s late, and your apartment feels too small for the fight you’re having. "You’re always at the hospital," you say, voice shaking. "Even when you don’t have to be." "It’s not that simple," Jack snaps. "People rely on me." "And I don’t?" He turns too fast. His elbow knocks the picture frame off the wall. It crashes to the floor, splintering the glass. You both freeze. Something in him falters. He picks up the frame and sets it on the counter. "I can’t do this," he mutters before walking out.

Jack stares at the cracked photo now, throat tight. You wander over to where Jack is, and realize what he's looking at.

"You still have it." He states.

"I thought about throwing it away," you reply. "But I couldn't."

"I kept some things too," Jack says, but he doesn’t elaborate. Not yet.

You fall into silence, but it’s warmer this time. He reaches for your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. You let him.

"You know," you dare yourself to say, your voice barely above a whisper, "I used to sit in this apartment and think… maybe he’ll show up. Say he’s sorry. Say he wants to try again."

"I’m here now," Jack says. "And I am sorry. And I—"

There’s a knock at the door. The food delivery.

Dinner is quiet, softer. You split the last of the wine, and you laugh at his terrible jokes. When the bottle’s empty and the plates are cleared, you stay sitting on the floor, closer than before. Hands almost touching.

Both wanting to pick up where the serious conversation last ended, but also fearing where it might lead.

Jack reaches for his glass of wine and pauses. "You remember the night the power went out?"

You blink. "The storm?"

He nods. "We were stuck here. Couldn’t even order food because your phone died and mine barely had signal."

"We lit every candle in the apartment. I think I still have wax stains on that old bookshelf." You smile at the memory. "That was probably a fire hazard."

Jack chuckles. "And you made us play that ridiculous card game. Loser had to answer a personal question."

"I was trying to get to know you better," you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow. "You’re not exactly an open book."

He shakes his head with a faint smile, one of those rare ones that tug more at memory than amusement. “Still not, I guess.”

“I asked you your fears,” you continue, voice softer now. “You told me you wanted to be a good man. That night. You said you didn’t know if you were, but you wanted to try.”

Jack’s smile fades—not from regret, but more longing. "Yeah. I remember. I was scared I'd let you down."

"You did."

He looks down, his fingers absently brushing a speck of dust from the table’s edge. But then you add, just as gently:

"But you're here now."

He looks up. Meets your eyes. There’s something unspoken hanging between you—pain, promises that shattered and ones still waiting to be made.

And that silence, again—this time warm, thick, forgiving.

He swallows, as if laying his heart bare, and asks, “Can you give me another chance?”

Your fingers find his, and you squeeze, quietly telling him yes.

He looks at you with that softness in his eyes, the one that makes your chest ache. His hand rises gently to your cheek, and your breath catches.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice almost shaking.

“I missed you too.”

And then, finally, he leans in.

So do you.

The kiss is careful at first—like testing the coffee table you just built. But when your hand slips to his chest and his thumb grazes your jaw, it deepens into something more certain. Something lived-in and familiar, and still electric.

It’s not just a kiss.

It’s a promise.

[dr-yapper]

What even is this position

[dr-yapper]

God, how much I love it. The point in our lives where accidents actually mean something. Fix-it move takes courage. Which is why I love this quote:

"Like fixing things meant he didn't have to look at himself."

So true, and so applicable to doctors who in times forget to check on themselves while taking care of the rest of the world basically.

I also bite my lip in the end with that flexing hand - I'm trained to after the Pride and Prejudice 2007, it just shows A LOT. one single flex of fingers and I capitulate

coffee tables — jack abbot x fem!reader A late-night shift brings Jack Abbot face to face with the one person he let slip through the cracks. Some wounds don’t bleed, but still ache. warnings: reader has an accident | I have no medical background whatsoever, everything was googled. part two || masterlist

You can only feel the burning pain in your thigh. EMTs wheel you in—blood soaked through the side of your jeans, sirens still fading.

"Laceration to the upper thigh," the EMT reports. "Glass. Deep, but clean. She’s stable."

Jack is already standing in the trauma bay, gloves half on. When his eyes land on you, he freezes. He looks at the intern beside him, stops her from taking the case, and says, "I’ve got this."

Ten minutes later, you're placed behind the curtains when Jack catches up to you and helps move you from the gurney.

"Oh fuck," you mutter, wincing as they cut your jeans open to fix you up.

"Push one of morphine. Let’s keep her comfortable," Jack says.

That’s not why you winced, but you stay quiet.

"I’ll handle the sutures," Jack adds, grabbing the nearest chair. "What happened?" He tries to start a conversation.

You sigh. "I was... trying to assemble a coffee table by myself. With a glass of wine. Or three."

Jack chuckles, but the worry in his eyes doesn’t go away.

You only realize your heart’s racing when the monitor catches Jack’s eye. "Pulse is still slightly elevated. Little fast for someone just sitting here," he says, slipping the stethoscope into his ears and pressing the diaphragm against your chest. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Maybe because you're so close. Too close.

"Yeah, well, try bleeding on a gurney while your ex-boyfriend evaluates your vitals," you retort.

The nurse takes that as a cue to leave you two alone.

That gets a flicker of a smile from him—tiny, reluctant, gone in a second. You don’t miss how Jack’s jaw tenses. Like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to.

The morphine helps you relax a little. You sink back against the pillow, body loosening as Jack goes to work on your wound.

"You’re lucky," Jack says, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves. "Another inch and it would’ve hit your femoral artery."

"Guess I’m blessed," you mutter, voice softening under the meds. "Or cursed, depending how poetic you’re feeling tonight."

That earns another ghost of a smile.

"You look tired."

You’re not even sure why you’re still talking—maybe it’s the morphine, maybe it’s him. Some part of you wants to ask for another doctor, but the truth is, you’d rather have Jack. Even now.

He works efficiently—cleansing the wound, irrigating it, steady hands doing what they were trained to do. It’s oddly intimate, watching him focus like this. You used to admire that about him. The way he disappeared into his work like it was a refuge. A religion. Like fixing others meant he didn’t have to look at himself.

"I am tired."

"I thought you’d be—" you pause, words hazy, slow. "Happy."

Jack pauses mid-suture but doesn’t look up. "I’m not unhappy."

"That’s not the same thing."

Silence stretches between you. Only the soft beeping of the monitor and the sterile buzz of fluorescent lights.

"Are you? Happy?"

You don’t answer right away. Your eyes meet his, searching for something—an honesty, maybe, or a hope you’ve been holding onto without admitting it.

Finally, you whisper, "I’m trying to be."

Jack’s gaze holds yours a moment longer, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air.

There were things you thought you’d say if you ever saw him again—the anger, the pain, the bitter truth of what he left behind. But the second your eyes landed on him tonight, all of it faded. Not forgiven, just… quieter. Because beneath the exhaustion and the scruff, he looks better. Or maybe just a little less haunted.

Is that because you're not in the picture?

"I, uh," Jack clears his throat. "I’m seeing a therapist."

"Oh?" Your eyebrows raise. "That’s... good. Is it going well?"

"Yeah... I think so. He thinks I do night shifts because I find comfort in the darkness."

You let out a small laugh. "I think he knows you better than I did."

That lands harder than you meant it to. Jack’s expression falters—just for a second. Like the words caught him right where he knew they would. But he doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t defend himself.

"Sorry, I—" you sigh, pressing your head gently against the pillow. "I was mad at you for a long time. After we broke up. The amount of times I almost stormed into the ER just to yell at you..." You trail off, shaking your head. "I lost count."

Jack exhales through his nose, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. He sits back in the chair, eyes on your stitched-up thigh, like he can’t quite bring himself to meet your gaze just yet.

"I wouldn’t have blamed you," he says finally. "You had every right."

"Stop—"

"No, let me just—" He takes a breath. "I told myself I ended things because I didn’t want to hurt you," he continues, almost to himself. "But the truth is, I already was. I just didn’t know how to stop being... like that."

You study him for a moment, tears pooling in your eyes. The new lines on his face. The tired kindness in his gaze. It’s not an excuse. He’s not trying to win you over with some perfect apology. He’s just telling you the truth, finally.

"I’m not great at fixing things outside of work," he says, finally meeting your eyes with a faint, self-deprecating smile. "But... if you ever need someone to finish putting together that coffee table..."

You blink, surprised by the sudden shift, then laugh—quiet but real.

"Figured it’s the least I can do. If I can’t change the past, maybe I can help make your living room slightly less dangerous." He shrugs.

You shake your head, still smiling. "Only you can joke around at a time like this... I kinda miss that." A hint, carefully placed.

You want to pull him in for a kiss, a hug, anything—to just touch him again. But you stop yourself. If there’s anything left here between you, anything real and fragile, you don’t want to rush it.

Jack bandages you up, his hands pausing for a beat longer than necessary before pulling back. You watch the way his fingers still, the way his shoulders hold tension even after the wound is closed.

"You should keep it elevated for the next day or two," he says quietly, discarding his gloves. "And don't mess with the bandage unless it gets soaked."

"Got it," you murmur, not breaking eye contact.

He stands slowly, but he doesn't step away. There's something caught between you now—weightless and heavy all at once.

Jack runs a hand through his hair, breath catching. "I've thought about calling you," he admits, voice low. "So many times."

You don't look away. "So why didn't you?"

He shrugs, voice shaking as he says, "Because I didn't know what I'd say. And because I was scared I hadn't changed. Or that I had, but it still wouldn't be enough."

The honesty hangs between you like a bridge just starting to form.

You nod once. "Well. You still have my number. And apparently my blood type."

That gets a soft huff of a laugh from him, head dropping for a second. When he looks back up, his voice is softer.

"I meant what I said, by the way. About the coffee table. Let me come by this weekend. I'll bring tools. Actual tools—not the shitty hex key that comes in the box."

You lift an eyebrow. "Are you saying I can't handle a little IKEA furniture?"

"That's exactly how you got here," he says, that old teasing spark lighting behind his eyes.

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you.

"Let me help. Please."

You hesitate. But only for a moment.

"Okay," you say. "Saturday?"

"Saturday." He nods, already committing to it like a promise. "And maybe… after the table's done… we talk a little more?"

"Yeah. Sounds like a plan." You offer a smile.

Jack brings the courage to hold your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Get some rest," he says, his voice quiet now. "I'll check on you before shift ends."

And as he turns to leave, you catch it—that small, involuntary flex of his fingers. Like the feel of your skin is still echoing through him.

You stare at the empty space where he stood, your hand still tingling.

Maybe this isn't the clean break it could've been. Maybe it's not a clean start, either.

But it's something.

------

here's part two!

[dr-yapper]

IN CASE ANYONE NEEDS A VISUAL OF ROBBY ON HIS MOTORCYCLE

photo from holly (@horrordilfs) on Twitter