i've never seen brown eyes look so blue
synopsis: robby calls you out of the blue one night to come over; you do. he just needs to be held and you are more than willing to offer your lap as an offering.
pairing: michael "robby" robinavitch x neighbor!reader
ratings: slight angst, mommy issues galore, yearning, touch-starved!michael robinavitch, nothing spicy in here tho!
word count: 2.5k
note: yeah i started writing this and lost motivation towards the end but still wanted to put it out. i proofread this like once so sorry for errors!
based off of this post
Yearning wasn’t unusual for Michael Robinavitch. It was like breathing; second nature to him. Yearning for a life he believed he didn’t deserve. That the wife, kids, and love he once desired must be past him because of the added “ish” when his age is mentioned. He doesn’t deserve the “happy ending” he’s seen his coworkers live with, strangers on the street, his neighbors. He’s had spurts of it, sure. Seen bits and pieces in flashes of relationships, being the dad to a girlfriend's kid, playing husband to whatever hookup he had at the time, being a provider, a partner, a lover, all in different ways but never to stay.
So, when you moved in next door; bright, fresh, and a pretty young thing. He didn’t think twice about if he was going to have a happy ending with you. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve you. Not to mention you were more than half of his age, lively and clearly just starting your life. He didn’t want to be the anchor to your newly found wind in your sails. But, then there was this little creeping issue of how fond he’d grown of you. How he loved watching you spruce up the house with color, how you brought light into a once dreary property, and how you made brick walls feel like a home. Suddenly, it was everything he’d ever wanted personified in a place, a person, a moment in time. But he would never admit it; he’d rather die with his pride.
Whereas, the first time you met Michael Robinavitch, you knew, you could tell he was hurting. No matter the stoic or friendly exterior, you could still tell. You saw him like he was like a wounded animal; a bear caught in a steel trap, oozing blood, no fight left in it but still holding on, looking out to the forest it could no longer run in, stuck in time and slowly losing its resolve to ever break loose.
Every part of you leapt at the opportunity to unlatch him of the trap he was stuck in. The savior complex in you needing to fix him, save him, keep him.
Every time he pushed you away it just kept you wanting him more, trying harder to break into his barricaded heart.
You couldn’t leave him oozing out. No, you brought gauze and pliers and waited for him to let you get close enough to help him.
It took months to get anywhere further than the surface level of Robby. But you didn’t mind. You’d catch him at the local bar, in his garage with his bike, sitting outside in the mornings with a cup of coffee. In the beginning, he tried everything to keep you at bay, the bear flashing its fangs, making you aware he wasn’t friendly. At the bar he would sigh, let you sit next to him in a stool and occasionally say something of interest to you but listen intently to every word falling from your lips. When you would show up at his garage with something you’d baked a surplus of he would refuse it at first, reluctantly accepting when you wouldn’t take no for an answer. In the mornings he was out reading the paper you dragged a chair from your own porch and invited yourself to sit next to him, quietly sipping on your own cup and watching the school children ride by on their bikes. After a while, he got used to having you around. He’d come over with his tools to help you with some renovations and you brought some color into his monotone home. It was as if he was letting you get close enough to place your hand on the wound. But never quite close enough to pry the trap open. That is, until tonight.
“Hello?” Your voice rang out in the emptiness of your home. Glasses propped in your hair as you got up from your bed, book pages closing in your lap.
“Hey,” He began, his voice wavering. You perked up at the sound, unsettled by the silence.
“Everything alright?” You knew it wasn’t, otherwise why would he call?
“Yeah, yeah,” it sounded as if he was pacing, working up the courage to speak.
“Actually–” you could tell he had stopped. “Would you–” he hesitated, so unsure of the outcome of his request.
“Would you come over?” There was no suggestive tone to his request, only unadulterated yearning in his voice. It was a lightswitch within you, the inherit need to fix his problem.
“Yeah, I can come over.” You didn’t even bother putting a bra on, only draping a fluffy robe on top of your silk pajamas and walking over to his house.
When you knocked on the door he was already waiting at the entrance, opening up to reveal a clearly distraught Michael Robinavitch. It was all in his eyes; his exhaustion, his hurt, his difficulty reaching out. It was all there and all ready for you to embrace. Robby looked down at you, looking like hell; dark bags under his clearly red and glistening eyes, still in his disheveled black scrubs, and he looks at you like he’s about to go under, a drowning man in need of a lifejacket. You step in, closing the door behind you and placing your back on the door.
“Robby, you look like shit,” you say, furrowed brows and worried palms on the hardwood. It earns a chuckle out of him, palm running down his face then hands stopping at his hips.
“I’ve had better days.” He can barely look you in the eyes, gaze now transfixed to the floor.
“Have you eaten anything?” Maybe getting his mind off of whatever is troubling him will help. He only closes his eyes and shakes his head, “Not hungry.”
“What about tea, we can do tea right?” It’s not like you’re trying to baby him, not overtly trying to mother him, it just comes out naturally. You reach out to touch his hand, unhooking his hand from his hip and holding it. A closed hand embrace, your thumb rubbing against his calloused palm.
Robby looks at where you two are intertwined, then back to you.
Even with your worried, furrowed, expression you still manage a smile. Robby can only nod in response, sure if he speaks everything wrong will come out.
You don’t wait, dragging him to the kitchen and leading him to a seat at the kitchen island, motioning for him to sit. But he doesn’t respond, squeezing your hand as if saying, “Don’t let go.” You let out a quick breath of air through your nose as a laugh; he was making it difficult not to be motherly towards him. Nonetheless, this would be simple enough. The kettle had already been on the counter so you just pressed for it to start warming up.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” then begin dragging him to his bedroom. You went straight for the attached bathroom, going to the shower and running the water, steam clouding the mirrors. The two of you pause, hand still intertwined. He gently lets go, understanding his task and you walk out of the bathroom and rummage through his drawers to set a pair of grey sweats and an old t-shirt out for him. When he comes back to the living room, you have a cup ready for him, one in your own hand, and pat the spot next to you on the couch. A grin reaches your lips as he trod over, hesitating to your offering but accepting it nonetheless.
Mug of comfort in hand, you pause, “Do you want to talk about it?” Robby shakes his head, focused on the warm liquid. You nod in return and you just start talking; about your day, your latest project on the house, the kids that drove past this morning, the mailman’s mix up on your guys’ mail, the latest gossip by the old woman two doors down, the amount of hummingbirds that have visited you since you put up that bird feeder, your local possum friend that you’re work shopping names on, you talk about anything and everything to get his mind off of whatever horrors he’s seen today.
Soon enough your cups are empty and the late pm has turned into an early am but you don’t have it in you to leave. A yawn escapes you and Robby looks at the time on the oven clock, 1:34am.
“You should go home,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it.
You shook your head in defiance. “Just a little sleepy, but I don’t want to go home.”
You know he never would, so you decide to suggest it.
It’s like a deer in headlights; his expression. Sudden and caught off guard, unsure if he should stay still enough for you to run him over or run away. And he doesn’t hate the idea; he just isn’t sure.
You can see it all pass through him, so you try to reassure him. “I’m not asking anything from you Robby, we can just sleep.”
He’s still unsure, but one thing he is sure of is that he doesn’t want you to leave. So he simply nods, and you lead him to his bedroom once more.
The big light is off, soft lamp on his nightstand the only thing illuminating the room. The fluffy robe you once adorned now hanging on the foot of the bed. Navy sheets crinkle under your touch, the smell of them fresh and soaked with Robby’s scent. You sit on the bed, waiting to see if he’ll join you.
The jaws of the trap opens.
Robby’s weight dips in the bed, the subtle creak of the mattress as he sits beside you. But you turn to face him and he does the same. You can’t help it, not when he’s looking so solemn at you and not when you’d been holding back for so long. Fingers go up to his face, palm cupping his course cheek. Robby’s eye lids close as he leans into your touch, mouth falling open as he takes a deep breath in.
You drink him in; spearmint, sandalwood, linen. Skin warm and hair damp. Ripples of skin against his eyes, freckles kissing his skin, peeking grey hairs down to his eyebrows.
You catch your own breath against his beauty, wishing nothing more than to pepper his weary face with kisses. Your neck cranes to reach him, the other hand resting on his shoulder, and you place a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.
Robby opens his eyes and it’s all there; you’ve saved him from drowning, you’ve become his God-given solace, his anchor in the waves, his changed luck. Calloused fingers reach up to your face, thumb rubbing across your cheek. You lock eyes with a man who’d been starved for too long. He leans down and stops right at your mouth, his hot breath against you, gaze hesitant but longing. It was as if he was being leashed, pulling himself back from you. But you catch a handful of his shirt in your hand and gently tug on his face with the other, signifying you too have been deprived of him for too long.
The wounded animal escapes.
Lips collide slowly; his bottom lip is plush, the coarse hairs of his salt-and-pepper beard rub against you harshly, but you don’t mind. The taste of the tea you two enjoyed still lingers on his tongue. It’s a high unlike any other, chasing the feeling of wanting to consume one another. But it’s not hungry like it’s gluttony. It’s starvation like savoring every single bite of your favorite meal, making each piece on your fork the perfect amount of flavor to make the perfect bite. Lips are gentle even if they’re hungry for more; your hands are clawing but only out of affection. His hands are soft and warm against you, the one hand at your face and fingers trailing into your hair, the other falling at the small of your back and pulling you deeper into him. It’s slow, sloppy, but so so sweet. And once it feels like you’re full enough you smile against him, still peppering some kisses in between pulling away.
No words need to be spoken. Just the acceptance of the moment as your hand goes to the back of his neck and scratches at the base of his scalp.
“Ready to sleep?” You whisper, wanting to keep the moment feathery as long as possible.
Robby shakes his head slightly and whispers against you, “No, not yet.”
He leans into your hand as you continue scratching, a deep groan escaping him at the sense of relief. His reaction gives you an idea and you scoot back on the bed, enough to make room in your lap. You pat at your thighs, signifying a place for him to rest his head. And he obeys like a dog obeys its master; not another word needs to be uttered.
Robby lies down on the bed, head facing away from you and resting against your thighs.
The ticklish feeling of his beard against your warm skin, the softness of his hair skimming through your fingers, the steady breath of the largest man you'd ever known.
One of his hands rests right at the swell of your butt, his large hand covering much of the surface area but not squeezing. The other rubs circles against your knee, a constant pattern.
“Will you just—stay here, like this, with me, until I fall asleep?” It’s more of a prayer than a question, his warm breath against your skin.
Leaning down, you place a soft kiss against his head.
He peppers a kiss on your leg, a soft and gentle gesture and unlike anything you'd ever felt from him.
Slowly but surely, Robby finally falls asleep.
In the morning, he gives you a key, makes space in his cupboard for your mug, and brings out an extra chair for the porch.
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