the state or quality of being amorous

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[amorosityy]

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☽ ⋆ lyra ⋆ 20 ⋆ she/her ⋆ free palestine !

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[illyrianbitch]

An Honest Mistake

Pairing: Azriel x Illyrian! Reader

Summary: Lonely and bitter following Gwyn and Balthazar's mating ceremony, you and Azriel sleep together. As it turns out, one night is all it takes to change everything.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, slight angst, talks of insecurity and unrequited love, unprotected sex, both reader and az are intoxicated, pregnancy :o

Word Count: 4.4k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

There’s a slight wind in the air tonight. It itches at your back and stirs up old instincts—makes you want to fly, to sing, to stretch your body open to the cold licking at your skin. But you don’t. You rarely do, anymore.

Laughter floats from the temple below you—grand and carved from obsidian and moonstone, veiled in wisteria and soft, glowing magic. A place of beauty where Gwyn, eyes glassy and glowing, kissed Balthazar in front of the Mother and the stars and everyone who mattered.

Your body scoffs at the sound and you grit your teeth against the tight wave of jealousy that laces your limbs. The flask in your hand trembles slightly before you take another long sip, willing the taste to burn away your bitterness.

You should be better than this. Stronger. You’ve spent centuries trying to be. And yet, you couldn’t even make it through the ceremony. Slipped away like a coward and climbed up to the roof, crouched like some silent, forgotten thing with nothing to show but your envy and a flask of liquor that’s quickly running out.

You thought you’d prepared yourself. For the music. For the speeches. For the look in Gwyn’s eyes when Balthazar promised her forever. But none of it helped. Nothing could have prepared you for how quietly devastating this night would be— how utterly lonely and hollow. 

At first, it was interesting—to see the overlap of worlds. Night Court royalty, Illyrian warbands, Valkyries in training dressed in twilight-toned leathers. To see the high-ranking court members assembled under the same sky. To see the Cursebreaker’s sister cry happy tears as she embraced her newly mated best friend. To see the Illyrians stand beside Balthazar, wings wide, ceremonial blades strapped to their backs.

So similar to Azriel, to Cassian—born of the same mountain—but still so fundamentally different as well. The way they took up space. The way they looked at each other. 

But the novelty wore off quickly. After you hugged Balthazar, there was no one left to drift to. No one waiting for you in the crowd. Just the slow, dawning realization that you were crushingly, humiliatingly in love with a male who had just bonded himself to someone else for eternity.

Being immortal and lonely feels almost humiliating. Years and years of life and still—no connection. You’ve spent centuries rebuilding yourself, crafting new versions from the wreckage of the last— and somehow, the only person you ever truly wanted stumbled upon love without even trying. 

But that isn’t the truth. Not really. You know it’s unfair to keep entertaining the sentiment. Gwyn fought hard to be who she is. And Balthazar… gods, if anyone deserved peace, it was him. You’re happy for them, somewhere deep down. But not now. Not here.

Not when your throat burns from more than just the alcohol, and the shame of being this bitter, this unremarkable, clings to your ribs like smoke.

You drink again. And again. You scold yourself for being dramatic. For being weak. For being pathetic.

There’s a sound behind you—soft footfalls. You turn just as they halt.

Before you, stands Azriel.

Your spine straightens, that old Illyrian instinct curling up tight in your belly. You hate it—that impulse to look more composed in front of a male like him. That ridiculous, buried thread of deference your body still remembers from another life.

He hadn’t expected you. That much is clear from the way his body tenses, his steps halting mid-motion. The shadows curling around him twitch and pull inward, disappearing into the folds of his suit. The night swallows him easily.

“I’m sor—” he stops, adjusting. His shoulders pull back, wings settling higher. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He sounds more polished than he looks—like he tried to summon formality but couldn’t quite finish the spell.

Azriel starts to turn.

And maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the envy in your ribs or the way your loneliness is humming just loud enough to override your shame. But you find yourself saying, “You can stay.”

He pauses. You nod to the space beside you. “I don’t mind.”

Azriel studies you. His gaze flicks from your eyes to your hands, your wings, your form. But it isn’t predatory, not like the others did back at the Camps. It’s not sexual. Not even curious. He isn’t calculating your worth as a female. He’s assessing a threat. Taking stock.

It’s strange, how openly he looks, but there’s something strangely comforting in it. He isn’t trying to hide the scan. Either he’s too tired to care, or he already knows you’re not a threat. 

You’ve met Azriel before. Shared rooms with him during the meetings Balthazar insisted you attend—when he filled in as Rhysand’s liaison to the more distant Illyrian camps. You’d crossed paths in training, too, when you’d said yes to Gwyn’s offer, relayed through Balthazar, to practice with the Valkyries. Make our stories count, Emerie had told you, glancing once at your wings—still intact, still stiff where they locked into your spine from disuse.

Azriel looks unconvinced, but once again, you feel compelled to make him stay. There's something about the look in his eyes, even from this far, that you feel a certain connection to. You lift your flask in offering. “I also have alcohol.”

You swear you catch the barest edge of a smile.

Azriel steps forward, pulling something from his coat. You flinch on instinct and you’re sure he notices. But all he produces is his own flask.

“Whiskey.” Azriel says.

You give him a small grin. “Gin,” you tell him, gesturing towards your hand. 

He nods, seemingly in approval, and joins you—leaning forward on the railing beside you. 

You stay that way for a while. Two bodies unwinding in the dark. Wordless, you pass flasks back and forth, letting your hands brush occasionally. 

It’s comforting, almost. To stand beside one of the most powerful males you’ve ever met and realize maybe you’re not the most pathetic person in the room. Maybe he’s just as wrecked as you are. Maybe that means there’s nothing wrong with you after all. Or maybe it means there’s something deeply, irreparably wrong with him, too.

But either way—you’re not alone in it. And that counts for something.

“So,” you say, curling into yourself slightly, “I’m assuming you’re here for the same reason I am?”

Azriel takes a sip, keeps his gaze on the view below. “And what reason is that?”

“You’re in love with Gwyn.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he lifts a brow. “You’re in love with Gwyn?”

Your expression flattens instantly. But somewhere under the mortification, there’s a flicker of amusement. You hadn’t expected humor from him. It throws you. Never would you have believed he was capable of teasing. Not genuinely, at least. 

“Smartass,” you mutter. “You know what I meant.”

Something like a smirk flickers across his mouth. It dies quickly. But not before you catch the edge of it. Below, the music swells again. A louder cheer rises with it.

“They looked good together,” you say.

It’s a cruel thing to admit, but it’s true. A part of you hopes it stings him, just a little, so he’s hurting like you, too.

Azriel exhales through his nose. “They did.”

You nod slowly. Let the shame settle deeper into your chest.

“I hated it.”

That gets his attention. You feel it, even without looking—his gaze snapping back to you, the movement of shadows quickening at the corner of your vision. You don’t meet his eyes. You watch the stars instead.

“I hated all of it,” you add. “And I should’ve never come.”

“Why did you?”

“There’s only one thing worse than being a lonely immortal.” You glance at him. “Being a lonely and bitter one.”

Azriel is quiet for a long moment. He’s staring out ahead again. You think he won’t answer. But then he says—low, clipped, almost matter-of-fact:

“Bitterness is honest.”

You huff, almost amused. “Then I’ve been painfully honest my whole life.” A beat.  “Are you? Honest?”

His eyes meet yours. “Incredibly.”

Something stirs in you—something slow and sharp and dangerous. It coils low, sparked by the flicker of something darker that moves through his expression. A glint of hunger, maybe. A recognition. Or maybe just the memory that you are still something someone could want.

“How honest are you feeling tonight?” you ask.

His gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts. He takes in your form again, eyes lingering on your wings, pulled taut against your shoulder blades. You tilt your chin up, just slightly.

“They’ll be dancing,” Azriel says, turning away again. His voice is even. Distant. “Probably until sunrise.”

Cold embarrassment crashes through you like a wave. You feel stupid. Pathetic. You’ve just bared something small and raw and fragile and been dismissed by the Night Court’s infamous spymaster. Of course.

You push yourself upright.

“Then I’ll do myself a favor and end my misery now,” you mutter. “Go home. Drink in peace.”

Azriel doesn’t move. “That’s how you want to spend your night?” 

You shrug, even though he can’t see it. “You got a better offer?”

A long pause. “I do.”

You blink. He turns to face you fully. “Would you like someone to walk you home?”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

His mouth is on yours the second your front door shuts.

You stumble through the dark, limbs bumping into half-unpacked boxes and furniture that doesn’t belong to you. The apartment is mostly empty—somewhere Balthazar helped you find, helped you settle into. It’s minutes from him. From Gwyn. From all the things you didn’t want to be near and somehow ended up close to, anyways.

Azriel kicks the door shut behind him without looking. His shadows slither forward before he does—like they’re checking the space for him, brushing over your arms, your ribs, curious and cold. His hands follow just behind them, warmer, rougher, pressing beneath your dress as you push blindly toward the bedroom.

You drag him with you by the front of his jacket, breathless, your wings twitching with every step, the sensitive membranes catching the edges of doorframes and walls. His wings flare slightly when you back him into the hallway, knocking a box over with your foot, but neither of you bothers to look.

He drags his mouth down your throat and you tilt your head without thinking. Your dress slips off in a single motion—he pulls, you let it go. He loses the jacket first, then the shirt, and you press your mouth to his collarbone just to see what it tastes like.

His breath stutters.

Then he crowds you again. His hands slide under your thighs and lift you up immediately. You don’t even think—you just wrap your legs around his waist and let him carry you the rest of the way, letting out a noise when your back hits the edge of the bed.

You reach for him instinctively, dragging him down with you.

Your wings drag behind you on the sheets, too sensitive from how worked up you are—already twitching. One of his shadows curls low and drags across the arch of your wing like it’s exploring. You shudder.

It’s… strange. Intimate. The cool ghost of a touch that isn’t quite physical. Something alive—sentient — that shares a mind with the male above you. At least, that’s how you’ve always assumed it worked. You’d never really put much thought into how his abilities translated into the bedroom. There was never any reason to.

Until now.

Azriel’s bigger than the male you long for. Stronger. He feels different. Moves different. His hand dips between your thighs and your hips jerk instinctively. It’s been a while. Longer than you want to admit. And his fingers are—

"Fuck," you whisper, hips rolling up into his hand as he strokes through your folds.

Azriel hums against your collarbone, lips dragging along your skin. “You’re soaked,” he says, voice ragged, like it surprises him.

You press your lips together, half-humiliated, half aching for more. You try to think of a response, something clever or dismissive—but it isn’t needed. Azriel kisses you again, hungrier now, and parts your folds with two fingers, coating them in your slick. 

"Azriel—"

“Yeah?” His voice—fuck, his voice. “This what you need?”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders before you even register the movement. You whisper his name again—softer this time—as he moves lower, kissing his way down your body, past your ribs.

You can’t think.

You should be thinking.

But you’re not.

And when he slides two fingers inside you—slow, curling them deep—you make a sound you’ve never made before. Your whole body jumps. Your face flushes hot. Your eyes flutter shut as your thighs threaten to close around his hand.

He’s got you pinned. One hand fucking into you, the other spread wide over your thigh, holding you open. You turn your face into the side, press your forearm over your eyes. You don’t mean to hide, not really, but it’s instinct.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he murmurs, charmed. “Tell me what you want.”

You shake your head, wordless, cheeks burning. 

“Have you never had someone talk to you like this?” His voice is soft with his conclusion, but his fingers thrust harder now, faster and filthy. “Someone to tell you how good you feel while they touch you?”

You shake your head, moaning. He’s right— he knows he is. You’ve never had someone this vocal. 

“No,” he says, darkly pleased. “That’s alright.” A kiss to the inside of your thigh. “I can fix that.”

He works you fast now — fingers pumping, thumb circling your clit — until you’re trembling, gasping, barely upright. You whimper and he groans.

“I liked that pretty sound,” he says. “Right there?”

There's heat licking up your spine, some roaring thing inside of you.

“Think you can take one more?” 

You nod, too far gone to speak, and his third finger circles your dripping cunt. His shadows tighten their hold. One strokes between your breasts, another curls beneath your knee, easing it higher. Opening you wider.

His thumb swipes over your clit, and you’re coming — hard — your body locking around his fingers as his shadows slither along your stomach, wrap around your thighs, coaxing the orgasm out of you like they’re worshiping you for unraveling under his touch.

You fall apart—body shaking, thighs clenching, mouth open in a silent cry—and Azriel holds you through it, fingers still working you gently through the aftershocks. He pulls out once you’ve stilled, drags his fingers along your thigh, and then licks them clean.

Well. Balthazar, for all his glory, had never done that. 

A second later, Azriel’s back above you, lips swollen, eyes dark and trained directly on you. You’re possessed to pull him into a messy kiss, hints of your taste still on his tongue.

You shift beneath him, needing more, and he pulls away just long enough to free himself. You watch through your lashes, biting the inside of your cheek. Gods.

Azriel is beautiful. It hits you in a sudden, painful way—like seeing something in too-bright light. The sight alone makes something in your chest twist. And you hate it. You hate that it makes you feel something at all. That this—him wanting you—makes you feel not just good, but alive.

Because if he wants you, if the infamous, untouchable Spymaster is here, looking at you like this, then maybe you’re not just something people pass over. If he needs you—desperate, hungry, barely holding it together—then maybe you’re worth needing.

It’s a self-indulgent thought. Pathetic, even. But you cling to it.

It’s only an added benefit that his cock is nearly as pretty as the rest of him. Thick, flushed, and heavy in his hand. Your cunt clenches just looking at it.

“You okay?”

You nod, breathless. He lines himself up, rubbing against you, teasing.

“Say it. Please.”

“Yes," you whisper. "I want you. I want you.”

Your words ease the tension between his brows and he thrusts into you in one smooth stroke. Your head falls back with a cry.

“Fuck,” Azriel groans. “That’s it.”

The stretch knocks the air from your lungs—your body forced open, filled in a way you forgot was possible. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. You just feel.

Azriel doesn’t move right away. His hands curl around your thighs, thumbs pressing bruises into your skin, and he lowers his head to watch himself inside you. Watch the way you pulse around him.

“You feel—fuck. You feel good,” he murmurs. The tone of his voice is almost reverent.

You clench around him in response, hips lifting without permission. Azriel groans again, deeper this time, and pulls out slow—agonizingly slow—before slamming back into you, harder now.

Your breath catches. Your nails drag down his back, circle around the base of his wings.

“Please,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re begging for. “Please.”

Azriel looks at you, pupils blown and mouth slightly open in pleasure, and nods. He seems to understand exactly what you're asking: Use me, fix me, make me feel good. Make me forget.

He fucks you hard, every grind of his hips dragging you closer to that fraying edge. The sound of it—the wet slap of skin, the obscene, slick noise of him pounding into you—is enough to make your cheeks burn.

Gods, it feels good. Unreasonably good. Too good. His hips grind down, slow and deep, and your body responds like it’s been waiting for him—like it knows him. Your chest rises sharply as the coil in your stomach tightens.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, and you do. His fingers cradle your jaw, turning your face to his. Your chest rises fast beneath his weight and you wrap your arms around his neck—bring him into another hungry kiss, all teeth and desire and desperation.

You part from him slightly, lips slipping from his, and when you open your eyes—when you finally look at him, really look—something deep inside you breaks a little.

Azriel is beautiful. Devastatingly so. 

But he is not Balthazar.

His eyes are lighter—greener, almost like forest moss, and none of the quiet, familiar warmth you used to find there. What looks back at you now is hunger. Raw and unsentimental. That look has never once belonged to Balthazar. Not for you.

Not Balthazar.

There’s a flicker in Azriel’s face. A stutter in the rhythm of his breath. Like something inside him caught up. Like he just realized who he’s looking at, too.

“Turn me around,” you murmur, desperate,  into his mouth as you bring him in for a kiss. You separate and Azriel blinks once. Then nods, helping you flip over.

He slides back into you with one smooth thrust and you moan, helpless and wrecked. One of his hands is pressing deep on your lower back, the other gripping your hip like he owns you.

For a brief moment, you’re tempted to say that he does, if only for the feeling of being wanted. Of belonging somewhere. Of being something more than alone. To be devoured, held down, seen. To be someone’s—even if it’s temporary. 

You think, briefly, that Azriel might feel the same way. 

He leans forward, one palm bracing beside your head, the other sliding between your wings—touching them gently, reverently. Something in you goes slack and electric at the same time, the feeling blooming in a place that isn’t your body. Some deeper, stranger part of you.

You wonder when the last time was that he touched someone like this.

Talented hands, skilled mouth, pretty cock. It makes you wonder how the Shadowsinger picks his lovers—what earns you a night in his bed, what makes him touch them like this, slow and attentive and knowing.

You hate that your mind starts pulling up names. Pictures. Gwyn.

The image flashes before you can stop it—her laughing, that soft smile, and the look you’ve caught in Azriel’s eyes in passing. That tenderness. That aching, reserved sort of love that’s always held just out of reach. The sort of love you’ve reserved for Balthazar. 

Your brain wants to torture you with it. To layer grief on top of lust. To ruin even this escape. 

You shove it all away. Cram it into the corner with the rest of the shit that’s rising up—Balthazar, and how angry you still are, and how fucked it all feels.

With his chest to your back, Azriel slides a hand under to cup your throat. He fucks you slow, deep—dragging it out while he whispers against your neck. Gods. Doing so good for me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

You gasp—and he starts to fuck you even harder, rougher, the pace building with each thrust. The slap of skin fills the room. Every stroke pushes you forward on the sheets, and his arm wraps tight around your waist, dragging you back into him again.

You choke on a moan and his shadows join the chaos of sensation.

Cool and sinfully curious, they slither around your thighs, over your stomach. One coils teasingly around your breast, circling your nipple—while another brushes lower, between your legs, flickering right over your clit with a ghost of pressure.

You jolt. Arch. The moan that rips from your throat is nothing short of primal.

“That’s it,” Azriel murmurs against your ear. “Taking us so good. So greedy for it.”

Your thighs are shaking. Your hands fist in the sheets. You try to speak—but nothing comes. Only a broken sound, a desperate nod.  Your mind goes silent. Balthazar is gone. The memory, the shape, the guilt of him—all gone.

And all that's left is Azriel, groaning behind you. 

“Oh gods,” you gasp. “Azriel—fuck—please—”

You’re already gone, bent over and panting, when you come for him—shaking violently, lights bursting behind your eyes. He follows with a rough groan, hips snapping against you once, twice, before he presses you flush against him and lets go.

You’re still catching your breath when he sinks to his knees behind you. When his mouth finds you—tongue dragging through the mess of your release and his.  You jolt, overstimulated, and whimper at the way he feasts on you.

It's filthy. You come again like it’s nothing.

And again. And again. 

He fucks you through the second round with his fingers, the third with his cock, the fourth with his tongue and shadows working in tandem. By the time you’re too sore to move, too spent to even speak, the sun has already begun to rise behind the curtains.

And when your eyes finally close—limp and boneless and flushed beneath your sheets—Azriel slips away without a word.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Velaris is nice. Much nicer, much safer, much softer than the places you’ve called home before.

And still—you don’t feel at peace. Maybe it’s too much to expect, to feel settled already. But that doesn’t stop the irritation from creeping in. You pick at it the way some people pick at scabs. Little mental chastisements you cycle through like a list. You should be grateful. You should feel lucky. 

But as you walk through the streets, you’re painfully aware of how different you are. Despite Velaris being home to lesser and high fae alike, you stand out. Your wings—still tightly folded against your back—make that obvious. You catch the lingering glances as you move through the city. 

You thought the citizens would be used to seeing Illyrians—after all, their High Lord and two of the highest-ranking members are Illyrian. But maybe it’s different seeing it on a stranger. A female, no less. You don’t have their grace. You’re the breed without the glamour.

It makes you weirdly homesick. No one would understand if you told them that, if you admitted that yes, you missed Illyria.

You missed your home, your mountains, the sound of your heritage. Your camp is gone now, but you know the homesickness would fade the moment you set foot back on that familiar land. You’d be reminded why you were lucky to escape, why you should be grateful for this chance.

It’s strange—to want to go back to the roots you spent so long trying to break free from. Your wings ache at the thought. 

You wish you could see Balthazar.

Your stomach tightens again, reminding you of your real reason for being out. The apothecary. You need medicine for the sickness that’s been dragging you down all week—the nausea, the constant discomfort. You figure it’s just your body adjusting to the new life here. Maybe your stomach is shocked by all the delicacies you’re finally allowed to eat.

You reach the apothecary and the scent of herbs greets you. A young fae behind the counter listens as you describe your symptoms, her brow furrowing. She disappears to the back. After a moment, another fae emerges—a healer, she says. The first is still learning, so she’s here to help find the right concoction.

She lays out options, explaining everything carefully. Then she points to a small vial. “This one’s best for morning sickness.”

You blink. “Oh no, I’m not— I’m not pregnant.”

She freezes for a moment. You feel something dark slip in—terror, cold and fast. She blinks, recovers quickly. “My mistake,” she says, brushing it off like it’s nothing.

But the damage is done. Your mind is starting to spiral. 

Your breath shortens for a moment, and you have to fight the sudden, irrational panic bubbling beneath the surface. It makes no sense.  You know it can’t be true. You’ve been careful—too careful. But the thought settles anyway, cold and unwelcome, and everything feels off balance. 

Suddenly you’re buying every bottle she pushes your way without really hearing what they do.

You leave the shop, clutching the small bags, your thoughts a mess of “not possible” and “why would she think that?” racing under your skin.

You’re barely halfway down the street when you almost run into her.

Elain Archeron. 

You don’t know much about her, but she’s impossible to miss— still as quietly beautiful as the first time you saw her, like she’s made of soft light and calm. She’s alone, without her mate, who you assume is off fulfilling the duties as the Day Court’s only heir—the recent, powerful news about him had even reached your old camp.

Her eyes widen when she sees you, caught just as off guard. Recognition flickers across her face. She knows you—and if you weren’t panicking, you’d feel almost honored that she remembered you.

For a moment, you want to say something. Anything. A simple hello. But your throat tightens, your stomach knots in that familiar way, and the words get stuck halfway out.

Her face changes. The warmth draining away as she blinks— for a second, she looks... gone. Hollow. Like she vanished into thin air.

It unsettles you.

Then, almost too fast, her gaze drops. You swear you see her eyes flick down to your midriff—the way they pause there, just long enough to make your skin crawl.

“Are you alright?” She asks. Her voice is soft, almost cautious, and her usual warmth quickly rolls over her once more. 

You force a nod, forcing down the rush of panic curling in your chest. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just—running late for something.”

You bid her a quick goodbye and all but run to your empty, awaiting apartment. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

A week and one healer’s visit later, your world flips inside out in less than an hour.

You’re sitting on your cold floor, back pressed against an empty wall, eyes fixed somewhere that isn’t really there. The healer’s soft, steady voice keeps looping in your mind—reassurances, warnings, instructions—but it all blurs together.

You don’t know if you want to cry, laugh, or just get up and run. You don’t even know what decision you’re supposed to make.

Gods, you wish you had someone to talk to.

But who is there, really?

You have one friend and he’s caught up in his own life, celebrating his mating ceremony, wrapped up in a happiness you can’t touch.

The silence presses in and you feel the sting of tears building. 

Then, a knock. A soft rap on the door, pulling you back.

You hesitate. Then stand. For the second time in a week, you come face to face with Elain Archeron.

Only this time, her eyes are wide, brows drawn tight with something fierce and urgent. 

“You’re pregnant.”  And then, after a beat, “Why do I know that you’re pregnant?”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: oh my god...hey.... where did this come from?? idk!!! i spun a wheel and it gave me unplanned pregnancy trope + az!!! (i also have one with eris... who said that...)

but its out here and im not mad at the idea of a slowburn, strangers to friends to lovers, babydaddy!az and two illyrians trying to come to terms with their culture kinda love story. also i KNOW this motherfucker has a breeding and a pregnancy kink thatll surface once he gets over the absolute dread of his new father status

maybe ill make this a lil universe and open up requests to ease back into writing <3 would yall be interested or want a taglist 😲😲

permanent tag list below🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli 

@mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic  @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls  @louisa-harrier

[amorosityy]

hey it's that horrible anon i just wanted to say i am so fucking sorry.

i was having an awful day but that is in no way your problem and i have no excuse for i spoke to you. i feel terrible but don't expect forgiveness or anything like that i just wanted you to know that i'm aware i was COMPLETELY in the wrong. please don't let my entitlement ruin something that (i assume) you like to do. i'm gonna get offline for a while cause i clearly need to

i'm just so sorry i was angry at life and drunk but it's really no excuse, your an absolutely amazing writer and person in general and i am just so disgusted by how i spoke to you. delay the fanfic by a year, 20 or 1000, it doesn't entitle me to speak to you like shit

(sorry for the word vomit or anything that doesn't make sense, english isn't my first language and some of these words have been google translated)

i appreciate your apology. i think it's important for all readers (not just you) to recognize that writers are human beings with lives as well, and it can get very easy to forget that when you see a blog and not the face behind it. i haven't shared much about my life on here, but i am a college student and my course load is heavy, so i write when i can and i've been dealing with some unforseen circumstances along with my summer class that caused the delay. maybe it is best to take a step back for a while so you can sort your struggles out, i wish you luck with that.

[amorosityy]

some people are to online like to that rude ass anon, this a tricky concept but stick with me here; you ain't owed shit, period

(so sorry they were so rude to you, your an amazing writer and wether you decide to post the story or not, it's no one's business but yours x)

thank you sm !! i always want to give my best when i write, and i didn't have time for a month since i was in a summer class (partially my fault, i should've waited to post the prologue but oh well). and i would really love to share more of daylight with y'all soon <3

[amorosityy]

don't let some spoiled anon get to you, some people expect everything delivered to them whenever they want which is just unrealistic

your writing is absolutely amazing and to that anon:

FAN FIC WRITERS DONT OWE YOU SHIT!

your an amazing writer and i would wait 50 years and still be SAT for what you write 💕

thank you sm, i'm smiling so hard

i think the reason that the anon pissed me off sm is i've been seeing a lot of those being sent to my fav authors, and it's really frustrating tbh

i have a couple of ideas for daylight that i would love to share with y'all !!

[amorosityy]

Yeah, I’ve been trying to write a fic for 2 years now, and I think it annoys me more than the one person I’ve told about it that I just can’t seem to get it down

i totally understand that + you want everything to be as accurate as possible and it becomes overwhelming to keep all that information while also being in school/having a job, etc.

[amorosityy]

Don’t let the haters get to you! Life happens sometimes, and fics just have to take a backseat.

Some of us will wait an eternity, like one of my favorite fics was last updated on 23rd of December last year, and you can be damn sure I’ll be all heart eyes and thankful they updated at all, because all of you who write these amazing stories do it for free and I’ll never stop appreciating the dedication, even if it takes 10 years for an update🫶🏻

thank you sm! i think some people have a very warped perception of how long fics take to write, i genuinely don't know how some writers on here post stories so quickly and have them so well done.

[amorosityy]

Please ignore the entitles anon. I adored godlight and will enjoy any future installments if you decide to post them. Your writing is beautiful, and should never be rushed

thank you so much! i really appreciate it. i don't think some anons understand that we have lives besides writing, and tbh...2 months is not that much time, which it hasn't even been that long...

[amorosityy]

are you ever gonna actually post daylight or no cause you've been saying you will for over two months and then you just disappear

thank you for demotivating me completely! i've had a lot going on in my life, and i haven't had the time to sit down and do it. i do now, but if this is the way you feel, i don't think i'm gonna release it....

there are so many ways to politely ask if i'm going to be updating daylight, but you decided to be rude about it. and tbh, it makes me not want to write.

[amorosityy]

daylight || jack abbot || chapter 01 teaser

INTERLUDE — NIGHT DINING (the night we met)

1:27 A.M. — A restless night

❝I am not the only traveler, who has not repaid his debt.❞

JACK should’ve known this would have, that feeling of restlessness had been creeping up on him since the day before. Even the white noise of his police scanner didn’t quell the itch that settled deep into his bones as he sat on the couch of his apartment. 

It took him five hours to finally do something about it: go down to the local 24 hour dinner and have something to eat. He wasn’t a regular, per se but the night shift at Betty’s Dinner knew him well. Jack had been going there for years – since one of his first shifts in the Pitt.

There were usually a few people idling in the diner when he stepped in, the familiar chime of the bell greeting him. All of them were faces that he knew, some had come to him in the ER, others had struck up conversation when the place got uncomfortably quiet. 

There was something different that night, he felt in the air as Barbra, one of the night waitresses, greeted him, “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

He went to greet her when he noticed that his usual spot was filled – by a woman. She had a mug of coffee in her hands, hair tied up in a half–hearted bun, and a plate of fries sitting in front of her. 

It took him a second to compose himself before he said, “Hey, Barbs. Miss me?”

“Of course I did, sweetie,” she said, “Come, take a seat.”

She motioned to the counter–top where a row of stools with blue coverings and silver legs were located. He did as he was told, taking a seat two away from the woman; she didn’t glance over at him at first, reaching a hand to fiddle with a fry.

[7-wonders]

Hot Doctor Boyfriend

Dr. Jack Abbot x GN!reader

Summary: PTMC's in a tizzy over the admission of one of the city's biggest stars to the ER. Jack realizes that introductions, and explanations, are going to need to be made.

Word count: 2.5k

A note from the author: I'm not a medical professional and thus know nothing about how fast CT scanners can be made available. I also believe that sports injuries are sent to an actual imaging center the next day and not to the ER, but it made for a fun plot so please don't come for me on any of this. Thank you to the 150+ of you who voted that you wanted to see this trope in particular, and to the over 300 of you who voted on the poll in general!

In his personal life, Jack Abbot is not one to put much belief into superstitions. Black cats crossing paths, not opening umbrellas indoors, tossing salt over the shoulder—it’s never made sense to him why these have become rituals that are so ingrained in society. He’s a man of science and logic, and science and logic dictate that superstitions are fanciful and have no influence over events that may or may not happen in one’s life.

In his work life, though? Oh, superstitions are very much to be believed and adhered to. Saying that it’s too quiet while on a shift is a recipe for disaster. Full moons almost always bring out the crazy in everyone. For whatever reason, the hospital defies those carefully-held beliefs in science and logic and becomes something otherworldly. Jack’s certainly not about to ruin the careful balance that an emergency department achieves, and so he fastidiously follows these superstitions the moment that he clocks in.

He’s in late tonight, having used a couple of hours of PTO to attend a niece’s choir concert. The moment that he hits the ER floor, though, he’s wondering if he should have taken the whole night off instead. People are acting weird tonight. Huddling around in loose groups, giggling and talking, spreading information amongst themselves. They all keep looking a certain direction too, almost like they’re waiting for someone, or something, to appear. Even when he passes, they only bother to look busy for a few seconds before going back to their previous states.

By the time he reaches the ER floor desk, he’s feeling thoroughly rattled.

“Did the moon suddenly go from waxing to full during the duration of my walk from the parking lot to the ER?” Jack asks the assembled staff.

Mary, tonight’s charge nurse, shakes her head and smiles. “Nope. Full moon is still another fourteen days away.”

“Couldn’t tell. Why are they acting like this…all the–the whispering and shit? I hate it when they do that; feels like they’re conspiring against me.”

“We have a VIP in the ER tonight.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “Myrna’s back already?” Though Myrna’s a frequent flyer, coming back a mere two hours after discharge would be a new record for her.

“Nope. An actual VIP.”

He thinks for a couple of seconds, trying to decide who would be important enough to have an entire floor of medical professionals—people who have enough degrees combined to bring a thermometer up to triple digits—acting like nervy teens. “Okay, you’ve hooked me. Who’s disrupting our orderly chaos?”

Mary leans over the desk, eyes bright and a grin playing at her lips. “Sidney Crosby is sitting in North 3 right now.”

“What?”

Hockey is not the most popular sport in America. In fact, out of the four big professional sports leagues in the US, hockey is at the bottom. But one would have to be living under a rock to be in Pittsburgh and not know who Sidney Crosby is. He’s the city’s sweetheart; not only is he one hell of a hockey player, but he’s also a great guy. How many times has Jack seen something on the news about him donating his money or his time to local causes? How many times has he gone semi-viral for playing street hockey with random groups of children?

“Hold on,” he says, hastily grabbing a tablet from the charging docks. Not because he doesn’t believe Mary (he doesn’t make it a point to question any of the nurses, who regularly save his ass), but because he’s wondering what the hell one of the most decorated hockey players of the 21st century did to land in PTMC’s ER. Even as he reads, Mary verbalizes his chart for him.

“He was chasing a puck behind the net during tonight’s game against the Panthers and took a hard check. The training staff pretty quickly diagnosed shoulder dislocation, but they obviously don’t have the right imaging equipment at PPG. He arrived with one of the trainers, and they’re waiting for a doctor now after yours truly took vitals.”

“And you didn’t accost him or anything? I’ve seen those hockey romance novels you read,” Jack smirks.

Across from him, Mary flushes red. “I only fangirled a little bit, thank you very much.”

As his brain begins to catch up with what the commotion in the ER actually means, Jack’s own excitement fades a little. If Sidney Crosby’s here, and if he got injured during a game, then chances are that means—

“Guess we’re doing this now,” he says with a sigh, earning the curious eyes of those around him. 

“Doc, you alright?” Shen asks, pausing in his walk from one bay to the next.

“Just fine.” He looks over the interns and residents who aren’t currently on a case, deciding which one won’t lose all professionalism the moment they’re faced with a veritable star. “Santos, you’re with me.”

Santos stares at him, the energy drink she was planning on taking a sip from paused halfway to her lips. The residents are on only their second week of night shift and are still getting used to life on the dark side, including the quirks of their new boss. Shen says he scares them, but that’s ridiculous; they all worked the PittFest mass cas with him just fine!

(Although…maybe that’s why they’re a little wary? The fact that the one and only time they interacted with him was during a pretty traumatic event where he was barking out orders? Oh well, that’s a conversation for his next therapy appointment.)

“Me?” Santos points to herself.

He has to fight himself from rolling his eyes. “Unless there’s somebody else here named Santos?”

“No, no sir.” She loops her stethoscope around her neck again and hurries after Jack, already halfway to North 3.

He pauses just outside of the doors and pretends to check the tablet in his hands, taking a quick moment to prepare himself for the finality of what comes next. When he and Santos enter the room, he goes against his medical instincts and doesn’t immediately greet the patient.

“Y’know, if you missed me that much, you didn’t have to have somebody stage an injury to see me,” he says.

From the chair next to the hospital bed, you smile. “What can I say, handsome? Our schedules haven’t meshed recently, I needed to get your attention somehow.” 

The two others in the room are watching the exchange with the intensity and confusion of a novice attending Wimbledon. They’re both trying to figure out dynamics here, wondering what’s led to this moment where one seeming stranger is talking to another like they intimately know each other.

Finally, the hospital’s own VIP speaks. “Wait, is this hot doctor boyfriend?”

Though Jack isn’t facing her, he can hear Santos’s gasp as a surprised, “Boyfriend?” falls from her mouth.

You sputter while trying to remember how words work, and Jack laughs. “That was said to you in confidence, man!” you complain.

Jack steps closer to the bed and holds out his hand. “I guess that’s me. Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Sidney Crosby (the part of Jack that’s watched hockey since he was a little kid sitting in the den with his dad tries not to start freaking out) raises the hand that’s not currently in a sling to shake Jack’s. “Sidney. Call me Sid.”

He’s a little too starstruck to feel comfortable calling him a nickname like Sid, but it’s nice to have a friendly patient every once in a while.

Behind him, Santos’s thumbs surreptitiously tap on her phone, surely letting every resident in this hospital know that Jack Abbot is off the market. Jack rolls his neck, looks at Santos until she realizes she’s been caught and puts her phone in her scrubs pocket, and gets to work as best as he can.

“It’s already in your chart, but I want to hear it from you,” Jack says. “How’d you end up in the sling?”

“Jarry dumped a puck behind the net that couldn’t be iced. I went to chase after it and got checked, but hit the boards wrong. Felt a popping and pain right away, which is never good,” Sidney explains.

“I’m guessing this isn’t your first dislocation?” Jack asks, helping to remove the sling so he can examine the injury.

“Far from it.” Sidney’s scoff is cut off by a pained groan when Jack begins to feel the joint. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt like a bitch.”

“You need some meds?”

“We administered 600 milligrams of ibuprofen at the arena,” you supply. “A little morphine wouldn’t hurt.”

“Santos?” Jack turns to look at the resident.

“On it,” she says, already heading to grab the needed supplies.

“Your staff is diagnosing it as a dislocation, too?” Jack asks you.

“Like Sid said, he reported his pain as immediate and swelling has continued since the incident, which are two of the biggest indicators for dislocation. A preliminary exam at the rink says dislocation as well. We’re confident in that diagnosis but need imaging to confirm,” you report.

Santos, who’s returned with morphine and is working on drawing it up, looks at you. “You’re a doctor, too?”

You shake your head. “Athletic trainer. I work for the Penguins.”

“Nice.” She grins as she injects the morphine through the IV (Jack’s not sure if she’s smiling at your career or getting to do tasks related to her job). 

Sidney relaxes almost immediately, the morphine quickly going to work. Jack takes the opportunity to finish his exam, confirming what everybody’s expected. “Your shoulder’s definitely dislocated. I’ll push you to the front of the CT line, and pending results, we’ll hopefully be able to pop it back in within the hour.”

Jack grabs the tablet and puts in the orders, adding, “Yes, it’s THAT Sidney Crosby” in the ‘notes’ section in the hopes that radiology will actually take him seriously.

“I gotta know,” Sidney asks you, “how did you and hot doctor boyfriend meet?”

“You remember when the front office gave us all tickets to the Steelers game in September?” He nods. “I was tailgating with some friends from marketing when a fight broke out in the spot next to ours. Fists started swinging and one almost got me when I turned around to see what was going on. Jack pulled me out of the way just in time.”

“I was a goner the moment you reared around with your fists raised like you thought I was going to fight you,” Jack recalls fondly.

You’re about to respond when your phone buzzes, and you look down. Though you don’t say anything, Sidney seems to already know what you’re looking at and grins.

“Tanger or Geno?” Sidney guesses.

You laugh lightly. “Tanger. Wanting to know if they’ve popped the shoulder back in yet.”

“Didn’t the game just finish?” Santos asks.

“Ten minutes ago, if that. Kris Letang’s an impatient one.”

“Holy shit, that’s so cool,” Santos whispers under her breath from the biohazard disposal receptacle near the sink, a rare crack in the badass persona she tries so hard to maintain at work.

“We win?” Sidney wonders.

“2-1,” you confirm.

Mary knocks before popping her head into the room. “CT’s ready.”

“Santos, go with?” Jack steps towards her and lowers his voice. “Make sure that nobody hassles him.”

She nods and takes one side of the bed, a couple of members of the transport team taking the other. You rise from the chair and move to Sidney’s side, stealing his phone and other personal items so that he doesn’t have to worry about them getting lost (or, god forbid, stolen by some superfan working tonight).

“You’re in good hands, okay?” you reassure. “See you soon, Sid.”

He gives you a halfhearted wave and then is gone. The room, so quickly full of life as doctors and nurses filed in and out to provide care, has gone quiet just as fast.

Just another day in the ER. 

Now that it’s silent, Jack gets the joy of focusing his full attention on you for the first time today. To his pleasure, he finds you looking at him already, eyes and smile both soft.

“Hi,” you greet.

“Hi.” It’s breaking so many hospital protocols to give you a kiss, but he can’t resist a quick one. Not when you’re standing there in your team-issued quarter-zip and ice-friendly tennis shoes, looking very professional (Robby’s right—he really is whipped). “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too. How was Reneé’s concert?”

Jack smiles, pleased that you remembered. “Good! She killed her solo.”

“Oh good, I know you said she was nervous…” you trail off, looking over Jack’s shoulder and out the door. “Why are they staring?”

When he turns his head, he sees a small group of residents and interns curiously peering inside to see that Jack Abbot does have a life outside of work. Of course, they all scatter like marbles upon realizing that they’ve been caught. Javadi’s the last one to run, stuck like a deer in headlights until Mohan pulls her along. “I…may have not told anybody except for Robby and a couple of close friends here that I was seeing someone.”

“Jack!” You sound scandalized, but he can tell by the grin you sport that there’s no offense behind it. “We’ve been dating for six months now.” 

“I’m not in the business of telling everybody my business. And you’re one to talk! I’m just ‘hot doctor boyfriend’ when you’re at work?” He can’t help but smile as he says it, from both the name and the fact that somebody cares about him enough to call him such a thing.

“Hot doctor boyfriend is fun to say! Adds some mystery to my life. Plus, hockey players are terrible gossips. It gives them something to talk about.”

“Maybe I was trying to do the same. Add some mystery to my life.”

You roll your eyes, knowing that he’s full of shit. “Sure, Mr. Brick Wall.”

“I think I prefer hot doctor boyfriend.” He earns himself a kiss for that. Screw propriety, he thinks as he leans in and steals a couple more precious seconds. 

“We should go out there,” you murmur against his lips, “they’re gonna think we’re hiding.”

Jack sighs before pulling away, knowing that you’re right. “Or, and hear me out, we just stay here, away from the interns, and wait for Sidney to get back.”

Your eyes catch somebody else outside. “Aw, but he looks nice!” 

Whitaker waves, sandwich in hand. When Jack shoots a stern look through the doorway, he quickly scurries off.

“You’re being too social for my taste,” he complains.

“Blame it on still being in work mode.” He can understand why a person would need to be personable in a stadium with almost 20,000 screaming fans, and he does not envy you at all.

“You and I have very different definitions of work mode.”

“My sweet, anti-social man,” you coo, patting his cheek affectionately before taking his hand and leading him to the door against his better judgment. “C’mon, let’s go say hi to everyone before Sid gets back and we both have to be professionals again.”

[amorosityy]

DAYLIGHT || masterlist.

pairing. dr. jack abbot x ex-military!f!reader

summary. jack abbot has been standing on the ledge for too long. the arrival of a new intern forces him to realize that not everything is as bleak as it seems, and he doesn't have to suffer alone.

general warnings. mentions of past trauma (shooting, injury, chronic pain), suicidal ideation, and death of a spouse, age gap (reader is 25 in the beginning and jack is 44-45), typical the pitt warnings, suggestive content, no use of y/n (reader's last name is read and her nickname in the military was bee)

─ content

↝ internship (year 1) || 2022

the edge || the first night || daughter of mine ||

─ miscellaneous

playlist

author's note. welcome to my first the pitt story! i hope y'all enjoy it!

[amorosityy]

i feel so bad that i haven't posted the first actual chapter of daylight yet, but i really want it to be well done and i was working out how i want to set up this story...so basically it's going to be parts and they will be put on chronological order on the masterlist but i might not post them that way because i have so many ideas for different parts in different stages of their relationship

the first part "the first night" is coming soon, i hope to have it out by monday!

[erwinsvow]

jack abbot would stumble onto a pretty, broke student who comes into his emergency room at three am after burning her hand trying to make hot chocolate and immediately starts stuttering and can’t complete a sentence because her doctor is cute. like movies and grey’s anatomy level cute and you’re the idiot who looks like a five year old talking about your stove top hot chocolate with milk not water and mini marshmallows because he’s making you nervous. and then after he wraps up your hand and tells you to buy this burn cream to help heal faster he also says something like “don’t try to make hot chocolate half asleep again, kid. just go to bed next time.” and you get embarassed because, duh, but then you have to explain that you actually can’t buy the burn gel because you’re a very poor student and he just kind of sees you in front of him again. wet kitten shivering behind a bush unable to get out a sentence when he prolongs eye contact with very pretty hazel eyes, even in your sleep deprived state at four-thirty when you finally get to leave. so he sends you off with samples of the burn gel and to come back if it starts swelling or gets more painful or infected. and, well, two nights later you think it might be infected though you’re not positive and you definitely don’t have money for another visit but you don’t wanna lose your fingers either so you go back and jack takes care of you again (it’s not infected but it’s good you came in anyways, he says, and your face burns). he gives you a full size of the medicine you couldn’t buy and tells you don’t worry about it kid when you sputter and try to refuse it. and then he sees you again—eight am in a coffee shop working on a paper when he gets off the shift. though you feel stupid doing it, you recognize him and wave and he comes and sits down and though you can barely meet his eyes for half the conversation, you do keep talking and he doesn’t like that you bought the smallest size coffee and no breakfast because your paper’s not even half done, you definitely need more of both. well he buys you a coffee (large!) and a bagel (you don’t know how he knew you favorite kind but he did) against your persistent refusal. and he brings it back to your table and you kind of sheepishly say “you should stop because i’m gonna get used to this” and jack says “maybe you should.” and anyways that’s how you end up as jack abbot’s sugar baby.

[amorosityy]

a day in the life || sneak peak

dr. jack abbot & robby’s daughter!reader (platonic, uncle-niece vibes), dr. michael “robby” robinavitch & daughter!reader

warnings — mentions of abbot’s suicidal tendencies, child abandonment, dead–beat parent (reader’s mom has a name and is a bad mom), no use of y/n, third person perspective (no physical descriptions involved other than t–shirt/jeans), reader is referred to as Robby Jr., kid, and bug, can technically be read as an unnamed, non–descript oc if that’s what you like (tried to keep it open for as many readers as possible, if you want it written with “you,” lmk and i’ll see what i can do.)

author's note — if you're interested in seeing the rest of this, please lmk!

HOUR ZERO — 6:00 A.M.

DR. ROBINAVITCH never had any issue with getting his daughter to come to the Pitt with him; as a first year med student, she lived for the experience of being in a hospital. She looked like a kid in a candy store as she was stationed at the central desk, watching new patients pop up on the board.

He had begun taking her when she was fifteen; at that point, she had long since decided to become a doctor and had been begging for a chance to see the Pitt for years. Everyone on the staff had immediately loved her, she was bright, funny, and full of life. Everyone referred to her as Robby Jr. from then on. 

She had immediately taken a liking to Dr. Jack Abbot, who happened to be Robby’s best friend, even if they both denied it. Even though his wife had passed some five years before, the loss was still fresh to him, and he was as dark and broody as ever. 

Robby’s daughter had taken that as a challenge to get him to warm up to her, and in the six years they had known each other, she had done a pretty good job. Sometimes, even on a particularly rough night, Robby asked her to keep Jack company – if her schedule allowed. She always did without complaint. 

Jack went along with whatever she wanted, even if he pretended to grumble about it. Robby liked to think she helped him on the rougher days. 

She inadvertently helped cheer people up, one of the reasons he thought she would be such a good doctor. Maybe it was why when he found her making an iced latte at six in the morning on her day off, he asked if she’d like to come to the Pitt with him.

Even if he didn’t want to admit it, it would be a rough day, having her there might assuage it somewhat. 

“Of course I’ll come, Dad!” She said, leaving to quickly get herself ready for the day. They left the house together sometime after 6:40 A.M. 

[kmc1989]

[amorosityy]

i am so on it

[amorosityy]

a day in the life || sneak peak

dr. jack abbot & robby’s daughter!reader (platonic, uncle-niece vibes), dr. michael “robby” robinavitch & daughter!reader

warnings — mentions of abbot’s suicidal tendencies, child abandonment, dead–beat parent (reader’s mom has a name and is a bad mom), no use of y/n, third person perspective (no physical descriptions involved other than t–shirt/jeans), reader is referred to as Robby Jr., kid, and bug, can technically be read as an unnamed, non–descript oc if that’s what you like (tried to keep it open for as many readers as possible, if you want it written with “you,” lmk and i’ll see what i can do.)

author's note — if you're interested in seeing the rest of this, please lmk!

HOUR ZERO — 6:00 A.M.

DR. ROBINAVITCH never had any issue with getting his daughter to come to the Pitt with him; as a first year med student, she lived for the experience of being in a hospital. She looked like a kid in a candy store as she was stationed at the central desk, watching new patients pop up on the board.

He had begun taking her when she was fifteen; at that point, she had long since decided to become a doctor and had been begging for a chance to see the Pitt for years. Everyone on the staff had immediately loved her, she was bright, funny, and full of life. Everyone referred to her as Robby Jr. from then on. 

She had immediately taken a liking to Dr. Jack Abbot, who happened to be Robby’s best friend, even if they both denied it. Even though his wife had passed some five years before, the loss was still fresh to him, and he was as dark and broody as ever. 

Robby’s daughter had taken that as a challenge to get him to warm up to her, and in the six years they had known each other, she had done a pretty good job. Sometimes, even on a particularly rough night, Robby asked her to keep Jack company – if her schedule allowed. She always did without complaint. 

Jack went along with whatever she wanted, even if he pretended to grumble about it. Robby liked to think she helped him on the rougher days. 

She inadvertently helped cheer people up, one of the reasons he thought she would be such a good doctor. Maybe it was why when he found her making an iced latte at six in the morning on her day off, he asked if she’d like to come to the Pitt with him.

Even if he didn’t want to admit it, it would be a rough day, having her there might assuage it somewhat. 

“Of course I’ll come, Dad!” She said, leaving to quickly get herself ready for the day. They left the house together sometime after 6:40 A.M. 

[erwinsvow]

thinking so many angsty thoughts about jack abbot x ex!reader who ended on not-so-friendly, bittersweet terms and trauma surgeon!reader (instead of dr. walsh) witnessing jack genuinely flirt with mohan 😵‍💫

this is an incredible prompt but much much too sad for me. everything in these shows makes me so angsty already i can't do that to my poor readers too!!! they need to be happy😭 all i can say is that this would feel like getting your heart ripped in half because you can probably distinctly remember when jack flirted with you like that and encouraged you and praised you and everyone around you guys stared because of how obvious you two were being. and it's not nearly as fun from the other side of the door because i can also distinctly say he probably ended things because of the age difference and not seeing each other because of different shifts getting to him. so yeah this would rip me in half and you need to write this because i would 1000% read it while eating a chocolate bar and crying but could not write it sadly. :(

[amorosityy]

walsh's little sister!reader who is a recent attending (and besties with shen, i imagine) and she sees abbot flirting with mohan, and goes up to the roofs to get some air, and jack comes to find her but she doesn't want to talk to him.

"...you said you were worried about our age gap...but mohan is younger than me...so what was it really?"

[haztory]

so the new york knicks are going to the playoffs…………………

i have the opportunity to do the funniest thing with jack and city girl

[haztory]

It’s stuck in his head.

The opening brass notes to Frank Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York’ plays on repeat, catching him at the most inopportune times. When he’s scanning the vending machine for a snack, inputting notes on the computer, in the middle of intubating a patient.

Your fault.

He hears it every time you pass him in the halls, the humming. The melodic tune that dances on the sterile air every corner he turns. You haven’t said anything to him directly yet, but that’s less out of luck and more out of a strategic design.

He knows it’s coming. He’s waiting for it. No one successfully swipes $160 from three CNAs, two nurses, the security guard, and two interns after a basketball game—a game in which he pointedly told you the Knicks wouldn’t win, a game that was a sure loss until the last fourteen seconds, a game that resulted in the entire ER waiting room, patients and staff alike, shouting in surprise, a game that only you betted on the Knicks for—and doesn’t go around bragging about it.

He manages to make two hours being mercifully spared from your gloating. Until he exits the bathroom and finds you leaning against the wall. Waiting.

He looks at you, expectantly. Your smile is shit-eating.

“I’ll waive the twenty if you say it.” You tell him and he scoffs.

“I’m not saying it.”

“I’m making your life so much easier. Just say it.”

“I won’t.”

“Knicks—“

“—No.”

“—in five.”

“Not happening.”

“Alright then pay up. Make my one-sixty, one-eighty.”

“You always rob men outside the bathroom?”

“Gotta catch them with their pants down.” You smirk.

He pushes off to the side with a heavy exhale, fishing out his wallet and pulling out the twenty dollar bill he bet off of pure pettiness. He offers it between two fingers, which you gladly take. Your face all too pleased.

“Thank you.” You sing, turning on your heel and walking down the hallway without so much as a look back.

“Watch out for the 76ers next year.” He calls out to you.

“In your dreams, old man.”

His eyes linger on as you walk away. A pep in your step and a song lyric sung into the air.

“Start spreading the news—“

And God, New Yorkers are annoying—

—but he’ll make room for one.