toasty @maybetoast - Tumblr Blog

𝗕𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝗕𝗼𝘁𝗵 𝗢𝘂𝗿 𝗕𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘀- 𝗠.𝗥.

Pairing- Michael Robinavitch x Abbot!Reader

WC- 7.6k (i'm so sorry yall idk what my problem is)

Summary- You’re planning a surprise party for your brother, Jack. Your secret relationship with his best friend threatens to blow the whole thing up.

Contains- 18+ SMUT MDNI, unprotected p in v (bad idea!!! bc always!!!) oral (m and f receiving), this is honestly just nasty sorry yall, robby being a bitch as always, he tries to be mean and dominant but is Down Bad, they kind of take turns as the brat and the brat tamer, r is bestie with pittlings, alcohol usage, brief mention of park the shark but purely to move the plot forward, trinity being a messy gay, nearly getting caught teehee

A/N- divider from @enchanthings! Obsessed with @mariasont’s abbot!reader and i wanted to take a stab at it <3 as always thank you to my bestie @whatif-ialreadydid for being the best beta reader!

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 || ʀᴀʙʙᴏᴛ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇsʜᴏᴛ||

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 michael "robby" robinivitch x female!reader x jack abbot (polycule)

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 2.1k

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 SMUT, 18+, MDNI, Polycule, established relationship, voyeurism (if you squint), oral (f!recieving), dom jack, pleasure focused robby, unprotected piv (don't be silly wrap your willy), anal, praise, overstimulation, not proofread

The pale grey of early dawn filters through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the rumpled sheets. You're barely awake, still floating in that warm haze between sleep and consciousness, when you feel the mattress dip beside you. The familiar scent of Robby's soap– something clean and clinical, like him– fills your senses before his hand even touches your thigh.

"Mmm..." You stretch into his touch, eyes still closed. "What time is it?"

"Early," he murmurs, his voice that low, gravelly thing it gets when he hasn't had coffee yet. "Shift starts in an hour. Couldn't leave without..." His hand slides higher, fingers grazing the hem of the oversized t-shirt you stole from Jack's closet. "Without tasting this pretty cunt."

Your breath catches. This is Robby's thing, he could wake you up like this every single morning and you'd never complain. The way he worships you, like you're something precious he can't quite believe he gets to have.

"Robby..." You open your eyes to find him already positioned between your legs, still dressed in yesterday's scrubs, his grey-streaked hair mussed from sleep. He looks tired– he always looks tired– but there's a warmth in his eyes that softens all the hard edges.

"Just relax, sweetheart." His hands push the shirt up, exposing your bare thighs, the curve of your hips. "Let me take care of you before the world gets its claws in you."

He doesn't wait for an answer. His mouth descends, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, working his way inward with deliberate slowness. You're already slick from sleep and want, and when his tongue finally drags through your soaked folds, you gasp, fingers tangling in his salt-and-pepper hair.

"That's it," he breathes against your pussy, the vibration making you shudder. "God, you taste incredible. Sweet and wet, just for me."

Robby's tongue works you like he's got all the time in the world, even though he probably needs to leave in twenty minutes. He licks broad and flat up your slit before focusing on your clit, circling that swollen little bud with the tip of his tongue, then sucking gently. Your hips buck, but his strong hands pin you down, holding you open for him.

"Please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for. More? Don't stop?

"Shh, I've got you." He doubles down, lapping at your clit with increasing pressure, one thick finger sliding inside your dripping hole, then two. His fingers curl, finding that soft spongy spot deep inside, and your vision goes blurry. His beard scratches against your inner thighs, a delicious friction that grounds you in the moment.

Your eyes flutter closed, lost in the sensation. The room is quiet except for your soft moans and the wet sounds of Robby's mouth working your cunt. You're so close already, that familiar heat coiling low in your belly, when–

A throat clears.

You and Robby freeze.

Your eyes snap open to find Jack standing in the doorway, still wearing his jacket, his face unreadable. He must have just gotten off his shift. His grey hair is disheveled, stubble shadows his jaw, and there's a tension in his shoulders that could mean anything.

Robby pulls back slowly, a string of your slick still connecting his tongue to your wet pussy. "Jack. Didn't hear you come in."

"Clearly." Jack's voice is dry, but there's no real anger in it. He steps further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. "Working today, huh?"

"Yeah." Robby wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking almost sheepish. "Just... saying goodbye."

Jack's eyes travel from Robby's flushed face down to where you're spread open, t-shirt bunched around your waist, your thighs glistening, your cunt wet and used. Something dark flickers in his gaze– jealousy, maybe, or hunger. His jaw tightens.

"Don't stop on my account."

The command hangs in the air. Robby looks at you, questioning, and you nod, breathless. Whatever Jack wants, you trust him. You trust them both.

Jack settles onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Without hurry, he reaches down and releases the pressure valve of his prosthetic leg, setting it aside with a practiced motion. He's in just his jeans and a henley now, and the vulnerability of that, the way he trusts you both enough to be seen like this, makes your heart clench.

"Go on," Jack says, his voice rough. "Show me what you were doing to our girl's cunt."

Robby doesn't need to be told twice. He lowers his head again, immediately finding your clit with his tongue, and you cry out at the renewed sensation. But now there's an audience, and Jack's eyes are burning into you, watching every twitch, every gasp as Robby's mouth works your pussy.

"Fuck, look at her," Jack mutters, and you hear the rustle of fabric– he's palming his hard cock through his jeans. "She's so goddamn pretty like this. Look at that wet cunt, Robby. You've got her dripping."

You're teetering on the edge, but then Jack shifts, scooting closer. His hand lands on your thigh, squeezing once before he slides two fingers into you without warning. You're so wet that they sink in easily, the stretch making you moan, the sound lewd and desperate.

Jack's fingers curl, finding that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes. At the same time, Robby sucks your clit into his mouth, and the combination is too much. You come with a broken cry, your back arching off the mattress as your pussy clenches around Jack's fingers, your release gushing out in a wet squelch that coats his hand.

"That's it," Jack growls, working you through it, not stopping until you're trembling and oversensitive. "Good fucking girl. But I'm not done yet."

He pulls his fingers out, slick and shining with your cum, and brings them to his mouth. The look he gives you over his knuckles is pure hunger.

"On your hands and knees. Now."

You're too blissed out to argue, even if you wanted to. Robby helps you turn, guiding you onto your hands and knees on the rumpled sheets. But then Jack's hand is on your shoulder, stopping you.

"No. Not yet." He tugs you toward him, positioning you so you're straddling his lap, facing him. His cock is already out, hard and thick, the head flushed a deep red, pre-cum beading at the slit. "You're riding me first."

Your eyes go wide. "But Robby–"

"Robby's going to fuck you from behind while you're on top of me." Jack's voice is low, commanding, his hands gripping your hips. "I want to watch your face when you take his cock. I want to see every expression you make."

Your breath catches. Behind you, you hear Robby shift closer, his hands running up your thighs, spreading you wider over Jack's lap. His cock brushes against your soaked entrance, the fat head pressing against your hole.

"Just like that," Jack murmurs, his dark eyes locked on yours. "Sit on my cock, sweetheart. Let me feel that tight cunt."

You sink down onto him, taking his thick length inch by inch. The stretch burns in the best way, your inner walls clenching around him, and when you're fully seated, his balls pressed against your ass, you both groan. His hands find your hips, steadying you.

"Fuck," Jack breathes. "Feel that, Robby? She's so fucking tight. Squeezing me like a fist."

Behind you, Robby presses the head of his cock against your asshole, and you tense. "Easy," he soothes, his hand rubbing your lower back. "I've got you. Just relax, sweetheart."

You force your muscles to loosen, and he pushes in slowly, the stretch overwhelming. You're so full, between Jack's cock stretching your cunt and Robby's cock pushing into your tight ass, every nerve ending on fire. Jack's hands grip your hips, holding you steady, his eyes never leaving your face.

"There you go," Jack whispers, watching you. "Look at you. Taking both of us. So fucking beautiful."

They find a rhythm together, Jack thrusting up into your pussy while Robby fucks your ass from behind. The dual sensation is too much, pleasure building from both holes, and you cry out, tears pricking at your eyes.

"Please, please–"

"Please what?" Jack's hand cups your face, forcing you to look at him. "Use your words, baby."

"Please, I need.." You can barely form sentences as Robby slams into you from behind, the angle hitting something deep inside. "I'm gonna come.."

"Not yet." Jack's voice is firm, but his thumb brushes your lower lip, gentle. "Not until I say so. You can hold it."

You shake your head frantically, but Robby's hand wraps around your hip, his pace never slowing. "You can do it, sweetheart. Be a good girl and hold it for us."

The pressure builds relentlessly, your ass stuffed full of Robby's cock while Jack fucks your dripping cunt. They're using you, filling you, and you're so close you're sobbing with it, tears streaming down your face.

"Now." Jack's voice breaks through the haze. "Come for me. Come on my cock while Robby fucks that tight ass."

The permission breaks the dam. Your orgasm crashes through you, violent and consuming, your pussy clenching around Jack's cock, your ass tight around Robby's. You hear yourself scream, feel your cum gush out around Jack's shaft, soaking his thighs.

"That's it," Jack groans, his hips snapping up into you. "Fuck, yes, squeeze my cock just like that–"

Behind you, Robby groans, his rhythm faltering. "I'm gonna–"

"Fill her ass," Jack commands. "Fill her up."

Robby buries himself deep, and you feel his cock pulse, hot cum flooding your ass in thick spurts. He collapses forward, his chest pressing to your back, panting against your shoulder.

But Jack isn't done. He shifts, still buried inside your pussy, and you gasp at the movement. "Not yet, sweetheart. I need more."

Robby pulls out slowly, his cum already leaking from your stretched asshole, trickling down your thighs. Jack's hands guide you, keeping you on his lap, his cock still hard inside you.

"Ride me," Jack says, his voice rough. "Come on, baby. Move those hips."

You're exhausted, your muscles shot, every nerve screaming with overstimulation. But you try, lifting yourself up and sinking back down, the motion making you whimper.

"That's it. Just like that."

Robby settles beside you, his hand finding your hip, helping you move. His mouth presses to your shoulder, soft kisses trailing up your neck. "You're doing so good," he whispers. "Such a good girl. Taking Jack's cock so well."

"I can't," you sob, your hips faltering. "I can't, I'm too–"

"Yes you can." Jack's hand cups your face again, forcing your gaze to meet his. "You can take it. You can take everything I give you. Now move."

Robby's hand slides between your legs, finding your clit, swollen and slick with your combined juices. He circles it gently, apologetically, and the sensation makes you jolt.

"I know, baby, I know it's sensitive," Robby murmurs. "But you're almost there. One more. Give Jack one more."

Jack thrusts up into you, meeting your weakening movements, his cock hitting that spot deep inside. Robby's fingers keep working your clit, relentless, and you're sobbing now, completely overwhelmed.

"That's it," Jack growls, his pace increasing. "I can feel you clenching around me. You're gonna come again, aren't you? Gonna soak my cock with your pretty cum."

"Please, please, I can't–"

"Yes you can." Jack's voice softens, just barely. "Come for me, baby. Come on my cock. Let me feel you."

The orgasm rips through you, brutal and intense, your body convulsing as you come undone. Your pussy clenches around Jack's cock, milking him, and he groans, his hips slamming up into you once, twice, three times before he's spilling inside you, hot cum flooding your already-full cunt.

"Fuck," he breathes, his head falling back. "Fuck."

The three of you collapse together, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and heaving breaths. Your cunt is dripping, both men's cum leaking from you, soaking the sheets beneath you. The room smells of sex, of sweat and cum and the three of you.

Jack's hand comes up to stroke your hair, gentle now. "You okay?"

You can only nod, your voice gone.

Robby presses a kiss to your shoulder. "I really do have to go."

Jack snorts. "Yeah, you reek of pussy and ass. The whole ER's gonna know."

"Worth it." Robby pulls on fresh scrubs, but pauses at the door, looking back. "Tonight?"

"Tonight," you manage, your voice hoarse.

When the door clicks shut, Jack's arm wraps around you, pulling you into his side. "Sleep," he grumbles. "Gonna need your strength for later."

You're already half-asleep, floating on the warmth of his body and the feel of his cum still leaking from your used cunt.

"Promises, promises," you murmur.

His laugh rumbles through his chest, and he pulls you closer.

#rabbot #rabbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #rabbot x you #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot smut #michael robinavich x you #michael robinavitch smut #the pitt smut #smut

frank.

anon just sent “frank.” and honestly i respected the vision immediately. i had very little to work with here so i kind of just grabbed the prompt and ran with it, but hopefully this turned into something soft and worthwhile anyway. definitely a little more emotional than i expected when i started writing it, but that tends to happen with frank.

𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader

summary: meeting frank's kids for the first time.

wordcount: 2.1k

warnings: none.. literally- just pure fluff.

You throw up a little in your mouth on the drive over.

Not actually. But almost. The nausea has been sitting in your stomach since yesterday, this low-grade rolling wrongness that you'd initially attributed to the sad desk salad you had for lunch and have since accepted is just fear. Pure, uncomplicated, humiliating fear.

You're going to meet his kids today.

You knew this was coming. You'd even said, three weeks ago, with the confidence of someone who had not yet thought very hard about it: yeah, whenever you're ready, no pressure, it'll be fine. You had believed yourself when you said it. That felt like a different era of your life now. A more innocent time.

The thing is— you're good with patients. You're good with people. You've talked a man down from a ledge (metaphorically), you've held a stranger's hand through the worst moment of their life, you've stayed calm in rooms where calm was the hardest possible thing to be. You are competent. You are capable. You have a whole personality.

But Tanner is four. Penny is two. And they are Frank's, which means they matter more than almost anything you can think of, and that means this is the highest-stakes thing you have walked into in recent memory, and your body has apparently decided to process this through the medium of gastrointestinal distress.

You text your friend from a red light: what if they hate me

She responds immediately: kids don't hate people

You: what if they're indifferent to me

Her: you're spiraling

You: what if I don't know how to talk to a four year old

Her: you talk to drunk adults all day. same energy.

You stare at that for a second. It is not helpful. You put your phone in your bag.

The light turns green. Your stomach turns over.

Frank opens the door before you knock, which means he was watching for you, which means he is also nervous, and somehow that makes everything worse and better simultaneously.

He looks at your face and immediately says, "You okay?"

"Great," you say. Your voice sounds normal. You're proud of it.

He steps back to let you in, and you can tell right away that he's been stress-cleaning. The apartment is immaculate in the particular way of someone who needed something to do with their hands. He's also stress-cooked— there's something in the oven that smells like garlic and butter, and the table is set with the kind of deliberate care that suggests he moved things around at least twice.

He's wearing a soft gray henley and he has that look on his face— the open, slightly-helpless one he gets when he's feeling something he can't manage his way out o — and you love him so much it briefly eclipses the nausea.

Briefly.

"They're not here yet," he says. "Abby's dropping them at four."

You check your phone. Three forty-two.

Eighteen minutes.

"Great," you say again.

Frank tilts his head. "Talk to me."

"I'm fine."

"You look like you're about to either run a marathon or pass out."

"I'm not going to pass out." You set your bag down on the counter and press your hands flat against the cool surface and exhale. "I'm just—" You stop. Start again. "What if they don't like me?"

Frank opens his mouth.

"And don't say they're going to love me," you say, "because you don't know that. They're small people with their own opinions and Tanner is apparently extremely particular—"

"He is," Frank agrees, which is not helpful.

"and I don't know how to talk to a four-year-old, Frank, I talk to adults, and even that's hit or miss—"

"You're incredible with people—"

"Adults who are having a medical crisis are a captive audience, it's different—"

"Hey." He crosses to you and puts both hands on your shoulders. Steady. The way he gets when things are moving fast. "Hey. Look at me."

You look at him.

"First of all," he says, "your hands are shaking."

You look at your hands. They are, a little. Traitors.

"Second of all." He squeezes your shoulders once. "I know you're scared. I was scared the first time I brought someone around them too. It's—" He exhales. "It's a lot to ask of everybody."

"You've done this before?" You don't know why that surprises you.

"Once. A while ago." He doesn't elaborate and you don't push it. "The point is, there is no version of today where you walk out of here and they hate you. Penny talks to every person she meets within thirty seconds. Tanner is—" He pauses. "Tanner takes longer. He's like me."

"That's not reassuring."

"I grew on you."

"You really did," you admit, and some of the tension breaks, and you breathe.

He pulls you in and you press your face against his collarbone and he wraps his arms around you and you stand there in his kitchen that smells like garlic and butter with your heart doing something too fast behind your ribs.

"They're just kids," he says quietly.

"They're your kids."

He's quiet for a second. "Yeah," he says. "They are."

That's the whole thing, isn't it. That's why your hands are shaking.

The intercom buzzes at three fifty-seven, because Abby runs early, and you learn this about her in the first three seconds of knowing her name.

She's polite. Efficient. She does the handoff with the practiced ease of someone who has made peace with the logistics of this, the diaper bag transferred and the instructions delivered (Penny's been fussy about dinner, Tanner had a big day, don't let him tell you he doesn't have a bedtime because he does) and then she's gone, and there are two kids in the doorway.

You look at them.

They look at you.

Tanner has Frank's eyes exactly— bright and assessing— and he has an Avengers backpack and an air of someone conducting a quiet investigation. He looks you up and down once and then very deliberately looks away, toward something across the apartment, and begins moving toward it. A tablet. He has already identified it, assessed its location, and initiated retrieval. He is four years old and he already has the hyperfocus and you feel a wild rush of affection that surprises you.

Frank intercepts him. Scoops him up mid-mission, spins him, and Tanner shrieks and laughs despite himself.

"Say hi," Frank says.

"Hi," Tanner says, at the floor.

Progress.

And then there's Penny.

Penny is the size of a strong opinion. She has two pigtails that are slightly uneven and a dress with strawberries on it and she is holding a stuffed rabbit by one ear and she has stopped completely in the doorway and is staring at you with her whole face.

Your stomach does the thing again.

You don't think— some reflex takes over, some emergency protocol buried deep in whatever part of you knows things you don't know you know— and you crouch down. Eye level.

"Hi," you say.

Penny looks at you. Looks at the rabbit. Back at you.

"His name is Mop," she says.

Whatever you expected, it wasn't that. "Mop?"

She nods. Very serious.

"That is an excellent name," you say, and you mean it genuinely, and maybe she can tell you mean it, because she takes one step into the apartment. Then another.

She stops two feet away from you and holds Mop up.

It takes you a second to understand that this is an offering. An introduction. You look at Mop carefully, with the gravity the moment requires. He is extremely soft and has one button eye.

"He has one eye," Penny says.

"I noticed. Does that bother him?"

Penny considers this with the seriousness of a small philosopher. "No," she decides. "He can still see."

"Very resilient," you say.

Something shifts in her face— some calculation, some conclusion reached— and then she crosses the remaining distance and puts Mop directly into your hands.

You take him. You hold him carefully.

You look up and Frank is watching you over Tanner's head with an expression you have to look away from before you do something embarrassing.

Dinner is an event.

Tanner does not stop moving. He eats three bites, establishes that he has opinions about the pasta shape, and then pivots completely to telling you about a show involving two frogs and a boat and an adventure that escalates in detail with every sentence. You cannot find the narrative thread but you follow it anyway, asking questions at what seem like appropriate moments, and each time you do, Tanner's eyes get a little wider, like he's recalibrating.

"Do you like frogs?" he demands suddenly.

"I think frogs are fascinating," you say.

He points at you with his fork. "She likes frogs, Dad."

"I heard," Frank says.

"You should get her one."

Frank looks at you. You look at Frank. "I'm okay without a frog," you say carefully.

Tanner ignores this. "You could name it Gerald," he says. "Or Stormbreaker." He chews thoughtfully. "Gerald Stormbreaker."

"That's a full name," you say.

"He'd live in the bathtub."

"Bud," Frank says. "Eat."

Tanner eats two more bites and then tells you three additional things about Gerald Stormbreaker's hypothetical life, and you listen to all of them, and by the end of it you are genuinely invested in a fictional frog.

Beside you, Penny eats with focused efficiency. She finishes. She surveys your plate.

"You didn't eat that part," she says, pointing.

"I'm not a big mushroom person," you admit.

Penny looks at the mushrooms. Looks at you. "I don't like mushrooms either." she says. Then she goes back to her plate.

You feel, inexplicably, like you've passed something.

After dinner Frank takes them through the wind-down routine, you can hear Tanner's voice from the other room, still going, the frog narrative apparently having a third act and you sit on the couch and look at your hands and notice that they've stopped shaking.

Penny reappears before Frank does. She has Mop back and she's had her face washed, you can tell, and she walks over to the couch and stops in front of you and stares.

"Hi," you say.

She lifts her arms.

Oh.

You pick her up. She's heavier than she looks, solid and warm, and she turns herself around so her back is against your chest and she just settles there. Like a decision she's made. Like you're somewhere she's already determined is safe.

You look at the top of her head. Her uneven pigtails. The rabbit tucked under her arm.

You have worked in emergency medicine for years. You have kept your hands steady in rooms full of chaos. You have never once teared up on shift because you were trained not to and you are professional and you are fine, but something about this small person choosing you, just choosing you like it's easy, like it's nothing.

Frank comes out and stops in the doorway.

He looks at the two of you for a moment. You look back at him over Penny's head.

"Tanner wants to know," he says quietly, "if you're coming back next time."

Your breath catches. "What did you tell him?"

Frank crosses the room and sits beside you, close enough that his arm presses against yours. He looks at Penny, already drooping toward sleep, and then at you.

"I told him that was up to you," he says.

You think about Tanner and Gerald Stormbreaker. You think about Mop, handed to you within three minutes of meeting him, which you understand now was enormous. You think about your hands shaking in this kitchen an hour ago and how far away that feels.

"Tell him yeah," you say. "Definitely next time."

Frank doesn't say anything. He just finds your hand on the cushion between you and holds it.

Penny breathes slow and even against your chest.

Outside, it's getting dark.

you spent three days dreading the wrong question. you kept asking yourself: what if they don't like me?

it never occurred to you to ask: what if you love them?

that one's a lot easier to answer.

#the pitt fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #frank langdon x fem reader #frank langdon #frank langdon x reader #frank langdon fanfiction #frank langdon fic #frank langdon fluff #anon request

can you write a reader x jack abbot night out/bar night with the pittlings? like mutual pinning turns into something more with the help of liquid courage

okay wait i loved this request so much because this is exactly the kind of jack abbot dynamic that makes me lose my mind a little. the mutual pining, the emotional awkwardness, the entire group knowing what’s happening before they do, and jack trying so hard to keep himself composed while reader sees straight through him? perfect.

𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐠𝐬 - ᴀ ᴊᴀᴄᴋ ᴀʙʙᴏᴛ ᴏɴᴇsʜᴏᴛ

parings: jack abbot x fem!reader

summary: check anon request

word count: 1.8k

warnings: alcohol consumption, fluff

Trinity had announced the bar night the way she announced most things— as a fait accompli, a statement of fact, a thing that was already happening and simply required everyone's physical presence to complete. There had been a brief resistance from Robby, which she had dismantled in under ninety seconds. Samira and Dennis had agreed immediately. Mel had been the first one to her jacket.

Cassie had come because she'd wanted to, which she'd said plainly, in the way Cassie said most things. I just want a fun night out. No further explanation. Nobody needed one.

Frank had volunteered as DD with the energy of a man who had thought about it and decided this was his purpose tonight. He'd said somebody has to be and looked at Dennis, specifically, who hadn't noticed.

You'd looked at Jack when the plan was announced. He'd already been looking at you.

"You going?" you'd asked.

"Probably," he'd said.

Which was, you'd learned, Jack Abbott for yes.

The bar was the good kind of loud. Not overwhelming— just alive. The kind of place that had been there long enough to stop trying to be anything other than exactly what it was. Dark wood. Good beer. A jukebox that Mel had claimed within three minutes of arriving and was now defending with quiet ferocity.

The pittlings had distributed themselves naturally: Dennis and Samira at the bar in the bright sociable way of people who talked to strangers easily, Robby and Trinity in a booth that had started as a ceasefire and was quietly becoming an actual conversation, Mel at the jukebox with the focused look of a woman on a mission. Frank sat at a corner table with his club soda and the peaceful expression of someone doing exactly what they'd planned to do.

Cassie had her ginger ale and was currently winning some kind of debate with Dennis about something you'd stopped tracking two exchanges ago.

You were on your second drink, sitting at the far end of the bar, and Jack was next to you.

This was not an accident. It had not been an accident any of the times it had happened before, either— the gravitational pull of two people who kept ending up in each other's orbit and had been quietly not talking about it for months. You were aware of it the same way you were aware of a bruise: constantly, without meaning to.

He was on his first drink. He'd been nursing it for a while.

"You're going to make that last all night," you said.

He glanced at you. "Pace myself."

"Into sobriety?"

"Into not being stupid."

You smiled into your glass. "Jack Abbott, afraid of losing control. Shocking. Never would have guessed."

He looked at you sidelong— not annoyed, not quite. There was something underneath the look that was almost wry if you knew where to find it, and you were learning where to find it. "You think that's what it is."

"I think you've had the same drink for forty minutes," you said. "I think you're very comfortable being the most competent person in any room and you don't love what happens when that slips."

A pause. He turned his glass once on the bar. "That's a lot of thinking."

"I'm an observer."

"You're a menace," he said, but quiet, and without any heat in it.

You laughed. He watched you do it.

That was the thing you'd filed away and kept returning to: the way Jack watched you laugh. Like it was something he was paying attention to on purpose. Like he was deciding something.

The night deepened. Mel's jukebox playlist evolved through three distinct phases. Dennis got into a spirited conversation with a stranger about Nebraska sports that Cassie was mediating with the patience of a UN negotiator. Robby, improbably, was still there— three drinks in, still almost smiling, Trinity having apparently cracked something open in him that the week at the Pitt had been slowly working on.

Samira drifted over at some point, looked at the two of you sitting close at the bar, said cozy in a tone of deep satisfaction, and drifted away before either of you could respond.

"We have an audience," Jack said.

"We've had an audience for months," you said. "Trinity has opinions. Frank has a timeline. I think Samira might be keeping notes."

Something moved across his face. He looked down at his drink. "That obvious."

It wasn't really a question. You answered it anyway. "Only to people paying attention."

"And you're paying attention."

"Constantly," you said. "It's extremely inconvenient."

He went quiet for a moment in the way that wasn't absence — it was the opposite, actually, it was Jack being very present and not saying anything yet because he hadn't finished thinking. You'd learned that too.

"I'm not—" he started. Stopped.

You waited.

"I'm not great at this," he said. "Anymore. I don't know if I was ever particularly—" He stopped again. Picked the words up differently. "It's been a long time since I thought this was something I was going to do again."

There it was. The thing underneath the awkwardness, the thing that was heavier than just being rusty.

You looked at him. He was looking ahead, jaw set in the careful way, like he'd said more than he meant to and was braced for whatever came next.

"This," you said. "Meaning—"

"Any of it." A beat. "Wanting someone. Letting it be a thing that exists."

The bar kept going around you, warm and indifferent to the small seismic thing happening at the end of the counter.

"Okay," you said.

He glanced at you. "Okay?"

"I'm not asking you to be good at it," you said. "I'm not..." you gestured at the space between you "I'm not handing you a rubric. I'm just sitting here."

"I know that," he said, a little roughly.

"Do you? Because you've got the face you make when you're bracing for a bad outcome."

"I have a face?"

"Jack. You have so many faces. You think you don't but you have a whole catalogue." You turned toward him slightly. "There's the one where a case is going wrong and you're recalculating. There's the one where Santos says something and you're deciding whether it's worth addressing. There's the one you make when someone says something true that you didn't want said out loud." You paused. "You're doing that last one right now."

He looked at you for a long moment.

"You're kind of a lot," he said.

"I've been told."

"I don't mean it like that."

"I know you don't."

The quiet between you was different now— not waiting, not careful. Just close.

"It's been a long time," he said again, quieter. Like he needed you to actually understand that. Like it wasn't an excuse but a fact he needed to lay down before anything else. Here's what we're working with. Here's what I'm bringing to this.

"I know," you said. And then, because you were two drinks in and Trinity's voice was somewhere in the back of your head saying you're not spending all night doing that thing you do: "I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right? Whatever pace this is. Whatever it looks like." You held his gaze. "I'm not going to flinch because you're out of practice."

Jack Abbott was a man who had things under control. Who kept the chaos of a Level I trauma center from flying apart by sheer force of will and institutional memory and the specific gravity of someone who had decided he was not going to let things fall. You'd watched him do it for months. You'd watched him hold the line through things that would have broken other people and go home and come back and do it again.

He looked, right now, like none of that.

He looked like someone who hadn't been seen in a while and wasn't sure what to do about being seen now.

"I don't know why you're—" he started.

"Because you're worth the patience," you said. Simple. Flat. The way you'd have said anything true. "That's the whole reason. There isn't a more complicated answer."

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

Then he reached over and took your drink out of your hand, set it on the bar, and before you'd quite caught up with what was happening he'd closed the distance and kissed you — careful at first, the way he did everything, like he was making sure, and then less careful, his hand finding your jaw, and it turned out Jack Abbott out of practice still kissed like he meant every word of it.

You heard, from somewhere in the bar, the distinct sound of Trinity Santos saying yes under her breath like she'd been waiting for a very long time.

You pulled back. His hand was still at your jaw.

"That was—" he started.

"Yeah," you said.

"I didn't—"

"Jack." You were smiling. You couldn't help it. "That was good. That was very good. You can stop bracing."

Something shifted in his face. Not quite a smile — but the door to one, open. "Teaching old dogs," he said.

"You're not old."

"I feel it sometimes."

"Then it's a good thing I'm patient," you said.

He looked at you for a long moment, in the warm dark of the bar, with the jukebox playing something slow and Mel looking very pleased about the song choice from across the room, and Frank at his corner table nodding once with the serenity of a man whose timeline had just been confirmed.

"Yeah," Jack said finally, something settling in him that you could actually see. "I guess it is."

Outside, the air was cool and the street was quiet and Frank pulled the car around with the efficiency of a man who had been waiting for exactly this.

Cassie was already at the curb. She looked at the two of you and said nothing, just smiled the small private smile of someone who had noticed things a long time ago and was glad to see them work out.

"You need a ride?" Frank asked.

Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack.

"We'll walk," you said.

Frank nodded. Cassie gave you a look that said good without saying anything at all.

Jack's hand found yours as you turned down the street — a little uncertain, a little deliberate, the gesture of someone re-learning a language they'd thought they'd forgotten.

You held on.

He didn't let go.

The city was quiet. The night was cold and clear. Behind you the bar hummed on, the jukebox turning over to something new, the pittlings still inside doing what they did— loud and alive and exactly themselves.

Ahead was just the street and the dark and whatever this was, starting.

You'd told him you were patient.

You meant it.

#jack abbot #the pitt fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x fem!reader #pitt fic #anon request

dirtygir1

I just know pope is the kinda guy who cums too fast bcs no one’s touched him in so long

yess and this works bc i’m pretty sure he canonically has erectile dysfunction..?

couldnt imagine how nervous he’d be when you guys first start getting sexual.. heart beating out of his chest as you slip your hand in his boxers. “you’re so big baby…does that feel good?” you’d say, lips on his as you stroke him through the fabric. you flush feeling the wet spot in them, aww. pretty boys so excited.

“uh huh,” his breath is caught in his throat, “i.. it’s been a while. a long while. so just..i’m sorry if i can’t control myself.” he whispers against your lips, and you all but giggle. you’re stroking his cock while he grabs at your tits, his breathing is so heavy and ragged you’re afraid he’ll pass out.

valleyanimalz

Firstly I LOVE your work!!! I love your reposts and your writing and your blog as a whole. It’s top tier istg. One of the best blogs I’ve found on here in a while!!

Secondly as someone who has an oral fixation for both men and women, I love giving head to anyone, I’d kill for some more reader sucking off any of the Hatosy boys. Idec how or when or the scenario, just more reader giving head because what I’d give/do/say to give any of Shawn’s characters head is actually insane. I’d commit war crimes. -💛

AH TYSM!! that really flatters me <3 but mmm yes i get you. i don’t have an oral fixation but i love having someone moaning and writhing around from what my touch is doing to them 😵‍💫

anyways… here’s giving head to pope after he’s been out hitting his punching bag & is all sweaty because i’m way too into the idea of having his sweaty man musk all up in my nose, i hope you don’t mind that addition… also mentions of uncircumcised pope bc again, it’s canon to me.

hi babies

i’m back after 2 weeks and i’m sooooo sorry for being mia

i was in a wedding and then got sick but i’m baaaack!!!

hi lovelies, my requests are currently open!

as a reminder: i am currently writing for... jack abbot - the pitt michael robinavitch - the pitt i can also write for...frank langdon - the pitt andrew "pope" cody - animal kingdom

#requests open #fanfic #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot oneshot #fanfiction #jack abbot smut #pope cody smut #frank langdon smut #michael robinavich x you #dr robby smut

𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 - m.r oneshot

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 || michael robinavitch x fem!reader

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 || robby in glasses... and post.

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 || 2.2k

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 || NSFW, MDNI, 18+, SMUT, unspecified age gap, bringing work home, established relationship, soft!dom!reader (if you squint), oral (male!recieving) , unprotected piv (don't be silly wrap your willy) , light dirty talk

𝑎/𝑛 || okay as someone who actually wears glasses, the logistics of this would suck because i know from experience that it sucks. but i can't stop thinking about those slutty glasses.

The bedside lamp cast a warm, honeyed glow across your bedroom, painting the walls in soft shadows. You lay propped against a mountain of pillows, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Michael's chest as he lay beside you, scrolling through his phone. The blue-white light illuminated his face, highlighting the silver threading through his dark hair and the faint lines that crinkled around his eyes when he concentrated.

You could tell from the furrow of his brow that he was reading work messages. Probably Abbott with another late-night crisis at the ER. The man never truly clocked out, even when he was physically miles from the hospital.

"Emergency?" you asked softly, your voice barely disturbing the quiet of the room.

Michael sighed, resignation heavy in his tone. "Just Abbott. Wants to review tomorrow's schedule. Again." He adjusted his glasses—those tortoiseshell frames suited him perfectly—and typed a reply.

That's when it hit you. Not a sudden realization, but a slow, deliberate wave of desire that washed over you, starting somewhere deep in your belly and spreading outward until every nerve ending tingled with awareness.

It was the glasses.

Something about Michael in his glasses, older, wiser, focused– made your breath catch. Maybe it was how they framed his intelligent eyes, or how they made him look simultaneously professorial and vulnerable. Or maybe it was simply that this was the man you loved, in one of his most natural states, completely unaware of how utterly captivating he was.

You shifted on the bed, the movement drawing his attention. His phone lay forgotten on the nightstand as he turned to you fully.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice already dropping to that lower register that always made your stomach flutter.

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you moved closer, your hand reaching out to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of his beard against your fingertips. His eyes followed your movements, questioning but not resisting.

"Leave them on," you whispered, your gaze fixed on his face, specifically on those glasses that had sparked this sudden, overwhelming need.

A slow smile spread across his lips. "The glasses?"

"Mmm," you murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his throat. "Definitely the glasses."

His chuckle vibrated against your lips. "Whatever you want."

That was Michael, always giving you what you wanted, always letting you take the lead when this particular mood struck. The age gap between you had never been a barrier; if anything, it had created a delicious dynamic where you could be both cared for and in control.

Your hand traveled lower, exploring the familiar landscape of his chest, the coarse hair there tickling your palm. You could feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your touch, steady and strong. When you reached the waistband of his pajama bottoms, his breath hitched.

"Someone's feeling adamant tonight," he observed, though his voice had grown husky with desire.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your hand still resting at the edge of his waistband. "Is that a problem?"

"God, no," he breathed, and you watched as his pupils dilated behind those glasses. "Never a problem."

You slipped your hand beneath the fabric, finding him already semi-hard and growing harder by the second at your touch. The weight of him in your palm sent another jolt of desire through you, and you squeezed gently, earning a low groan from deep in his chest.

You shifted again, this time moving to kneel beside him, giving yourself better access. With your free hand, you pushed his pajama bottoms down, exposing him to the room's warm light. He lifted his hips to help you, and soon the fabric was discarded on the floor.

Now you had him completely bare before you, save for those tortoiseshell glasses that continued to frame his face so perfectly. His erection stood proud against his stomach, the tip already glistening with precum.

"Keep your eyes open," you commanded softly as you lowered your head. "I want to watch you watching me."

Michael's hands found their way into your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as you took him into your mouth. The taste of him– salty, masculine, uniquely Michael– filled your senses. You swirled your tongue around the head, paying special attention to the sensitive ridge just beneath, feeling his thighs tense beneath you.

"Jesus," he breathed, his voice strained. "You're going to kill me."

You smiled around him, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you began to work him in fully. One hand wrapped around the base of what your mouth couldn't accommodate, moving in time with the bobbing of your head. The other hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten in response to your attentions.

Through the haze of your own arousal, you kept your eyes fixed on his face, watching the play of emotions there: pleasure, surprise, overwhelming need. The glasses slipped slightly down his nose as he tilted his head back, and you loved how they caught the light, creating little glints that danced across his features.

His hips began to move in small, controlled thrusts, meeting the rhythm you'd established. You could feel him growing harder, thicker in your mouth, and you knew he was close. The knowledge sent a corresponding pulse of need through your own body, and you could feel yourself growing wetter, more desperate for him.

"Wait," he gasped suddenly, his hands tightening in your hair. "Wait, I'm going to..."

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him questioningly. His face was flushed, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.

"I want to be inside you when I come," he managed, his voice rough with need.

Who were you to argue?

You released him with one final, lingering lick, then moved to straddle his hips. Your nightgown– thin and practically transparent– was the only barrier between you now. Michael's hands moved to your waist, then slid up to cup your breasts through the fabric, his thumbs finding and circling your nipples until they pebbled into tight buds.

"No fair," you teased, though your voice was breathless. "I'm still dressed."

"We'll fix that," he promised, sitting up enough to pull the nightgown over your head. The sudden exposure to the cool air made your skin prickle, but the heat in Michael's gaze as he took in your naked form more than compensated.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmured, his hands tracing the curves of your waist, your hips, the swell of your ass. "Every time I see you like this, it's like the first time."

You leaned in to kiss him, a deep, passionate kiss that tasted of him and you. His tongue explored your mouth, confident and demanding, while his hands continued their exploration of your body.

When you finally broke apart, both breathless, you positioned yourself above him, taking his cock in your hand and guiding it to your entrance. The first contact, his tip against your wet folds, made both of you gasp.

"Look at me," you commanded softly, your gaze locked on his face, on those glasses that had started this entire encounter.

He met your eyes, and in that moment, you saw everything you needed to see– love, desire, a hint of amusement at your bossiness, and an overwhelming, all-consuming need.

Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him, taking him inch by delicious inch until he was fully seated inside you. The stretch, the fullness, the sensation of him hitting all the right places, it was almost too much, yet not nearly enough.

You stayed still for a moment, adjusting to his size, memorizing the feeling of him inside you. Michael's hands gripped your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin as he fought for control.

"Move," he finally begged, his voice strained. "Please, move."

You began to rock, a slow, deliberate rhythm that had you both gasping. Each downward movement sent sparks of pleasure through you, each upward drag left you aching for more. The room filled with the sounds of skin against skin, breathless moans, whispered encouragements.

“There you go, baby, just like that– ride my cock” he encouraged gruffly.

The glasses had slipped down Michael's nose again, and you reached out to push them back into place, your fingers lingering against his temple.

"I told you to keep them on," you reminded him with a wicked smile.

"Wouldn't dream of taking them off," he replied, his hips rising to meet your next downward thrust.

The change in angle made you cry out, and you increased your pace, riding him harder, faster. The friction built a delicious heat between your thighs, spreading outward until your entire body felt like it was on fire.

Michael's hands left your hips, one moving to cup your breast, the other slipping between you to find your clit. His thumb circled the sensitive nub in time with your movements, and you felt your control begin to slip.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice strained. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come around my cock."

His words– so direct, so dirty– were exactly what you needed to push you over the edge. The orgasm crashed through you with the force of a tidal wave, leaving you shaking and breathless. You collapsed against his chest, your face buried in the crook of his neck as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you.

When you finally came back to yourself, Michael was still inside you, still hard, still waiting. You could feel the tension in his body, the restraint he was exercising, and you were overwhelmed with love for this man who always put your pleasure first.

With a wicked grin, you pushed yourself up, your palms flat against his chest. "Your turn," you murmured, your voice husky with satisfaction and renewed desire.

Michael's eyes, dark and intense behind those still-perfectly-placed glasses, widened slightly as he realized what you intended. "Are you sure?" he asked, though the hope in his voice was unmistakable.

You answered by rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate circle, feeling him throb inside you. "I want to watch you lose control," you whispered, leaning down to nip at his earlobe. "I want to see your face when you come."

That was all the encouragement he needed. In one smooth, powerful movement, Michael flipped you both, never breaking the connection between your bodies. Suddenly, you were on your back, with him hovering above you, his arms braced on either side of your head.

The change in position sent a fresh wave of pleasure through you. He was deeper now, hitting spots inside you that made your toes curl. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper.

"Like this?" he asked, though it was more of a statement than a question. He began to move, slow and deep at first, then faster as your bodies found their rhythm again.

You reached up to straighten his glasses, your fingers brushing against his temple. "Perfect," you breathed, and then you were lost to the sensation of him moving inside you, the delicious friction, the way he filled you completely.

The room filled with the sounds of your lovemaking– skin against skin, breathless moans, the rhythmic creak of the bed. Michael's movements became more erratic, more desperate as he approached his climax. His hips pistoned against yours, driving into you again and again.

"Tell me where," he gasped, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "God, tell me where you want me to come."

"Inside me," you demanded, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I want to feel it. I want all of it."

Your words seemed to push him over the edge. With a broken groan, Michael thrust deep one final time, and you felt him pulse inside you, hot and endless. The sensation triggered another, smaller orgasm in you, and you clenched around him, milking every last drop.

For a long moment, you both lay still, tangled together, breathing heavily. The only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the pounding of your hearts.

Eventually, Michael shifted, rolling to the side but keeping you close. He removed his glasses, placing them carefully on the nightstand before pulling you into his arms.

"God," he murmured against your hair, his voice still rough. "You're going to be the death of me."

You smiled, tracing patterns on his chest. "But what a way to go, right?"

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Definitely."

You lie in comfortable silence for a while, your bodies cooling, your breathing returning to normal. The room was dark now, save for the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

"I should check my phone," Michael said reluctantly, though he made no move to get up. "Make sure Abbott didn't burn the place down while I was... occupied."

You tightened your arms around him. "Let the world burn for one night," you whispered. "Stay here with me."

He was quiet for a moment, then he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Always," he murmured. "Always."

#michael robinavitch #the pitt fanfiction #michael robinavich x you #michael robby robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch smut #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby one shot #dr robby x reader #dr robby smut

𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚕 - a jack abbot x oc fanfiction

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 || 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑠ℎ 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑡

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 : jack abbot x pearl harris (fem!oc)

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡 : 4.5k

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 : medical inaccuracies (i am not a medical professional, but i did try my best to do as much research as possible), mention of vomit (emetophobia warning)

𝑎/𝑛 : happy part one day! so excited to share what i've been working so hard on creating! my goal is to hopefully have a new chapter every monday!

𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒓 : while not every part contains nsfw content, it will occur in this series, therefore it will be tagged and categorized as a mature post for every part in the series. be sure to read warnings before continuing to read the chapter, it will help you as a reader understand where the story is going in terms of content.

There is a specific kind of dread that lives in the stomach.

Not the cinematic, almost dramatic type of dread you see in the movies– the kind accompanied by a swelling string section and someone staring meaningfully at the rain. No, I mean the low-grade dull, oh god oh god oh god kind that sits somewhere between your belly button and your sternum and just… marinates. Like a bad piece of chicken you accidentally ate at a work function, and now you're at mile eight of a ten-mile race, and you just have to keep going.

That was where I was at 6:48 in the morning, standing in the parking structure of PTMC– Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center– in freshly pressed black scrubs, a pink zipper hoodie that I wasn't entirely convinced I needed, and a stethoscope. A Littman. I had chosen it in burgundy because I read somewhere that it photographed well, which is maybe the most embarrassing reason anyone has ever purchased medical equipment, and I stand by it anyway.

My name is Pearl Harris. I am twenty-six years old. I am a fourth-year medical student at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine, and today was the first day of my emergency medicine clinical rotation at one of the busiest level-one trauma centers in western Pennsylvania.

I was going to throw up.

I did not throw up. For the record. But the possibility was on the table.

I finally found the courage to move away from my car when my phone buzzed.

mommy🌻: Good morning baby!! First day!!!! I set three alarms to make sure I was awake to text you 🥹 mommy🌻: You are going to be INCREDIBLE today. I know it. I feel it in my bones and my bones have never lied to me mommy🌻: Eat something before you go in, please. I know you didn't. I know you me: I had a granola bar mommy🌻: that is NOT eating something that is a granola bar me: Mom I have to go in me: Thank you for the alarm. I love you. I'll text you after mommy🌻: I love you so much. You worked SO hard to get here, Pearl. So hard. I am so proud of you it's embarrassing 💛 mommy🌻: Go save some lives baby

I put my phone into my backpack and stood in the parking garage for another thirty-seven seconds after that. My mom– Diane Harris, forty-nine years old, high school biology teacher, maker of the best sweet potato pie in the continental United States– had raised me alone in Columbus, Ohio, with what I can only describe as an almost suspicious amount of love. Like she had enough for two parents and was determined to deploy it all herself. She had driven me to every MCAT prep session. She had sat with me on the bathroom floor of our apartment the night I got my rejection from Johns Hopkins, both of us in pajamas, eating cereal from the box. She had cried harder than I did when Pittsburgh said yes.

She was the entire reason I was standing here.

I adjusted my backpack, squared my shoulders, and walked toward the entrance.

Go save some lives, baby.

No pressure.

The ED at seven in the morning looked exactly like it did in every medical drama I had consumed in my entire life, which either meant that TV had been more accurate than I gave it credit for, or that my brain was aggressively pattern-matching as a coping mechanism.

It was loud, it was bright– the fluorescent, unforgiving kind of bright that erased shadows and made everyone look faintly like they hadn't slept. It smelled like antiseptic and something underneath it that I couldn't quite name yet, something that I had a feeling I would be able to name by the end of the week. Gurneys moved, voices overlapped. Someone's monitor was beeping in the specific rhythm of someone please address this, and nobody was running, but everyone was moving with the particular speed of people who knew exactly where they were going and didn't have the patience for people who didn't.

I knew where I was going. In theory. I had a printed copy of the orientation sheet in my jacket, which I had already read five times, which meant I had memorized it.

The nurses' station was straight ahead, which I remembered.

I was almost there when I walked directly into someone.

Not bumped into. Walked into. Full collision. Their coffee– I want it noted that it was very full– sloshed dangerously in its cup, and I made a sound that could only be described as the noise a Roomba makes when it runs into a wall. A small, startled, completely undignified oof.

"Oh my God–" I grabbed the arm of whoever I had just assaulted as a reflex, like that was going to help anything. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I wasn't– I was looking at the– the nurses' station, I'm supposed to check in, and I lost my– I had a sheet–"

"Hey." The voice was dry, unhurried, faintly amused. "Breathe"

I breathed.

The person I had walked into was a woman around my height, with bleached blonde hair pulled back and a kind of composed expression that she had absorbed worse things than being absorbed by a disoriented med student before her first cup of coffee. She was in scrubs– gray, the ones I noticed nurses wearing– and she was looking at me with something between amusement and pity.

"Med student?" She said

"Is it that obvious?"

"The lost dog," she said. "And the panic." She extended her free hand, "Dana Evans, day shift charge nurse/"

"Pear Harris." I shook her hand. "MS4. I'm doing my EM rotation here. I'm really sorry about–" I gestured at her coffee.

"It's fine." She glanced at it, apparently satisfied that no structural damage had been done. "You're checking in with Robinavitch?"

"I think so? My orientation sheet said the day shift attending, but I–" I touched my sweatshirt pockets as if the paper might appear by magic. It had not. "I had a sheet."

"It's fine," she said again, and she said it in the way someone says it when they mean it. Not dismissive. "Walk with me. I'll take you to the student group."

There were three of us.

We had been assembled in a small family waiting room off the main corridor that had been temporarily repurposed as an orientation staging area, which mostly meant someone had pushed the chairs into a rough semicircle and left a stack of badge lanyards on a folding table. I was the last one in. The other two were already settled and had apparently already begun the delicate social ritual of determining group dynamics.

I assessed them the way you assess people when you've spent four years in close proximity to high achievers and have developed, out of sheer necessity, a rapid intake system.

The first was a guy, white, mid twenties, the architectural structure of someone who had embodied the human personification of a lost puppy. His lanyard was already on. His scrubs were also crisp, but in the way that implied they had been ironed at midnight by someone having a small existential crisis. He had a pen behind his ear, which I immediately read as wanting to be taken seriously. His name tag, when I squinted, said Whitaker, D. MS4.

The second was a girl– ambiguously South Asian, around my age, sitting up very straight with the expression of someone who had already mentally rehearsed every possible scenario for this orientation and was simply waiting for the simulation to begin. She looked like the kind of person who had a color-coded Google calendar and eight hours of sleep, and I found her both admirable and faintly exhausting in the way that I always found highly organized people exhausting, mostly because I am jealous of them.

Her badge read Javadi, V. MS3."

"Hi," I said, sitting in the empty chair. "I'm Pearl."

"Dennis." The pen-behind-ear guy extended a hand. His handshake was the specific firmness of someone who had been told once that a firm handshake mattered and had taken it extremely seriously. I respected it. "MS4?"

"MS4." I nodded. "You?"

"Same." He settled back.

I smiled at him. "Cool," I said, in the specific tone that means noted.

"Victoria," said the girl to my left, not looking up from whatever she was reviewing. Then she did look up, and her face broke into something warmer than her initial composure suggested. "Sorry. Victoria Javadi. I'm an MS3. Is this your first EM rotation?"

"First one at a trauma center," I said. "I did four weeks at a community ED in Pittsburgh last year. You?"

"I did sex weeks at Allegheny General," she said with a brief smile on her face. "This is my second time through PTMC."

She requested the repeat," Dennis said, with what I think was meant to be impressive, though the delivery landed slightly competitive.

"I requested the repeat," Victoria confirmed, neutrally. She looked at Dennis. "It's not a competition."

Dennis opened his mouth.

"It's not," Victoria interjected.

He closed his mouth.

I liked this group.

Dr. Robinaitch arrived at 7:14.

I knew it was him before anyone said his name, which sounds more cinematic than it actually was– it was less a gut feeling and more that Nurse Dana, who had stayed to help shepherd us, straightened almost imperceptibly when the door opened, the way people straighten around someone who carries a certain kind of gravity.

He was tall, late forties, maybe early fifties? The kind of face that might have been handsome in an angular, interesting way when he was younger had now settled into something more like weathered. He was in scrubs and a green fleece jacket that looked like it had survived several small disasters, and he was carrying a coffee mug that I was certain was not his first of the morning. He had the bearing of someone who had made a thousand fast decisions and had stopped apologizing for any of them a long time ago.

He looked at the four of us. We looked back at him.

"Med students," he said. It wasn't a question. It was barely an acknowledgement. It was more like a man noting a weather condition.

"Dr. Robinavitch," Said Dennis, "we're your MS students for the–"

"I know who you are," he said. Not unkind. Just– efficient. He sat on the edge of the table with the badge lanyards and looked at us in a way that suggested he was running a quick internal calculation. "I'm going to tell you three things, and if you remember nothing else from today, remember these."

We all leaned fractionally forward. I noticed Dennis had taken the pen from behind his ear and was holding it, and I made the conscious decision to not take mine out because I didn't want to be that person, and also I didn't have one.

"One," Dr. Robinavitch said. "This is a working emergency department. Every minute you spend lost, confused, or in someone's way is a minute that belongs to a patient. Get oriented fast. If you don't know where something is, ask immediately– not in five minutes, immediately."

He let that sit for a second.

"Two. You will see things today that are hard to see. Some of you will want to process those things, to talk about them, to have feelings about them. That's fine. That's normal. Do it on your own time and not in the middle of my ED. If something is affecting your ability to function, you tell Dana or me directly. Not your classmates, not a text to a friend, not a bathroom break that turns into fifteen minutes. Me or her."

Dennis nodded. Victoria was already nodding. I was nodding and also trying to look like I wasn't nodding anxiously, which meant I was probably just nodding more.

"Three." He looked at us, one by one. Slow enough that it felt like something. "You are here to learn, not to prove anything. I don't have time for performance. If you don't know something, say you don't know. If you made a mistake, say you made a mistake. The patients here do not have time for ego. Neither do I."

He stood up from the table.

"Any questions?"

There was a beat.

"What's the best way to find you if we need something?" I spoke up, calm and direct.

"Ask a nurse where I am," he said. "They'll know." He glanced at Dana. "Dana. Get them oriented, I'll take them on rounds at eight." He headed towards the door and turned back. "Harris, pick up your lanyard. You're not a visitor."

He left.

The three of us exhaled at roughly the same time.

"Is he always like that?" Dennis asked, directing the question to Dana.

"Yes," she said. "You'll get used to it. Or you won't. Either way, you'll earn." She gestured toward the badge table. "Lanyards. Let's go."

I pulled my lanyard around my neck and looked down at it.

Harris, P. MS4. University of Pittsburgh School Of Medicine.

There it was, in laminate and lanyard. Proof of concept. Four years of work printed in twelve-point font and hanging from my neck.

I took a breath.

The morning moved the way I had been told it would and somehow still hadn't fully believed: fast, then faster, with no real warning between the two.

The ED on the day shift was a different animal than I had imagined. I had done my community rotation, I had done my clerkships, and I thought I understood clinical environments. I did not understand this one. PTMC's ED was a level-one trauma center that took everything –MVAs, overdoses, STEMIs, strokes, psychiatric holds, the full chaotic spectrum of what could go wrong with a human body on any given Tuesday. And the people working it moved like they knew all of that and had simply decided to be faster than it.

Dr. Robinavitch ran rounds the way I imagined a chess grandmaster played chess: three moves ahead, audibly impatient with anything less. He asked us questions. He asked Victoria about a patient's ABG values, and she answered correctly, and he said "good" with the specific brevity of someone for whom "good" carried real weight. He asked Dennis about a trauma protocol, and Dennis started to explain and got approximately one and a half sentences in before Robinavitch said, "That's wrong, look it up and tell me why before noon," and kept walking. Dennis turned a specific shade of red.

He asked me about a sixty-two-year-old with abdominal pain, unclear etiology, who presented three hours ago. What's my differential?

I gave him my differential.

He was quiet for a moment. Not that you're wrong, quiet. Something more like the quiet of someone recalibrating.

"Mesenteric ischemia," I added. "Given the age and the pain-to-exam disparity."

"Why disparity?"

"His pain presentation is a seven, but he's lying still and not guarding. With true ischemia, you can get disproportionate pain relative to the physical exam findings, especially early. It's one of the reasons it gets missed."

Another pause.

"Flag it," he said. "Tell Dana I want a CT-A abdomen."

He moved on.

I stood there for half a second.

"Nice," Victoria murmured from beside me.

"I could be completely wrong," I whispered back.

"Probably," she agreed, "but you said it like you weren't."

Lunch was a concept that existed theoretically but not practically. Dennis found a vending machine. Victoria and I ended up in the break room at 12:40 with sad coffees from the communal pot, sitting at a small table that had a crack down the middle and a motivational poster on the wall behind it that said YOU ARE DOING BETTER THAN YOU THINK in a font that belonged in a kindergarten classroom.

I appreciated it anyway.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

"I'm fine," I said, which is a sentence that means several different things depending on who says it and how. In my case, it meant: I am functional, I have not cried, I have not made a significant error, I am deeply overstimulated and also weirdly exhilarated, and I genuinely cannot tell if I love this or if I am currently experiencing a sustained adrenaline response that I will crash from around six PM.

Victoria apparently spoke that dialect. She nodded like I'd said all of it.

"The mesenteric ischemia thing was good," she said.

"CT-A came back." I wrapped my hands around my coffee. "He was right. I mean, Robinavitch was right to order it. There was thickening in the bowel wall. Vascular surgery is consulting."

"So you were right."

"I raised the possibility."

"Pearl."

"It was a differential," I said. "It was item five on a list of six things."

"Item five that caught it." She looked at me over her cup. "You're allowed to be good at this, you know."

I didn't know what to do with that, which meant I drank more bad coffee and changed the subject. "What do you know about the night shift attendings?"

She tilted her head. "Some. Why?"

"I don't know." I traced the crack in the table with one finger. "I've heard people mention them. The charge nurse, Lena? She said something to one of the day nurses about the handoff being rough last week."

"There's apparently some history between the two shifts," Victoria said. "From what I can tell. Nobody gives you the full story, but you can feel it in the atmosphere." She paused. "The night attending –the senior one –his name is Abbot. Dr. Jack Abbot."

Something about the name landed with a small, unexplainable weight, the kind of thing you register and then immediately dismiss because registering it makes no logical sense.

"Is he good?" I asked.

"From what I hear?" she considered. "Brilliant and difficult, roughly in equal measure."

I thought about that. "So like Robinavitch."

"Different flavor." She tilted her head. "Robinavitch is a hammer. From what people say, Abbot is more like a scalpel. Same result, different method."

I filed that away without knowing why.

"Why do you ask?" she said again, with the quiet persistence of someone who actually wanted to know.

"No reason," I said. "Just trying to understand the landscape."

She nodded, clearly not entirely convinced, but gracious enough not to push.

I finished my coffee.

The afternoon waited.

I met him at 6:52 PM.

Shift change at PTMC was not a quiet affair. The day shift handed off to the night shift with the specific energy of two relay runners, one of whom was exhausted and one of whom was wired on something that might have been coffee and might have been a particular kind of grim momentum. The main corridor got briefly crowded. New faces appeared. The light in the department was the same –fluorescent, indifferent –but something in the air shifted, a change in frequency I couldn't quite name.

I was charting in the open workspace near bay seven, three feet from the nurses' station, technically done for the day but trying to finish my notes before I left because I knew if I didn't do them here, I would do them at midnight on my couch and hate myself for it. Dennis had left forty minutes ago. Victoria was still somewhere in the department; I could hear her asking a nurse a question in the corridor.

I heard the shift change happening around me –voices, a brief exchange at the station, the familiar percussion of handoffs –and was mostly tuning it out.

Then someone came to stand at the workstation directly beside mine.

Not close enough to be intrusive. Just present. I was aware of them the way you're aware of weather –peripherally, without direct attention.

I kept typing.

Then the charge nurse –Lena, I had learned her name was Lena Handzo, iron-spined, completely unflappable, the kind of woman who had definitely survived worse things than this particular Tuesday –said, "Abbot. Bay four's been holding for you."

"I see it," said the voice beside me.

My fingers stopped.

It was quiet. The voice. The specific kind of quiet that wasn't soft –it was controlled. Low and dry and not particularly interested in performing anything for anyone.

I looked up.

My first, purely involuntary thought was: oh.

He was older. Late forties, maybe –somewhere in the territory my brain filed as the age where men who were never conventionally handsome become interesting-looking in a way that's harder to argue with. Dark hair going gray at the temples. A face that had clearly made a series of choices. There was a quality to him that I didn't have an immediate word for, something in the way he held himself –not braced, exactly. More like someone who had long since stopped flinching.

He was looking at the chart on the workstation monitor, not at me. He had the focused stillness of a person who compartmentalized with frightening efficiency.

Then he looked at me.

I don't know what I had been expecting. Something dismissive, maybe –the absent flick of someone clocking a med student the way you clock a piece of furniture. Instead, his gaze was direct and specific, the kind of attention that had nothing performative in it. Just information-gathering. He looked at my badge. He looked at my face.

"Day shift student," he said. Flat. Not unfriendly, not particularly friendly.

"Yes," I said. Then, because apparently I was constitutionally incapable of not adding things: "Pearl Harris. MS4. I was just finishing my notes."

He looked at the screen. "What are you charting?"

"Bay seven. Sixty-two-year-old, abdominal pain." I pulled up the note. "Mesenteric ischemia, confirmed on CT-A. Vascular consultation at 2 PM, took him up around four."

He was quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that I was already learning meant something was being processed rather than nothing being present.

"Who caught it?" he said.

I hesitated for half a second. "I raised it in differential. Dr. Robinavitch ordered the imaging."

He looked at me again. It was a brief look –a second, maybe less. But it was the kind of look that suggested he had filed something, somewhere, that I wouldn't know about until later.

"Finish your note," he said, and then moved –unhurried, deliberate –toward bay four.

I turned back to my screen.

I typed approximately four words before I realized my hands were not entirely steady.

Which was fine. That was fine. It was a long day. I was tired. I had been on my feet since seven and had consumed one granola bar, a bad coffee, and the specific nervous energy of someone trying very hard to perform competence while also genuinely trying to acquire it. My hands not being entirely steady was a completely normal physiological response to an exhausting day and had nothing whatsoever to do with the man who had just walked away.

I told myself that.

I almost believed it.

I finished my notes. I packed my bag. I said goodnight to Lena, who looked at me the way experienced nurses look at third and fourth-year students on their first days –with a kind of practiced assessment that was neither warm nor cold, simply measuring, and walked out through the ambulance bay into the blue Pittsburgh evening.

The city was doing that thing it did in October, where the light went golden and low, and the air smelled like leaves and cold and something industrial underneath it, the particular smell of a working city that had rebuilt itself. I stood on the sidewalk outside the entrance and looked up at the darkening sky for a moment, breathing.

My phone buzzed.

mommy🌻: PEARL. REPORT. I have been waiting ALL day me: I'm alive mommy🌻: that's the MINIMUM I needed you to be!! How was it? me: it was a lot. me: I think I like it here. Like actually like it mommy🌻: I KNEW IT. I knew you would. Pittsburgh is your place baby I felt it from the beginning🥹🥹 me: Mom. It's one day. mommy🌻: One day that you liked!!!! That counts!! me: I caught something today. A mesenteric ischemia in differential. It was confirmed. mommy🌻: I don't know what that means but it sounds VERY impressive and i am VERY proud. me: It means I was right about something. For once. mommy🌻: Pearl Marie Harris you are right about things CONSTANTLY mommy🌻: Now go home, eat an actual meal, and sleep. Promise me. me: I promise me: Love you mom mommy🌻: Love you more than everything💛 so proud. So so proud.

I walked to my car.

Pittsburgh spread out in every direction around me, all hills and bridges and lit windows, a city that had survived things and came out the other side still standing. I had moved here for school and thought of it as temporary– a means to an end, a place I passed through on the way to whatever came next. I had thought of Ohio as home, of my mom's kitchen and the particular squeak of our back porch door as the fixed point everything else orbited.

But standing in that parking structure in the blue-dark, with the hospital humming behind me and the city laid out ahead of me and my hands still slightly unsteady from a day that had asked something real of me and gotten something real back.

I thought: maybe my mom is right.

Maybe this is the place.

I didn't know, yet, what that meant. I didn't know what was waiting for me in this building–i n the months ahead, in the departments I hadn't yet walked through, in the night shift I'd barely glimpsed, in the face of a man who had looked at me for less than a second and somehow managed to stay in my head the entire drive home.

I didn't know anything, really.

I was twenty-six years old and standing at the beginning of something, and the feeling of that –the terrifying, electric, nauseating, impossible feeling of a door just beginning to open –was so large I could barely fit it inside my chest.

I drove home.

I ate dinner. A real one. My mom would have been pleased.

I lay in bed that night and stared at the ceiling of my apartment and listened to Pittsburgh do its nighttime things –a siren somewhere, a dog, the low conversation of the city going about its business –and thought about tomorrow, and the day after that, and what kind of person I was going to be by the time all of this was over.

I thought, just for a moment, about a voice that was quiet in a specific way, something controlled.

I thought about hands that weren't entirely steady.

I turned over and closed my eyes.

Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow was a new day.

It had no idea what it was in for.

#jack abbot #the pitt fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #jack abbot x original character #jack abbot x fem!oc #jack abbot x oc #oc fanfiction #the pitt oc #brutal! jack abbot fanfic

𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚕 - a jack abbot x oc fanfiction

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬 - fc hannah dodd

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜

age: 26

from: columbus, ohio

undergrad: ohio university

med school: university of pittsburgh || school of medicine

mbti: isfj

𝚋𝚒𝚘

born and raised in columbus, OH, pearl is a certified mom’s-girl™️. shoutout to diane harris, her built-in best friend, life coach, and the person who still gets a play-by-play of every shift via voice memo.

right now she's just starting her emergency medicine rotation at PTMC, which means: weird hours, cold coffee, and at least one "is this normal???" moment per shift. she doesn't know what she wants to specialize in yet, and honestly? that changes depending on the day, the patient, and how much sleep she got the night before.

pearl is sunshine in human form- like aggressively kind. she will remember your name, your dog's name and the fact you once said you liked blueberry muffins. BUT. put her on the spot and she will short-circuit a little- think nervous rambling, over explaining, and hands doing vague interpretive dance.

she's loyal to a fault, runs on feelings and determination, and shows up for people in a way that sticks. she might not have a five-year plan, but she will hold your hand, fix your blaket, and make sure you're okay while she figures it out.

#the pitt fanfiction #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot x oc #the pitt oc #oc intro #oc faceclaim #the pitt fanfic

𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚕 - a jack abbot x oc fanfiction

i can't believe it's finally ready to post! this is something i have been putting a lot of thought and time into, and i'm so excited to share this with all of you.

this story will take place over the span of fifteen parts, fifteen parts that i have poured energy into mapping out and creating.

pairing for the series: jack abbot x pearl harris (OC)

timeline for series: season 1 au. (ex: dennis is brought back down to a ms4 in this series.)

warnings for the series (avoiding spoilers): age gap (jack is 49, pearl is 26), power imbalance, hospital setting, contains spoilers for s1, medical inaccuracies (i did as much research as i could, but i am not a medical professional, simply a writer with access to google), drama, headcannon lore (i took the liberty of creating headcannons for some characters where information doesn't exist to help create my narrative), plot twists, single parent

disclaimer: while not all parts contain nsfw content, a few of them will and therefore this fic will be listed as mature, and for audiences 18+. i cannot dictate what content you view on your own wifi, you have been warned.

oc introduction - meet pearl

part one

#jack abbot #jack abbot smut #the pitt fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot x oc #oc #fanfic intro

busy weekend filled with writing an editing

dropping 3 pieces today

part 1/?? -jack abbot x oc fic + a post introducing the oc

part 1/?? - andrew “pope” cody x reader fic

michael robinavitch oneshot

i’m also working on putting my masterlists together so those should be dropping either today or tomorrow:)

#jack abbot #jack abbot smut #fanfic #fanfiction #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbot x reader #michael robinavitch #michael robby robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch smut #michael robinavitch x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #pope cody x reader #andrew cody x you #andrew pope cody smut

cuti3-81

Shawn Hatosy for the Quinn App

bye im gonna pass away when this drops

hes rly the hottest and only man ever.

maybetoast

arms

that is all

#shawn hatosy

get to know the writer

tagged by the absolute sweetheart - @ididcrytoday

if tagged, copy the questions into a new post and let us know your answers!

When did you start writing?

i’ve been writing since I was maybe… 13 or 14? i’ve been on tumblr on and off since 2013, writing and creating, and it primarily started off from just reading and consuming one direction fanfiction, but started off on wattpad before that!

What fic do you wish could get a little more love?

honestly… none of them? i love what love i currently get on my content and since i just started my blog back up i can’t really ask for much more than what i’m getting

First fictional or famous crush?

hehehe i am an og shawn hatosy lover, sammy bryant from southland circa 2011/2012. my sexual awakening actually. i discovered it on total accident too. i actually remember it vividly, scrolling on my tv and turning on this random show and there was his face loud and clear and i've been hooked since.

How open are you to people IRL about writing fanfiction

not super open??? I have one friend who also writes fanfic so that’s about the only one i talk to about it.

What is a mundane fact about you?

i’m from nebraska, and got really excited when it was mentioned on the pitt :)

loose tag list:

@abbothecary || @natwritesfics || (pls don't feel obligated, i just tagged my moots)

#get to know the writer #idk how to tag this #text post #the pitt #shawn hatosy #the pitt fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction