Welcome!! Here is a masterlist of all my works to make navigating my page a tad bit easier! -My asks are open for (constructive) feedback as well as any story ideas y'all would like to see! (It’s not a corkboard but as always I get all my creative inspo from twin @ebodebo)
٠˟ ˓𓄹 ࣪˖Masterlist٠˟ ˓𓄹 ࣪˖
Dr. Robby - The Pitt
-Calm Before The Storm (RobbyxFem!reader - angst)
-Knight in black figs (RobbyxFem!reader - angst)
-Handle with care(Robbyxfem!reader fluff)
Dr. Jack Abbot - The Pitt
-Honey and Jack Rabbits (Abbot/Fem!reader-platonic soulmates)
-Wondering Why (Abbotxfem!reader - smut)
- Safe in your skin (Abbotxfem!reader-0.5 seconds of smut and a LOT of angst)
-Apple Jack (Abbotxfem!reader - fluff Drabble)
-Jack of all card games (silly Jack head canon)
-Oh, Sienna (Jack abbotxwife/daughter- HEAVY ANGST. Jacks origin story) -TBD
-What’s Eating Dr. Abbot? (Heavy angst, continuation of Oh, Sienna) -TBD
Andrew “Pope” Cody - Animal Kingdom
-Good Luck Charm (Pope Codyxfem!reader - post fight smut)
-In Your Orbit- (Pope CodyxFemale Origional character- ongoing)
Frank Castle- Punisher
Evil In Bed (FrankxFem!reader - fluff, smut if you squint)
Do you write for male or gender neutral readers? I find your works fun to read but sometimes I feel dysphoric. Maybe something with Robby who realizes that the resident they work with is also in a bad place mentally, going through some shit.
Hi anon!!
I have never written for male characters, I’m not sure if that’s something I would do as I don’t know how to write as well for them. But!! I would absolutely be open to writing more Gender Neutral! It’s something I’ve been looking into writing so I’ll keep that idea in mind!
CONTAINS: fem!reader, established relationship, graphic depictions of blood (there's so much blood,) miscarriage (not reader,) death of an infant, medical procedure that ends in a patient dying, use of medical jargon, angst with comfort, & no use of y/n. [2.4k+ words]
AUTHOR'S NOTE: hi babies! i slacked so much on writing for the pitt this season omg, but catch me next season writing 500,000 fics. also, i haven't seen the final yet... i was waiting to get back from a trip to watch with my parents, so wish me luck! also, also this is my first angst fic in so long, so please go easy on me. i hope you love it? maybe that's weird to say, but, whatevs, enjoy! consume at your own discretion.
“She’s hemorrhaging. We’re losing her,” one of the nurses shouts, urgency cutting through the chaos as she thrusts a pair of sterile gloves and a crinkling gown into your trembling hands. The smell of antiseptic and hot metal floods your nose. Your fingers fumble for the gloves, adrenaline turning everything slick and surreal.
The woman on the gurney, her swollen belly shining through streaks of blood, blinks up at the fluorescent lights. Her voice is barely more than a breath, raw and lost. “Wha… what’s happening? Is my baby okay?”
You crouch beside her, the mask muffling your voice as you lean close. "You’re bleeding heavily from your uterus. We’re doing everything we can. Just breathe with me, okay?" Your voice trembles, and her eyes, wide with terror, search your face for hope you’re not sure you can give.
“My… my baby…” she whispers, her eyes filling with a primal, desperate fear. Her fingers twitch, reaching for you, for anyone who can promise her a miracle.
You nod quickly, forcing your voice steady. “The baby’s in good hands. We need to get blood into you—right now. Just keep breathing. Please.” Her gaze turns glassy, drifting as blood loss pulls her away from the room, from you.
Just before her eyes slip shut, she manages to focus on you, lips trembling. “I… I trust you. Please… save my baby girl.” Her words are a plea threaded with fading hope, a mother's final prayer to a stranger.
In an instant, her eyes flutter closed. The monitor erupts into a shrill, unrelenting scream.
Time fractures.
Every heartbeat is a countdown.
“Her BP's bottoming out!” a nurse yells, her voice ragged with panic as the room explodes into frantic motion. Gloves snap, trays clatter. You barely recognize your own hands as you move.
“Heart rate’s dropping—thirty! She’s in PEA!” another voice calls out, the numbers on the monitor tumbling toward zero. Every second is slipping away.
You swallow down the bile burning at the back of your throat, forcing yourself to focus, to move. The world narrows to blood, breath, and the desperate hope of another chance.
“Shit. It’s a rupture—open the tray! Scalpel!” you bark, voice ragged and raw. You shove the gurney rail down, half-crawling onto the bed to get closer. The scalpel lands in your palm, slick with sweat. You slash through the gown, skip the prep—there’s no time. “Incision starting!” The blade bites a jagged line from sternum to pubis.
In a rush, you slash through the skin, fat, and tissue in two heavy strokes, and the moment the blade nicked the peritoneum, the pressure gave way.
A geyser of blood erupts—dark, hot, and endless—soaking through your gown, burning against your skin. It splatters across the table, drowning the instruments, painting everything red.
It wasn’t a slow leak.
It was an unrelenting flood.
A force of nature, wild and unstoppable.
Within seconds, your world is a lake of red.
Everything you know about medicine feels useless against this tide.
You work blind, hands submerged past your wrists in warmth that shouldn’t be outside a body. The scalpel drags uselessly, slipping in the blood. “Suction! I can’t see the uterus!” Your voice cracks as you beg for more than the room can give.
You plunge your hands into the chasm you’ve made, fingers searching for the torn edges of muscle. Blood pours over her hips, splashing onto your shoes in thick, sticky ribbons. “Uterus is shredded—won’t contract! Methergine, now! Inject straight in—anything, please!” Nurses close in, faces set in grim determination, hands trembling as they try to help.
“Careful, the floor’s a river,” a scrub nurse warns, her voice tight.
You hardly hear her.
You’re fighting for a life and losing.
“Fuck the floor! I’m losing my angle—there’s blood in my shoes. Just keep the suction clear!” you shout, desperate. You fumble for the aorta, hands slipping, heart pounding out a frantic rhythm.
“She’s in V-fib! Starting compressions!” someone shouts. You see gloved fists pump rhythmically inside her open chest. The room pulses with a collective heartbeat that feels borrowed.
“Don’t stop! I’ve almost got the clamp—just hold on, one more minute!” Your voice cracks, desperation bleeding through every word. You’re begging for time you don’t have.
“Twenty units of blood, ten of plasma—it’s pouring out as fast as we get it in. She’s cold, Abbot. She’s gone.” The anesthesiologist’s voice is low, almost apologetic.
You can’t look at him.
You refuse to give up.
Not yet.
“I can fix this—just need her to stay with me a little longer. Clamp! Now!” You meet the eyes of your team—pity, resignation, something worse. You shake your head, refusing. “Come on, momma. Stay with me. Please.” Your hands move, but you can feel her slipping further away with every heartbeat.
The monitor flatlines, the sound deafening.
You freeze, hands buried in a life that’s already gone. A sigh escapes you, heavy with the weight of her loss.
The silence is complete—a soundless scream.
Finally, the anesthesiologist’s voice breaks through, hollow. “Time of death: 18:15.”
You look up, voice shaking. “The baby. We… we delivered her. She was here.” The words hang in the air, fragile and already fading.
The door creaks open and the pediatrician enters, her eyes widening as she takes in the carnage. “We couldn’t get the baby’s heart back. She was down too long. I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracks, and the room feels colder.
You lower your gaze, eyes burning, and finally slip your hands from her body—blood up to your elbows, sticky and cold. “Can someone tell her husband?” you murmur.
It’s not a question, just a surrender.
You know you should be the one to tell him. But right now, your courage is spent.
You can’t face the man whose life you’ve just broken.
You can’t bear to see what you’ve become in his grief.
Their blood is on your hands—literal and unforgiving.
The guilt spreads, hot and uncontainable.
“Yeah. I’ll do it,” the other doctor says softly. You step away, your feet sliding in blood that already feels cold.
“Dr. Abbot, are you okay?” a nurse asks, voice gentle. You know she’s just being polite. You know you look anything but okay.
You don’t answer.
You just walk out, every step heavier than the last, and push through the door.
The woman’s husband is waiting—his eyes searching, desperate.
His face crumples in horror as you appear, bloodstained and broken. “Is that… is that my wife’s blood?” His words tremble, clinging to hope that’s already lost.
You look up at him, tears burning your eyes. “I’m so sorry.” The words barely make it out. “They didn't make it.”
He staggers back, sucking in a ragged breath. “You took her from me. You… you took everything from me.”
The words hit you like a bullet. “I… I tried. I tried everything. She was losing too much blood.” Your voice splinters.
He shakes his head, lips trembling with rage. “You killed her. This is your fault.” The hallway spins, his grief a blade you can’t dodge.
You choke on his words, forcing yourself past him—anything to keep from crumbling in front of a man who has just lost his life.
Your heart hammers, breath shallow, as you stagger into the ED. He follows, his voice a roar you can barely hear over the rush of blood in your ears.
You’re drowning, and no one even sees.
Langdon and Dana snap their heads up at the commotion. “Jesus…” Langdon mutters, seeing you—soaked in red, being haunted by a shadow that is a man fueled by grief and rage.
Jack’s head jerks around from talking to Robby, and they both look at the scene playing out in front of them.
Jack doesn’t hesitate.
He barrels toward the man, planting both hands firmly on his chest. “Back away from my wife. Now. Or I’ll throw you out myself.” His voice is thunder—protective, unyielding.
It’s unprofessional, but Jack doesn’t care.
No one talks to his wife like that—not today, not ever.
Robby rushes over, pulling Jack back. “Whoa, hey. Let’s all calm down. What happened?” His voice is steady, but his eyes are wide, taking in the aftermath.
“That doctor killed my wife and my baby—she took them from me!” the man shouts, voice cracking. You keep walking, desperate for air, desperate for escape.
Jack watches you tear off your blood-soaked gown, mask, and hospital badge, tossing them in the trash as you stumble out the doors.
He shakes his head, glaring at the man. “Be glad I’m working,” he mutters, before hurrying after you. He fishes your badge from the trash, jaw tight with worry.
He finds you huddled on the concrete just around the corner, knees hugged to your chest. He exhales, the sound heavy, before sitting down beside you—close but not touching, not yet.
“You okay?” Jack asks softly, knowing you’re not, but needing to ask, needing to reach you through the darkness.
You shake your head, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on your blood-soaked shoes. The metallic tang of fear and failure lingers in your mouth. “She… she trusted me, Jack. I killed her and her baby.” The words crack as they leave you, barely more than a whisper.
Jack’s heart breaks seeing you unravel, but he knows nothing he says can reach the place where your guilt lives. He keeps his voice low, steady. “It wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”
“Her husband… he was so angry,” you mumble, your jaw aching from biting down on the inside of your cheek. “I can still hear him. He hates me. I don’t blame him.”
He nods, staring at the brick wall across the street, jaw clenched. Then he turns, voice gentle but firm. “Hey. Look at me.”
You hesitate, fighting the urge to disappear. Finally, you drag your eyes up to meet him, searching for something—relief, forgiveness, anything.
He sees the tears tracking down your cheeks and his face crumples. “Come here,” he says softly, opening his arms. It’s not just comfort—he’s anchoring you to the world.
“I’m covered in blood,” you protest, voice hollow. He just shakes his head, eyes shining with worry, and you can’t resist anymore.
You scoot closer, collapsing into his embrace. His arms are strong, steady—your head finds his shoulder, and for a moment, you let yourself be held. Your body shakes with silent sobs.
“I can’t hate him,” you whisper. “He lost everything. I’d be angry too.”
“Anger’s one thing. But he shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” Jack murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. “You didn’t deserve any of that.” His voice is all warmth and ache.
You choke out a sob. “I don’t want to be here anymore, Jack. I… I can’t do this. Not after today.”
“No one’s making you stay, sweetheart,” he whispers. “But you’re meant for this. The world needs doctors like you, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.”
“Would you be mad at the doctor? Would you be mad for the rest of your life?”
His voice drops, trembling with an edge you’ve never heard before. “That wouldn’t happen,” he says softly, but there’s a desperate finality to it, like he’s fighting back the image.
You swallow, voice barely audible. “What wouldn’t?”
He meets your eyes, and for a moment, you see fear flicker in his. “If you died…” He pauses, breath hitching. “I wouldn’t know how to go on. I’d be lost right there with you.” His words are raw, honest—a confession pulled straight from the ache in his chest.
You watch him in silence, the weight of everything that’s happened hanging between you. Your breaths are ragged, the distant wail of a siren rising and falling in the background. You don’t trust your voice, so you just let your head sink onto his shoulder, drawing comfort from his steady presence.
You stay there, pressed against him, your bodies unmoving as the world keeps spinning. The minutes crawl by, thick and heavy, until finally you lift your head. Jack’s hand fumbles in his pocket—he’s clumsy, hesitant, like he doesn’t want to break the fragile calm.
He holds out your plastic hospital badge, his hand trembling just a little. “I… uh… got this back for you,” he says softly. His eyes flicker away, almost shy. “Figured you’d want it for your memory box.”
A weak smile tugs at your lips as you take the badge, your fingers brushing his. “You really dug through the trash for this?” The words come out watery, but there’s gratitude in your voice.
He grins, and for a moment the heaviness lifts. “Wasn’t so bad,” he shrugs, watching you turn the badge over in your hand. “I did, uh, accidentally grab Shen’s overnight oats.” The memory makes you both smile—just for a second, you remember how to laugh.
“Gross,” you laugh out.
“It had all that health crap in it—some weird powder.” He’s watching you, soaking in the sound of your laughter like it’s the first sunlight after a storm.
You playfully hit his arm, laughing. “You’re disgusting.”
He watches you, a quiet warmth spreading through his chest as he sees a glimpse of the woman he loves peeking through the pain.
“There’s my pretty girl,” he murmurs, the words gentle—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he speaks too loud.
You roll your eyes, but can’t quite hide the flush on your cheeks. Even now, after everything, he can make you feel safe.
Reality crashes back in, your smile fading as your shoulders sag. “I feel so weak,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. It hurts to admit it.
“Hey, hey,” he says, cupping your face gently. “You’re my tough girl.”
“I don’t feel so tough,” you admit, your eyes brimming again. “I just… walked away,”
He shakes his head, thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. “You did what you had to do. You were protecting yourself. Anyone in your position would have done the same.”
You try to lighten the mood, voice wobbling. “You know, you’re pretty empathetic for such an old man.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Who you callin’ old?” The sound of your shared laughter fills the empty night, a small thread tying you back together.
You shift uncomfortably on the cold concrete. “Thanks for coming out here. I know the hospital needs you.” Gratitude, guilt, and relief swirl in your voice.
He gives you a look—half-teasing, half-sincere. “Kind of offended you’re thanking me. You’re my wife. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Jack squeezes your hand, grounding you.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
The sirens fade.
The night air is cold but somehow less empty.
“We’ll get through this,” he whispers.
You don’t know if you believe him.
But for now, you let yourself lean into the warmth of his shoulder, and, for the first time tonight, you let yourself breathe.
MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE: damn i really abused tf out of the dash button.
Whitaker is easily liked because he’s compliant. Santos isn’t easily liked because she’s defiant. The most well liked person in the room caring about the most “difficult” person to like as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. Everyone looking at him as if he were a saint for withstanding her, when to him she is his savior. Literally the most important platonic relationship on screen right now for me. Don’t look at me.
I hope one day some of y’all can admit that we live in a world where neither Santos or Langdon is 100% correct and lots of things in that situation have gray areas
basically, you use park to get off! yay! hope you love! MDNI!
You should be fast asleep.
The satin sheets beneath you are freshly washed and smell of fresh linen, a whiff you get every time you shift around.
You're freshly showered, smelling of your fruity bath soap, and your exploited legs are rubbing against the cool sheets.
The room carries a chill you beat by shoving the comforter over you, and the big light is off, while two lamps dimly light the room with a soft, warm glow.
But instead of basking in these perfect sleeping conditions, you find yourself doomscrolling on your phone, while your boyfriend lies next to you, shirtless with his glasses on, reading some orthopedic medical journal called The Bone & Joint.
You set your phone down on your chest to look at him. “What are you reading?” you ask, trying to sound curious, even though you already know.
“Medical journal,” Park replies, eyes still skimming the journal, the sound of him flipping a thin page echoing around the room.
“Nice,” you hum, almost in a trance, watching the way his tongue glides between his fingers to moisten them before flipping another page. “Really nice.”
You silently watch him for a moment, your mouth parted slightly.
He pauses reading for a moment, his fingers holding a page between them, before he turns his head slightly to look at you.
You're quick to turn away, trying to play it off by trying to find anything to look at.
Something to pretend to be interested in.
Your eyes find his curtains in a matter of seconds. “I think you should get new curtains.”
“My curtains are fine,” he says, noting your behavior, before going back to his journal.
“The color is… not you,” you reason, staying on the topic.
“They’re steel gray,” he says, flipping another page. “It’s simple—clean.”
You sit up, turning to look at him. “You’re a psychopath,” you jest with humor on your tongue.
He flips another page. “And, yet, you're still lying in my bed,” he quips, flicking his eyes to look at you, the corner of his lip quipping knowingly.
You roll your eyes playfully with a smile as you fall back onto your pillow, looking at the ceiling briefly before you look back at him.
His biceps bulged without him even flexing, and with every flick of his wrist to turn the page, you can see a vein pop that sends a wash of warmth over your body.
You can feel a knot forming in your stomach.
You don’t even realize that you're chewing on your nails until his voice cuts through the silence and makes you jump a little.
“Quit biting your nails,” he directs, his eyes scanning over an assessment of patients undergoing total knee arthroplasty.
He’s not even looking at you, and he knows.
You drop your hand, tucking it under the comforter.
It only takes seeing his tongue come out to moisten his lips, something he often did when he was reading, that set you off.
You knew he could obviously see you watching, but he wouldn't inquire why.
He didn’t ask if you needed something, no.
He just kept reading.
Without much thought, you find yourself tossing the comforter off yourself and scooting closer to him, your hand coming out to lower the journal in his hand.
“Can I help you?” he asks, voice curious and low.
You don’t answer.
Instead, you take the journal and set it aside, moving to sit between his legs on your knees.
You can see the gears turning in his brain as his light brown eyes search yours, yet he doesn't say anything.
He simply waits for you to take the lead, something he usually never does, but he’s curious.
You carefully grab his hand, your eyes fixed on him the entire time, waiting a moment, the sound of the wind wooshing outside the window the only noise you hear.
You try not to hesitate, flipping his hand to hold it by his thumb and pinky, sticking his middle and ring finger in your mouth, your tongue swirling around, ensuring they're soaked.
Again, he remains silent, only his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows deeply, but you can tell he's just at a loss for words.
This is very forward for you, but you can tell he likes it by the way his eyes darken and his jaw ticks.
You pull his fingers from your mouth, breath catching as a thin string of spit remains.
You tug the hem of his shirt, your shirt for the night, higher, exposing the delicate fabric of your panties.
He watches, lips parted, as you slide your panties down your thighs and bring his hand between them, guiding him where you want him most.
His hand twitches in your grip, but he lets you take the lead.
You look back up at him.
He can see what you want, the air between you charged.
“Use me,” he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, his restraint almost palpable.
And you do, slowly, savoring the anticipation as you guide his hand.
You grip his wrist, guiding his fingers inside your already soaked cunt, a sharp gasp escaping as you finally let yourself have him.
A moan tumbles from your lips as your back arches, each movement electric, every nerve alight.
He tilts his head, lips parting as if he’s tasting your pleasure with you, eyes half-lidded and dark, his pulse thrumming against your skin.
You move with him, chasing the rising heat that curls low in your belly, skin humming beneath his touch.
So close.
You’re lost to sensation—a moaning mess.
Your heart is pounding, breath coming in fractured bursts, a sheen of sweat glistening along your brow.
Your eyes squeeze shut as your head tilts back.
The heat of his gaze only adds to the rush—he’s watching, transfixed, every breath caught between you.
“Fucking use me,” he says again, voice low and rough.
His words echo in your head.
You struggle to catch your breath, throat raw with need, every gasp a shiver down your spine.
So fucking close.
Your body is trembling, right at the edge.
When his fingers flex, pressing just right, you shatter—pleasure breaking over you, fierce and bright.
Your legs shake, chest rising with ragged breaths as you ride out the aftershocks.
You’re sure there’ll be a mark on his wrist tomorrow from how tightly you held him, but he doesn’t seem to care.
He doesn’t let the moment fade—his fingers slip from you, then return to your lips, resting on your tongue.
“Clean up your mess,” he murmurs, voice thick with want.
An order.
You close your lips around his fingers, tasting yourself as you meet his gaze, slow and deliberate.
He wants you to taste how much you want him.
Taste your own need, the heat of it undeniable.
And how could you say no?
After all, he always returns the favor.
MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE: this was based off a literal dream i had last night that i had to write immediately. also, yes, the bremma fic is still coming. it might just take a little longer than i originally anticipated... BUT, you can probs expect more park x reader pics bc he's so smash and mean. okay, bye! xoxo!
Hey! I love your writing so very much. Was wondering, are you and @ebodebo friends or just mutual? I adore her fics too and I always see you interacting with her and her with you. But you two seem closer than just online friends. This is so weird & random, I’m aware. But I'm just curious! 😂
So Rylea and I essentially are the same person and also I live in her walls she just hasn’t found me yet🥰🤪
But seriously thank you sm for asking we’ve been locked in since the 3rd grade, we share everything including a brain so she’s basically twin at this point! I need everyone to ignore this post when we casually start beefing for the bit when I drop my next fic but I could never truly be mean to her that’s baby. UGH! Love to see the duo get famous this is so cute
(I put it in my tags but Anon pls reveal yourself to me bc this was so slay😚)
Happy St.Patrick’s Day to MY first gen- Irish/American vet and Dr. Johnathan Abbot!! And to any and all of my Irish followers! Might cave and pick up a Guinness in town to have for later while I write🫣
Ya so anyways. I think if Jack Abbot is gonna be taking up hobbies he should be playing senior whale shit hockey. Bc let’s be honest he’s built like a tank and would still be hot if he was missing a couple teeth….
As my good close personal friend Brant “Goody” Goodleaf would say- Settle down!
Anyways idk if yall watch Shorsey but I was told he gives pope Cody and honestly? As I rewatch I could see it, they can both take me to Paris whenever they want!
Shorsey and the Pitt are taking over my life and I have already apologized to my mutuals that have had to hear me go on and on but lmk if yall want my assessments?? Maybe I’ll start posting more in 2026😭🤚🏼
(also who tf sends a message like this anonymously like at least have the balls to say it to my face twin!)
Will Abi ever post a full fic again? Who knows, not me! Anywhoodle yall are getting this bc @ebodebo and I are going insane over Jack Abbot being a card fanatic!
Jack Abbot! who grew up in a back ass town where all you did on the weekends was drive around, drink and play cards. He’s a certified card shark by 11.
Jack Abbot! being freshly 18 gripping the deck of cards his older brother pushed into his hands without a word, like a lifeline.
Jack Abbot! who knew he could build connections with his fellow soldiers through rations poker and half deadly games of spoons.
Jack Abbot! spending his first deployments silently playing solitaire before going to bed because it was the only way he could quiet his hands and his mind. it was a trend he unknowingly spread through the camp.
Jack Abbot! keeping his patients spirits up through games of bullshit, spades, and (ironically) war when morale got too low.
Jack has always been a man who unironically believed laughter was the best medicine. So when he was laid up in the hospital after his amputation, one of his nurses pulling out that deck of cards that had survived hell and back multiple times, was the only thing that brought him back from the darkness. He’d spend downtime from PT with a nurse dominating at Gin Rummy and Pinochle
Jack Abbot! keeping that deck of cards tucked safely in his jeans every time he leaves the house. It became a habit
Jack Abbot! out at the bar after a tough shift, silently pulling his cards, shuffling and dealing out to whoever was with him when silence settled.
I could literally go on and on and on but literally looking at his hands in episode 7 I was like damn that’s a man who can shuffle some CARDS!!
