#Shawn Michaels imagine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yakshxiao · 14 days ago

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FIVE MINUTES AT A TIME ; JACK ABBOT

wc; 9.3k synopsis; You and Jack only ever see each other for five minutes at a time — the tail end of day shift and the start of night shift. But those five minutes? They’ve become the best part of both of your days. Everyone else in the ER has noticed it. The way you both lean in just a little too close during handoff. The way both of you leave a drink and a protein bar next to the chart rack. The way neither of you ever miss a single shift — until one day, one of you doesn’t show up. And everything shifts.

contents; Jack Abbot/nurse!reader, gn!reader, medical inaccuracies, hospital setting, mentions of injury and death, slow burn, found family, mutual pinning, mild jealousy, age gap (like 10-15 years, reader is aged around late 20s/early 30s but you can do any age), can you tell this man is consuming my every thought? tempted to write a follow-up fic lemme know what u guys think.

You only see him at 7 p.m. — well, 6:55 p.m., if you’re being exact.

You’re already at the nurse’s station, chart pulled up, pen poised, pretending you’re more focused than you are — just waiting for that familiar figure to walk in. The ER is barely holding itself together, seams straining under the weight of another long, unsparing shift.

You’ve witnessed Mckay go through two scrub changes — both stained, both discarded like paper towels. Dana’s been shouted at by too many angry patients to count, each new confrontation carving deeper lines into her already exhausted face. And if you see Gloria trailing behind Robby one more time, arms crossed, mouth already mid-complaint, you’re sure you’ll have front-row seats to the implosion of Robby’s self-restraint.

The end-of-shift exhaustion hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. It seeps into the walls, the floor, your bones. The scent of bleach, sweat, and cold coffee hangs over everything, a cocktail that clings to your skin long after you clock out. The vending machine’s been emptied of anything worth eating. Your stomach gave up asking hours ago.

The sun is still trying to claw its way down, its last rays pressing uselessly against frosted windows, too far removed to touch. The ER isn’t made for soft light. It lives under fluorescents, bright and unfeeling, leeching color and kindness from the world, one hour at a time.

It’s then, right on time, he arrives.

Jack Abbot.

Always the same. Dark scrubs, military backpack slung over his shoulder, the strap worn and fraying. His stethoscope loops around his neck like it belongs there and his hair is a little unkempt, like the day’s already dragged its hands through him before the night even starts.

He walks the same unhurried pace every time — not slow, not fast — like a man who’s learned the ER’s tempo can’t be outrun or outpaced. It’ll still be here, bleeding and burning, whether he sprints or crawls. And every day, like clockwork, he arrives at your station at 6:55 p.m., eyes just sharp enough to remind you he hasn’t completely handed himself over to exhaustion.

The handoff always starts the same. Clean. Professional. Efficient. Vitals. Labs. Status updates on the regulars and the barely-holding-ons. Names are exchanged like currency, chart numbers folded into the cadence of clipped sentences, shorthand that both of you learned the hard way. The rhythm of it is steady, like the low, constant beep of monitors in the background.

But tonight, the silence stretches just a little longer before either of you speaks. His eyes skim the board, lingering for half a second too long on South 2. You catch it. You always do.

“She’s still here,” you say, tapping your pen against the chart. “Outlived the odds and half the staff’s patience.”

Jack huffs a quiet sound that’s almost — almost — a laugh. The sound is low and dry, like it hasn’t been used much lately, “Figures.”

His attention shifts, following the slow, inevitable exit of Gloria, her unmistakable white coat vanishing around the corner, Robby sagging against the wall in her wake like a man aging in real-time, “I leave for twelve hours and Gloria’s still haunting the halls. She got squatters’ rights yet?”

You smirk, shaking your head and turning to look in the same direction, “I think Robby’s about five minutes away from filing for witness protection.”

That earns you a real smile — small, fleeting, but it’s there. The kind that only shows up in this place during the quiet moments between shift changes, the ones too short to hold onto and too rare to take for granted. The kind that makes you wonder how often he uses it when he’s not here.

Jack glances at the clock, then back at you, his voice low and dry. “Guess I better go save what’s left of his sanity, huh?”

You shrug, sliding the last of your notes toward him, the pages worn thin at the corners from too many hands, too many days like this. “Too late for that. You’re just here to do damage control.”

His smile lingers a little longer, but his eyes settle on you, the weight of the shift pressing into the space between you both — familiar, constant, unspoken. The clock ticks forward, the moment folding neatly back into the rush of the ER, the five-minute bubble of quiet already closing like it always does.

And then — 7 p.m. — the night begins.

The next few weeks worth of handoffs play out the same way.

The same rhythm. The same quiet trade of names, numbers, and near-misses. The same half-conversations, broken by pagers, interrupted by overhead calls. The same looks, the same five minutes stretched thin between shifts, like the ER itself holds its breath for you both.

But today is different.

This time, Jack arrives at 6:50 p.m.

Five minutes earlier than usual — early even for him.

You glance up from the nurse’s station when you catch the sound of his footsteps long before the clock gives you permission to expect him. Still the same dark scrubs, the military backpack and stethoscope around his neck.

But it’s not just the arrival time that’s different.

It’s the tea. Balanced carefully in one hand, lid still steaming, sleeve creased from the walk in. Tea — not coffee. Jack Abbot doesn’t do tea. At least, not in all the months you’ve been on this rotation. He’s a coffee-or-nothing type. Strong, bitter, the kind of brew that tastes like the end of the world.

He sets it down in front of you without fanfare, as if it’s just another piece of the shift — like vitals, like the board, like the handoff that always waits for both of you. But the corner of his mouth lifts when he catches the confused tilt of your head.

“Either I’m hallucinating,” you say, “or you’re early and bringing offerings.”

“You sounded like hell on the scanner today,” he says, voice dry but easy. “Figured you’d be better off with tea when you leave.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Your fingers curl around the warmth. The smell hits you before the sip does — honey, ginger, something gentler than the day you’ve had.

“Consider it hazard pay,” Jack’s mouth quirks, eyes flicking toward the whiteboard behind you. “The board looks worse than usual.”

You huff a dry laugh, glancing at the mess of names and numbers — half of them marked awaiting test results and the rest marked with waiting.

“Yeah,” you say. “One of those days.”

You huff a laugh, the sound pulling the sting from your throat even before the tea does. The day’s been a long one. Endless patient turnover, backlogged labs, and the kind of non-stop tension that winds itself into your muscles and stays there, even when you clock out.

Jack leans his hip against the edge of the counter, and lets the quiet settle there for a moment. No handoff yet. No rush. The world is still turning, but for a brief second it feels like the clock’s hands have stalled, stuck in that thin stretch of stillness before the next wave breaks.

“You trying to throw off the universe?” you ask, half teasing, lifting the cup in mock salute. “Next thing I know, Gloria will come in here smiling.”

Jack huffs, “Let’s not be that ambitious.”

The moment hangs between you, the conversation drifting comfortably into the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand filling. Just the weight of the day, and the knowledge that the night will be heavier.

But then, as always, duty calls. A sharp crackle from his pager splits the stillness like a stone through glass. He straightens, his expression shifting back to business without missing a beat.

You slide the last chart across the desk toward him, your hand brushing the edge of his as you let go. The handoff starts, the ritual resumes. Vitals. Labs. Critical patients flagged in red ink. Familiar, steady, practiced. A dance you both know too well.

But even as the conversation folds back into clinical shorthand, the tea sits between you, cooling slowly, marking the space where the ritual has quietly shifted into something else entirely.

And when the handoff’s done — when the last name leaves your mouth — the clock ticks past 7:05 p.m.

You linger. Just long enough for Jack to glance back your way.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks. The question light, but not casual.

You nod once, the answer already written.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

After that, the handoff’s change. Tea was only the beginning.

It’s always there first — sometimes waiting on the desk before you’ve even finished logging out. The cup’s always right, too. No questions asked, no orders repeated. Jack learns the little details: how you like it, when it's too hot or too cold. When the shift’s been particularly cruel and the hours stretch too thin, he starts adding the occasional muffin or protein bar to the offering, wordlessly placed on the desk beside your notes.

In return, you start doing the same. Only you give him coffee. Black, bitter — too bitter for you — but it's how he likes it and you’ve never had the heart to tell him there’s better tasting coffee out there. Sometimes you give him tea on the calmer nights. A granola bar and an apple join soon after so you know he has something to eat when the food he brings in becomes a ghost of a meal at the back of the staff fridge. A post-it with a doodle and the words “I once heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes” gets stuck to his coffee after an especially tough day shift, knowing it’ll bleed into the night.

It’s quiet, easy. Half-finished conversations that start at one handoff and end in the next.

You talk about everything but yourselves.

About the regulars — which patient is faking, which one’s hanging on by more than sheer luck. About the shows you both pretend you don’t have time for but always end up watching, somehow. About staff gossip, bets on how long the new hire will last, debates over whose turn it is to replace the break room coffee filter (spoiler: no one ever volunteers).

But never about what you two have. Never about what any of it means.

You pretend the lines are clear. That it’s all part of the handoff. That it’s just routine.

But the team notices.

Mckay starts hanging around the station longer than necessary at 6:55 p.m., her eyes flicking between the clock and the doorway like she’s waiting for a cue. Dana starts asking loaded questions in passing — light, but pointed. “So, Jack’s shift starting soon?” she’ll say with a knowing tilt of her head.

The worst offenders, though, are Princess and Perlah.

They start a betting pool. Subtle at first — a folded scrap of paper passed around, tucked in their pockets like an afterthought. Before long, half the ER staff’s names are scribbled under columns like ‘Next week’, ‘Next Month’ or ‘Never happening’.

And then one day, you open your locker after a twelve-hour shift, hands still shaking slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and there it is:

A post-it, bright yellow and impossible to miss.

“JUST KISS ALREADY.”

No name. No signature. Just the collective voice of the entire ER condensed into three impatient words.

You stand there longer than you should, staring at it, your chest tightening in that quiet, unfamiliar way that’s got nothing to do with the shift and everything to do with him.

When you finally peel the note off and stuff it deep into your pocket, you find Jack already waiting at the nurse’s station. 6:55 p.m. Early, as always. Tea in hand. Same dark scrubs. Same unhurried stride. Same steady presence.

And when you settle in beside him, brushing just close enough for your shoulder to graze his sleeve, he doesn’t say anything about the flush still warm in your cheeks.

You don’t say anything either.

The handoff begins like it always does. The names. The numbers. The rhythm. The world still spinning the same broken way it always has.

But the note is still in your pocket. And the weight of it lingers longer than it should.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe never.

The handoff tonight starts like any other.

The same exchange of vitals, the same clipped sentences folding neatly into the rhythm both of you know by heart. The ER hums and flickers around you, always on the edge of chaos but never quite tipping over. Jack’s there, 6:55 p.m., tea in one hand, muffin in the other — that small tired look in place like a badge he never bothers to take off.

But tonight, the air feels heavier. The space between you, thinner.

There’s no reason for it — at least, none you could name. Just a quiet shift in gravity, subtle enough to pretend away, sharp enough to notice. A conversation that drifts lazily off course, no talk of patients, no staff gossip, no television shows. Just silence. Comfortable, but expectant.

And then his hand — reaching past you to grab a chart — brushes yours.

Not the accidental kind. Not the casual, workplace kind. The kind that lingers. Warm, steady, the weight of his palm light against the back of your fingers like the pause before a sentence you’re too scared to finish.

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world outside the nurse’s station slows. The monitors still beep, the overhead paging system still hums, the hallway still bustles — but you don’t hear any of it.

There’s just his hand. Your hand. The breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

And then the trauma alert hits.

“MVA — multiple injuries. Incoming ETA two minutes.”

The spell shatters. The moment folds back in on itself like it was never there at all. Jack pulls away first, but not fast. His hand brushes yours one last time as if reluctant, as if the shift might grant you one more second before it demands him back.

But the ER has no patience for almosts.

You both move — the way you always do when the alarms go off, efficient and wordless, sliding back into your roles like armor. He’s already at the doors, gloves snapped on, voice low and level as the gurneys rush in. You’re right behind him, notes ready, vitals called out before the paramedics finish their sentences.

The night swallows the moment whole. The weight of the job fills the space where it had lived.

And when the trauma bay finally quiets, when the adrenaline starts to bleed out of your system and the hallways return to their usual background hum, Jack passes by you at the station, slowing just long enough for your eyes to meet.

Nothing said. Nothing needed.

Almost.

Weeks after the same routine, over and over, the change starts like most things do in your world — quietly, without fanfare.

A new name slips into conversation one morning over burnt coffee and half-finished charting. Someone you met outside the ER walls, outside the endless loop of vitals and crash carts and lives balanced on the edge. A friend of a friend, the kind of person who looks good on paper: steady job, easy smile, around your age, the kind of life that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or ring with the static of trauma alerts.

You don’t even mean to mention them. The words just tumble out between patients, light and careless. Jack barely reacts — just a flicker of his eyes, the barest pause in the way his pen scratches across the chart. He hums, noncommittal, and says, “Good for you.”

But after that, the air between you shifts.

The ritual stays the same — the teas and coffees still show up, the handoffs still slide smooth and clean — but the conversations dull. They're shallower. You talk about patients, the weather. But the inside jokes dry up, and the silences stretch longer, thicker, like neither of you can find the right words to fix the growing space between you.

The new person tries. Dinners that never quite feel right. Movies that blur together. Conversations that stall out halfway through, where you find yourself thinking about Jack’s voice instead of the one across the table. It’s not their fault — they do everything right. They ask about your day, they remember how you take your tea, they show up when they say they will.

But they aren’t him. They never will be.

And the truth of that sits heavy in your chest long before you let it go.

When the end finally comes, it’s as quiet as the beginning. No fight. No grand scene. Just a conversation that runs out of steam and a mutual, tired understanding: this was never going to be enough.

You don’t tell Jack. Not directly. But he knows.

Maybe it’s the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes that night, or the way your usual jokes come slower, dull around the edges. Or maybe it’s just that he knows you too well by now, the way you know him — a kind of understanding that doesn’t need translation.

He doesn’t push. He’s not the kind of man who asks questions he isn’t ready to hear the answers to, and you’ve never been the type to offer up more than what the job requires. But when you pass him the last of the handoff notes that night, his fingers brush yours, and for once, they linger. Just a second longer than they should. Long enough to say everything neither of you will.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Neutral. Studied, “You get any sleep lately?”

It’s not the question he wants to ask. Not even close. But it’s the one he can ask, the one that fits inside the safe little script you’ve both written for yourselves.

You lie — both of you know it — but he doesn’t call you on it. He just nods, slow and thoughtful, and when he stands, he leaves his coffee behind on the counter. Still hot. Barely touched.

And that’s how you know.

Because Jack never leaves coffee unfinished.

The next handoff, he’s already at the nurse’s station when you arrive — ten minutes early, a tea waiting for you, exactly how you like it. There’s no note, no smile, no pointed comment. Just the small, familiar weight of the cup in your hand and the warmth that spreads through your chest, sharper than it should be.

You settle into the routine, pulling the chart toward you, the silence stretching long and comfortable for the first time in weeks. Jack doesn’t ask, and you don’t offer. But when your fingers brush his as you pass him the logbook, you don’t pull away as quickly as you used to.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

The world around you moves the same way it always does — busy, breathless, unrelenting. But somewhere in the quiet, something unspoken hums between you both. Something that’s been waiting.

They weren’t him. And you weren’t surprised.

Neither was he.

It’s the handoff on a cold Wednesday evening that brings a quiet kind of news — the kind that doesn’t explode, just settles. Like dust.

Jack mentions it in passing, the way people mention the weather or the fact that the coffee machine’s finally given up the ghost. Mid-handoff, eyes on the chart, voice level.

“Admin gave me an offer.”

Your pen stills, barely a beat, then keeps moving. “Oh yeah?” you ask, as if you hadn’t heard the shift in his tone. As if your chest didn’t tighten the moment the words left his mouth.

The department’s newer, quieter. Fewer traumas. More order. Less of the endless night shift churn that has worn him down to the bone these last few years. It would suit him. You know it. Everyone knows it.

And so you do what you’re supposed to do. What any friend — any coworker — would do. You offer the words, gift-wrapped in all the right tones.

“You’d be great at it.”

The smile you give him is steady, practiced. It reaches your lips. But not your eyes. Never your eyes.

Fortunately, Jack knows you like the back of his hand.

He just nods, the kind of slow, quiet nod that feels more like a goodbye than anything else. The conversation moves on. The night moves on.

You go home, and for him, the patients come and go, machines beep, the usual rhythm swallows the moment whole. But the shift feels different. Like the floor’s shifted under his feet and the walls don’t sit right in his peripherals anymore.

The offer lingers in the air for days. No one mentions it. But he notices things — the way you're quieter, the way you seem almost distant during handoffs. Like the weight of the outcome of the decision’s sitting on your shoulders, heavy and personal.

And then, just as quietly, the tension shifts. No announcement. No conversation. The offer just evaporates. You hear it from Robby two days later, his voice offhand as he scrolls through the department’s scheduling board.

“Abbot passed on the job.”

That’s all he says. That’s all you need.

When your shift ends that day, you linger a little longer than usual. Five minutes past the clock, then ten. Just enough time to catch him walking in. Same dark scrubs, same tired eyes. But this time, no talk of transfers. No talk of moving on.

You slide the handoff notes toward him, and when his fingers brush yours, neither of you let go right away.

“Long night ahead.” you say, your eyes lock onto his.

“Same as always,” he answers, soft but sure.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

But he stayed.

And so did you.

The holiday shift is a quiet one for once.

Not the kind of chaotic disaster you usually brace for — no code blues, no trauma alerts, no frantic scrambling. The ER hums at a lower frequency tonight, as if the whole department is holding its breath, waiting for the chaos to pass and the clock to turn over.

You’ve been working on autopilot for the last few hours. The patient load is manageable, the team is mostly intact, and the usual undercurrent of stress is more like a murmur than a shout. But there's something about the quiet, the softness of it, that makes you more aware of everything, every moment stretching a little longer than it should. It makes the weight of the day feel more pressing, more noticeable.

As the last patient leaves — nothing serious, just another sprain — you settle into your chair by the nurse’s station, the kind of exhausted calm that only comes when the worst is over. The clock inches toward the end of your shift — 6:50 p.m. — but you’re not in any hurry to leave, not yet.

As always, Jack walks in.

You look up just as he passes by the station. His usual tired look is softened tonight, the edges of his exhaustion blunted by something quieter, something a little more worn into his features. The shadows under his eyes are deeper, but there’s a kind of peace in him tonight — a rare thing for the man who’s always running on the edge of burnout.

He stops in front of you, and you can see the small, crumpled bag in his hand. It’s not much, just a bit of wrapping paper that’s a little too wrinkled, but something about it makes your heart give a funny, lopsided beat.

"Here," he says, low, voice a little rougher than usual.

You blink, surprised. “What’s this?”

He hesitates for half a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything at all. “For you.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-laughing. "We don’t usually exchange gifts, Jack."

His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. "Thought we might make an exception today."

You take the gift from him, feeling the weight of it, simple but somehow significant. You glance down at it, and for a moment, the world feels like it falls away. He doesn't ask you to open it right then, and for a second, you think maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll leave it unopened, just like so many things left unsaid between you two.

But the curiosity wins out.

You peel back the paper slowly. It’s a leather-bound notebook, simple and unassuming. The kind of thing that makes you wonder how he knew.

“I... didn’t know what to get you," Jack says, his voice soft, almost sheepish. "But I figured you'd use it."

The gesture is simple — almost too simple. But it’s not. It’s too personal for just coworkers. Too thoughtful, too quiet. The weight of it sits between the two of you, unspoken, thick in the air.

You look up at him, your chest tight in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. "Thank you," you manage, and you can’t quite shake the feeling that this — this little notebook — means more than just a gift. It’s something that says everything neither of you has been able to put into words.

Jack nods, his smile barely there but real. He takes a step back, as if pulling himself away from something he doesn’t know how to navigate. The silence stretches. But it’s different this time. It’s not awkward. It’s soft. It feels like a bridge between the two of you, built in the quiet spaces you’ve shared and the ones you haven’t.

“I got you something too,” you say before you can stop yourself. When you reach into your pocket, your fingers brush against the small, folded package you had tucked away.

His brow furrows slightly in surprise, but he takes it from you, and when he unwraps it, it’s just a small, hand-carved keychain you had spotted at a market — simple, not much, but it reminded you of Jack.

He laughs, a short, quiet sound that vibrates in the space between you, and the tension between you two feels almost manageable. “Thank you,” he says, his fingers brushing over the little keychain.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The noise of the ER seems distant, muffled, as if it’s happening in another world altogether. The clock ticks, the final minutes of your shift inching by. But in that small, quiet space, it’s as if time has paused, holding its breath alongside the two of you.

“I guess it’s just... us then, huh?” he says finally, voice softer than before, quieter in a way that feels like more than just the end of a shift.

You nod, and for the first time in ages, the silence between you feels easy. Comfortable.

Just a few more minutes, and the shift will be over. But right now, this — this small, quiet exchange, these moments that don’t need words — is all that matters.

The day shift is winding down when Jack walks in, just before 7 p.m.

The usual rhythm of the ER is fading, the intensity of the day finally trailing off as the night shift prepares to take over. He arrives just as the last few nurses finish their rounds, their faces tired but steady as they begin to pass the baton.

But something feels off. The station is quieter than usual, the hum of conversation quieter, the buzz of the monitors almost unnaturally sharp in the sudden stillness. Jack glances around, noting the lack of a familiar face, the way the department feels a little emptier, more distant. He spots Dana and Robby at the nurse’s station, exchanging murmurs, and immediately knows something’s not right.

You’re not there.

He doesn’t immediately ask. Instead, he strides toward the counter, his mind racing to calculate the cause. A sick day? A last-minute emergency? Something’s happened, but he can’t quite place it. The thought that it’s anything serious doesn’t sit well in his chest, and yet, it presses down harder with every minute that passes.

It’s 6:55 p.m. now, and the clock keeps ticking forward.

By 7:00, Jack is halfway through his handoff, scanning the patient charts and mentally preparing for the usual chaos, but his focus keeps drifting.

Where are you?

He finally asks. Not loudly, not with urgency, but quietly enough that only Robby and Dana catch the edge in his voice. “Have they called in tonight?”

Before he even has a chance to follow up with your name, Dana looks up at him, a tired smirk on her face. “No. No word.”

Robby shakes his head, looking between Dana and Jack. “We haven’t heard anything. Thought you’d know.”

He nods, swallowing the sudden tightness in his throat. He tries not to show it — not to let it show in the way his shoulders stiffen or the slight furrow between his brows. He finishes up the handoff as usual, but his mind keeps returning to you, to the way the shift feels off without your presence, the absence weighing heavy on him.

By the time the rest of the night staff rolls in, Jack's focus is split. He’s still mentally running through the patient roster, but he’s half-waiting, half-hoping to see you come walking to the nurses station, just like always.

It doesn't happen.

And then, as if on cue, a message comes through — a notification from HR. You’d left for the day in a rush. Your parent had been hospitalised out of town, and you’d rushed off without a word. No call. No notice.

Jack stops in his tracks. The room feels suddenly too small, the quiet too loud. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he puts his phone back into his pocket, his eyes flicking over it again, like it will make more sense the second time.

His mind moves quickly, fast enough to keep up with the frantic pace of the ER around him, but his body is still, frozen for a heartbeat longer than it should be. He doesn’t know what to do with this — this sudden, heavy weight of worry and concern.

The team, in their usual way, rallies. They pull a care package together like clockwork — snacks, tissues, a soft blanket someone swears helps during long waits in hospital chairs. A card circulates, scrawled with signatures and the usual messages: thinking of you, hang in there, we’ve got you. It’s routine, something they’ve done for each other countless times in the past, a small gesture in the face of someone’s crisis.

But Jack doesn’t sign the card.

He sits quietly in the break room for a while, the weight of his concern simmering beneath the surface of his usual calm. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel — concern for you, for the situation, for how the ER feels without you there. The package is ready, and with it, so is a quiet, unsaid piece of himself.

When the others step away, he tucks something else inside, sliding it between the blanket and the box of cheap chocolates the team threw in at the last minute — an envelope, plain, unmarked, the handwriting inside careful but unsteady, like the words cost more than he expected.

Take care of them. The place isn’t the same without you.

Short. Simple. Honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. It isn’t signed. It doesn’t need to be. You’d know.

The team doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they make no comment on it. The ER continues to move, steady in its rhythm, even as Jack’s world feels like it’s been thrown off balance. The package is sent. The shift carries on. And Jack waits. He waits, in the quiet space between you and him, in the absence of your presence, in the weight of things he can’t say.

The clock ticks on. And with it, Jack misses you a little more that night.

Two weeks.

That’s how long the space at the nurse’s station stayed empty. That’s how long the chair at the nurse’s station sat empty — the one you always claimed without thinking. Nobody touched it. Nobody had to say why. It just sat there — a quiet, hollow thing that marked your absence more clearly than any words could’ve.

Two weeks of missing the familiar scrape of your pen against the chart. Two weeks of shift changes stripped down to bare-bones handoffs, clipped and clinical, no space for the soft edges of inside jokes or the quiet pauses where your voice used to fit. Two weeks of coffee going cold, of tasting far more bitter than it did before. Two weeks of the ER feeling off-kilter, like the clock’s gears had ground themselves down and no one could quite put the pieces back.

When you walk back through the automatic doors, it’s like the air catches on itself — that split-second stall before everything moves forward again. You don’t announce yourself. No one really does. The place just swallows you back up, the way it does to anyone who leaves and dares to return.

You clock in that morning. The shift goes on as normal, as normal as the ER can be. The others greet you like they’ve been told to act normal. Quick nods, small smiles. Robby pats your shoulder, light and brief. Dana leaves an extra coffee by the monitors without a word.

When the clock hands swing toward 6:50 p.m., you’re already at the nurses station. Sitting at the desk like you’d never left. Like nothing’s changed, like no time has passed at all. Like the last two weeks were some other life. Scrubs pressed, badge clipped at the same off-center tilt it always is. But your hands hover just slightly, resting on the chart without writing, pen poised like your mind hasn’t quite caught up to your body being back.

The air feels different — not heavy, not light, just suspended. Stalled.

And then you hear them. Footsteps.

Steady. Familiar. The cadence you’ve known for months.

Jack.

He stops a few feet from you, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, the faintest crease between his brow like he hasn’t quite convinced himself this isn’t some kind of trick.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

No patient names. No vitals. No shorthand. The handoff script that’s lived on your tongues for months goes untouched. Instead, you stand there, surrounded by the soft beep of monitors and the shuffle of overworked staff, wrapped in the kind of silence that says everything words can’t.

It’s a strange sort of silence. Not awkward. Just full.

For a long moment, the chaos of the ER fades to the edges, the overhead pages and the low mechanical hums turning to static. You look at him, and it’s like seeing him for the first time all over again. The small lines around his eyes seem deeper. The tension at his shoulders, usually buried beneath practiced calm, sits plainly in view.

You wonder if it’s been there the whole time. You wonder if he noticed the same about you.

His eyes meet yours, steady, unguarded. The first thing that breaks the quiet isn’t a handoff or a patient update.

“I missed this.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into something that doesn’t quite make it to a smile. When he replies, it’s not rushed. It’s not easy. But it’s the truth.

“I missed you.”

Simple. Honest. No side steps. No softening the edges with humor. Just the truth. The words sit there between you, bare and uncomplicated. For a second, the world feels smaller — just the two of you, the hum of machines, and the weight of two weeks' worth of things unsaid.

His gaze shifts, softer now, searching your face for something, or maybe just memorizing it all over again.

“How are they?” he asks, voice low, careful. Not clinical, not casual — the way people ask when they mean it.

You swallow, the answer lingering behind your teeth. You hadn’t said much to anyone, not even now. But his question doesn’t pry, it just waits.

“They’re stable,” you say after a moment, the words simple but heavy. “Scared. Tired. I stayed until I couldn’t anymore.”

Jack nods once, slow and sure, as if that answer was all he needed. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like there’s more he wants to do, more he wants to say — but this is still the space between shifts, still the same ER where everything gets held back for later.

But his voice is steady when he replies.

“I’m glad you were with them.”

A pause. One of those long, silent stretches that says everything the words don’t.

“And I’m glad you came back.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t have to.

And then, the clock ticks forward. The night shift begins. The world presses on, the monitors start beeping their endless song, and the next patient is already waiting. But the weight of those words lingers, tucked just beneath the surface.

And this time — neither of you pretend it didn’t happen.

But it’s still not quite the right time.

Jack’s walls aren’t the obvious kind. They don’t come with sharp edges or cold shoulders. His are quieter, built from small hesitations — the steady, practiced way he keeps his distance, the careful deflection tucked behind dry humor and midnight coffee refills. And at the center of it, two stubborn truths: he’s older, and he’s widowed.

Being widowed is a quiet shadow that doesn’t lift, not really. It taught him how easily a future can disappear, how love doesn’t stop the world from taking what it wants. He doesn’t talk about her, not much — not unless the shift runs long and the coffee’s gone cold — but the space she left is always there, shaping the way he looks at you, at himself, at the idea of starting over. Jack tells himself it wouldn’t be fair. Not to you. Not when you’ve still got years ahead to figure out what you want. Not when he’s already stood graveside, watching the world shrink down to a headstone and a handful of fading memories.

You’re younger. Less worn down. Less jaded. He tells himself — on the long drives home, when sleep refuses to come — that you deserve more time than he can offer. More time to figure out your world without him quietly shaping the edges of it. It’s the sort of difference people pretend doesn’t matter, until it does. Until he’s standing beside you, catching himself in the reflection of the trauma room glass, wondering how the years settled heavier on him than on you. Until he’s half a sentence deep into asking what you’re doing after shift, and pulling back before the words can leave his mouth.

Because no matter how much space he tries to give, the part of him that’s still grieving would always leave its mark. And you deserve more than the half-mended heart of a man who’s already learned how to live without the things he loves.

And you?

You’ve got your own reasons.

Not the ones anyone could spot at a glance, not the kind that leave scars or stories behind. Just a quiet, low-grade fear. The kind that hums beneath your skin, born from years of learning that getting too comfortable with people — letting yourself want too much — always ends the same way: doors closing, phones going silent, people walking away before you even notice they’ve started.

So you anchor yourself to the things that don’t shift. Your routine. Your steadiness. The hours that stretch long and hard but never ask you to be anything more than reliable. Because when you’re needed, you can’t be left behind. When you’re useful, it hurts less when people don’t stay.

Jack’s careful, and you’re cautious, and the space between you both stays exactly where it’s always been: not quite close enough.

So you both settle for the in-between. The ritual. The routine. Shared drinks at handoff. Inside jokes sharp enough to leave bruises. Half-finished conversations, always interrupted by codes and pages and the sharp ring of phones.

The ER runs like clockwork, except the clock’s always broken, and in the background the rest of the team watches the same loop play out — two people orbiting closer, always just out of reach.

The bets from Princess and Perlah are at the heaviest they’ve ever been, and so are their pockets. There are no more ‘Never happening’ — everyone’s now in the ‘Next week’ or ‘Next Month’. The others have stopped pretending they don’t see what’s happening. In fact, they’re practically counting the days, biding their time like a clock ticking in reverse, waiting for that moment when everything finally clicks into place.

At first, it’s subtle.

One less handoff cut short by timing. One more overlapping hour “by accident.”

You and Jack work together more and more now, whether it's trauma cases, code blue alerts, or the quieter moments between chaotic shifts when the floor clears enough to breathe. The careful choreography of your daily dance is starting to wear thin around the edges, like a well-loved sweater that’s a little too threadbare to keep pretending it’s still holding together.

The soft exchanges in the middle of emergency rooms — the handoffs that are always clean and professional — have started to bleed into something else. You don’t mean for it to happen. Neither of you do.

But you find yourselves walking the same hallways just a bit more often. You swap shifts with an ease you hadn’t before. Jack’s voice lingers a little longer when he says, “Good night, see you tomorrow,” and the weight of that goodbye has started to feel a little like an unspoken promise.

But it’s still not enough to break the silence.

The team watches, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but neither of you says a word about it. You can’t, because the truth is, it’s easier to let things stay where they are. Safer, maybe. To just let the rhythm of the shifts carry you through without the sudden plunge of vulnerability that might shatter it all.

Still, they see it.

Dana, ever the romantic, gives you that knowing, almost conspiratorial look when she catches you making eye contact with Jack across the floor. “You two need a room,” she’ll joke, but it’s always followed by that soft exhale, like she’s waiting for the punchline you won’t give her.

Princess’ and Perlah’s bets are always louder, and always in a language neither of you understand. Every shift, they pass by the nurse’s station with sly grins, casting their predictions with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about.

“Next month, I’m telling you. It’s happening in the next month. Mark my words.”

Neither you or Jack respond to the teasing. But it’s not because you don’t hear it. It’s because, in the quietest corners of your mind, the thoughts are too sharp, too close, and there’s something terrifying about acknowledging them.

The room holds its breath for you both, watching the space between you become thinner with every passing minute. You can’t feel the ticking of time, but the team certainly can.

And so it goes. Days blend into each other. Hours pass in a blur of frantic beeps and calls, hands working together with that comfortable rhythm, but always keeping just a little distance — just a little bit too much space.

But it’s getting harder to ignore the truth of what everyone else already knows. You’re both circling something, something that neither of you is brave enough to catch yet.

Almost.

Almost always. But never quite.

The shift is brutal.

The ER’s pulse is erratic, like a heart struggling to maintain rhythm. The trauma bays are full, the waiting room is overflowing, and the chaos — the relentless, grinding chaos — is a constant roar in your ears. Alarms bleed into each other. The phone rings off the hook. Machines chirp, beds squeak, someone shouts for help, and the scent of antiseptic is powerless against the metallic undertone of blood lingering in the air.

It’s the kind of shift that makes even seasoned hands tremble. The kind that swallows hours whole, leaves your back sore and your mind frayed, and still, the board never clears.

At some point, you’re not sure when, maybe after the fifth code blue or the eighth set of vitals skimming the edge of disaster, Robby mutters something sharp and low under his breath, peels his phone out of his pocket, and steps away from the desk.

“Calling Abbot,” he says, voice tight. “We’re underwater.”

Jack isn’t due for another two hours, but the call doesn’t surprise you. The ER doesn’t care about schedules. And Jack — he shows up twenty minutes later.

His eyes meet yours across the station, and there’s no need for words. Just a nod. Just the quiet understanding that this isn’t going to be easy, if such a thing even exists.

The clock ticks and skips, seconds folding into one another, meaningless, until finally, the worst of it comes.

Trauma alert.

A car accident. The usual chaos.

Rollover on the interstate, the kind that dispatch voices always sound too steady while reporting. The kind where the EMTs work in grim silence. Two patients this time. A married couple.

The usual chaos unfolds the second the gurneys crash through the double doors — shouting, gloves snapping on, IV lines threading, vitals barking out like a list of crimes.

But this time, it’s different.

You notice it before anyone says it aloud: the husband’s hand is tangled in his wife’s, their fingers blood-slick but still locked together, knuckles white with the sheer force of holding on. Their wedding rings glinted under the harsh fluorescents, a tiny, defiant flash of gold against the chaos.

Neither of them will let go. Even unconscious, the connection stays.

You’re already in motion. Jack too. The usual rhythm, muscle memory sharp as ever. But something in the air feels different. He glances once at the woman, blood matted in her hair, her left hand still clutching the man’s. The rings. The way their bodies lean toward each other even in a state of injury, as if muscle memory alone could keep them tethered

And for just a second, he falters.

You almost miss it, but you don’t.

Jack works the wife’s side, but her injuries speak for themselves. Her chart is a litany of injuries: internal bleeding, tension pneumothorax, skull fracture.

You watch Jack work the case like his hands are moving on instinct, but his face gives him away. It’s too quiet. Too closed off. You see it all in real-time — the silent war behind his eyes, the years catching up to him in the span of a heartbeat. The lines around his mouth tightening, the weight of something too personal rising behind the clinical routine.

You know who he’s thinking about.

It’s her — it’s her face he sees.

Jack’s gloves are stained, jaw tight, voice steady but clipped as the monitor flatlines for the third time. You watch. You press hands to bleeding wounds that won’t stop. You call out numbers you barely register. But the inevitable creeps in anyway.

At 6:41 p.m., time of death is called.

No one speaks, not right away. The monitors fall silent, the room too. The husband, still unconscious, is wheeled away. His hand finally slips from hers, left empty on the gurney.

It’s Jack that calls it. He stands over the woman’s bed for a beat too long, the silence of it all thickening in the air. His shoulders sag ever so slightly, the weight of it settling in — the anger, the grief, the helplessness. There’s no denying it, the hours and hours of labor, of lives teetering between life and death, have begun to take their toll.

You watch him and know the exact moment it breaks him.

He doesn’t even need to say it. You can see it in the way he moves — stiff, distant, a bit lost. His hand hovers by his stethoscope, his fingers curling slightly before dropping. The tension in his face is the kind you’ve seen only when someone is holding themselves together by a thread.

He catches your eye briefly, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. There’s an unspoken understanding, a shared grief between the two of you that’s settled like an old wound, reopened. He turns away before you can even ask, stepping out of the trauma bay and heading toward the on-call room, his pace a little slower than usual, weighed down by more than just the fatigue.

The shift drags on, but the tension, the heaviness, only grows. Finally, when it seems like it might never end, you make the decision. You leave your post, quietly slipping away from the chaos, and find your way to the on-call room where Jack is already sitting.

It’s dark in there but you don’t need to see him to know what’s there. His chest rises and falls with a weary sigh. There’s nothing to say at first. Nothing that would make this any easier, and you both know it.

You sit beside him in silence, the space between you both filled with the weight of the night, of the patient lost, of the things neither of you can change. You don’t push. You don’t ask. You simply exist in the same room, the same quiet, like two people who are too exhausted, too worn, to speak but too connected to stay apart.

Minutes pass. Long ones.

It’s Jack who breaks the silence, his voice a little rough, like it’s been buried too long.

“I kept thinking we’d have more time,” he says. It’s not addressed to you, not really — more confession than conversation, the kind of truth that’s spent too long locked behind his ribs.

You don’t answer right away, because you know the ache that lives under those words. You’ve felt it too. So you sit there, listening, the silence making room for him to say the rest.

And then, softer, barely above a breath —

“She looked like her. For a second — I thought it was her.”

The words hang in the dark, heavier than any silence.

You reach over, placing a hand gently on his. Your fingers brush his skin, warm, steady. You just sit there, the two of you, in the dark — the only light seeping in from under the door, pale and distant, like the world outside is somewhere neither of you belong right now.

Minutes pass, slow and shapeless, the kind of time that doesn’t measure in hours or shifts or chart updates. Just quiet. Just presence. Just the shared, unspoken ache of people who’ve both lost too much to say the words out loud.

When he finally exhales — long, steady, but still weighted — you feel the faintest shift in the air. Not fixed. Not fine. But breathing. Alive. Here.

When his gaze lifts, meeting yours — searching, fragile, waiting for something he can’t name — you finally offer it, soft but certain.

“We don’t get forever,” you whisper. “But we’ve still got now.”

And it’s enough. Maybe not to fix anything. Maybe not to make the night any less heavy. But enough to pull Jack through to the other side.

He exhales, slow and quiet, the tension in his chest loosening like it’s finally allowed to. The moment is small — no grand revelations, no dramatic declarations.

Just two people, breathing in the same quiet, carrying the same scars.

When the next shift change arrives, the rhythm of the ER doesn’t quite return to normal.

The pulse of the place still beats steady — monitors chiming, phones ringing, stretchers wheeling in and out — but the handoff feels different. Like the pattern has shifted beneath your feet.

The familiar routine plays out — the smooth exchange of patient reports, the clipped shorthand you both know by heart, the easy banter that’s always filled the spaces between — but now it lingers. The words sit heavier. The pauses stretch longer. The politeness that once held everything in place has softened, frayed at the edges by the weight of what’s left unsaid.

You stay five minutes later. Then ten.

Neither of you points it out. Neither of you needs to.

The silence isn’t awkward — it’s intentional. It hangs easy between you, unhurried and unforced. The kind of silence built on understanding rather than distance. Like the quiet knows something you both haven’t said out loud yet.

The rest of the team doesn’t call you on it. But they see it. And you catch the glances.

You catch Dana’s raised eyebrow as she clocks out, her expression all knowing, no judgment — just quiet observation, like she’s been waiting for this to finally click into place. Robby doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk behind his coffee cup this time, his glance flicking from you to Jack and back again, as if he’s already tallying another win in the betting pool.

And still, no one says a word.

The ER lights flicker, humming softly against the early morning haze as the next shift trickles in, tired and rumpled, faces scrubbed clean and coffee cups refilled. The world moves on — patients, pages, paperwork — but Jack doesn’t.

His glance finds you, steady and certain, like an anchor after too many months of pretending there wasn’t a current pulling you both closer all along. There’s no question in it. No hesitation. Just quiet agreement.

And this time, neither of you heads for the door alone.

You fall into step beside him, the silence still stretched soft between you, your shoulder brushing his just slightly as you cross through the automatic doors and into the cool, early light. The air is crisp against your scrubs, the hum of the hospital fading behind you, replaced by the quiet sprawl of the parking lot and the slow stretch of a sky trying to shake off the dark.

The weight you’ve both carried for so long — all the almosts, the what-ifs, the walls and the fear — feels lighter now. Still there, but not crushing. Not anymore.

It isn’t just a handoff anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but now it’s undeniable.

You glance toward him as the quiet settles between you one last time before the day fully wakes up, and he meets your look with that same soft steadiness — the kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t rush, just holds. Like the space between you has finally exhaled, like the moment has finally caught up to the both of you after all this time skirting around it.

His hand finds yours, slow and certain, like it was always supposed to be there. No grand gesture, no sharp intake of breath, just the gentle slide of skin against skin — warm, grounding, steady. His thumb brushes the back of your hand once, absentminded and careful, like he’s memorizing the feel of this — of you — as if to make sure it’s real.

The world beyond hums back to life, ready for another day beginning. But here, in this sliver of space, between what you’ve always been and whatever comes next — everything stays still.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You don’t need to.

It’s in the way his fingers curl just slightly tighter around yours, in the way the last of the shift’s exhaustion softens at the edges of his expression. In the way the air feels different now — less heavy, less waiting. Like the question that’s lived between you for months has finally answered itself.

The first thin blush of sunrise creeps over the parking lot, painting long soft shadows across the cracked pavement, and neither of you move. There’s no rush now, no clock chasing you forward, no unspoken rule pushing you apart. Just this. Just you and him, side by side, hand in hand, standing still while the world stumbles back into motion.

It’s the start of something else.

And you both know it. Without needing to say a thing.

©yakshxiao 2025.

#jack abbot x reader #the pitt x reader #the pitt fic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #shawn hatosy #the pitt #dr abbot #jack abbot #michael robinavitch #dana evans #cassie mckay #x reader #dr abbot x you #jack abbot x you #the pitt max #the pitt imagine #the pitt x you #jack abbot imagine

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gigiwritess · 13 days ago

Text

LIKE THE STAR? BRIGHTER.

dr. jack abbott x f!resident!reader "vega" aka "wildcard"

wc: 2,205 synopsis: just another normal day at the pitt—except it's not. for the first time in a long time, jack might have found an equal in every sense. tl;dr: dr. abbott meets a new resident for the first time.

contents: 20-year age gap (vega is 26, jack is 46), usual pitt dynamics. probably lots of medical inaccuracies that im not gonna apologize for. very quick mentions of mental health issues. this is totally self-inserted and vega is totally based in lots of aspects of myself. gonna probably update this list when i have more creativity.

gigi's note: this man and the pitt have been consuming my every waking thought so of course it culminated in the fastest fic i've ever written. i have a whole little series planned for these two, but im gonna try to write at least some of them in a manner where you dont necessarily need to read the others. read the end notes for more info!!! enjoy!!!!

PLAYLIST | NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST

It had already become a habit—more often than not, Jack’s days off ended up being spent at the Pitt. Not that he minded; the Pitt’s chaos was better than the chaos inside his head that ran free when he was alone at home. At home, the silence was suffocating—he had too much time to think. Here, every beep and shout gave him a reason not to listen to the thoughts clawing at the inside of his skull. Here, he knew exactly what he was doing. And he was damn good at it.

To Vega, being in the Pitt made her feel more alive than she’d ever felt. She didn’t mind the chaos—she thrived in it. Being surrounded by it sharpened her focus, made everything else—the endless voice in her head, the black monster inside her chest threatening day by day to swallow her whole—fade into nothing but background static.

Today was no different. The Pitt was, like usual, a chaotic hellscape; machines humming, monitors beeping, medical staff shouting orders, the scent of antiseptic filling everyone’s nostrils. The kind of place that felt both alive and dead at the same time. Jack had just arrived after a few hours of sleep after his night shift, clutching a cup of coffee in his hand, when he first spotted her across the ER in trauma two—a woman who didn’t seem to belong here, but did. Jack had barely any time to take a proper look at her before she was on the move again.

She moved fast, braid whipping against her back as she called for suction, adjusting doses, her hands slick with blood. The Pitt demanded everything and she gladly gave it. Without hesitation, without pause. It was what she lived for.

“Push another 20 of epi. I need suction—no, hold it, go with 50 cc,” she called out, her voice cutting through the chaos as she worked. Controlled. Sharp. The team moved, almost grateful for the authority in her voice. She didn’t miss the way Santos’ hands trembled, or how Whitaker clung to her words like a lifeline.

Jack hadn’t seen her before—not that he was keeping track; new faces came and went. But something about this one made him look twice. He caught sight of her again—tall, dark hair, sharp, moving fast between patients. She was a calm center, a fixed point in the storm. She worked with precision, her hands a blur as she gave orders, her focus unwavering as she moved around and directed the team with an ease that made it look effortless, a mixture of experienced residents and interns following her every instruction without hesitation. She moved around the room like she owned it. She was focused.

“Who’s that?” Jack asked, voice neutral.

“That is my star resident,” Robby said with a hint of amusement in his voice, noticing his curious gaze. “Wildcard.”

Then, still working on the patient, she felt it. His stare. She was used to people’s eyes on her all the time in this place—curious glances, usually directed at her tattoos whenever they poked out; interns sizing her up, sometimes with grudging respect, sometimes openly doubting her abilities to handle the weight of the Pitt. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t the usual ER gawkers or old surgeons with smug superiority. This was different. Something else.

Jack raised an eyebrow. He had seen his fair share of capable residents, but something about the way she moved—almost like she was born for this—caught his attention. She was completely in her element, cutting through the chaos with a level of focus that suggested she’d been there before. Not that Jack expected anything less, but there was something about her that piqued his interest.

She felt the weight of his gaze, analyzing, unapologetic. She recognized that old, instinctive prickle at the back of her neck—the kind of awareness she only felt around people who could do damage. Not the loud, blustering types, no. The quiet ones. The wolves pretending to be men.

But she was no sheep.

Vega didn’t look up, focused solely on the person in front of her. She let him look. Let him think he was unnoticed, but she felt the scrape of it against her nerves.

“Wildcard?” Jack asked, nodding toward the scene, his tone cool but intrigued.

Robby grinned, stepping back slightly to give Jack a better view. “Yeah. Earned it on her first shift. Handled a mass casualty like it was nothing. Nerves of steel.”

Jack didn’t reply. Instead, he just watched her as she worked. There was a quiet intensity to the way she moved. She wasn’t loud or flashy, didn’t seek attention; instead, she commanded the room with a quiet authority, in a way that spoke volumes about her ability to take charge when things went south. It was a quality Jack respected, even if he wasn’t willing to admit it out loud. She wasn’t just surviving in the chaos—she was thriving in it. Something he did, too.

When the patient was finally stable, able to wait for the OR, Robby called her name. She peeled the paper gown off and turned towards them, tugging off the gloves with a sharp pull, and met Jack’s gaze head-on.

“Wildcard,” Robby said, “this is Dr. Jack Abbott. Jack, this is Dr. Vega, also known as Wildcard.”

She barely heard his voice—she already knew who he was.

Dr. Jack Abbott. The ER’s storm cloud, a man with a reputation for being as sharp as he was reckless. She’d heard plenty—everyone had. Stories traded in break rooms, warnings half-uttered with a mixture of respect and almost fear. A doctor built out of sharp things and bad habits, all jagged edges and rough temper. A man people either followed or avoided. And now here he was, giving her that look like he was trying to decide if she was worth his time.

Their gazes locked—not an awkward glance. She didn’t look away as most people did when meeting him for the first time, usually too nervous to look him in the eye. No. There was a beat of silence, a brief exchange of recognition, as if both of them could feel something shift in the air between them. Subtle, but undeniable. She sized him up in a fraction of a second, eyes sharp and unreadable, but he knew what that look was. For the first time in months, Jack felt something in his chest unclench, some flicker of recognition that made the blood in his veins hum with something dangerously close to life.

None of the stories she’d heard did him justice. He wasn’t the washed-up, better-than-everyone asshole she expected. For a second, the ER didn’t exist; the screaming monitors, the sharp tang of blood and bleach—gone. It was just him. Dark eyes, sharp jaw, slight tilt of his head, the heavy kind of presence you could feel in your teeth. The way he looked at her—not polite, not exactly curious. He looked at her like a man who was curious to see what would happen if he pushed. Good. She was tired of polite. She was tired of fake pleasantries.

She looked younger than he expected. But there was something else in her eyes that made her feel older than she probably was. Experienced.

Her lips twitched—barely a smile, but the kind that dared him to make the first move.

“Dr. Vega.” His voice was low, neutral, but her stomach did a dangerous twist.

There was a familiarity in the way he looked at her—not exactly recognition, but that kind of animal instinct of like recognizes like. The people who knew what it was to thrive in the places others avoided. The people who thrived in the chaos.

She couldn’t help the slight curve of her mouth, barely there, but enough to be noticed by him.

“Heard things about you, Dr. Abbott,” she said, her voice even, threading a fine line between professional and personal. “Thought you’d be scarier.”

Her words were like a soft challenge, the ghost of a smile on her lips, and it was Jack’s time to quirk an eyebrow, his eyes darkening, a flicker of something dangerous and amused sliding into place. Was she mocking him? Or was she just testing the waters? He couldn’t quite decide.

Jack tilted his head slightly, a slow, crooked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. She met his eyes head-on, unblinking. No one held her gaze for long—too sharp, too cold—but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze dropped, assessing. Not leering. Calculating. Like a predator working out if she was worth the risk.

“Stick around, Doc,” he replied. “You’ll get there.”

Oh, she fucking liked that.

Robby snorted, glancing between them with an amused look in his eyes. Jack wasn’t the type to be rattled easily, but there was a palpable tension now between the two of them, something that felt familiar yet almost… uncomfortable. Different. Jack didn’t show it, of course, but Robby knew him better than everyone.

Vega had had a lot of first meetings since walking into this ER not more than four weeks ago. Most were forgettable, most faded by the next shift. But there was weight to this one. The air around them felt tight, stretched thin in a way she recognized from old fights and late-night emergencies. The kind of moment where you either stepped up or stepped aside, where you either fought the wave headfirst or let it wash over you, carry you with it.

“How’s day shift treating you?” Abbott asked, and Robby’s eyebrow went up, already seeing where Jack’s head was going.

Vega realized—these two men knew each other better than everyone else.

“The coffee could be better,” she replied, finishing what she was typing on the computer.

Jack’s lips quirked, a flicker of dry amusement in his otherwise unreadable expression. “Night shift coffee’s better,” he replied smoothly, taking a sip from his cup, the steam rising from it like he was making a point of something, just for her.

Robby’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he watched the interaction with newfound interest, like a new TV show that was starting to catch his attention. He shook his head. “Don’t you even think about stealing her from me, Abbott.”

Jack’s eyes found hers again, and neither looked away. “Yeah, yeah. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But the way he said it—quiet, edged—suggested otherwise.

Robby drifted off to take care of another matter, and she half-expected him to do the same, say something smug or look away. He didn’t. Neither did she. She raised her eyebrows and smirked at him, almost as if she was daring him to do something about it.

“You’re welcome to try, Dr. Abbott,” Vega said, her voice smooth, low, carrying a spark of challenge that showed itself in the way his jaw tightened slightly.

It was brief, but it was there. The smallest tell that he was just a little thrown by her, caught off guard. She liked that. She liked that a lot. Probably more than she should’ve.

He wasn’t used to being challenged quite like that. There was something about her—something too familiar in the way she carried herself that made him pause, that made him stop in his tracks.

“Noted,” he replied, five simple letters carrying more weight than normal. It felt like a promise. Or a threat—she couldn’t tell.

Both excited her, both made her heart skip a beat and made her skin prickle with something she couldn’t decipher yet. The air between them tightened, thickened. That kind of electric stillness you only get before a bad decision—the kind you’d make twice just to feel something. The kind she was built for.

He held her gaze, and she held his, never once faltering, up until she turned her back to see another patient. Jack was rattled—it’d been a while since someone managed to do that. She pulled a chart off the rack and moved on to the next patient with effortless grace. As he stared at her back, he felt an inexplicable pull, one he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel. For the first time in a long time, something in Jack’s chest pulled tight. Not enough to show, but enough for him to feel it.

Even as she walked away, she still felt it—a tug in her chest, his gaze burning between her shoulder blades, the awareness of his eyes on her as she crossed the room.

Jack didn’t move. Not yet. As she was about to disappear behind a curtain, his voice called after her.

“Vega,” he said.

Not Wildcard. Not yet. He said her name like a question. Or a challenge—she couldn’t decide. She paused. A beat. Half a heartbeat. Let the silence hang there, heavy and thick and hungry. Then she turned her head, one eyebrow raised in silent question.

“Like the star?” he asked, voice low, rough, unreadable, his eyes full of things she couldn’t decipher.

For the first time since clocking in that morning, a real smile spread across her face.

“Brighter,” she said softly and went back on her way.

She didn’t need to look back to know he was still watching her.

Good.

gigi's note: PLEASE tell me your opinions on this and what you think of the series!!!! the future pieces are gonna dive deep into vega's mental issues (which are my own). not gonna be exactly a slow burn because i hate slow burns, i just prefer the burning head-on lol comments and reblogs are most welcome!!!

my inbox is always open and i would loooooooove to yap about this man. xoxo <3

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nfr-girly · 24 days ago

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can we talk about how FINEE the cast of the Pitt is

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thepencilnerd · 7 days ago

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texts with jack abbot | part 2

whipped jack abbot x academic!reader ft. robby because i'm still delulu and always manifesting (check out part 1 here ^^)

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #jack abbot #the pitt spoilers #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot fanfic #michael robinavitch #noah wyle #dr robby

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greengoblinswifey · 3 months ago

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Older Wrestlers Do It Better—Shawn Michaels x Fem!Reader

summary— After winning your first Women’s Championship, you finally meet your childhood crush, Shawn Michaels. Nervously flirting with him leads to an unforgettable night where he makes your win ever better.

warnings— age gap(reader is in her 20s, shawn is in his 50s), flirting, cunnilingus, praise kink, possessive!shawn, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare.

a/n— My first Shawn Michaels fic, hope you guys enjoy <3 Literally have had a crush on him for so long🤭

Winning the Women’s Championship was the most surreal moment of your life. Years of grinding in other promotions, building your name, perfecting your craft, it had all led to this. The cheers of the crowd, the weight of the gold on your shoulder, the rush of emotions hitting you all at once as you stepped backstage.

The second you crossed the curtain, a wave of congratulations hit you. Superstars, crew members, even higher ups, everyone was there, giving you pats on the back, words of praise. You tried to take it all in, your heart still hammering from the adrenaline, when you heard it.

A deep, gruff voice behind you.

“Congratulations, champ. I’m proud of you.”

You froze. That voice. That unmistakable, slightly raspy voice. Slowly, almost in disbelief, you turned around and your breath caught in your throat.

It was him.

Shawn Michaels.

Your brain short circuited. For years, you’d admired him. Hell, if you were being honest, you’d been in love with him. Growing up, watching him on your TV screen, mesmerized by his presence, his talent, his everything. And now, here he was, standing right in front of you, looking at you like he actually knew who you were.

“Wow,” you blurted out, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathless. “Thank you.”

Shawn smirked at your obvious nerves, his arms crossing over his chest. “You earned it,” he said. “I’ve been watching you for a while now. I made sure they knew you were the real deal. You’re gonna carry this division better than anyone.”

Your heart nearly exploded. Shawn Michaels had been watching you? Shawn Michaels had put in a word for you?

“I—” You struggled to form words, your cheeks burning. “That means everything. I admire you so much, I love your work, I—” You cut yourself off before you started sounding like a crazy fangirl, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from rambling.

His smirk deepened, and before you could react, he pulled you into a hug.

Holy. Fuck.

Your face pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, the scent of his cologne completely overwhelming your senses. Your brain refused to function, your hands awkwardly gripping onto the back of his shirt as your cheeks burned hotter than ever.

After a few moments, he pulled back, his hand squeezing your shoulder before dropping to his side. “Didn’t wanna take up too much of your time,” he said. “Enjoy your night, champ.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you standing there like an absolute fool.

Later, after the chaos of the night settled, you were lounging with Rhea, Tiffany, and Liv in the locker room, all of them still hyped over your win.

“You killed it out there,” Rhea said, nudging you with a proud grin.

Tiffany nodded, flipping her hair. “And let’s be real, your skin looks so good with gold.”

“Thanks, guys. But guess who congratulated me? And—” You leaned in dramatically. “Was apparently partially responsible for my win?”

The girls exchanged curious looks. “Who?” Liv asked.

You took a breath for dramatic effect. “Shawn. Fucking. Michaels.”

The reaction was instant. Rhea’s eyes widened, Tiffany gasped, and Liv practically shrieked.

“Your crush?” Rhea said.

“The man you said you wanted to marry?” Tiffany added.

“Exactly,” you confirmed, still trying to process it yourself.

“And?” Liv pressed. “Did you keep your cool, or did you embarrass yourself?”

You groaned, throwing your head back. “Oh, I embarrassed myself. I was all nervous, blushing like an idiot, barely forming words. But he hugged me. I swear I almost passed out.”

“Okay, but what does this mean? Do you think he was flirting?” Tiffany laughed.

“God, I hope so,” you muttered before sighing dramatically. “I just want him so bad. He’s so fine. And you know I love older men. Like, I would give anything for him to fuck me hard. With eye contact, might I add. Older men just do it better—”

The sudden silence from the girls made your stomach drop.

You saw their eyes widen, their mouths slightly open, and the moment Rhea subtly nodded toward something behind you, you knew.

Slowly, dreading what you were about to see, you turned around.

And there he was.

Shawn Michaels.

Standing right behind you.

Smirking.

Your heart fell straight to the floor. You were so done. Absolutely finished. WWE was going to strip you of your title, fire you, and blacklist you from the industry.

Shawn crossed his arms, looking far too amused for your liking. “Whenever you’re free and ready to leave,” he said smoothly, “meet me in my dressing room.”

You nodded, entirely incapable of forming words.

He winked before walking off, leaving you frozen in place, your entire soul leaving your body.

The second he was out of earshot, the girls erupted into laughter, squealing and shaking you like you’d just won the lottery.

“You are so lucky,” Tiffany gasped, fanning herself.

Liv was practically in tears. “Oh my god, I thought you were gonna die on the spot.”

Rhea smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “Well, champ, looks like your childhood crush just became your reality.”

Your brain was still catching up. Shawn Michaels had heard you. Shawn Michaels wanted you to meet him.

Holy. Shit. You were in for one hell of a night.

Shawn was waiting when you stepped into his dressing room, leaning back on the couch with that signature smirk.

“You took your time,” he teased.

Your heart pounded as you shut the door. “Trying to recover from the fact that you heard all of that.”

“Oh, I heard every word, sweetheart,” he chuckled.

You groaned, covering your face. “God, that was so embarrassing.”

He pried your hands away. “Nah, I liked what I heard.” His smirk deepened. “Older men do it better, huh?”

Your face burned. “Are you gonna keep bringing that up?”

“Maybe,” he said, tilting his head. “But I think I’d rather show you instead.”

Your breath hitched, and he leaned in, voice lower now. “Where you staying tonight?”

You told him your hotel, and he hummed in approval. “Same one. I’ll drive you.”

You texted the girls telling them you’d be with him. There would be a lot to talk about in the morning.

The car ride made you nervous. You stole glances at him, watching the way his muscles flexed as he gripped the wheel. He was even hotter in person. He looked just as good, hell, even better than he did on TV. The years had only added to his appeal, roughening his edges in the best way.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he said without taking his eyes off the road, “I might just have to pull over.”

You bit your lip. "Can’t help it. You’re kinda unreal."

His smirk grew. “Come to my room tonight. I’ll give you exactly what you’ve been craving.”

Your stomach flipped.

90s Shawn Michaels had been your first love. But Shawn now? Oh, you’d let him do anything to you.

When you arrived at the hotel, people stopped to congratulate you. You took pictures, smiling through the anticipation burning inside you.

The moment the elevator doors shut, his fingers brushed your wrist. “Last chance to back out.”

“Not a chance,” you murmured.

His hotel room door had barely shut before he turned you, pressing you against it. His hands beside your head, eyes dark as they met yours.

“This what you wanted?”

Your breath caught. “I’ve dreamt about this.”

His lips crashed onto yours, stealing any response you had left. His hands gripped under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as you wrapped around him. He carried you to the bed, sinking onto it with you in his lap.

You could feel him beneath you, hard and eager, as you rocked against him. His hands roamed, mapping every inch of you, his lips never leaving yours.

“Been wanting this for years, haven’t you?” he murmured against your lips, hands roaming your body.

You nodded breathlessly, gripping onto his shoulders for balance.

His smirk returned as he cupped your face. “You’re just as sweet as I imagined.”

His lips trailed down your cheek, to your neck, pressing soft kisses that left you shivering. He moved slowly, savoring, before laying you back against the bed, hovering over you. His eyes searched yours, expression softening slightly.

“This okay?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“I want this. I want you,” you nodded, already breathless.

He exhaled slowly, his thumb tracing your cheek. “Then let me take care of you.”

His hands found the hem of your blouse, fingers toying with the fabric as he waited for your permission. When you gave it, he lifted it over your head, his gaze roaming over you with something akin to awe.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

Heat pooled in your stomach, your heart pounding as he leaned down again, pressing another kiss to your lips. He slipped you out of the rest of your clothes then pulled back, his eyes once again taking over you.

“Look at you, naked in front of me. Fucking perfect,” he said.

He knelt, making you gasp, trailing kisses until he reached your clit, spreading your legs and kissing further and further.

“You're soaked, sweetheart, so wet for me,” he murmured, using his tongue to collect your wetness and spitting it back onto your pussy.

A soft moan escaped your lips, you couldn't believe Shawn fucking Michaels was about to eat you out.

“I love those moans. Let me hear you.”

He dived in, flicking his tongue on your clit before bringing it down to your leaking hole and licking back up. His grip was firm but gentle on your thighs, spreading them wide as he continued. You couldn't believe the utter pleasure you were feeling, he was so skilled with his tongue having you squirm underneath him and moan so loudly, you feared the other wrestlers on the floor would hear.

“Oh, Shawn,” you cried, back arching off the bed.

Cocky Shawn hadn’t been lost due to the years. You could feel the smirk between your legs. “That’s it, sweetheart. Scream my name. I’m the one making you feel good.”

His tongue worked you over sending jolts of pleasure throughout your body as his blue eyes stared into yours. As his movements grew, the coil in your abdomen grew tighter, ready to burst.

“Cum on my tongue beautiful.” A loud moan left your lips and your body lifted from the bed, as he practically took your soul and you squirted onto his face, soaking him. He slurped you up like you were his last meal and you squirmed under his touch, your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“You're so beautiful when you cum. You taste amazing,” he panted.

You pulled him up into a kiss, his mouth soaked in your juices. His head moved down to your breasts, suckling and moaning as your fingers clawed his back.

Shawn’s eyes never left yours as he undressed, revealing his toned chest and arms. You smiled, your heart racing as you reached out to gently touch his chest, tracing the lines of muscle with your fingertips. “You’re so so hot,” you whispered.

He let out a soft laugh. “You’re the one who’s hot, sweetheart,” he said, his hands in through your curls, tugging you closer to him.

Your lips met his again, tender and slow, savoring the moment. You pressed yourself against him, feeling his hard cock, the heat of his body matching the desire building between you. His hands were gentle but firm as he guided you to the bed, settling you back gently.

Your gaze wandered and your eyes caught his very hard cock. He was so thick, the full package. Shawn always radiated big dick energy but to see it up close and personal—veins prominent, slight curve, long—it was no wonder he acted the way he did in the 90s. He had all reason to be that cocky bastard. He was perfect.

Your mouth practically watered at the sight and you took ahold of it, hand barely able to go around and angled it towards your mouth but he stopped you.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “Tonight’s about you, about making sure you feel good.”

You nodded, heart fluttering as he hovered above you, his hands resting on either side of your head. His expression was soft, his eyes filled with nothing but admiration as he looked down at you.

He used the tip of his cock, dragging it along your wet folds as the sound of squelching filled the room. He teased you a bit more, until he slowly pushed inside, your mouth falling open as he thrusted into you. You moaned at the intrusion and looked down, only to see he was just half way in.

“Y-you’re so big,” you gasped.

“I know, but you can take it. This tight little pussy was made for my cock,” he whispered, leaning down to bite your ear lobe.

It felt like all the wind had been knocked from your lungs as he slid the rest of his length inside you. Tiny whimpers left your lips when he stilled, savoring how your walls began to welcome him in.

“See, you can take it baby, it’s okay.” He began rutting into you steadily, each time, you could feel the head of his cock brush against an area no man had ever come close to hitting before. He was so deep.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, rolling his hips to meet yours.

All you could do was moan, the overwhelming pleasure taking your ability to form coherent words.

“God, I love hearing your pretty moans,” he said, pushing your hair back.

You could barely hang on and “Shawn, cum,” was all you managed to say as you felt the pressure build up like a dam ready to burst.

“I can feel your pussy just sucking me in and gripping me. Go ahead sweetheart, cum for me, s’okay,” he cooed.

You cried out, wrapping your arms around him as he picked up his pace, the dam inside you bursting and your orgasm overtaking you. Your entire body shook and he pressed kisses on your damp forehead, slowly moving inside you to draw every last drop of cum from you.

Shawn had awaken that demon deep inside that you weren’t even aware was there. You needed more.

“I need more,” you moaned, voice shaky.

With that invitation, he increased the pace, thrusting harder and deeper. The headboard slapped against the wall under the pressure, the whole floor probably heard, your nails dug into his back, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “That’s it sweetheart, scratch my back,” his gruff voice said.

You were lost in the rhythm, your breath quickening, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

He was pounding you hard and relentless, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. He pulled back slightly, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. His voice was a low growl as he murmured against your mouth, “You’re all mine. Mine to fuck and use now.”

A shiver of excitement raced through you, and he continued, “I want to hear you say it.”

“I’m all yours, Shawn,” you moaned, the words flowing from your lips as if they were the only truth that mattered.

“Such a good girl.” With a gasp, your body responded to his words, pleasure washing over you in waves as you squirted, soaking him completely. Shawn groaned in response, his grip on you tightening as he felt the warmth of your release.

“That’s so hot baby, that turned you on huh,” he said, now chasing his own orgasm as your body lay shaking underneath him.

You were too fucked out to answer, each deep thrust making your pussy throb around him.

He smirked, that infamous cocky smirk, clearly proud of how he had you at his mercy. He switched his pace, slow and deep, driving you both wild. It was as though he was proving a point to you. Showing you exactly who was fucking you and how good it felt.

You wrapped your legs around him tightly for a moment, pulling him closer before releasing them, spreading wider to accommodate him. The shift allowed him to plunge deeper, each stroke igniting a raw, primal desire within you. You gasped, the sensation overwhelming, and you met his movements with your own, grinding against him as he filled you.

“Just like that,” you urged, your voice thick with passion. “Please cum inside me.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. You words sent him over the edge and with a deep, guttural moan, he bucked his hips inside you, his hot cum filling you to the brim. You moaned in satisfaction, his cock throbbing and practically breeding you from how much he came—triggered your own orgasm.

Your body jolted beneath him, shaking from the pure intensity as you both were on cloud nine together.

“I’ve got you sweetheart, fuck, I can’t get enough of this pussy. I’ve got you,” he groaned.

Your body was still buzzing, your mind hazy as you lay against the soft sheets. Shawn pressed a kiss to your temple, his hands tracing slow, soothing patterns along your bare skin.

“You were incredible,” he murmured, voice deep. “So perfect for me.”

“I think that title belongs to you,” you teased, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “I mean, I just won the Women’s Championship and spent the night with you, I’m lucky.”

Shawn chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, sweetheart, I’m the lucky one.” He kissed your forehead before slipping out of bed. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

You watched him disappear into the bathroom, and moments later, he returned with a warm cloth, carefully tending to you with the kind of gentleness that made your heart swell.

“Didn’t have to do that,” you smiled.

“I wanted to,” he replied simply.

Once he was done, he climbed back into bed, pulling you close against his chest. His arms wrapped around you securely, his body warm and solid against yours.

“You’re everything I thought you’d be,” you admitted softly, tucking your head under his chin. “And somehow even better.”

He sighed contentedly, his fingers tracing over your back. “And you’re even more perfect than I imagined,” he whispered. “Strong, talented, and so damn beautiful. I knew you were special the second I saw you wrestle.”

You smiled tiredly as you nestled further into him. The day had been surreal, from standing champion in the ring to this—wrapped up in the arms of the man who had been your childhood crush, your inspiration, and now, something more.

As your eyes grew heavier, Shawn pressed a final kiss to your hair, his voice a low murmur against your skin.

“Sweet dreams, champ.”

And with that, you let sleep take you, still wrapped in the warmth of the best night of your life.

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quickestgold · 1 month ago

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Masterlist | The Pitt ♡

Dr. Jack Abbot x Dr. (Ex-Mil)!Reader x Dr. Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch

Goodbye, My Lover (Four-Part Series)

Inspired by the 'Four Things that Matter Most', this series deals with the unspoken truths of your past and present. Having shared your life with both Jack and Robby at different stages, it's a bittersweet goodbye to the love that once was, but also a hopeful beginning for what might be.

Chapter 1: I Love You

Chapter 2: Please Forgive Me

Chapter 3: I Forgive You

Chapter 4: Thank You

After the Dust (Ongoing Series / Backstory to Goodbye, My Lover)

Chapter 1: Darkness

Chapter 2: Light (TBC)

Chapter 3: Peace (TBC)

Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Strip Her: Amidst a mass casualty event, Jack’s medical instincts clash with his personal life when the woman he loves risks her own life to save another. Is he about to watch you die?

Say It First: Jack has grown used to the emptiness in his heart, a quiet companion that has kept him safe for too long. But when you finally speak your truth, he realizes the hardest battles aren’t fought on the field or in the chaos of the ER, but in the silence between two hearts longing for each other.

Someone New: After witnessing the fallout from Jack's failed marriage, Dana and Robby have been skeptical of his new relationship. But when a freak accident forces them to see the depth of Jack’s feelings, their perspectives shift.

Still Life: Jack always expects the unexpected, both as a doctor and a partner. But when your water breaks during a citywide blackout, the pressure to deliver your baby safely grows with each contraction, trapping you, him and Robby in a single, still moment of life and loss.

Still Alive: (Still Life Part 2) Delivery complications during the birth of your son leave Jack caught between grief and hope, life and loss. In the stillness that follows, those who witnessed it begin to confront their own silent trauma, navigating recovery, healing and bonding with a newborn.

Say Something: A decade of falling in and out of love has turned you and Jack from lovers to strangers. But when a difficult case hits too close to home, you might finally be calling time of death on your marriage.

Dr. Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x Reader

(TBC)

#dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt #jack abbott #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #noah wyle #shawn hatosy #dr michael robinavitch #dr robby imagine #michael robinavitch #dr robby #the pitt hbo

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kilojulietsierra · 13 days ago

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Save Me From Myself - (the Pitt) Masterlist

This series or collection of stories are interconnected, but can be read as standalones if you would like. If you choose to read them in order they are posted in order below. Some stories are still WIP and I do have other the Pitt stories that are not a part of this series if you’re interested!

Send Me An Angel

Dr Jack Abbot x nursewife!OFC Samantha

I Don’t Have A Bestfriend

Dr Robby & Dr Abbot and their ‘not friends’ friendship, mostly banter because I love them (sets up the Dr Robby x Reader fic)

Baby, It’s Alright

Dr Robby x femnurse!reader

The following are blurbs/imagines/headcanons based on asks I’ve received for this series! (Which honestly is really fun so feel free to send more!)

Damned Good Doctor

Dr Abbot & Dr King mentor/protogee

Girls Night Out

Garcia and Walsh are Sam’s GNO girls

They Didn’t Even Book Us…

Dana goes out with the girls, cops show up

Sisters He Never Wanted

Jack loves Garcia and Walsh like sisters, mostly because he has to not because he wants to

The Grown Ups Table

Dr Parker Ellis & Dr Jack Abbot favorite resident/found family

Dr Abbot 100% Plays Favorites

Dr Shen was the first duckling & Dr Ellis goes on her first Girls Night Out

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wallofchynax · 2 months ago

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WILDEST DREAMS

Synopsis: You're a sweet naive college girl who gets dragged to a wrestling show by your best friend. What you didn't know is that a certain Heartbreak Kid had his eyes on you as soon as you stepped into the afterparty bar and had his heart set on ruining you in the best way possible (Requested. Thank you for the request <3)

got a request? send it over to me <3

content warnings: alcohol, shawn being a menace, PiV sex, virginity, corruption, lots of pet names, creampies, overstimulation.

The bar was packed with rowdy wrestling fans buzzing from the nights show. Music was loud, the drinks were flowing and somewhere in all of this, you were trying to keep up with your friends who seemed much more comfortable in this enviroment than you were.

“I can’t believe we are actually here,” Your best friend buzzed next to you as she leaned against the bar, “Do you know what this means? We might actually get to see some of the hot guys here,”

A thought that hadn’t even crossed your mind until now. You weren’t all that much of a wrestling fan. You knew the big names, but you had been to enough shows to know who who was, and there was only one person on your mind who you wouldn’t have minded seeing.

And that was Shawn Michaels. You had seen him at a few shows. He was cocky, arrogant and rude. The way he was booed by the fans and yet still was able to crack jokes, dance and strip as if he was bringing the house down. You guessed that maybe in a way, he was but it just seemed far removed from your experience. You were, by all accounts, a good girl who wouldn’t say boo to a ghost.

However, you thought a lot about the Heartbreak Kid. He was handsome but his attitude maybe wasn’t your cup of tea. But you didn’t need to wonder for long. Because as you turned back toward the crowd, there he was. Shawn Michaels, in the flesh.

He was leaning against the bar just a few feet away, drink in hand, wearing casual normal clothes but he still looked very much like a male model. His hair was slightly damp, either from sweat or from a post-match shower, and his eyes were scanning the room.

And then his eyes landed on you.

You were like a deer in headlights. But instead of looking away, your eyes watched him. You weren’t even dressed provocatively. Maybe not like a wrestling fan. A casual dress and a pair of boots but you weren’t dressed like you were wanting a hook up. And yet, you seen the way his eyes lingered.

Oh dear.

Shawn caught you staring at him and tilting his head, like he was already entertained by your reaction.

“I... I need to go to the bathroom,” you said, cutting off your friends talking before getting up. You didn’t look at him again, but you could feel his eyes burning into your skull as you got up from your seat and through the crowd and to the bathroom. Thankfully, you weren’t followed as you went inside to hide; by pretending to fix your makeup so other people didn’t think you were having a crisis in the bathroom.

Okay, Shawn Michaels might have been looking at you, but he might not have been. You didn’t know. You didn’t go out to clubs very often and to be fair, you were surrounded by your friends so maybe he was watching one of them.

Yeah. After all, they were the big fans out of you and your friends. That wouldn’t be fair to bag a wrestler when you weren’t even all that much into it. Sighing, you decided you should maybe emerge from the bathroom and...

Standing outside, waiting for you, leaning up against a wall...

Shawn Michaels.

You stopped.

He grinned, pushing himself off the wall and approaching you.

"Well, well," he said, still watching you. "Ain’t you just a sweet little thing?"

You looked around. Was he talking to you?

You didn’t know what to do. Your heart was racing, your face burning, and Shawn was still watching you, like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.

“You wanna drink, sweetheart?” His voice was smooth, teasing. “Or do you just like staring?”

Your throat went dry. The way he was looking at you made you feel exposed, like he could already tell you weren’t like the women who usually threw themselves at him.

The worst part was that the shyness? He liked it a lot.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” He reached out his hand, “I don’t bite,”

He was close. You could smell his cologne among the smell of the club. This was a very, very bad idea.

But you found yourself nodding, taking his hand very uncertainly much to his delight.

“That’s a girl...”

You looked towards your friends who were watching you hold his hand. Your best friend was grinning at you and mouthing something along the lines of Oh my god! Just talk to him!” as he turned and took you through the crowded club and to the bar. You were now seperated from your friends and now completely alone with Shawn Michaels who was buying you a drink. You didn’t really know what he was buying you but he said it was something to help you loosen up whatever that meant.

Huh.

“I...I’m not really sure what to say,” you admitted, looking at your glass.

Shawn chuckled, setting his own drink down on the bar. He turned to face you fully, leaning in just slightly but enough that you could feel your pulse in your ears. He smelt so good – leather, cologne and something that was so uniquely Shawn.

“You don’t gotta say anything,” He said, “I already like you the way that you are,”

Oh.

The way he was currently looking at you, like you were prey that he was circling, made your stomach flip. Too intense. Too knowing.

“I... don’t really do this,” You admitted, glancing away from him

“Do what?”

“Talk to guys like you.”

Shawn let out a low laugh, shaking his head like he found that adorable. “Guys like me, huh?”

You could feel the heat in your cheeks. “You know what I mean.”

He grinned, tilting his head. “Nah, sweetheart. I don’t.”

You fidgeted with your hands, “I mean...guys who are, you know, famous...and older...and...” You trailed off, not really sure how to finish your sentence.

Shawn was eating it up. Your nervousness lighting a fire in him that was hard to ignore.

“You can say it,” he teased, “You think I’m trouble,”

You nodded way too quickly, making him laugh again.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with a little trouble,” he murmured, reaching for his drink again. “Long as you know how to handle it.”

His eyes raked over you, taking in your nervous posture, the way you kept glancing away like you were afraid of getting caught. He loved it and you could tell. The innocence. The hesitation. It was exactly what made you different from the women who usually surrounded him.

And Shawn Michaels loved the idea of ruining good things.

“You’re nervous,” he observed, amused. “That’s cute.”

“What if I don’t want trouble?” you asked, trying to ignore the way that your heart was hammering but Shawn merely laughed.

“Then,” he began, “You shouldn’t be looking at me like that,”

You immediately looked away, which only made him laugh again.

“You’re adorable,” he said, leaning in slightly more, “Tell you what, how about you drink with me, hm? No harm in that, right?”

You took a sip of your drink. Your heart was pounding in your chest. You knew this was a bad idea. A bad idea. However, as you watched him watch you, you realised you didn’t want it to stop. Not yet. The drink in your hand was much heavier than it should have been. You didn’t drink often, maybe one or two but right now, sitting at the bar with him, you felt like it was a lifeline.

Shawn was completely relaxed though. Elbows rested on the bar with one knee turned towards you like he had all the time in the world to watch and enjoy you. His own drink was in his hand, because he was much more interested in watching you.

“You don’t drink much, do you?”

You shook your head, “Not really,”

Shawn grinned, “That’s cute...”

Cute. He kept calling you cute like a compulsion. Like he just couldn’t help himself.

“You don’t got to be all shy, sweetheart,” he coaxed, nudging his drink towards you, “Go on, loosen up a little bit,”

You glanced at him. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to drink. It was that you were so hyper aware of who you were drinking with. He knew that, of course he did.

“C’mon,” Shawn encouraged, tilting his head, “Let’s have a little fun,”

You took another sip. The alcohol burned down and you scrunched your nose up. Of course, Shawn chuckled at this.

“That’s adorable,” He shook his head, taking a sip of your own drink.

Your face burned. “What?”

“You,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re just so… damn sweet.”

You looked away, embarrassed, but he wasn’t done with you yet.

“You’re not used to this, huh?” he teased, eyes gleaming.

“This?”

“Drinking’.” His smirk deepened. “Me.”

Your heart stopped and you wanted to throw yourself out of the window.

“See” Shawn grinned, “You get all shy when I say it out loud,”

“That...” You said, shaking your head despite your cheeks getting all flushed, “That’s not true!”

“Oh, but it is,” Shawn chuckled, leaning in some more, “But it’s real cute, baby,”

Baby.

You were so screwed.

Shawn watched you like a man completely entertained, like you were the most fascinating thing in the room. The bar felt warmer now. Maybe it was the alcohol settling in your stomach, or maybe it was the way Shawn Michaels was watching you, like he was enjoying every little nervous fidget, every shy glance away.

You took another sip, smaller this time, but Shawn still noticed.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, tilting his glass toward you before taking a slow drink of his own.

That damn smirk was still on his face. Like he had all the patience in the world to pull you into this little game of his.

You cleared your throat.

“So, you like drinking with random girls after shows,”

“Nah,” Shawn chuckled, swirling the liquor in his glass, “Nah. I like drinking with you,”

That was too smooth, too fucking smooth.

Shawn leaned in just a little bit closer, close enough that you caught the scene of his cologne, the warmth of him just inches away, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” You’re looking at me as if I said something real dangerous,”

Your drink was almost gone now, and you had no idea when that happened. Maybe it was because he made you so nervous you kept drinking just to do something with your hands.

And Shawn, being Shawn, noticed.

“You’re keepin’ up real good,” he said, eyes flickering to your glass. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Your pride flared at that. “I can handle my liquor just fine.”

Why did you say that? Because now he was laughing at you again like you had just said the funniest thing in the world that night, “Oh, baby. You’re just makin’ this too easy...”

“What does that mean?”

He took a slow sip, watching you over the rim of his glass like a cat playing with its food.

“I mean, I could sit here all night, just watching you get flustered but...” He began, “I think I’d rather see what you’re like when you relax,”

What does that even MEAN?

Shawn tilted his head, studying you. “What are you so nervous about, huh? It’s just a drink. Just a little fun.”

You hesitated. “I don’t know if I—”

“You do.” His voice was so sure, so confident. “You just don’t know if you should.”

He had you.

Your stomach twisted. You should leave.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you let him pour you another drink. Shawn smiled as you picked it up, watching the way your fingers curled around the glass. Like he had just won something.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice like silk. “Now, let’s see if you can really keep up.”

You swallowed hard. This was a mistake.

But you still took another sip. The room was buzzing, but all you could hear was him.

Shawn’s voice was in your head, curling around your thoughts, making you dizzy, or maybe that was the alcohol, sinking into your bloodstream faster than you were used to. You should stop. You should 100% stop and go back to your best friend who you were sure left you to drink with Shawn. You were beginning to sway.

But then Shawn leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted against your skin, and rational thought disappeared.

“You’re getting real cute now,” he murmured, watching the way you swayed slightly in your seat. “Little flushed. Little shy. Think I like you like this.”

Your fingers curled against the bar top. “I’m....I don’t...”

Shawn chuckled, tipping his drink back before setting it down, his fingers idly tapping against the glass as he studied you. “You don’t what, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“I don’t… usually drink this much.”

Shawn grinned. “Oh, I can tell.”

Heat flared in your face. He was enjoying this.

“You don’t gotta look so guilty,” he teased. “Ain’t nothing wrong with cutting’ loose every once in a while.”

His voice was so smooth, so easy, like he was talking about something completely harmless. But his eyes told a different story.

Shawn Michaels was looking at you like he wanted to eat you alive.

Your pulse kicked up, and you instinctively reached for your drink again, taking another slow sip just to steady yourself.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, voice dropping just slightly. “Get nice and relaxed for me.”

This was dangerous.

And you wanted more.

“I think—” You swallowed, heart pounding. “I think you like messing with me.”

Shawn laughed, slow and lazy. “You just now figuring that out?”

You stared at him, breath coming a little quicker now. You should walk away. You should say goodnight.

Instead, you leaned in.

You didn’t know what possessed you to do it. M aybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the way he was looking at you, like he already knew how this night was gonna end.

Shawn noticed immediately.

“Oh, look at you,” he purred, tilting his head. “Finally gettin’ brave on me.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but Shawn was already moving.

His hand brushed against your thigh—barely there, just enough to feel it.

You sucked in a sharp breath, but he didn’t move away. Didn’t let you go.

“You still nervous, sweetheart?” His voice was softer now, more intimate. Like it was just you and him in this bar.

Your heart hammered.

“I... Yeah...”

Shawn smirked. “That’s cute.”

His fingers ghosted higher, teasing, testing—watching to see if you’d stop him.

You didn’t.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, as he reached for your hand.

Your breath hitched when his fingers curled around yours, strong, sure, unshakable.

You had no idea how it happened—one second you were at the bar, the next, you were outside, pressed up against the cool metal of a sleek black car.

Shawn caged you in without even trying, one hand braced against the roof, his body just close enough to let you feel the heat radiating off him.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” His voice was slow, teasing, but his eyes, his eyes were hungry.

Your breath came a little too fast. “Y-yeah.”

Shawn chuckled, reaching for the door handle. “Good girl. Get in.”

The drive was a blur.

You could still feel the burn of liquor in your throat, the buzz in your limbs, the way your pulse pounded every time Shawn’s fingers brushed against your thigh, deliberate and slow, like he was reminding you exactly who was in control. By the time you reached the hotel, your heart was hammering. Shawn barely looked back as he led you through the lobby, like he’d done this a million times before. Maybe he had. You didn’t care.

His room was massice. A suite with a plus carpet, soft golden lighting and a bed that was so big it was almost ridiculous.

Then, that was when you felt him.

Shawn moved in behind you, slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing over your arm before sliding up your shoulder.

You swallowed hard.

“Yes...I am,”

Shawn made a low pleased sound, his breath ghosting over your neck. Your back was pressing against his chest, warm and solid.

“Cute...” he murmered, “You don’t have to be. You trust me, right?”

The question made your breath hitch as his hands slid down your arm. Slowly, rousing, waiting.

He could feel you trembling and that...was fucking hot to him.

“I think so,” you admitted.

“Good enough for me,”

That was when he turned you around and you barely had any time to think before he kissed you. It wasn’t soft or sweet. It was deep, slow and claiming. It was like from the moment he laid his eyes on you, he decided he had to make you his and there was no going back from here. Hot and demanding, like he had been waiting for this moment all night.

His hands were holding onto your hips, firm and possessive as he had you flush against him. The heat of him was overwhelming. Your fingers curled onto the soft fabric of his shirt, nails were digging slightly and he lowly growled. A low sound that gave you butterflies.

“Fuck...” his voice was heavy against your lips, “You taste so fucking sweet, baby,”

His words made your whole body burn.

You barely had a moment to think when his hands were on the move, sliding down the curve of your waist before gripping the backs of your thighs and then, you gasped as he lifted you off the floor.

“Sh-Shawn!”

“Shhh,” He whispered against your lips, effortlessly carrying you to the bed, “Don’t worry, I got you,”

The next thing you knew, you were on the mattress, sinking into the plush sheets as Shawn hovered over you, that damn smirk still playing on his lips.

“You’re real pretty, you know that?” His voice was low, rough, his fingers tracing the hem of your shirt. “Bet you’ve never had anyone tell you that the way you should.”

You sucked in a breath, your entire body thrumming.

Shawn’s fingers brushed higher, teasing your skin. “I can make you feel really good, baby.”

You swallowed hard. “I...I don’t know what to do.”

His lips ghosted over your jaw, down to your throat. “That’s the best part.”

He kissed you there, slow, open-mouthed, just to feel you shiver.

“You just let me take care of you,” he murmured, his voice dropping even lower. “Let me ruin you a little.”

Shawn pulled back just enough to see the way your lips parted, the way your body melted into his touch.

“Yeah,” he whispered, half-drunk on the sight of you. “That’s my good girl.” His hands slid under your shirt, slow and teasing as they trailed under your skin.

“Shawn...”

He hushed you with a slow drag of his lips against your throat, teasing, tasting, “Relax...let me take care of you,”

His hands roamed higher, pushing up your shirt inch by inch, exposing more of you to the cool air of the hotel room. He was taking his time, enjoying the way you squirmed under his touch, the way your breath caught.

“You’re enjoying this are you?” He murmured against your skin, his voice dripping with amusement, “You wanna be a good girl for me?”

You couldn’t even form words, especially when Shawn is pressing his fingers dangerously below your waistband.

“I think you do...” He slid his hand into your jeans, cupping over the front of your panties. A gasp left your lips, your hips instinctively twitching against his arm. This made Shawn groan feeling you were driving him insane right now. This made him kiss you again, hungrier, rougher as his fingers pressed against the growing head between your legs.

“So soft...so wet...You really were waiting for me to touch you, weren’t you,”

Your cheeks burned, mortified by how easily he was making you come undone. Before you could reply, he pushed your jeans down, along with your panties and before you could even process what was going on, he was on his knees between your legs. The sight alone made you feel dizzy. Then, his mouth was on you. Your back arched off the bed as his tongue traced slow, deliberate circles over your clit, taking his time, savoring every little sound you made. He hummed against you, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine.

His hands gripped your thighs, keeping you in place as he devoured you, flicking his tongue in just the right way before pulling back slightly to smirk up at you.

“You taste so fuckin’ sweet, baby.” His voice was gravelly, wrecked. “Bet you’ve never had anyone eat you like this before.”

You could barely breathe, let alone answer.

Shawn didn’t wait.

He dipped his head again, this time sucking your clit into his mouth, and you cried out, hands tangling in his hair, desperate, needing something to hold onto. He moaned against you, clearly loving every second of this, his tongue lapping you up like he was starving for it.

And then, one of his fingers slid inside you. Your whole body jerked, but Shawn’s grip held you steady as he slowly pumped his finger in and out, stretching you, teasing you open.

“Shit, baby,” he groaned, his lips slick against your skin. “So fuckin’ tight.”

He added a second finger, curling them just right, hitting a spot that made your vision go white.

“Shawn, oh my God-”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, his pace quickening, his mouth working you over like he was determined to make you fall apart. “Give it to me.”

And when he sucked on your clit again, everything snapped.

Your orgasm hit you like a train, your body arching, shaking, a loud, desperate moan spilling from your lips as Shawn groaned against you, his grip tightening like he was holding on for the ride.

“You’re looking so fucking pretty like this...” He looked like he had been getting drunk off of the taste of your pussy. Your body was flushed but you knew that Shawn wasn’t done with you... because when he got up on the balls of his feed, you saw the bulge straining in his jeans.

When he saw you staring, his smirk turned wicked.

“Don’t worry baby,” he said, beginning to undo his belt slowly, teasing you as your eyes never left his crotch, “We’re just getting started...”

You knew what was coming but even when he pushed his jeans and boxers down enough, your mouth went dry.

He was big.

Thick, flushed and rock hard, standing against his stomach with beads of precum already glistening from the tip. He saw the way your eyes widened, and god, he looked like he was having the time of his life.

“Ain’t so nervous now, huh?” He teased, stroking himself lazily but you couldn’t look away even if you wanted to and he noticed.

“You want to touch it, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard and nodded, “I don’t know how...” but regardless of your words, you reached toward, and his hand reached out to guide yours. Your fingers curled around his length, and his breath hitched, his hips giving a tiny involuntary jerk at the contact.

“Fuck, baby.” His voice dropped, rough and wrecked. “That’s it.”

You hesitated at first, your strokes shy, uncertain. His head tipped back slightly, jaw clenched as his hand covered yours to set the rhythm.

“Just like that...” he groaned, hips rolling into your touch. The sounds he were making were low, desperate and needy, sending pools of head between your thighs all over again.

However, Shawn had decided that he had enough and with one swift motion, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you away and pinned you to the bed, hovering over you.

“Are you ready for me?”

It was hard to think of the answer when you felt the tip of his cock sliding against your soaked folds, teasing you and coating himself in your wetness.

You didn’t need to answer. All you did was lift your hips instinctively. So, he pushed inside. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as he stretched you open, inch by inch, filling you completely.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he cooed, his voice shaking with restraint. “I got you.”

His lips brushed your jaw, your throat, kissing you through the burn, through the overwhelming sensation of being so full of him.

When he was fully seated inside you, he stilled, sucking in a sharp breath. You couldn’t think of anything. All you could focus on was how good Shawn felt inside of you. How much you enjoyed the feeling of him stretching you out.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice raspy. “So fuckin’ tight.”

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, baby. You’re gonna ruin me.”

And then he started moving.

Slow at first, deep, deliberate thrusts, making sure you felt every inch of him.

You cried out, hands clutching at his back, overwhelmed by the way he stretched and filled you so perfectly. Your nails were digging into his shoulders which made him groan as his pace began to quicken as one hand was at one side of your head and the other one was holding your hips in place.

“That’s it, baby,” he praised, voice thick with lust and possession. “Take me. Just like that.”

He was relentless now driving into you harder, faster, deeper, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

Every thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through you, every roll of his hips hitting you in just the right spot. That familiar spot that made you see stars

“Sh-Shawn...please!”

“I know, sweetheart,” he groaned, his hand slipping between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit.

He rubbed tight perfect circles that matched his thrusts as his thrusts got rougher and harder, slamming into your sweet spot.

“You gonna cum for me baby?” he said, voice against your lips as raspy as sin, “Wanna feel my good girl cum on my cock...”

He slammed himself into you just right with his fingers pressing down and then it happened. Your second orgasm crashed over you as your body clenching, trembling and shaking as the pleasure was all consuming. Shawn cursed, likely feeling your cunt clench around him, buried his face against your neck as his face became erratic and desperate.

“Fuck baby...” he groaned, his cock twitching deep inside you, “Gonna fill your sweet pussy up...”

And then it happened. With a deep, guttural moan, spilling himself entirely inside of you. You could feel him fill you up making your eyes flutter delightfully. The only sound left in the room was the heavy panting of two bodies completely wrecked.

Shawn didn’t pull away immediately.

He stayed there, still inside you, pressing lazy kisses against your damp skin.

“Damn,” he finally muttered, voice hoarse, satisfied.

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. And Shawn? Well, he just smirked against your throat.

“Told you a little trouble wouldn’t hurt.”

#i think this one is gotta be one of my faves #i hope whoever requested this is having a good day because i loved this prompt a lot #wwe #wwe fanfiction #wwf #90s wrestling #wwe imagine #wwe x oc #wwe x reader #wwf fanfiction #90s wrestling fanfiction #shawn michaels #shawn michaels x reader

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