Goose: *slams Books Down In Front Of Slider* 

bitter/sweet

a Dr. Jack Abbot one-shot (The Pitt)

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

summary: when a stubbornly charming chef keeps showing up in his ER, Dr. Jack Abbot finds it harder and harder to ignore the pull toward something—or someone—he didn't plan for…

warnings/tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, grumpy x sunshine, food as a love language, age gap, fainting/medical emergency, mild language

word count: 5.5k

a/n: my new hyperfixation i guess ???

“Fuck,” you grumbled, clutching your thumb in a blood-soaked kitchen towel, the fibers more crimson than cotton. The pain throbbed in pulses, each step sending a sharp reminder up your arm. You kept your eyes on the linoleum floors, following the resident as he led you deeper into the chaos of the emergency department and into an exam room.

“Oh,” the resident, Student Doctor Whittaker, said, his voice pitchy as he glanced at the kitchen towel. He quickly averted his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Yeah, maybe we should keep that wrapped.” 

You arched a brow at him, settling onto the exam table as the paper crinkled beneath you. The air in the room smelled sterile – alcohol wipes, latex gloves, and that faint antiseptic sting. “You’re not afraid of a little blood, are you? Because hate to be the one to tell you – you might be in the wrong profession.” 

He gave a nervous laugh. “No, no – just… been a rough day,” he said, the humor dropping from his voice. “Can’t really handle another loss.”

You paused, tone softening. “Oh. Well, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” You glanced down at the towel, now visibly seeping. “Did you get a hold of my sister?” 

He shook his head, eyes already shifting toward the door. “I tried, but she’s in the OR; still scrubbed in. But, don’t worry; Dr. Abbot is the attending on call tonight. He’s one of the best – ”

You frowned. “Abbot? Where’s Robby?” 

Before he could answer, the door opened and a tall man entered the room, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves with a practiced snap. His scrubs were black, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his expression was carved from stone. His salt-and-pepper hair was short but wavy; he easily had fifteen or twenty years on you… Still, he was cute.

“Well,” he began, his voice low and even, “It’s almost nine, and contrary to popular belief, even Robby needs to go home and rest. So, lucky you – you get me.” 

You blinked. “Wow, smart and pretty. Lucky me indeed.” 

He gave a subtle eye roll before his gaze met yours – steady, unreadable, deeply hazel. “So, what’ve we got?”

Whittaker stumbled to present. “Uh – female, 27. Has a deep laceration on her thumb. Cut it open on a grater – ”

“Mandoline slicer,” you corrected, 

Abbot moved toward you, taking a seat on the wheeled stool. As he unwrapped your hand, you couldn’t help but ask, “Careful – you’re not gonna get queasy, too, are you?”

Without missing a beat, he stoically answered, “Only if this turns into something worse than a hand injury… like small talk.”

You let out a surprised laugh, half from the pain, half from how dryly he delivered the line.

“You’re funny,” you grinned. “I like you.” 

He said nothing in response, merely peeled the cloth away, sticky and crimson, revealing the deep gash across the side of your thumb. Cold air kissed the open skin, and you hissed. He examined it without a flinch, gently turning your hand between his fingers.

“So, what were you doing with the mandoline slicer?”

“I’m a chef,” you answered. “The prep rush was insane today – guess my hand just slipped.” 

He pressed carefully at the space between your thumb and index finger. You flinched, instinctively pulling back, but his other hand caught yours firmly, anchoring it. 

“What?” you asked, watching his expression shift as he looked up.

“Stitches,” he decided.

“Fuck that.” 

He arched his brow. “It’s a deep cut; can’t just put a bandaid on it and kiss it better.” 

“Well, that’s because you haven’t tried,” you flirted, finding it to be an easy distraction from the pain. Still, his face remained unchanged. “Come on, are you serious? You really can’t just wrap it up and call it a day? I have to get back before the dinner rush.”

“It’s not optional,” he informed. “It’s not gonna heal if it’s not stitched up.” 

“Don’t worry,” Whittaker piped up again, voice chipper. “Dr. Abbot could do this in his sleep.” 

“I could,” Abbot said, already reaching for gauze. “But Whittaker’s going to do it instead.” 

“What?” You both asked, heads whipping to him.

“It’s a good learning opportunity,” he replied casually. “And Robby’s always goin’ on about how we’re a teaching hospital. Besides, it’s just a few stitches – a teenager could do it.” 

“A teenager is about to do it,” you muttered. 

“He’s older than you,” Abbot pointed out, making your frown set on him. 

“I want you to do it.” 

“No.” 

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” 

“Because he got queasy just looking at the kitchen towel,” you explained. You and Abbot both turned to Whittaker, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “It’s either you, or I wait for my sister to finish surgery,” you stubbornly gave him an ultimatum. “And she told me about those patient satisfaction scores.” You let out a low whistle.

Abbot stared at you for a beat, then turned to the student doctor. “Whittaker.” 

“Yes, sir?” 

“Go get me the lidocaine.” 

You grinned in victory before offering your hand back out to Abbot.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” he muttered, arms crossing.

“You and my sister should start a support group,” you shot back.

He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, maybe we will.” 

When Whittaker returned, Abbot explained the procedure before getting to work: numbing first, then the sutures, probably six or seven. His voice was calm, precise. You clenched your other hand into a fist, eyes fixed anywhere but the needle. The sting of the lidocaine made your jaw tense.

“Ready?” Abbot asked. You nodded silently, lips pressed tight. 

His hands were rough but skilled, careful – you could sense it. 

As your eyes gazed over the room, they settled on the chain tucked beneath the neck of Abbot’s scrubs. 

“Military?” you asked, voice quieter now as your free hand reached out to pull at the dog tags.

Without looking up, Abbot momentarily halted his work to swat your hand away. When your hand settled back by your side, he replied, “Used to be a medic. Liked the chaos so much, I went to med school for emergency medicine.” 

You winced as one of the stitches tugged. “You good?” he asked, glancing up. 

You gave him a wry look. “If I cry, will you hold my hand?” 

“I’m already holding your hand,” he deadpanned. 

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Then, buy me dinner? Or, let me buy you dinner, at Francesca.”

“Francesca?” Whittaker perked up. “Wait – you work there?” You nodded, smiling. “That’s cool. I’ve heard some of the other residents talking about it. They really love the food.” 

You turned back to Abbot with a pointed smile. “See? Good food, good company – what more could you ask for?” 

“Probably some peace and quiet,” he muttered. But, before you could press, he was already tying off the sutures and wrapping your hand with fresh gauze.

“So,” you said eventually, “what’s the damage?”

“You’re a rightie?” he asked; you nodded. “It’s your dominant hand. That, and the fact that restaurants have a high risk of infection – wet, hot, high-contact. It’s gonna take a minute to heal. Probably five days off work to initially heal and reduce strain; another five until you’re back to full-duty – and when you are, make sure you wear some sort of splint or gloves. Come back then and I’ll take ‘em out. Sound good?” 

A week off work. 

You already knew you weren’t waiting that long.

Still, you grinned up at him. “Whatever you say, handsome.”

Two weeks later––four days after you were meant to get your stitches out––you finally found yourself back in the hospital. You couldn’t say you missed the bright fluorescent lights or the constant beeping of machines – you weren’t sure how your sister did it every day.

You did, however, miss Dr. Tall, Dark, and Broody. 

That’s what you’d started calling Dr. Abbot in all your conversations with your sister. She’d blinked at you, been less amused, and professionally corrected you every time you brought him up. 

“You mean ‘Jack’?” She’d say, and you’d grinned at that, ready to use this ammunition against him.

And, even though you had every intention to return earlier so you could see Jack sooner, work at the restaurant had gotten busy. Between a busted oven and two line cooks calling out, you’d been elbow-deep in chaos. You’d barely been convinced by Eleni, your sous, to come back even now. She had to practically push you out the front door. 

Taylor, the charge nurse who brought you in, gave a smile as she informed you, “Dr. Whittaker will be in in just a few minutes.” 

Your spine straightened immediately. “Actually, can you get Dr. Abbot? Tall one with the storm cloud for a personality. You know the one.” 

Taylor nearly dropped her tablet laughing. “Oh, I like you,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Let me see what I can do.”

Luckily, it seemed like a slow night in the ED––well, slower than usual––and in a few minutes, your request had been granted.

“You know,” Abbot said by way of greeting when he entered the room, “you don’t get to request a specific doctor in the ED. That’s not how it works.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah? Then how come you showed up?” 

He ignored that. “Why didn’t you let Whittaker take them out?” He already sounded annoyed, and it brought you much more glee than it should’ve. “You know he’s perfectly capable of removing stitches. And putting them in.” 

“And pass up another moment of your stellar bedside manner? Now, why would I do that… Jack?” You smiled sweetly.

His eyes flicked up fast at the sound of his first name. “I hate your sister,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“She’s the best and you know it.”

Instead of arguing, Jack gently pulled the wrap from your hand. His fingertips were warm through the gloves, deliberate in their movements as he examined the injury. 

“You didn’t wait the five days before going back to work,” he said flatly, frown setting in.

Your brows furrowed. “What are you talking about? Of course I did – In fact I – ” 

You cut yourself off when you saw the look he gave you. All stern disapproval and low-simmering frustration – hot. And in a moment, you crumbled.

“Okay, okay, fine – but I took three days off! That has to count for something! I was going stir-crazy in my apartment, Jack.” You squirmed under his gaze.

He let out a deep sigh, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he grumbled, brows pinched slightly as he prepped the suture scissors in that deliberate, quiet way of his.

You couldn’t watch as he moved with steady practiced precision. Instead, your eyes settled back on his dog tags and after a moment of silence, you asked in a soft voice, “How could you tell? That I went back to work early?” 

He met your eyes then, frowning. After a beat, he answered. “The skin around is red, irritated. The inflammation just started going down. You should’ve come in early if you were gonna go back to work. I said day 10.” 

“I know.” 

Dryly, he continued, “This is day fourteen.” 

“I know, Jack.” You frowned now too. “You know, if you keep on like this, you’re not getting your present.” 

That was when he noticed the light pink bag that sat on the chair by the exam table. 

“I brought you something. As a thank you for stitching me up.” 

Jack tilted his head to the side. “Not a bribe to soften the blow because you knew I’d know you went back to work early?”

You smiled up at him, this time in a way that asked for his forgiveness. “Why can’t it be both?” 

Jack rolled his eyes, then began removing your stitches. “It’s healing,” he noted, “but slower than it should be. You pushed it too hard.” 

“I was careful,” you defended. “I let Eleni do all the chopping and lifting heavy pans – I just ran the line… and plated.” 

Jack hummed, observing. “You’re holding tension through your whole arm. That’s not careful.” 

You opened your mouth to protest, but just then, he snipped one of the sutures and you flinched with a hiss of discomfort. His hands paused immediately, and his expression shifted – not annoyed this time, but concerned.

“Still hurts?” he asked, quieter.

You tried to play it off, half-laughing. “Hurts less than not being in the kitchen.” 

Jack sighed again, shaking his head. “You think I’m impressed by your stubbornness?” 

You gave a crooked grin. “No, but I think you like it.” 

He didn’t answer, just focused on removing the next stitch. Silence stretched between you, the only sound the soft snip of scissors. When he finally leaned back, he said, “Okay, that’s the last one. Take it easy, okay? I mean it. Just plating for now – carefully.” 

You lifted your head. “And if I don’t? You going to come hold my hand through the dinner rush?” 

Jack rolled his eyes. “I’ll come by the kitchen if I have to.” 

You watched him, smile growing. “Still thinking about saying yes to that dinner I offered?” 

Just as quick, he quipped, “I’m thinking about you not landing in my ER again.” 

Your brow rose. “Keep it up and you’re not getting the tiramisu.” 

As he was wrapping your hand in new gauze, his gaze flickered up to meet yours. “Tiramisu?” 

“My sister said you wouldn’t stop talking about it a few days ago. Got a craving.”

“Yeah, for DiAnoia’s,” Jack corrected. 

When he was done wrapping your hand, you hopped off the exam table and offered him the light pink bag, with a tiramisu boxed inside. 

“It’s better than DiAnoia’s,” you promised, already halfway to the door. 

He snorted at that, not believing you. “But, be careful, it's sweet. Might clash with the whole brooding thing you’ve got going on.” 

“I don’t brood,” he called after you.

You turned at the doorway, walking backward as you smirked. “Yeah? Tell that to your face.” 

Then, you spun on your heel, feeling his gaze on you as you let the door swing closed behind you.

You couldn’t tell if the emergency room was changing or if you were just getting used to it. The fluorescent lights felt ambient now, the loud chatter muffled, and the beep of vital machines now felt distant.

“Miss me?” You grinned up at Jack as he strolled towards the nurse’s station. You leaned casually against the counter, trying not to let your excitement show too much.

Without looking up from the chart in his hands, he replied, “Still haven’t recovered from the last time.”

You glanced over at Taylor, who sat typing behind the station, and dropped her a wink. “That’s not a no,” you stage-whispered, giggling. 

Jack finally looked at you then, eyes tired but alert, like your voice had stirred him awake. “What are you doing here?” he asked, handing off the chart to Taylor.

“What, can’t a girl visit her local cute, broody doctor?”

“I already told you I’m not that,” he frowned. 

You tilted your head. “Cute?” you asked, pretending to be confused. 

He narrowed his eyes on you. “Broody.”

“Right,” you nodded solemnly. “Of course not.” 

The silence between you lingered a second longer than expected – long enough for you to catch the faint circles under his eyes, the crease between his brows. His scrubs looked wrinkled, like he’d been running nonstop since the start of shift. Your smile softened. 

“I’m dropping some food off.”

His brows furrowed now. “For me?”

Your smile only widened, but faltered just a touch as you took in just how off he looked, a little out of rhythm. That bone-deep kind of tired. You wondered if he’d eaten at all tonight.

“For my sister,” you said lightly, though your feet were already carrying you toward the break room. You grabbed a paper plate and plastic fork, and returned just as quickly. You set the plate down and began undoing the takeaway box you’d packed.

“Wait,” Jack started, a note of warning in his voice – he already knew where this was going. You ignored him, and scooped a generous portion of pasta onto the plate before sliding it his way. The steam curled up toward Jack’s face.

“Try some.”

He sighed, saying your name like it was both a complaint and a surrender. 

“Come on,” you coaxed. “Just a bite. And if you hate it, I’ll leave you alone.”

He gave you a long-suffering look – but brought the fork to his mouth anyway. The first bite had his eyes fluttering closed, just for a second. A soft sound escaped him – barely audible, but unmistakable. You caught it.

“That was a compliment,” you accused, pointing at him with a victorious grin. “I heard it! Everyone heard it!” You turned dramatically to Taylor, who watched with a dry amusement before shuffling over to a patient’s room. 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Ok, hotshot, relax. It’s just pasta. Hard to mess it up.”

You scoffed. “You’d be surprised.” He shrugged, and you took it as a challenge. “Okay, then what? What can I make to convince you it’s not just luck – it’s these magic hands.” To make a point, you wiggled your fingers. 

To your surprise, he actually gave it some thought. A flicker of memory seemed to pass through him. His voice was quieter when he spoke.

“There was this dish we used to get when I was in the military – in this little town outside Kabul. Locals made it in the market stalls. It was kind of like a lamb stew, over some flatbread. Spicy. Kinda messy to eat. But damn good.” 

You blinked, surprised he’d offered to share something so personal. You cleared your throat, softly asking, “You were stationed in Afghanistan?” 

Realizing the slip-up, Jack shrugged it off like he regretted saying anything. His eyes drifted to a fixed point behind you.

“Jack,” you said softly, reaching out to place a hand over his, which rested on the counter of the nurse’s station. The gentle tone of your voice kept him from pulling his hand out from underneath yours. If anything, that, alongside the glint in your big eyes, made him want to spill everything.

“It was the 68W program – for combat medics,” he revealed, using his free hand to pull the dog tags from under his scrub top. “Standard issue accessory.” 

“I disagree,” you murmured, playful but sincere. “I’ve heard medics are some of the toughest ones in the room.” 

Jack let out a tiny almost-smile. “We were just the ones who didn’t get to shoot back.” 

You paused, then asked, “What was it called? The dish.” 

He thought for a second. “I don’t remember. I think maybe – palau something – or – I don’t know. Doesn't matter.” 

You shook your head, heart melting. “If it stuck with you… it matters.” 

Jack didn’t say anything to that, but his gaze found yours again – direct. You caught him staring. He didn’t look away.

“If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to think you like me,” you teased, tone light.

He didn’t even deny it, just shook his head – either in denial or disbelief, you couldn’t tell. 

“That’s okay. I like you enough for the both of us.”

That brought a pink tinge to his cheeks. 

Instead of bringing attention to it, you simply offered a half-smile. “Okay. Challenge accepted. One mystery lamb dish, coming up.”

At that, Jack raised a skeptical brow. “You’re gonna recreate something I haven’t eaten in ten years, from a place you’ve never been, with no recipe?”

You shrugged. “Maybe it’ll finally convince you to come to the restaurant.” 

And there it was – just for a second. The edge of a smile. Maybe even the beginning of a laugh. You nudged his side with your elbow.

“Admit it. You’re rooting for me.” 

Jack just shook his head, but didn’t speak. Didn’t stop smiling either. Didn’t even say no.

The next time Jack saw you in the hospital, the occasion was less momentous. You didn’t have a light pink box with the Francesca logo on it and a sweet treat––or Afghani dish––inside. You weren’t your happy, bubbly self jumping around the place. Forget jumping, you weren’t even on your feet. 

You were in a hospital bed, fluids pumping steadily through an IV line taped to your arm. into your veins through IVs. Your sister, elbows resting on the edge of the bed, was scrolling through her phone with the ease of someone used to hospitals – until Jack stumbled in.

His eyes immediately found yours, and whatever breath he’d been holding on the way in came out sharp.

“Every day you’re here – you come and find me. Every day,” he said, voice low and urgent. “So, what changed today? Why was Robby the one to tell me you fainted?” 

You and your sister exchanged a glance. She was already putting her phone down, her expression turning serious.

“Because it literally happened an hour ago…?” you offered, wincing a little. “And that’s still day shift.” 

Jack raked a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every sharp movement.

“Robby had it covered,” your sister said, trying to calm Jack.

It didn’t help.

“Did he do an ECG?”  

“Yes.” 

“Echocardiogram?” 

“Yes, Jack,” she sighed.

“What about a head CT?

You frowned. “Why would he do a CT?” 

“Because you probably hit your head when you fell.” 

You let out a breath, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t hit my head.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because Eleni caught me.” 

Jack’s eyes bounced between you and your sister. “This happened at work?” You nodded, slowly. “Did this happen because of work?” 

Suddenly, you were having a hard time meeting his eye. 

To make matters worse, your sister answered for you. “She was covering for one of the other line chefs, stressed about a critic visit – Eleni said she was barely sleeping – ”

“The critic’s a big deal!” you defended, “and Luca was getting burnt out. He needed a break.” 

“No, babe,” your sister cut in, not unkindly, “You need a break.” 

Jack stepped closer to the bed, scanning the IV bag. His fingers brushed against your arm, checking the line, then pressing gently against your wrist. “Did Robby hook her up to saline?” 

Your sister nodded.

“What about electrolytes? She’s dehydrated.” 

“He – ” Your sister paused, then asked, a little surprised, “How did you know that?” 

“Her lips are dry,” Jack responded, as if it was obvious. “She squints every time she looks up at the lights. And her leg is tense – probably cramping earlier.” 

You and your sister shared another look, then you grinned up at him, pushing his hand away from your arm to grab it in yours, warm and steady. “What?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“You were worried about me,” you grinned, all grin and no apology.

He exhaled deeply, rubbing his free hand defeatedly over his face. “Oh, my God. You fainted and this is what you’re focused on?” 

You gave him a small shrug. “I’m fine.” 

And, truthfully, you were starting to feel better. Color was returning to your cheeks, and the constant throb behind your eyes had dulled to a whisper. The IVs were helping; the rest, too.

A voice crackled over the intercom, paging your sister to OR 3. She stood, hesitating. 

“Go,” you said, waving her off. “I’ll be fine. Go back to work.” 

“Fine, but tell someone to page me when they discharge you. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”

You rolled your eyes but nevertheless nodded. As she stepped out, Jack moved to sit on the edge of the chair beside your bed, one hand running along the railing.

“How mad do you think she’s gonna be when I tell her you’re not going anywhere? I’m keeping you overnight.” 

Your head whipped toward him. “What? Why?” 

“For observation. I want to make sure it really was stress-related and not some underlying medical condition.”

You groaned, tilting your head back against your pillow. “Jack,” you groaned, frustrated by this decision.

“Oh, I know,” he mocked gently. “How could I do this to you? Keeping you overnight to make sure you’re healthy? I’m the worst.”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as dramatically as you could manage while tethered to an IV. 

“Don’t be like that,” he tried, his hand uncrossing yours. Then, the same hand lifted to gently cup your cheek. “You know, you didn’t have to faint just to get my attention. Could’ve just called.”

The blush that crept to your cheeks was immediate, and you cleared your throat, looking away. “Dr. Abbot with the jokes – never thought the day would come.”

“What can I say?” he replied with a shrug. “I’m a complex guy.”

He tugged your blanket higher, gently tucking it around you like it was second nature. “Now, get some sleep. I’ll come check on you in a bit.” 

You nodded, already feeling the weight of exhaustion settle behind your eyes. As Jack slipped out, he left the curtain half-open so he could keep an eye on you from the nurse’s station or while he was passing by to other patient rooms. 

Instead, you found your eyes drifting to him. Even through the haze of sleep, you watched him move through the ED like a controlled current – swift, focused, unshakable. He was in full command, teaching, managing, healing. Something about how intense yet calm he was eventually lulled you to sleep. 

When you woke again, sunlight was peeking through the slats of the blinds, and Jack was beside your bed, carefully unhooking the IV line. 

“Morning,” he greeted, voice soft as it pulled you from your deep slumber. “How are you feeling?” 

You rubbed at the sleep in your eyes and let out a groggy sigh “Wow, thought I died and went to broody heaven.” 

“I’ll take that as ‘fine,’” he said dryly, grabbing a paper cup of water he’d filled for you and maneuvering the straw toward your lips like it was muscle memory.

“Can I go home now?” 

He nodded, his eyes still scanning your vitals, “Soon. Just gotta fill out your discharge paperwork and then shift’s over. I’ll drive you home.” 

“Drive me home? I’m wearing you down, old man,” you grinned sleepily up at him. 

He rolled his eyes, raising a hand to press the back of it to your forehead. “You feel okay? No headache? Dizziness? Nausea?” 

“Good as new,” you promised, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “Must be these magic hands.” 

He smiled at that, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles before letting go. 

“So,” you began as he signed off on your chart, “does being injured get me privileges?” 

He arched a brow. “What kind of privileges?” 

“Favors,” you said with a shrug. “Like you finally coming to the restaurant.”

Jack let out a low groan, head shaking. “It’s too early for this – you’re never gonna let that go, are you?” 

“Not till you say yes. And, as you know, I’m very persistent.” 

“Oh, I do know,” he said, then held his hand out. “Let me see your thumb.” 

You blinked. “Why?” 

Still, you offered it up. He examined it gently, brushing his fingers over the healing skin.

“When this heals completely, I’ll come to Francesca.” 

You beamed. “In that case, let’s speed up the process…” You wiggled your thumb closer to his face. “Never did try that technique of kissing it better, huh?” 

He gave you a look – but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. Then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb.

When he set it back down in your lap, your stomach fluttered.

“Now, can I take you home or are you going to make me do a blood oath first?” 

“You’ve been burying the lede, Abbot,” you teased, making your presence known as you walked across the hospital rooftop and joined him on the concrete ledge. Your shoes scraped lightly against the gravel as you sat, legs swinging just off the edge. 

He glanced over, brows furrowed in confusion. No one but Robby ever came up here. 

“Taylor told me where you were,” you informed. “How many conversations have we had – and you never mentioned this place? Or the crazy views it has?” 

The city was sprawled out below you, glittering the dark earth. A breeze tugged at your jacket, crisp with late night chill. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, checking his watch. 2:56am glowed dimly in the moonlight.

You shrugged, tucking your hands into your coat pockets. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

His concern was immediate, instinctual. “Is it the stitches? Are you feeling dehydrated?” He was already reaching for you, fingertips brushing your wrist as if searching for a pulse.

“No, Jack,” you laughed, pushing his hands away. “I’m fine. I just… woke up with a thought.” 

He stilled, waiting for you to explain what thought could’ve roused you out of bed in the middle of the night and forced you here.

You reached behind you and retrieved a familiar pink Francesca bag, the paper crinkling softly in your hands. In thick Sharpie ink, you’d scrawled his name with a lopsided heart beside it. His brows lifted in disbelief.

“No fucking way,” he murmured, greedy fingers snatching the food container out of the bag and tossing the lid aside like it might disappear if he wasn’t fast enough.

Inside sat the Afghani dish Jack had told you about that one day at the nurse’s station. The rich, spiced aroma was carried through the night air – saffron, cumin, caramelized carrots.

“It’s called qabili palau,” you offered, watching him tear a piece of naan, scoop up a mouthful, and take a bite. The moment the flavors hit his tongue, his eyes immediately rolled to the back of his head and he exhaled a quiet sound that was half-groan, half-moan.

“If you’re making those kinds of noises at my cooking, just imagine my skill in the bedroom,” you teased, flashing him a grin. 

That earned you a look – but not one you expected. Quiet, intense. His mouth twitched at the corner like he was trying not to smile, and then he went back for another bite. And another. You watched him eat in silence, the wind occasionally rustling his curls, and you couldn’t help but feel the intimacy of the moment, on this quiet rooftop, and this ridiculous hour.

He quietly finished the food, sharing it with you. And, when the food was gone, his eyes drifted out across the skyline. He looked… lighter somehow. And it reminded you why you loved being a chef – because food had the power to take people home, even when they were miles and years away.

You nudged him. “Oh – I almost forgot!” You excitedly held your hand up like a prize, thumb out. The skin had healed cleanly, leaving not even a scar behind. “All better.”

His eyes found yours, amusement dancing in them. “I’m pretty sure I said when it’s healed, not the exact moment it is.” 

You scooted closer to him, shoulders brushing, as you accused, “Oh, no. You’re not gonna get out of this.” 

He shook his head at you, like he had countless times before, but this time… this time the look in his eyes changed. Slowed. Softened. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, sitting here, choosing him.

His smile faded as he lifted a hand to your face, brushing a windblown strand of hair behind your ear. “I wouldn’t want to,” he said softly. 

And then he kissed you. 

It wasn’t rushed – not some messy, passionate crush. It was slow, intentional. The kind of kiss that people waited a long, long time for. His lips were warm, and soft, and they fit perfectly against yours. 

You melted into it, one hand curling around the front of his scrubs as the city disappeared beneath your closed eyelids. The hospital lights, the stars, the hum of distant traffic – it all faded until it was just the two of you. Just Jack.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far – just rested his forehead against yours, his breath brushing across your skin as he murmured, “You know, you scare the hell out of me. Make it hard to stay behind the lines I drew.” 

You smiled softly at that, brushing your thumb over the edge of his jaw. “Good. Means it’s real.” 

There was a beat of quiet. Then, he gently took your hand again, turning it over to inspect your healed thumb. You rested your head against his shoulder, grinning – you both knew exactly what this meant.

He sighed dramatically, mocking defeat. “What’s the dress code?” 

“No scrubs,” you teased.

“Button-up?”

“Only if it’s black. Very broody.” 

“Deal,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.

.

.

.

A/N: this was just supposed to be a oneshot but why do I wanna write a part 2 😩

180

a

New WIP: Season 7 bodygloves for your off-duty clones

I was rewatching The Bad Batch pilot and realized they were wearing these bodygloves right after Order 66, so I'm considering them to be canon-compliant standard issue from some point after Umbara until the end of the war.

I thought it would add some realism to have an upper bodyglove option to wear with lower body armor, so I've been handpainting these bodygloves for your clones to wear.

Sometimes the MCCC mod let's you down and you can't get Fox to put his blasters down for yoga class. Other times it's because he insists that if you can't do yoga fully armed and in gear, you can't do yoga.

They'll also come in black, even though our favorite never-nude prefers swimming in full armor.

You can follow the squid's cc tag for updates :)

Haha. I love it

Twilight AU where Bella is rightly Creeped the Fuck Out by Edward rather than intrigued by him and, hoping to defuse the situation before it becomes a Thing, decides to talk to his “sister” about his behavior

What Bella knows about the fallout: Rosalie is out of school for a couple of days, and upon returning gives Bella a thumbs up from across the lunch room but offers no further explanation. Edward is absent from school for a couple of weeks, even when the rest of the Cullens are all there, and then carefully gives her space from then on out.

What Bella does not know about the fallout: Rosalie “Rapist Eater” Hale tore her surrogate brother’s arm off at the shoulder and beat him around the head with it while yelling “Don’t Stalk Girls” until Emmet and Jasper pulled her off of him and made her give the arm back.

New Girl [#00: Welcome Home]

Summary: Life threw you a curve ball when you walked in on your long term boyfriend making out with someone who definitely wasn't you. Since living with him was no longer an option, you've ventured out at the advice of a work friend and found the absolute perfect loft to reside in. The only issue?

You suddenly have four very odd roommates.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (slow burn, endgame, as in you'll be seeing some short term pairings here and then as well)

A/N: So i'm doing the soulmate drabbles, but i'm also starting a 'TV Show AU' series. Don't know how many parts this will have it'll probably just be a free for all of any episodes I wanna put the marvel crew in or any fun scenarios I think of.

[[Also weird side note that you may notice in the banner below I, uh, re-cast Clint Barton?? I always write the comic version over the mcu version anyways and Jensen Ackles is always who I picture when I write, but obvi you can straight ignore that if you want.]]

(word count: 1,564)

The loft was absolutely gorgeous. It had an industrial feel to it thanks to the brick walls and metal beams running across the ceiling. Despite that, the warm light streaming through the multitude of windows gave it a soft vibe. From where you sat on the recliner you could see a small, open kitchen that sat right across from a large dining area all of which was behind the large, ‘u-shaped’ couch. Honestly, the moment you stepped through the door your brain immediately decided that this is where you wanted to live.

However, there was one little flaw you didn’t foresee when you showed up for the interview/tour.

“So, you guys…are guys.” You said slowly. You laced your fingers together and rested them on your knee awkwardly. In front of you sat four men. Very manly men, actually. Enough so that you weren’t sure why your co-worker would think sending you here to live would be a good idea. Scott Lang had mentioned the open room and the great location, but he had left out this huge detail.

“Yes. Good eye for detail.” The man who introduced himself as Bucky Barnes said dryly. He sat at the far end of the couch in front of you on the left side. He had short, dark hair that kind of looked like he had just rolled out of bed. Sweatpants, a t-shirt, and scruff all along his defined jaw. His stormy eyes looked exhausted, his lips looked downturned into a perpetual frown, and it made you mildly curious since it was literally one in the afternoon and he was nearly dead on his feet.

“I know it’s hard for you to not be a dick, but maybe you can, I don’t know, try?” Sam Wilson, if you remembered his name correctly, replied to him from the entire other end of the couch. The black man had his arms crossed over his chest with a raised eyebrow, but there was nothing but amusement in his brown eyes. Unlike the first man that spoke, this one was dressed in much nicer clothes. A button up shirt and khakis.

You opened your mouth to cut in, but another one of them spoke up first. He sat next to the man who had just spoken, “Quick question, are you single?” You knew his name was Peter but you couldn’t remember what his last name was only that it started with a ‘Q’. He had an impish smirk with sandy blond hair that could only be described as purposely messy. He had a sort of goatee that was mostly just stubble. There was a leather jacket resting on the couch behind him that he had taken off when you first walked in to reveal the tight, gray shirt he wore. “I think it’s the question all of us want answered, right?”

All the men chorused solid disagreements, but it was the man beside him that spoke directly to you. This was the only one who hadn’t actually introduced himself to you. He had come in a couple minutes ago, dropped down on the couch, and then just joined in. You had mentally been referring to him as ‘hot mess’. He had like three bandages on his face, his lip was busted, and he had a fading black eye. His blond hair was also messy, but definitely not in a styled way. More like a ‘I haven’t touched a comb since I was 12’ kind of way. He motioned to you, “Ignore him, the real question we have for you is: Do you have any pets and when can you move in?”

“No.” Bucky shook his head. “We vote before we ask someone to move in. Loft agreement.”

Hot mess spoke again, “Well then let’s—”

“Wait,” You held one hand out and eyes snapped back to you. “Scott told me this was a four-bedroom place, and that you guys were looking for someone to fill a room but…there are already four of you?”

Peter half-heartedly motioned to Bucky and Sam, “These two share a room.”

“Oh!” You bobbed your head with a smile as you motioned to them, “So you guys are a couple?”

“No!” Bucky and Sam both yelled loudly making you jump in shock. They immediately turned and began to bicker with one another.

“Why're you saying no so fast, man?? I’m a fucking catch.” Sam argued.

“You said no just as quick as I did!”

“Yeah, because I can do a hell of a lot better than a maybe alcoholic still mourning the loss of his psycho ex.”

Bucky sat forward to glare at him, “We are not having this argument again.”

As they continued to yell at one another, while you watched on awkwardly, Peter focused on you with a charming smirk, “They have bunk beds.”

“Bunk… beds?” You questioned skeptically.

“No, no, no.” Sam cut in quickly. He gave up on his argument with Bucky to clarify this. “It’s two very separate beds, on opposite sides of the room. See, I lost a bet so now I’m stuck with his ass—”

“You lost the bet? I lost the bet and now I’m stuck with you.” Bucky argued back.

Hot mess shook his head, “They both lost the bet and now they bunk together like camp buddies.” The two men in question grumbled unhappily. “Also, we’re all super broke so we need someone in the empty room who has a consistent paycheck.” As if to clarify further, he pointed down the couch starting with Bucky, “Bartender at a sketch ass place, in an unknown band, and therapist.”

Sam held one hand up, “I’m the only one with an actual paycheck.”

“I have a paycheck!” Bucky argued.

“And my band is not unknown.” Peter scoffed. “The Guardians have a gig this Thursday!”

Hot mess grinned, “And where are you playing?”

“A Korean restaurant where old men play card game and chain smoke.” Peter mumbled.

You cleared your throat and tried to get this conversation back on track, “You didn’t tell me what your job is. Or your name.”

“Oh, I’m Clint Barton!” He quickly stood up and offered his hand to you. You smiled and took his hand to shake it then he sat back down. “And my job changes depending on the week.”

You bobbed your head once with confused, narrowed eyes, “I, uh, I don’t know what that means.”

Bucky shook his own head, “Neither do we.”

“Well,” You took in a steadying breath, “Like I said before, my name is [Y/N]. And, I actually do have a steady paycheck.” You motioned to yourself. “I work for a modeling agency—”

“Whoa, whoa!” Peter threw his arms out to interrupt, “You’re a model??”

“Uh, no.” You chuckled awkwardly. “I’m more like a manager? Book gigs, manage contracts, help them on set…” There was a pause where they all just stared at you with blank looks. Peter was the only one actively gawking though. You filled the silence with the first thing your brain thought of, “It’s fun! My best friend from high school actually works there as a model so it’s a lot of us just…goofing off? Uh… I don’t have any pets—”

“Meeting!” Peter barked and stood up. He gave you a charismatic smile, “Just give us a couple minutes.” The others stood up with less enthusiasm and began to march out of the room, down the hall. Peter gave you a nod, briefly biting down on his lower lip, bounced his eyebrows up once, then winked at you, “Don’t miss me too much, alright baby?”

Bucky stopped at the mouth of the hall with a frown, and when Peter tried to walk into the hallway he threw his hand out to stop him. Peter complained as Bucky shoved him back then pointed to the short shelf sitting behind the couch. There was a glass jar sitting on it with a pink sticky note taped to the outside that read, ‘Douchebag Jar’ in messy handwriting.

“Jar. Now.”

“That wasn’t even so bad!” Peter argued before pulling a dollar bill out of his pocket and shoving it into the jar. The two of them left to wherever the other two had and suddenly you were left alone in the pretty apartment. Without the yelling boys, the loft became more and more tempting.

You drummed your fingers against your thighs nervously. This was a weird situation and at your age you weren’t really looking to live in a loft downtown with four strange men, emphasis on strange, but you didn’t really have another choice. Your job paid well, but you had lost a lot of money after buying a house with your long-term boyfriend. It seemed like a great idea at the time considering the two of you were coming up on three years together, but when you walked in on him making out with a girl sitting in his lap the great idea died really fast. You didn’t get that money back and honestly you didn’t even try to get possession of the house. You just wanted to be out of his life. Regardless of the cost.

Clint ‘hot mess’ Barton suddenly slid back into the room on his socks making you jump in surprise. He threw his hand out broadly as the others came in as well, “Welcome home, roomie!”

You jumped up in excitement, “Really? You guys aren’t going to regret this!”

Mav with his big family~ lil babysitting the top gun 2 kiddos! Anddd Rooster played baseball,,, yes? Mav being there for his sports would be :( 💚💚💚💚 proud fruncle (father-uncle HAHA)

evermore as an old storybook

@taylorswift @taylornation ♡

part 1 | part 2 | twitter

[please credit me if you repost]

A few weeks ago I caved and bought Minecraft for my switch, and it has been the best decision I've made all year. Now I present to you, my collection of 16 cats, all named after Top Gun characters, because that is how bad my Top Gun brain rot is.

First up we have Iceman, he was the first cat I tamed after spawning outside a village and kicking out the local librarian for his house. It took me ages to get a name tag for him but he has always been iceman in spirit.

Maverick of course is next, this isn't the original Maverick, the original has since been renamed Merlin for reasons I will explain if and when I ever get to the end of this shitpost. I'm not sorry. Nevertheless, this Maverick looks much more like him than my original Maverick.

Goose was the second cat I tamed, also from the same village as Iceman. There was no reasoning behind naming this one Goose beyond needing a Goose and having a specific cat in mind to name Maverick.

This is Carole, Goose's beloved wife. She's named Carole because I had a need to reunite her with Goose, and because she's a Calico cat, so it would be very unlikely that it would have been a male cat. Carole now fills my token female cat spot until I take another and call her Phoenix.

This is Rooster, the spitting image of Iceman due to a breeding mishap (I forgot that fish make them breed so I was running around feeding them all like a doting top gun cat mum and iceman and maverick were just a bit too close) however Rooster is every bit Maverick and Iceman's son as he is Goose and Carole's.

Hangman was also the result of an accidental breeding with Maverick and Iceman once again. I stopped feeding them at the same time after that. However, Hangman does have the personality similar to that of Maverick's so I think he makes a fine addition to my weird accidentally bred family.

This is Slider, again I needed a cat to fill his role and this is a cat that I tamed very early on after killing a witch. However, when I was running back the 1000s of blocks to my home I lost him somewhere along the way and could not find him. I gave up and stumbled across him last week while transporting four dogs that I had tamed in the forest.

Viper and Jester are my two most recent additions, I was running out of names to call my cats and remembered these two after reading an icemav fanfic this morning.

Merlin was the original Maverick, however I renamed him Merlin for two reasons; one being that the cat that is now named Maverick looks a lot more like Maverick than this one, and secondly because this is another cat that I stole off a witch and Merlin seems a very fitting name for a magic cat.

I have 6 more cats to introduce in another post because curse Tumblr and it's 10 picture limit

Can we do this y’all?

what Ilvermorny houses do you think the Hogwarts fantastic beast gang would be in? and what Hogwarts houses would the Ilvermorny fantastic beast gang be in?

Albus - Thunderbird

Gellert - Horned Serpent

Theseus - Pukwudgie/Wampus

Newt - Thunderbird

Leta - Pukwudgie

Percival - Slytherin/Gryffindor

Seraphina - Slytherin

Abernathy - Slytherin

Queenie - Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw

Tina - Gryffindor

Jacob - Hufflepuff/Pukwudgie

Nagini - Ravenclaw/Thunderbird

Credence - Slytherin/Horned Serpent

Vinda - Ravenclaw (or Slytherin)/Horned Serpent