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[codywanweek]

Masterlist of Masterlists

Hi all! All masterlists have been posted over the last week, you can find them here or under the tag #masterlist 2023. Please let us know through DMs or by ask if we've missed your entry!

Day 1: Fics and Art

Day 2: Fics and Art

Day 3: Fics and Art

Day 4: Fics and Art

Day 5: Fics and Art

Day 6: Fics and Art

Day 7: Fics and Art

All entries have also been added to the Super Masterlist (google sheets)!

[soupexpertt]

I really like this russian edition of classic books. Letting famous artists do the covers in YA style was such a simple but clever decision. According to the recent study the number of teenage readers increased, possibly thanks to these covers. I own traditional classics with blank covers but if I ever see one of these in the wild, it’ll probably make me go feral.

Here are some of my favs:

Dracula (art by Renibet)

2.Jane Eyre (art by Ulunii)

3. Little women (art by чаки чаки)

4. The Idiot (the hedgehog-omg-) (art by Xinshi)

5. Pride and Prejudice (art by Cactusute)

6. War and Peace (art by Xinshi)

7. Wuthering Heights (art by Renibet)

8. The Great Gatsby (art by NIKEL)

9. Frankenstein (art by Iren Horrors)

10. Crime and Punishment (art by REDwood)

11. Anna Karenina (art by Ulunii)

12. The Cherry Orchard (art by lewisite)

13. The Master and Margarita (art by Renibet)

[canisalbus]

✦ They said you were a bright child ✦

[millers-girl]

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. 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 smiles 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.

.

.

.

read part 2 here !!

[eowynstwin]

i’m drooling at ur older bf price (not much else to say except when/if u ever have more thots abt him please share 🙏)

previous

You curl in on yourself after sex, sometimes. It’s a pattern Price has noticed—you’ll finish, then he will, and in the humid moments after, the shutters in your eyes will close. You won’t meet his gaze.

He’s only asked once about it, and it had been so clear that the question disturbed you that he hadn’t pressed. You’d tell him, he reasoned, when you were ready—

(And he could nudge you in that direction in the meanwhile.)

The sink is put back together, cabinet door closed. Your sundress is wrapped and twisted around your midsection, naked breasts wet with his saliva and compressed against his chest as you lay panting on top of him. His shirt is in some far-off corner, thrown aside, and his jeans are around his knees.

“That was nice,” he murmurs in your ear, kissing your hair. He makes a home for his fingertips between your shoulder blades, walking the trail of your spine, up and down, slow as a tide.

“Mm-hm,” you say, out at sea. Far away.

He can’t deny that it disappoints him. But it isn’t about him, and he shouldn’t make it so. Even if it is about him, it isn’t actually about him—it’s about something else that has attached itself to him. Things are like that more often than not—deeper, older problems with hooks, the barbed kind that sink in and cling and won’t come out of their own accord.

So he keeps kissing your hair, and he keeps stroking your back. His softened cock hasn’t slipped from you yet, and he makes no move to dislodge it. You nestle closer to him; shift your body over his, a little, just for the feeling of it. He waits for the sigh—the long, steady breath you take after the act, after you’ve found yourself again in wherever it is you go after moments like this.

“This is probably weird to talk about after sex,” you say, and Price’s ears perk up.

“Nothing weird between us, dove,” he encourages. “What’s on your mind?”

You play with his chest hair a little, twirling it around with the manicured ends of your nails. (A manicure he happily paid for.)

“You’re the first man who’s ever given a damn about me,” you mumble into his neck.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says honestly. He kisses you again, because he wants to, and because he wants it to comfort you.

“You don’t make me feel stupid for not being able to do stuff on my own,” you continue. “My step—my mom’s husband. He used to make fun of me for, for getting confused about changing my car’s oil. Or he’d get annoyed at me. Or I’d need him to change my tires because I can’t do it on my own, and I’d call him for help, and he wouldn’t pick up the phone.”

“He sounds like a piece of work,” Price comments.

A younger version of himself would have offered to beat the shit out of the asshole. That self’s anger on your behalf sits radioactive in his chest even now—corrosive, roiling, righteous fury, ready to carve your name on whatever offal is left over after Price gets through with him.

But that would be for his own ego, not for you. That has no place here.

“Do you know—” and your voice breaks a little, “do you know how bad it feels when a man who’s supposed to look out for you treats you like you’re an idiot? Like you’re not smart enough to be worth helping?”

“Some,” he says. “It’s an awful feeling. I wish you didn’t know how it felt, dove. I’m sorry.”

He feels something warm and wet drip onto his chest, and your shoulders begin to shake.

It’s not the full-body, wracking cry of catharsis. Just an episode of something longer, something tired. A problem dealt with, over and over again—a wound that reopens sometimes, if it’s pulled the wrong way.

Price gathers you closer, wraps his arms around you tighter. He cups the back of your neck with one hand and murmurs “shhh” into your hair, soothing and quiet, squeezing you against him.

“I’m okay,” you say, a little watery. “Really, I am.”

“I know you are,” he says.

He tilts your face toward his, and kisses the center of your forehead. You meet his eyes with your own, wide and glistening with your tears.

“I’m always gonna help you, dove,” he promises, catching one that falls with the edge of his thumb. “And you can always ask.”

-

No I don’t have daddy issues why do you ask

[me-writes-prompts]

Random + angst prompts:

By @me-writes-prompts

Yearning prompts

“I can’t stop loving you.” Angsty romance prompts

Character A gets hurt/injured ft. Character B’s feral response

Coffee shop love prompts

Situationship prompts

Situationship jealousy prompts

Heartbreaking prompts

Reuniting angst prompt

“What are we?” Prompts

Ghost x vampire prompts

More ghost x vampire prompts

Vampire x werewolf prompts

Close proximity prompts

Crush prompts

Navigating through new relationship prompts

"Please don't leave me" prompts

Lovers in "denial" prompts

Reunited lovers prompts

Grumpy x sunshine prompts

"You're too good for me" prompts

"I think...I'm in love with you" prompts

Fake dating prompts

Betrayal prompts

"What would I do without you" prompts

Roommates to lovers prompts

Ice cream prompts

Underrated trope list

First date prompts

Oblivious x pining prompts

Break up prompts

Marriage of convenience prompts

Jealously prompts

OTP bonding with their children prompts

Denial of feelings prompts

Internalized homophobia prompts

Sunshine vampire x grumpy human prompts

Party game prompts

Family fluff prompts

Hero/warrior prompts

Lovers to friends prompts

Childhood friends prompts

Self-esteem issue prompts for your ocs

Nervous/awkward couple prompts

Forced proximity but one of them is claustrophobic prompts

[thereweredragonshere]

Little guys round 3

[idontmindifuforgetme]

please take everything you read with a grain of salt. misinformation spreads everywhere like wildfire, and i've been having major trouble wading through false journalism to get actual updates on everything. some resources i've compiled for myself and anyone who's interested:

the global conflict tracker (israeli-palestinian conflict)

dr. ghassan abu sitta is a doctor on-site who's also been reporting about the atrocities transpiring in gaza.

also some palestinian aid orgs to donate to. if you have some money to spare/know anyone who does, please consider donating/spreading the word:

palestine children's relief fund

palestine red crescent society

medical aid for palestine

gaza emergency appeal

donate to arab.org with one click

the middle east children's alliance gaza emergency fund

help UNRWA USA reach their palestinian aid fundraiser goal

[dreamersparacosm]

𐙚₊˚⊹ ceo!jungkook x assistant!reader 𐙚₊˚⊹

warnings ; sub!reader, reader calls jk ‘sir’, jk is a dick btw, public sex, degradation, overstimulation, you ride him and he’s so nonchalant about it, mile high club

prompt ; in which it’s just another day at work.

You’re not sure what’s more dangerous: being thirty thousand feet in the air, or the way his hand was already halfway up your skirt before the wheels had left the runway.

You’re seated on his lap, facing the empty chairs across from you, spine curved in a subtle arch like your body already knows what he wants from you. The jet hums beneath you but it’s nothing compared to the sound of his breath against your ear as if he isn’t palming you through your panties at cruising altitude.

Your white blouse is wrinkled and halfway unbuttoned, the swell of your black lace bra peeking through, rising and falling with every breath you take. His hand drags slowly up your stomach, pushing the fabric aside like it’s in his way, which of course, it is. Everything is, when it comes to him.

You whimper quietly and he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even spare you a glance. He simply tightens the arm around your waist and takes a sip of his whiskey, the clink of the ice echoing loudly in the stillness of the cabin.

“Sir,” the flight attendant says, appearing beside him like a ghost, voice perfectly even. “Can I get you anything else?”

He doesn’t flinch. In fact, his hand stays right between your legs, fingers now hooked in the waistband of your panties, middle knuckle dragging over your slick heat like he’s just testing how wet you are.

Without looking up, he replies, “No. I’ve got everything I need.”

The attendant nods, since you squirming on top of him is nothing worth noticing, and disappears down the aisle without another word.

You try to breathe and focus but his fingers dip lower, push aside the last scrap of modesty you had left, and you gasp, hips twitching forward.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, so low it barely counts as speech. The whiskey is warm on his breath. “So wet and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Please,” you whisper, a breath more than a word. “Please, I-I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, mouth brushing the back of your neck. “You always can.”

He’s not wrong. You melt for him like he’s heat itself. Like his touch is gravity and you’ve never known how to resist it. Your hands are gripping the armrest now, thighs trembling as his fingers begin a slow, devastating rhythm.

You’re drunk off him; dizzy from the altitude, from how easy it is for him to pull you apart with just one hand and a glass of Glenfiddich in the other. He’s still sipping like nothing’s happening.

You let out a choked sound as he presses deeper. His fingers curl inside your sopping entrance and you let him. You let out another shaky breath which is more like a sob, and his fingers still don’t stop.

Your head tips back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs threaten to fall open wider, your dignity already somewhere back on the runway.

“You don’t even know how to sit still anymore,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue along the shell of your ear, “Look at you. Whimpering in my lap like you’re fucking starving.”

You are. You’ve never been so full and so empty at the same time.

God, you don’t know how this happened. Or… well. You vaguely remember it.

It started a year ago. A new job, a better title, a desk with a view. Executive Assistant to Jeon Jungkook, CEO of one of the fastest-growing private conglomerates in the country. You’d walked in with a pressed blouse and an updated resume, ready to prove yourself. No nonsense, no distractions, all ambition.

Apparently, the role had meant more than just fetching coffees and arranging schedules.

It had meant late nights in his office with the doors locked. It had meant taking dictation with his fingers between your legs. It had meant waking up in hotel suites with bruises you couldn’t explain to HR and an unread text from him that just said “bring aspirin. meeting at 8am”

He warned you the first time. “If you come into this office in that skirt again, I’ll ruin you.”

And you did. He kept up his end of the bargain too.

Now, months later, here you are; tens of thousands of feet above land, shaking in his lap while his fingers work you open. “Say it,” he drawls, “Say how badly you want it.”

You press your lips together, but the sound escapes anyway, a half-formed moan as his thumb brushes where you need him most. Your hips buck despite yourself.

“Please,” you whisper. “I want… God, I want it so bad.”

He exhales a laugh against your neck, amused and unaffected. His fingers thrust deeper in response, drawing another broken moan from your throat.

“You’re such a fucking mess,” he teases, “Wearing my name around your finger like it’s a secret. Begging for me.”

You choke on a breath. It’s true: there’s a thin gold ring on your right hand. It’s not a wedding band, nothing official. But it is engraved on the inside and he got it for you three months ago when he realized he needed to have some proof for himself that he was claiming you.

JJK is engraved on the inside of the ring.

“Open wider,” he commands softly, and your thighs obey before your brain catches up. “You don’t even think anymore when you’re with me, do you?”

“No, sir,” you breathe out. “I—I can’t.”

“Good,” he purrs, fingers curling just right. “You don’t need to think. You just need to let me use you.”

Your fingers clutch at the only thing you can find: his sleeve. The crisp, rolled cuff of his button-down is pushed just high enough to reveal the ink that snakes up his forearm, and your nails dig into it to anchor you to something solid.

You’re keeling over from the force of it, chest heaving, mouth open in a silent gasp as he pumps his fingers in and out of you like he owns you, even though you know he does. Not just your body, but your mind, your routine, your schedule, your every breath. You haven’t had a single thought that didn’t include him in months.

The muscles in your stomach coil tight, your head lolling back helplessly against his shoulder. His voice is the only thing tethering you now, warm and steady against your skin.

“Gonna cum just like this?” he murmurs, lips grazing your jaw as his fingers keep working you open. “My fingers inside you, my name on your mouth?”

You nod. It’s pathetic, really, the way your whole body trembles just from the sound of him.

“Of course you are,” he bites his lip. “That’s all you know how to do, isn’t it? Cum for me. Sit on my lap and make a mess while I do all the work.”

You sob just a little, gripping tighter to his sleeve, and then, just as your legs start to shake, just as you’re right there on the edge, he pulls out.

Your cry is instant and desperate but he doesn’t give you time to protest.

He brings those soaked fingers straight to your lips. “Open,” he says, and you do, and he slips them past your mouth, two fingers deep, pressing on your tongue with the weight of command.

You moan around him, the taste of yourself flooding your tastebuds, heat rushing to your cheeks. He watches you suck like it’s just another task in your job description.

“God,” he mutters, thumb brushing your lower lip as you hollow your cheeks. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Before you can blink, he shifts beneath you. One hand still in your mouth, he moves the other to his belt, unbuckling it with one smooth flick of his wrist. The metallic click of his zipper coming down fills the cabin with such finality that your eyes flutter open in time to see him push his slacks down far enough to free himself.

He’s hard and already leaking. Thick and heavy against his stomach, flushed a deep, angry red. Your body reacts before your mind does, hips tilting instinctively, thighs vibrating as you grind back against him with muscle memory.

He pulls his fingers from your mouth with a soft pop and trails them down your throat, then lower. “You want me inside you?” he speaks lowly, dragging the head of his cock against your slick folds cruelly.

“Yes,” you breathe, already delirious. “Please, please, sir, I need it.”

“You need it,” he repeats, almost amused, guiding himself to your entrance. “Hm. You’re soaked.”

With one slow, possessive thrust, he slides into you, inch by devastating inch, and you swear you see stars. He pushes in slow, savoring the stretch. Your walls clamp around him instinctively, fluttering from the burn, the sheer fullness. You can barely breathe. Every time it’s the same: that impossible stretch that makes your eyes roll back, makes your stomach tighten, makes your mind go blank.

You always think uselessly to yourself how you got to this point. When one of your friends asks, you give the same answer: It’s his voice, his touch, his control. The way he ruins you and pieces you back together without ever breaking a sweat.

His cock drags against every sensitive inch as he bottoms out, your walls struggling to take all of him. You feel split open, stretched past your limit, and still you can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop pulsing around him like your body’s already surrendered.

“Fucking tight,” he groans, burying himself to the hilt. His arm tightens around your waist, keeping you flush against him, chest to back. “You get tighter every time. Your pussy knows it’s mine.”

You whimper and nod helplessly. “It is. It’s yours, sir.”

He lets out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “Damn right it is.”

You shift and the pressure makes you cry out again, a weak little sound that only makes him hold you tighter. “Shh,” he soothes, kissing just below your ear. “Don’t overthink it, sweetheart. Just sit here and take it like a good girl.”

You lean forward, shaky hands finding his knees to steady yourself. Your thighs burn already, heels still on, skirt bunched around your hips. You start to move, your breath hitching as you lift yourself up an inch, before sliding back down with a choked moan. The angle punches the air from your lungs.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, dragging his hand up your stomach, over the swell of your bra. “Letting me stretch you open like this.”

Your head drops, hair falling over your face, your hips starting to find a rhythm. The stretch hurts so good, pleasure simmering low in your belly, your thighs trembling with the effort to keep moving. He groans behind you, “That’s it. Fuck, that’s my girl.”

Of course you’re his girl. You’ve always been since the first time he made you cum on his desk and told you not to get any ideas. Since the first time he let you stay the night but made you leave before sunrise.

Since the first time you said “yes, sir” and meant every word.

“Jungkook,” you whimper, bouncing a little harder now, every motion pushing him deeper, “I—I don’t know if I can—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, hand sliding up to your throat, resting there, just reminding you. “You’ll cum when I tell you to. Not before.”

You nod, gasping, tears brimming in your lashes. You’d do anything he says.

Your thighs are shaking. Every movement now is a pathetic, stuttering bounce driven by the maddening stretch of him inside you and the need building low in your stomach like a fire that won’t go out.

You should feel ashamed but your mind is gone. Fucked right out of your body and left hovering somewhere above the clouds with the seatbelt sign still glowing overhead.

You’re still moving. gripping his knees for balance, skirt hitched up to your waist, blouse half off, bra on display and he’s just sitting back now, fully leaned into the leather of his chair, cock buried deep inside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One hand rests lazily on your hip. The other holds his glass, the amber liquid catching the cabin lights in a warm shimmer as he lifts it to his lips, eyes locked on the way you move for him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, “Bouncing like a good little fucktoy. So fucking pretty like this.”

You don’t even hear her footsteps until she’s already there.

“Mr. Jeon,” comes the voice, professional, not a hint of shock. “Just letting you know we’ll be landing in about an hour. Would you like anything else before we begin our descent?”

You freeze for a second but Jungkook doesn’t. He takes another sip of his whiskey, lets out a soft sigh and replies, casual as ever: “No, I’m good. My assistant is good too.”

The attendant offers a polite smile like she didn’t just see you fully fucked-out and stuffed full in her peripheral vision, and glides away without another word.

You should be mortified. You should be scrambling to fix your shirt, to pull your skirt down, to hide. But all you can do is keep moving. You keep rolling your hips in tiny, desperate circles that send sparks up your spine, because you’re so close. You’re going to cum and you don’t even care who knows it.

“I should make you stop,” Jungkook says idly, thumb dragging along the curve of your ass. “Should make you sit still and behave like a proper assistant.”

“Please don’t,” you gasp, your whole body clenched around him. “Please, sir, I— I’m so close, I can’t—”

“Of course you’re close,” he mutters. “You get off on this. Being used and watched. Being mine.”

You whimper, helpless, your grip tightening on his knees as you bounce faster, chasing that high like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

He finishes his drink in one smooth sip, sets the glass down, then slides both hands to your hips, steadying you.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxes, voice hot against your ear. “Be a good girl. Cum for me.”

Your vision blurs, your whole body spasms, and the orgasm crashes through you with white-hot force, ripping the air from your lungs as you fall apart in his lap. Still, his cock stays buried inside you and his hands don’t stop and you can’t think of a single reason to care.

Your body’s trembling, thighs twitching, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob but you don’t stop.

He hasn’t finished and he hasn’t told you to get off of him. Which, in his words, means you keep going.

Your cunt is throbbing, slick and soaked and stretched so wide you feel hollow and full at once. The orgasm is still echoing through you, nerves frayed. You grind down onto him with shaky little bounces that make your overstimulated walls flutter around him.

“Good girl,” he exhales. His hands grip your hips tighter,“You’re gonna give me another one?”

You let out a choked sound, something between a moan and a cry. “I-I can’t,” the words are already dissolving before they fully form. “I’m too—”

“Yes, you can,” he interrupts, dragging you down harder. “You’re gonna sit here and take my cock until I’m done with you.”

You comply with his request, chest heaving, face flushed and damp with sweat. You try to lift yourself again, but your thighs give out halfway through, and the angle sends him even deeper. Your jaw drops in a silent moan, overstimulation sparking like electricity under your skin.

“Fuck,” you gulp down saliva you didn’t even know you were holding, nails digging into his knees. “Hurts… feels so good, Kook. I can’t think..”

“I know,” he groans, thrusting up into you now, meeting your broken rhythm. “You don’t need to think. You just need to ride me like the needy little slut you are.”

That word makes you shrink under normal circumstances. It used to make you want to crawl off people and fix your blouse and hide in the bathroom.

With him, it makes you pulse. Makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back as your body begs for more.

“Keep going,” he moans, slamming into you again. “You’re so fucking wet. Gonna let me cum inside this perfect pussy?”

You shake your head up and down frantically, body too spent to lie.

“Say it,” he growls, hand tangling in your hair, forcing your head back against his shoulder.

“Y-Yes, sir,” you stammer out “Please cum inside me. Please, please, I need it.”

“Fuck,” he snarls, his pace snapping into unforgiving territory. “You’re gonna take every drop. Gonna sit on my cock and keep it all in, even when you’re shaking.”

“You were made for this,” he hisses, thrusts going sloppy now. “Made to ride me, to be walking around with my cum in you.”

And just as your body starts to tip into another high, another dizzying crest, you feel it. He curses loudly, hips jerking up hard one final time. Then he’s spilling into you, white ropes of cum painting your walls to a lethal degree, his grip bruising on your waist as he buries himself deep and stays there.

You’re still in his lap with his cock still inside you, thighs slick and trembling from overstimulation and the slow, obscene drip of his cum leaking down the back of your legs, soaking into the soft leather seat beneath you.

Somehow, he’s already fixing his cuff.

His other hand ghosts over your thigh to feel the mess he made, before reaching for his watch, tapping the face like it’s just another Monday.

“We land in forty-five,” he says, voice cool again, like it hadn’t just spent the last hour commanding your body into oblivion. “Fix your shirt.”

You swallow hard, nodding because it’s all you know how to do. Your fingers are clumsy on the buttons, fumbling through the half-open blouse you never managed to fully remove. He straightens your collar like it’s part of the routine. Like you didn’t just ride him through an orgasm so intense your vision went static at the edges.

He reaches into the briefcase beside him, pulls out a slim black folder, and places it gently in your lap (As if you’re composed enough to read.)

“You’ve got a briefing packet to review,” he orders, thumb brushing your jaw, then gone. “Be ready when we land.”

You blink and try to remember where you are, who you are beneath the wreckage of everything he just did to you.

All you can muster up is a nod.

As the jet hums quietly beneath you, your body still split open around him, you realize you do know how this happened. You’ve always known. It’s him. And you’re still not sure what’s more dangerous: being thirty thousand feet in the air, or the way you’ll always let him touch you like this.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

note ; i am qualifying this as a blurb because calling it a fic would imply there’s plot, character development, or literally anything else. there is not.

thank you all for flying xoxo

[morgan-n-cheese-91]

old Obi-Wan is so funny to me because his sass and overall bitchiness is like the last thing he's got and I'm so proud it survived the great depression of his 40s.

[crushmeeren]

// texting the boys and telling them it’s their fault your back hurts.

note; written with FEM READER in mind, but I think Eijirou is the only one who says baby girl and Shouto mentions you being Fuyumi’s sister in law. If these suck I’m sorry I tried my best. (✿◠‿◠)

master list

❥ ❥ katsuki

❥ ❥ shouto

❥ ❥ eijirou

❥ ❥ touya

[millers-girl]

on the line

interconnected standalone/sequel-ish to bitter/sweet and fallout - a Dr. Jack Abbot (The Pitt) fanfic

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

summary: Jack takes a six-week placement across the country. Four specific FaceTime calls—full of banter, longing, and everything unsaid—hold you two together until he comes home.

warnings/tags: grumpy x sunshine, age gap, long-distance relationship, mild language

word count: 5.0k

“What are you wearing?” 

You cracked one eye open, squinting against the soft glow of your bedside lamp. Jack was staring at you through the screen of your phone, propped up on your nightstand. His image was bright against the dim lighting, accenting the sharp set of his jaw and the smirk playing at his lips.

“You know what I’m wearing – we’re on FaceTime,” you mumbled into your pillow, voice thick with sleep. Your limbs felt heavy under the familiar weight of your comforter. “When are you coming back?” 

“You know when I’m coming back,” he echoed, mimicking your tone. “Why’re you asking – miss me?” His voice dropped an octave, teasing, and you saw his eyes flick down your form as you shifted to get more comfortable beneath the covers.

This had been an ongoing game for the last month – every time you talked, one of you tried to get the other to admit they missed them first. Neither of you had cracked. 

Now, that didn’t mean you didn’t miss him. Quite the opposite, actually. 

Jack had been gone for three weeks now, having been offered an intensive placement at UCLA Medical Center. You could still remember how he broke the news—quietly, nonchalantly, like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it—and how you’d smiled widely and pushed him to take it even as something inside you fought every move.

This is UCLA, you told yourself. He has to take it; it’s an incredible opportunity. How many times does something like this come along?

But knowing it was the right decision didn’t make it easier.

Six weeks. Forty-two days. Nearly fifty sunsets without him. 

After spending almost every day together, the sudden absence had carved out a hollow space in your chest.

The first week, you felt his absence immensely. But you figured, with time, it’d get easier. 

Oh, how wrong you were.

The ache didn’t dull. It sharpened. Everything reminded you of him – how much he’d probably roll his eyes at a joke Eleni told during service, how he’d immediately get to cleaning your apartment if he saw how messy it had gotten, how he’d let you follow him around if he was back at the hospital when you were dropping dinner off for your sister. 

Luckily, technology was on your side. While he was in California, you texted him constantly – mostly one-sided updates on your day, the chaos of the kitchen, the new weird thing your landlord did. He replied in his usual charming fashion: a “K” here, a thumbs-up emoji there.

FaceTime was more his speed. Every night, your phone took up its spot on your nightstand while you curled into bed, half-asleep before he even picked up. He was usually just getting ready for his shift – brushing his teeth, dressing in his scrubs, sometimes sitting in the car with one hand on the wheel. 

“At least it’s regulating my sleep cycle,” you’d joked during one call, watching him frown in that subtle, concerned way he did.

“You love me doing night shifts,” he’d countered. “Said it keeps you on your toes, guessing.”

“Yeah, guessing how much sleep I’m gonna get that night,” you’d teased back, and he’d huffed a small laugh. 

Now here he was, two weeks from coming home, asking you what you were wearing in that low, steady voice of his that always had knots forming in your stomach.

“You already know I’m wearing one of your hundred black tees,” you mumbled, cheek sinking deeper into your pillow. 

“No panties?” he asked, a hint of a smirk at his lips as his eyes gleamed with mischief.

With minimal effort, you peeled back the duvet just enough for him to catch a glimpse of his boxers sitting low on your hips.

“You do miss me,” he grinned triumphantly, a quiet chuckle escaping him. You sighed through a small smile, eyes fluttering shut. His voice, even through the phone, grounded you. “Tell me what you did today.”

You took a moment to think, thoughts clouded by sleep and the warmth of your sheets. “Tried out a new truffle recipe,” you murmured. 

Sure enough, you peeked an eye open just in time to catch his nose wrinkle in disgust. He hated truffles.

The sight made you smile – even 3,000 miles away, Jack was still so Jack.

“Dinner rush was crazy – some show was going on at the theatre down the block so we were packed. Almost ran into one of the sommeliers rushing out of the kitchen. Nicked my finger on the bottle opener he was holding.”

“Let me see,” he said immediately, and you pulled your hand from under the covers and held it up to the camera, watching his eyes narrow. “Did someone at the Pitt take a look?”

“My sister did,” you said, brushing it off. “It’s fine – just a scrape.”

He frowned that familiar, pinched-brow frown.

“You should keep it wrapped,” he muttered. “Could get infected.” 

You mirrored his expression, this time out of something deeper – affection, mingled with longing. “I miss you medically scolding me.” 

Jack paused a beat, then offered softly, “I can still do it over the phone. That’s why they invented FaceTime.” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true,” you giggled sleepily, burrowing deeper into your sheets. The weight of him not being there settled over you again, dense and unrelenting. 

Silence stretched for a moment before you opened your eyes again. Jack was still looking at you. “What?” you asked, your voice small.

He hesitated. “Nothing… you just look tired.”

But the way he said it—gentle, weighted—made your throat tighten. 

You didn’t just look tired.

You missed him. You missed sleeping better when he was beside you, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours as your limbs tangled together. You missed the safety, the stillness. Without him, everything felt a little bit off.

Your hand drifted across the sheets, reaching for his side of the bed – cold, untouched. Your fingers curled into the empty space as if you could will it to hold his warmth. That familiar ache bloomed in your chest again, pressing hard against your ribs, forcing you to acknowledge it.

And the way he was looking at you right now—gaze just soft enough for you to see the emotion behind it—it made the distance hard to bear. 

You wanted to ask him to come back early. Just say it. Just tell him.

But you didn’t.

He was doing something important – teaching residents, working alongside brilliant attendings, contributing to something meaningful. You couldn’t ask him to give that up. So you buried it, like always.

Instead, you asked, “Any exciting cases today?” 

Jack blinked at you, then shrugged, his voice returning to that calm, clinical cadence. “Someone said a guy came in with third-degree burns from resting his hand on the grill – didn’t realize his wife had turned it on.” 

You winced, turning your face into the pillow. “Ugh, Jack – that’s gross.” 

He chuckled softly. “Reminds me of an old army buddy who met the wrong end of a crockpot once.” 

You hummed, already drifting. “Tell me about it.” 

You tried to stay awake, but the familiar and comforting tone of his low voice began to lull you to sleep. A few minutes into the story, Jack noticed your breathing had slowed.

You looked so peaceful.

He watched for a while, the silence between you warm and heavy, filled with all the things left unsaid.

Then, in a quiet voice that barely crossed the distance, he whispered a sweet good night to you and ended the call.

Four weeks into the placement, when Jack FaceTimed you and you answered with a deep-set frown and red-rimmed eyes, he could already tell it would be one of those days. 

The hard days. The days one of you missed the other so much, it was impossible to ignore. The days your heart was three thousand miles away, tucked into the go-bag of your favorite ED attending, somewhere in a cramped locker room in Los Angeles. 

“What’s wrong?” he immediately asked, making your frown deepen. 

“Nothing,” you promised, setting the phone down on your nightstand as you began to get ready for bed. The camera angle wobbled as you moved – half of your frame disappearing, your voice muffled by distance and steam escaping from the open bathroom door behind you.

This was unusual. Whenever Jack called at this time, you were already tucked in bed, cozy and glowing, hair a little messy, a smile curling at the corners of your lips the moment you saw him. 

And, you always showered in the mornings – you said showering at night would intervene with how much time you two got to spend on FaceTime. 

Yet, here you were now – hair wet from the shower, curling at the ends as you moved about your room, distracted and quieter than usual. You pulled on a soft t-shirt, then wandered off-screen, brushing your teeth with a kind of mechanical rhythm.

Jack stayed silent, watching.

He could tell something was bothering you. 

Your hands shook as you did your skincare – too much toner on the pad, moisturizer forgotten halfway through.

“How was your day?” Jack asked slowly, treading lightly, trying to gauge how you were actually feeling.

“Fine,” you mumbled, disappearing again. The faucet turned on in the background as you washed your hands, cool water grounding your overheated nerves before you slipped into bed wit a heavy sigh. 

Jack’s voice came again, cautious, “Anything happen?” He tried to sound casual, but you weren’t in the mood for it now.

You glanced at the screen sharply. “Like what?” 

“I don’t know, just… anything good? Or… something bad?” 

Your jaw tensed as you looked past the phone, voice bitter. “A critic came in today.”

“Oh?” 

You laughed humorlessly. “I didn’t even know who she was, and I told her to fuck off.” 

Jack’s brow rose at that. “And why’d you do that?”

“Because she was being an asshole – and I didn’t recognize her and I was rushing and – and I was exhausted. I just snapped and – and it wasn’t even about her. It’s just… I’m tired. I’m so tired of pretending this isn’t hard.”  

Jack paused, his face softening, the weight of your words hanging thickly between you.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling like this?” 

You shrugged, unwilling to meet his eyes. “Because it’s not your fault,” you finally said. “And I didn’t want to make it your problem.” 

“You’re not a problem.” 

His voice was quiet, thick with the guilt settling into his stomach.

You immediately noticed the shift in his tone – soft and frayed around the edges.

“I didn’t say it to make you feel guilty,” you said, gaze now locking onto his, unwavering. 

“I know,” he replied, tiredly dragging a hand down his face, like he wanted to crawl through the screen and pull you into his arms.

“I just… I miss you.” 

There it was.

You’d finally said it.

And yet, it didn’t make you feel like you’d lost the game – at least, not in the way you thought. And, it didn’t make Jack feel like he won, either.

“I miss you every day,” you continued. “I miss you so much I don’t know where to put it anymore. It’s just there. Always. Like a weight on my chest. And every day, you – you pick up the phone and I see your face and you’re fine. Smiling… Happy. And, it’s just – just… Don’t you miss me? Like, even a little?” 

The moment you said it, you instantly regretted it. 

Jack could tell – the way your eyes squeezed shut in regret, like you wished you could pull the words right back into your chest. It broke his heart even more than hearing the desperation in your voice. 

He found himself looking away, swallowing hard. Then, finally, quietly, he said, “Of course I miss you. I miss you all the time. I just – I don’t let myself think about it too long. If I do, I can’t focus.” 

You knew he’d never say anything hurtful on purpose but the comment still stung. A sharp pang, like a bruise pressed too hard.

If he missed you so much, how come it felt like you were the only one falling apart? If he missed you so much, why didn’t it seem like he felt it?

Before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out. “Right. Got it. I’m over here crying in the walk-in fridge like a lunatic and you get to compartmentalize.” 

His eyes flinched shut, barely perceptible – but you saw it. Instantly regretted your words. And yet, you didn’t take it back.

And he didn’t push back either.

The silence grew too thick, claustrophobic.

After a beat, you shook your head, voice quieter now. “You’re running late – I should let you go. We can just… I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Your hand reached for the screen, heart already retreating.

“Wait!” Jack’s voice rang out, startling you.

You hesitated, still refusing to meet his eyes, but something in you paused – your ribs tightened at the strain in his voice.

“I think about you all day,” he admitted. “I know I don’t say it enough, but I do. I make a list in my head of all the things to tell you when we finally talk, and then when you pick up and give me that smile, I forget how to say any of it.”

You blinked.

That wasn't what you expected at all.

Still, he kept going. “And I bought you this mug from the UCLA store, in the shape of a smiling sunny face. I keep it in my locker, drink coffee from it before the shift – and all the residents look at me like I’m crazy. But it just… it reminds me of you. Keeps me grounded. Gets me through the shift.

“And your voice notes – I save them all. I listen to one specific one whenever I miss you more than usual – the one where you called me a broody bastard and then basically told me you missed me in the same breath.” 

That cracked something open in your chest. Like air rushing into lungs that had been holding their breath too long.

Soft tears lined your eyes. Not the frustrated kind. The aching, full-hearted kind.

You stared at the screen, heart thudding in your chest, throat thick with emotion. His face was still there – steady, honest, eyes staring back at yours, so full of you. Of all the missing he hadn’t said until now.

He missed you. Of course he missed you. Maybe not in the same noisy, unraveling way you did – but in the quiet, deliberate way only Jack could. Through mugs and voice notes. Through saved recordings and mental lists. Through showing up, every night, even when words failed.

Your lip trembled as a tear ran down your cheek.

“Jack…” you breathed, the apology catching somewhere between a sob and a sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally said, voice low and thick. “I didn’t mean what I said. I just – God – I feel everything right now, and I don’t know if it’s hormones or just the distance or – ” 

That four-letter word was at the tip of your tongue, but it didn’t feel right to tell him over the phone. This deserved to be told in person. He deserved that.

Jack’s face softened, almost imperceptibly, but you caught it – the way his shoulders eased like something fragile in him had finally seemed to settle.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, after a beat, he deadpanned, “It’s both. I checked the app earlier.” 

You stared, stunned. Then, your eyes warmed, the corners crinkling as a small, disbelieving, shaky smile touched your lips. “You track my cycle on your phone?” 

He shrugged, a little too casual. “Ever since the brownies incident – hell yeah.” 

That conversation changed things – in the best way. 

It made both you and Jack more intentional about the time apart. More creative, more present. FaceTimes evolved into something more sacred, more playful. You started doing virtual date nights, much to Jack’s technologically-deficient chagrin.

“I can barely work this FaceCall thing, you want me to do what now?”, to which you’d rolled your eyes and corrected, “FaceTime,” while suppressing a grin.

He’d grumbled, but you caught the way he cleared his evenings anyway – made sure he wasn’t on call any earlier than he needed to be, made sure his dinner (mediocre and suspiciously not homemade) was ready on time. Despite the mismatched time zones, you both made space. You’d end up eating hours apart, but “together” nonetheless. And that was what mattered.

Six days before Jack was set to fly home, you had another one of these date nights. 

The screen flickered to life and there he was – tousled hair you wished you could run your fingers through, half-zipped hoodie you wished you could burrow into, sitting cross-legged on a too-modern couch that definitely didn’t belong to him. He held up a plastic takeout container like it was an offering.

“Dinner, courtesy of the fine culinary skills I’ve learned from you.” 

You raised a brow. “That looks suspiciously like pad Thai.” 

He shrugged. “Maybe I cooked. Maybe the DoorDash guy and I are becoming best friends.”  

You snorted, curling deeper under your blanket as you reached for the remote. “What’d you do yesterday?” 

Jack leaned back with a groan, the kind that said his spine hated him and the previous night had been long. “This guy came in with a ridiculous chest injury. We had to work carefully around the nerve endings in his nipple and – what?” 

He paused mid-sentence, catching the grin spreading across your face.

“Should I be jealous by how excited you just got talking about someone else’s nipples?” you teased.

Jack coughed, nearly choking on his water. “Jesus. It was a very complicated procedure. We had to be extremely precise.” 

“Oh, I’m sure his nipples were deeply moved by your devotion,” you grinned.

“You’re insufferable.” 

“And you miss it.” 

“Unfortunately,” he deadpanned, mouth twitching.

You smiled, feeling that familiar warmth settle into your chest. God, you missed his face. You missed his voice, his sarcasm, the way he looked at you like you hung up the moon. 

You squinted at the screen. “Is it just me or are you getting a tan?” 

Jack glanced down at his arms. “Well, the sun does shockingly exist here. Unlike your vampire den of a kitchen.” 

“I work best when the lights are dim, and you know that!” 

He smirked. “Sure. That explains why every time you call me from there, you look like you’re in a hostage video.” 

You groaned, tossing a throw pillow off your bed. “Well, not all of us can soak up some West Coast rays while also being a nipple whisperer. Guess you’re just built different.” 

“I regret telling you anything about that case.” 

You smirked as The Bachelor theme started playing faintly from your TV. You both fell quiet for a beat, comfortable. It had become your ritual – playing the show in the background, pretending to care about the drama, when really, it was just an excuse to sit in each other’s orbit for a while. 

Midway through the episode, Jack stood up and walked off-screen and came back holding something. You squinted.

“Is that… a bobblehead? Of an avocado… surfing?” 

Jack held it up proudly toward the camera like it was fine art. “Picked it up at a roadside stand. Guy said it was hand-painted by his seven-year-old niece.” 

“It’s so ugly,” you commented, grinning anyway. “I love it!”

He just laughed, setting it on the table behind him so its little bobblehead eyes stared into your soul for the rest of the call. And, his heart grew every time he caught you staring at it.

Later, you rolled onto your side, shifting your phone as you got more comfortable. The new angle must’ve shown more of the room, because Jack leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“You changed the bedroom.”

You panned the camera, shaking your head. “Just been sleeping on your side lately,” you admitted through flushed cheeks, before cutting him off when he smirked and parted his lips to speak. “Don’t! Don’t ask me why. Just helps me sleep better.” 

He didn’t make a joke. Just stared at you with that soft, unreadable look that always made your chest feel like it was going to burst open.

“I missed this view,” he said gently. His voice was low, almost reverent. “That room. That bed. You in it.”

You fiddled with the comforter. “It misses you. The vibe’s been different, though. Less broody. No angry sighs every time the neighbor’s dog barks.” 

“That dog is a demon,” Jack said, on instinct.

“You’re just grumpy when you’re tired,” you teased.

“And you’re grumpy when I’m not there for you to stick those frozen toes under my legs to warm them up.” 

You opened your mouth to retort, paused, then nodded. “Okay, that’s true.” 

Jack laughed.

The show was long forgotten now. All that mattered was the glow of your screens, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours, the way his voice softened like it always did when the night got quieter.

“What do you miss the most?” he asked, almost shy.

You hesitated, then said, “I miss you hogging the blanket.” That made Jack laugh, but you shook your head, insisting, “I’m serious. In like a stockholm syndrome-y way – I miss that. And other stuff, like you leaving all the lights on or waking me up at the stupid hours of dawn when you get back from a shift… The little stuff.” 

Jack nodded, smiling in that slow, aching way. “You know what I miss?” 

“What?” 

“Sitting at the island, watching you test out new recipes – make a mess of the kitchen like you’re on some Food Network competition.”  

You smiled, fond and aching. “That’s the only way I cook.” 

“I know,” he said. “I miss it. Miss you.” 

You let that settle between you. Let it warm you all the way through.

 “In six days, I’m gonna be stuck to you like velcro,” you murmured.

He quirked a brow. “Is that so?” 

You nodded. “And you’re not allowed to leave again, by the way. And if you do, you’re taking me in your go-bag.” You lifted your pinky finger toward the camera. “Promise.” 

Without hesitation, Jack raised his pinky to match yours. “Promise, baby.” 

And for a moment, across the glow of two tiny screens, it almost felt like he was already home.

“Are you here yet?” you asked the second you picked up the FaceTime, barely able to contain the grin stretching across your face. The sounds of the kitchen clattered behind you, but your focus remained on the screen. On him.

Today was the day Jack was coming home and you were giddy with anticipation. 

“I am,” he replied, voice smooth, teasing, “but where are you?”

You groaned, “A last-minute catering order came in, so I had to stay late. Almost just brought the chef’s knife with me to work in the car and just sprint to Arrivals.”

Jack smirked, familiar and smug. “I don’t know how TSA would’ve taken that.” 

“But, I sent a good backup, huh?” 

Jack shifted the camera to the driver’s seat, where Robby sat, looking amused as he drove. “You’re lucky I’m easily bribable with food,” he said. “Picking him up on my day off was not part of the plan.” 

“Yeah, but you’d do it for the filet mignon these magic hands can make, right?” You wiggled your fingers at the screen, and Jack snorted.

“Oh, any day of the week,” Robby agreed, his grin cracking wider.

Jack turned the camera back to himself. He looked tired from the long travel day, but the way he looked at you—like he’d been waiting all day, or rather, six weeks, to see your face—made your chest ache.

You drank him in. Stubble. Black tee. Soft warmth creeping onto his features as he looked at you. 

“How was your flight?” you asked.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he replied, rubbing his jaw. “I just spent six hours sitting in front of a guy who kept stabbing at the screen like it wronged him personally. Kept me up the whole flight.”

From off-screen, Robby piped up, “Is that why you fell asleep on my shoulder in the first five minutes of the drive?” 

“Aww, is that true?” you cooed, and Jack immediately frowned, shaking his head. “Liar,” you accused with a knowing smile, before asking, “Are you close?”

“To your place?” You nodded. “I was gonna head home first, shower, sleep for a bit – ”

You were already shaking your head, correcting him, “No. You’re coming here first; not allowed to shower before you see me.”

Robby snorted, and Jack sighed in that over-it-but-not-really way before turning to his friend. “Can you drop me off at hers?” 

“Kinda already assumed,” Robby said, tapping the GPS. “Route’s set to her address.”

“How much longer?” you asked Robby, bouncing on your heels with impatient energy.

“Twenty-three minutes.”

You groaned, tugging off your apron. The clock on the wall ticked slowly, teasingly. “Can you be here already?” you whined at Jack, then paused as a mischievous glint sparked behind your eyes. “I’m ovulating and miss you being in my – ”

“Ohhhkay,” Robby cut in, clearly scarred and making your grin widen. Jack’s mouth twitched.

“I was going to say ‘arms.’ Sheesh, Jack, what kind of freaks do you work with?” you teased, grin widening as Jack broke into a full smile and aimed the camera at Robby, who groaned in defeat. 

“You’re gonna get me kicked out of this car, trouble,” Jack said, warmth bleeding into his voice at the nickname. Your chest squeezed, missing him.

Eleni walked into the office a moment later, waving at the screen. “Hey, Eleni,” Jack greeted.

“Hey,” she said, squinting. “Was that groaning I heard just now? You guys doing phone sex again or just emotionally scarring Robby?” 

“For the record, those things are not mutually exclusive,” Robby chimed in.

Eleni grinned, turning to you. “You heading out now?” 

You nodded. “Unless there’s something else – ”

She was already shaking her head. “Go. Get out of here. You’ve already cleaned the walk-in twice just waiting for Jack to land.” 

Jack perked up at that. “Aww, is that true?” he mocked, using your tone from earlier.

You glared at him, but before you could deny it, Eleni added, “She reorganized the grain bins, too!”

You were already grabbing your keys as Eleni ushered you toward the door. “Okay, I’ll see you when you get here,” you said to Jack. 

In a rare moment of vulnerability, he puckered his lips and blew you a kiss goodbye. You flushed, heart stuttering. 

“You’re getting soft on me, Abbot,” you teased.

“Pretty sure we’re way past that.”

The drive home was a blur; you could barely keep your concentration. Every red light felt like the universe was plotting against you; every slow pedestrian crossing the street made you want to scream. 

Your heart was hammering in your ears. You didn’t even remember pulling into the driveway, adrenaline surging. But the moment you caught sight of the front door – 

There he was.

Jack.

Standing at your front door in that familiar black tee, suitcase sitting on the porch as he fumbled with the spare key you’d given him. He was so focused on unlocking the door, he didn’t even hear your footsteps approaching.

“You know, for someone who saves lives for a living,” you called out, approaching him, “you’re really struggling with the concept of a lock.” 

Jack froze, then turned.

And then, a slow-spreading, lopsided smile that had lived on your phone screen for far too long was finally gracing you in person. 

“Well, maybe if someone didn’t have ten million locks on the door, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” he said, voice lower than usual, rougher in a way that made your stomach flip.

You crossed the distance in three strides. The key clattered onto his luggage as he let it fall.

And then you were in his arms. 

Not the thought of him. Not his voice through a screen. Not his pixelated smile or sleepy texts or pictures of his takeout. Him. Warm and solid and real.

His arms wrapped so tightly around you, it felt like he wouldn’t ever let go. And you didn’t want him to. You buried your face in his chest, breathing him in. 

“I forgot how good you smell,” you mumbled into his shirt. “Like middle seat and recycled plane air.” 

He tugged playfully at your ear, leaning back just enough for you to get a good look at him. Sun-kissed skin. Slight scruff that made your fingertips itch to trace it.

“You got more handsome. That’s annoying.” 

He raised a brow. “You’re only saying that because you’re ovulating.” 

“No,” you promised. “If I did, I would’ve already dragged you inside and ripped your clothes off – ”

He kissed you mid-sentence. Not hurried. Not desperate. Just… steady. Like he had all the time in the world, because now, he did.

When you finally pulled back, breath short, he rested his forehead against yours. “Missed you,” you said softly.

“Yeah,” he whispered, almost like it hurt. “Me too.” 

You leaned into him again, arms tightening, greedy now that you finally could be. “You’re never leaving again, right?” 

He chuckled, voice cracking just a little. “You going to chain me to the radiator?” 

You shrugged. “Tempting. I do own zip ties.” 

His laugh was full, unguarded, the sound of it seeping into your skin like sunlight. “Why don’t we save those for the bedroom, huh?” 

He leaned down again to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. And then he whispered, “Let’s go inside.” 

But neither of you moved. Not yet.

You’d waited this long.

What was one more minute in each other’s arms?

[rayraytail]

One of my FAVORITE Star Wars TCW fanfic tropes is when they ham up these interactions:

Jedi: *says something wise about the Force*

Clone Troopers: ... wth??

[motorsportbarbie13]

Master List

*Lando Norris* - One New Voicemail - Post It (All Parts) - A Package Deal (All Parts) - What's A Soulmate Series (All Parts) - Zip Me Up? - Get Unready With Me - Drunk Edition - Christmas Showdown - The Accidental Influencer

*Max Verstappen* - One New Voicemail (Max's Version) - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us (All Parts) - Forbidden Series (All Parts) - Aftermath (All Parts) - Heatstroke - Whispers & Guesses - Hurricane (a max verstappen x oc fic)

*Charles LeClerc* - Me? A Princess? Shut. Up. -One New Voicemail (Charles' Version)

*Oscar Piastri* - Mary's Song - One New Voicemail (Oscar's Version)

*Esteban Ocon* - One New Voicemail (Estie Bestie's Version)

[daryltwdixon]

✦ complete ✧ in progress ✭ smut

series

✦ The Ruins of Us ✦The Promise of Us ✧ The Heart of Us✭

✦ Dominion ✭

One shots

Inexperienced Daryl ✭

daryl kisses you in his truck

Daryl Returns

Teach You ✭ pt II ✭ pt III ✭ pt IV ✭

Feral ✭

The Farmer's Daughter

Your Lips, My Lips ✭

Don't Scream Pt II✭

Third Time's the Charm

Mini Masterlists

Fic Recs

Requests (open!)

series

✦ All That Remains

✦ Family Matters ✭

✦ That House in Nebraska

✧ Ouroboros

one shots

The Hope of it All

Lips of an Angel ✭

Sundress✭

Pretty Girl ✭

Flicker

Do it For Dale ✭

Fix It ✭

Joel Meeting Your Parents

Gibson Girl ✭

I Like it, I Love it ✭

Xoxo

May | 28 she / her | East Coast US | Virgo

I post explicit fics, so please do not follow or interact if you are a minor. However, I cannot control individual choices, and it is ultimately the responsibility of the reader to determine what content is appropriate for them.

Everything is also on Ao3 (including all deleted from masterlst)

if you see me interacting from my main blog, @plzlou it’s because this is a side blog! There are some features that side blogs don’t have, so I’ll need to switch to my main account for certain actions, especially when it comes to liking posts & following. 

I post about The Walking Dead and The Last of Us. Please expect when you read for there to be canon-type violence (aka walker/infected deaths, gore, smaller character deaths, etc). I will leave warnings for anything outside of the usual realm of the show like s/a, major character deaths, extreme gore. Please read with caution if that is not something you can handle!

All moodboards & banners are made by me. Photos taken from Pinterest unless otherwise noted. I do not have a beta reader, all writing belongs to me unless specifically mentioned to be inspired by another. I do not consent to any work being copied, translated, or reposted elsewhere.

And lastly, thank you so much for your love & support!! It means so much to me