#pittposting

[lostinthepitt]

Preview of a fic I'm working on :)

- - -

He notices a lot of things about her. Things he can justify - her skill with the patients, the way she takes her coffee, her favorite mid-shift pick-me-ups, her quick and quiet sense of humor - and the things he struggles to justify - her bright eyes, the way her hair falls out of her braid at the end of a shift, the way her t-shirts fit on her chest, and the way she looks too world weary for someone not-yet 30. 

As they grow closer, he tries to do what he can to make little things easier for her. He keeps a box of her favorite protein bars in his locker. If he gets coffee for himself before a shift he knows she’s on, he’ll get her one as well. When his mom sent him home from a family potluck with too many leftovers, he offered (begged really, his mom loves to cook too much food) to share. 

 They settle into each other, and for one of the first times in his life friendship is easy. She settles into every crevice in his brain, fitting squarely into a hole in his heart he didn’t realize was empty. He’s passively aware that he’s probably in love with her. He doesn’t think about it, but he knows the familiar squeeze of his heart and twist in his gut when she relaxes around him. So much in his life is complicated, he doesn’t want to risk the simple, joyful ease of what they have. He can’t, if he’s honest. He can’t be another thing she feels responsible for.

[tacticalcrickit]

supriya talking about fandom and taylor revealing that supriya’s apparently lurking in the pitt smut (source)

[charmbaby]

never seen a man that was meant to be middle-aged more than shawn hatosy, he was meant to have salt and pepper hair and a few wrinkles.

[highpitttitsgabagool]

Brother, you are scaring the hoes + text posts

[ribbitrabbot]

i really like whitaker because he doesn’t become bitter . like , he has the absolute worst luck , he has patients who die on him and he gets hit with every bodily fluid ever and he almost gives up . this is important to me , too . he almost retreats within himself , he almost says that this is too much , he almost decides that he isn’t good enough . but despite everything , he doesn’t . whitaker is so naturally kind , and j think this is a mixture of all the circumstances — his homelessness , the youngest sibling , the rural religious upbringing , the medical student who is surrounded by people who know what they’re doing ( i mean , the only other medical student is a fucking genius , after all ) . and he is isolated , like he’s always been . but whatever else whitaker is , he isn’t bitter . he isn’t mean . he isn’t confident , he isn’t charismatic , he may not be the most talented , but he is so relatable , he’s almost like a man of the people , a kind little ball of light that people feel naturally safe around . he sees people as people , not patients . and when he sees robby breaking down , he sees robby as a person , not his boss . dennis whitaker sees people first and patients second , and maybe that makes him a little insecure , and a little hesitant , but it’s his special sauce .

[theatrekidenergy]

[chosqrd]

cw: blood!!

ok i actually need ur help the pitt fandom. i know there are vampire whitaker fics out there but i j dont know where. please put them in the comments or like idk dm them to me pls lead the horse to water

[hereditaryconditions]

michael robinavitch and samira mohan

inspired by the charli xcx apple edit

[richeeduvie]

✪ FIRECRACKER ✪ Jack Abbot x F!Reader

During a chaotic Fourth of July double shift in the Pitt, you watch Jack grapple with a flood of trauma patients whose injuries trigger memories that you both can name, but won't dare say out loud. You quietly try to become the one person who steadies him, even as he tries to deny how much he needs you...but when a simple loud noise is the thing to get Jack's composure to fracture, you simply and quickly pick up the pieces. WORD COUNT: 1.6K || Meant to be read as a part of the lengths, but definitely doesn't have to be. Graphic descriptions of injuries and blood. Jack is suffering from PTSD. You help him. Angst. Comfort. (No military propaganda here, folks.) This is really nothing much but something for a late July 4th! 🎆

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

AUTHOR MASTERLIST | THE LENGTHS PART ONE | SHIFTING CRASH (15K FIC) | hope u enjoy!

THE LENGTHS (1) DESCRIPTION: Jack meets the new nurse Robbie's been fawning over, only to then take the next couple of nights to pathetically cope with what he's feeling for the peppy, sunny young woman he's just met.

CRASH DESCRIPTION: When Jack catches you out walking to work in 30-degree weather alone in the fucking dark, he has no choice but to realize his feelings for you are far past romantics and hurdling towards possession. That only becomes more apparent when he catches you on Robby's motorcycle after.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Every ten minutes, the red, white, and blue of the Fourth of July weekend blur past the Pitt in twisted forms. Think blood-soaked shirts, scorched skin…fragments of what were once fingers and toes. You learned to ignore the smell of burnt sulfur and flesh when the afternoon came. 

…But you can’t ignore the way he stands at the board mid-shift as he barks updates and eyes new assignments. His voice is sharp and low in the gravel of his throat like always, but it doesn’t hide the way his jaw clenches every time he sees the words “explosive injury” on his pager. 

But no one says it out loud. That’s the first rule. 

No one mentions that Jack Abbot–stoic, sharp-tongued, damn near unflappable Dr. Jack Abbot might have a harder time with this holiday than any other. 

That includes you.

Not even when the fireworks boom outside the Pitt. Not when every other patient comes in with hands blown up and open. Not when he’s worked his third trauma in a row without stepping away. 

...It’s barely noticeable, because he’s Jack Abbot. But he can’t hide from you. Not the beautiful bits, not the ugly ones. Not your beautiful doctor. 

You watch him the way you watch unstable patients, not that you have the idea of telling him that. 

You’re quiet. Steady. You wait for a sign that tells you it’s time to intervene. You’ll let him come to you. 

“Get me a tourniquet. Another tourniquet. Two large-bore IVs. Again. O-negative on standby.”

Jack doesn’t flinch when a new arrival is a teenage boy missing most of his hand. He doesn’t react at all when it’s two frat kids who drag themselves in with a foot and a half. 

“I’m gonna call them thing one and thing two. For memorization purposes, you know I’m bad with faces, sleepy.” 

But you catch the way his brown eyes flicker to the bloody stump of a leg, then quickly away. Other than that? You can’t catch him. But if Robby’s giving him that look when Jack slips into that voice–something slightly too controlled and flat, silently asking his fellow attending: 

Can you handle this?

You know you’re not in the wrong for wanting him to fall into your arms. To comfort him. 

And Robby’s eyes glance back at you, and his question for you is nearly the same. 

Can you handle him?

You wait for more patients to burst in with the next wave of Fourth of July chaos: More teens with burns of all degrees, parents carrying toddlers who’d picked up lit sparklers from the wrong end, and plenty of drunk men clutching their mangled hands, the ones that were holding their fifth and sixth beers twenty minutes ago. 

You let his strong, stubbled jaw clench a bit more. You let him be a man before you try to see if he can crawl into your hold, and you won’t name him submissive or small–you’ll name him safe. 

Jack stands at the main trauma bay sink as he scrubs fresh blood off his forearms. This is what he counts as a break. 

You eye him when you hear more fireworks sound off in the distance. 

He scrubs harder. 

“You’re gonna sand your skin off.” 

He’s a tall, silent figure in his black scrubs. He scrubs all the way up to his large, rounded biceps. 

You could feel guilty for thinking he’s beautiful here. 

He doesn’t look up at you. 

“Better than risking an infection.”

It’s not said as a quip. Not as jab. But you can tell from his tone, and with the way he scrubs–too rough, too methodical…

He’s trying not to feel something.

“Jack.” 

At his name, he does glance over with his unblinking eyes, managing to focus on you, and in this moment, you catch that flicker in his eyes as the world pops and burns away on asphalt. 

A brittle, controlled dread. 

Nothing new, but it doesn’t hurt any less, does it?

You offer him a small, tired smile. 

“I brought you coffee.”

You lift the Styrofoam cup. You think there must be something like hope along your face. And when Jack’s expressions soften for just a moment, you feel your cheeks go warm with a speeding heartbeat. 

He lets out a breath that sounds less like a natural sigh and more like something he forces out of himself. 

“Thanks, sleepy.”

He takes the cup. Your fingers brush against his for an instant. 

And god, you want more–you want his touch to deepen at your stomach the way it does now, but…not now. 

“Most I can do for the sixth best attending.”

You want him to jab back with something dry: “From what I can remember, we don’t even have five E.R attendings? Am I sending you to neuro or ID?”

Nothing but the way Jack presses his thumb into the rim of the cup.

At that, behind the both of you is your sweet Mel King sweeping past with a tray of suture kids, trying her best to make her mutters about “her first firework season” sound happy. 

You take a step towards Jack. You feel your voice lower before it leaves you. 

This is the way he is with you, you think. And every time he’s like this when the days get too hard for you, for sunshine, you’re always left wanting more. 

You couldn’t know how selfish you are in the reversal. 

“You can take a break, you know.”

Jack's gaze flicks once to the entrance, and you already picture the sight perfectly before you turn. It’s where two paramedics bring in a man who’s half-conscious in his shrill screams, both both hands wrapped in towels soaked through with red.

“No.” 

He says it low. 

“I can’t.”

He says it simply. Factually. And as your mouth parts with a soft sigh, you can tell. 

It’s not his casual stubbornness or pride. It’s something else. Something desperate. 

It’s too apparent when the twentieth mangled foot comes through the doors. As your doctor’s jaw works. The tendons in his throat shift as he swallows. 

Strong in all the ways he doesn’t have to be, not with you. 

“Jack–” 

And suddenly, you’re following him as he paces to the hub.

I’m sorry, my doctor, there’s no place you can go that I won’t follow. I know this map of this E.R almost as well as I know you. 

“Jack—”

You stop when your name falls out of his mouth. 

You don’t know if he meant it to come out as rough as it did. 

“Go home. It is well past a double shift for you.”

“I’m not leaving you here to—”

And right when you’re around to grab at his rounded, hairy bicep, a crash breaks your sentence apart. It makes you jump. 

“Jesus!”

Someone dropped a bin of bloodied gauze in the hall, and in its echo…it was undoubtedly something worthy enough to make the Pitt yelp and groan. 

You scoff before you laugh and roll your eyes. 

“We can use the fallen pieces for a makeshift slip n’ slide, how about it–”

What breaks your words apart when you turn back is something worthy enough to break your heart about, too. You blink. Your breath hitches. 

“...Jack?” 

He must’ve jerked in the instant the bin crashed, because the coffee’s everywhere. It’s splashed across the pink of your sneakers. 

But you can only focus on how Jack’s gaze, always fixated on something, is focused on…nothing. He’s staring into nothing. But your own gaze can’t let go of his hand gripping the counter so hard that his knuckles have already gone white. 

And his other hand rubs at where his prosthetic connects to his stump. He’s pressing in to the point where he could make a bruise. 

Jack. Jack…don’t do this to yourself. I know it’s more than anything I could imagine, but you have us. You have me. You can have every part of me if it means you’ll never feel like this every again. 

You don’t focus on the way Samira or Dana freeze halfway across the bay, or the way Langdon’s mouth parts in quiet alarm. 

You just feel your heart stutter in your chest. 

You reach out to him, and it’s as selfish as it is for every part of him. 

“Hey, baby. Hey. Jack?”

Jack’s chest rises in a ragged breath, but his eyes don’t follow. 

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not, baby. It’s okay–” 

“Not. Here. Not–” 

The hand on his leg curls into a square fist. 

Your hand closes gently around his wrist. There can be no room for caution or flustered nerves. 

Not when he needs you. 

“Take a breath. You’re here. You aren’t anywhere else. You’re okay. Relatively speaking.” 

It takes a second. And then two. And then three. 

And five and six more for Jack’s eyes to lift to yours, and you would’ve waited for the rest of the night, because you see it all there, unguarded–

The fury. The fear. The memories he can’t name. 

He lets you see it, and when he lets himself fall forward? 

When his forehead presses into yours? 

You swallow every bit of what could make you collapse into him, because for once, he needs you more than you could ever need him, and you never thought it was possible. 

He swallows again. 

“I hate this holiday.”

“...I know.” 

Now you do. As long as you don’t say it out loud, you’re not breaking the first rule. 

And neither is the rest of the Pitt as they pretend not to see the way Jack finally leans forward, curls against the loose strands of your hair. 

And neither is Jack when he thinks back on this Fourth of July. When he didn’t fall apart or panic, but when it became pretty damn obvious to him—to everyone, that he needed something he’d pretend he’d never had damn said need to ask for. 

When the worst part was when he couldn’t help the need, when the calm started to crack in the fifth hour, then the eighth, then the thirteenth…it was never gonna be anybody else but you. 

Always her. Always you.

[lostinthepitt]

Santos and Whitaker Roommate Headcanons 

Once he has a real kitchen Whitaker stress bakes  - bread, biscuits, muffins, scones, etc. Santos love this but will call him Ratatouille every time he starts baking or cooking anything

Related: Whitaker cooks everything (he’s a poor farm boy - pre-made food is expensive and growing up everything was homemade anyway), Santos lives off of trader joes and takeout. 

Santos has an extensive vinyl collection. Whitaker is not allowed to touch them, but she does let him pick what they play at least 50% of the time 

Santos forces him to go to the gym with her. She’s convinced he is a stringbean, but he’s been doing farm work since he could walk and can (almost) match her. She pretends to hate this but finds it endearing 

She doesn’t let him pay rent, but at the start of each month she finds some extra cash slipped into her wallet. She always ‘accidentally’ leaves it out on the table for him to take it back 

The walls are THIN - Whitaker invests in some high quality noise cancelling headphones bc he’s too uncomfortable to tell Santos that he can, in fact, hear everything she and Garcia get up to. 

They host a poker night and Whitaker CLEANS UP - no one suspects the hayseeds 

(Inspiried by an irl story where my dad’s iowa farmboy cousin swindled my dad and his college friends out of their textbook money)

Santos always drives

They regularly go out to gay bars together

The first time Whitaker brings a boy home, Santos gets him a ‘congrats on losing your virginity’ cake and he’s like “you thought i was a virgin wtf?” they change the icing to say ‘congrats on your sex’ and have a framed picture of it in the kitchen 

They don’t admit they’re friends until Garcia and Santos go through a rocky patch and she’s having a mild breakdown about it. They spend the weekend just quietly hanging out and sharing bottles of wine and eventually she’s like  “thanks for being my best friend, Huckleberry.” and he’s like “Thanks for being mine, Trinity.” 

[richter-kale]

baby robinavitch

[illusive-delusions]

[charmbaby]

noah wyle confirming robby and collins were dating when adamson died which caused the breakup between them because robby was emotionally unavailable. now im just imagining the very high possibility of collins getting pregnant at what feels like the end of the relationship and being unable to tell robby because he’s grieving and shutting her out. rollins angst is soooo delicious i can’t wait for us to learn more about them in s2.

[highpitttitsgabagool]

She's beauty and she's grace, bf addicted to opiates + text posts

[ribbitrabbot]

“ walsh and jack cant stand each other ! “

literally walsh and jack in the middle of a crisis :

[cqssqndrq]

bubble intubations, with doctors ross and robinavitch

+ bonus why-would-you-say-it-like-that from robby: